A tent rose on our street, where sorrow met holiness.
We had seen tents before – in
the news, even on the streets of Ramat Beit Shemesh. There was really nothing
new to see here; move on. Except….
It’s different when
it happens to someone you know.
* * *
Eight hundred eighty-eight was the
number of soldiers who had died in the line of duty with the tragic ambush of
the Netzach Yehuda soldiers in Beit Hanun, Five souls. One unspeakable day.
When the news hit…some people
sighed. As they usually do.
Some people cried. Once more.
Others clicked on by,
compartmentalizing their grief to preserve their sanity. Yet again.
One by one, the names and
hometowns of the first four appeared in the media, and people sighed, and
cried, and clicked. But when the last name was published, the community of Beit
Shemesh lost its breath.
* * *
It’s different when it happens
to someone you know.
* * *
We live on a lovely, tree-lined
street, with mostly Anglo neighbors. We have our choice of two
fabulous-yet-different shuls right across the street. One of them, Menorat
Hamaor, is a staunchly Zionist congregation. The Israeli flag dances proudly in
the breeze atop the building. As expected, Menorat Hamaor boasts an impressive
list of scores of sons (and daughters), as well as grandchildren, who serve in
the IDF.
The other, Aish Kodesh, is chasidic
in nature. Aish Kodesh is extremely soldier-friendly as well. The Piacezner
Rebbe, Rav Kalman Menachem Shapira, is quick to run and warmly greet anyone in
uniform who enters his door. Some of these soldiers are also sons and grandsons
of the largely Anglo membership.
Moshe Shmuel (Moishy) Noll, hy”d,
lived two doors down from us. His father David is a fixture around our
neighborhood. Gently stooped over his wooden cane, he is a man whose face
exudes kindness, and he is quick with a smile. He can often be seen taking his
Aussie-doodle on walks or praying in Aish Kodesh or the nearby Chabad. The
congenial octogenarian could easily be mistaken for the grandfather of a
soldier, not his father.
* * *
It’s different when it happens
to someone you know.
* * *
I can’t say I knew Moishy
personally, but the news hit like the proverbial ton of bricks. In an
all-too-familiar show of profound respect, hundreds of neighbors lined the
street between the Noll home and the van parked a few blocks away, waiting to
shuttle them to the funeral of their young boy on the hallowed grounds of Mt.
Herzl, Israel’s national military cemetery. People carried flags, silently
accompanying them in a harrowing procession that no family wishes to join yet
so many bear with such grace and honor.
A handyman with a full schedule
arrived for a repair in our bathroom just as the people began streaming down
our street. I met him outside. When he saw what was unfolding, his hectic
schedule suddenly seemed unimportant, and he stood with me silently for a
quarter hour, paying tribute to a Moishy he had never met.
* * *
While military funerals follow a
certain structure, they are anything but formulaic. As opposed to civilian
services, where the burial is at the end, the army version often has the burial
first, followed by honor guards, eulogies, memorial prayers, wreath-laying
ceremonies, and a three-volley rifle salute.
Most funerals for fallen soldiers
are attended by many hundreds – often many thousands – of mourners, and this
was no exception. For a non-family attendee, it is not unusual to be far away
from the large open tent where the service takes place, and to have no view
whatsoever. There are loudspeakers that convey the proceedings to the masses
beyond the line of sight.
So began this funeral, as the
filling of the grave was announced.
A woman’s voice called out. A
wail. A lamentation. A plea to heaven.
“Moishy!”
And again, “Moishy!”
And again.
And again.
And again.
A tsunami of grief washed over the
crowd, drenching it in sorrow.
* * *
It’s different when it happens to Moishy.
* * *
The eulogies which followed were
nothing short of soul-stirring. Moishy’s yeshiva rabbi spoke of his determined
overcoming of significant learning issues and his ever-present good cheer. The
Aish Kodesh Rebbe, Rav Shapira, pleaded with Moishy’s soul to advocate for
those of us down below. He urged him to refuse the glorious entry awaiting him
at the heavenly gates, unless and until G-d agrees to end our earthly suffering
and bring Mashiach.
Friends and family surrounding the
burial plot on Mt. Herzl remained to sing together afterward. Reluctant to take
their leave, hundreds lingered with the family long after the ceremony, their
hearts entwined in song after song of faith in G-d.
* * *
There’s a tent on our
street. That’s another thing about military funerals here. The typically
modest Israel apartments can’t possibly accommodate the throngs of visitors to
the shiva. So a large tent outside the home is erected by the IDF, where
mourners can sit and visitors can come to console – or at least try to
console.
What words can possibly fill the
gaping hearts of a family who will never again set their eyes on their son or
daughter? Never hug them. Never remind them to pick up their things from the
floor. Never bless them on Shabbat. Never call them to ask them to pick
up milk on their way home.
Never, never anything.
* * *
The tent was bustling, and the
summer heat wave was intense, so Aish Kodesh graciously opened its social hall
to host the relocated shiva. It was there that I made a first attempt to
visit. The crowd was formidable, the line to speak to the family impressively
long. What made it all the more exceptional was that David was speaking to
everyone personally, offering each visitor a parting blessing, both heartfelt
and unique. His trademark glow was radiant. His face shone with a hybrid of
pure faith coupled with total confidence that his son had sacrificed himself in
a holy and exalted quest.
It took quite a while to get
through the line, but that did not bother me. It’s a privilege just to show up
and be counted among those paying respects. As my turn to speak to David
neared, the doors opened, and there was an announcement that we needed to part
the Red Sea of mourners, as Rabbi David Lau, former Chief Rabbi of Israel, had
arrived for a shiva visit. Oh, that’s one more thing about these
funerals and shivas. They are often attended by dignitaries, politicians,
and other public figures. This visit wasn’t going to happen for me, and I
was out of earshot of the conversation, so I decided to return the next
day.
The scene the next morning was
more manageable, with people seated around the mourners, conversing and sharing
memories and lessons. A chareidi man found an opening in the
conversation: “I have two sons in Gaza, who served with Moishy,” he explained.
“I have to share what they told me about Moishy’s final moments.”
David was transfixed as the man,
who hails from a neighborhood known for its anti-army philosophy, continued.
The man revealed that Moishy’s last actions were those of a true warrior,
insisting on helping those around him, when he himself was gravely injured.
David was almost speechless.
Almost. He uttered: “I don’t know if it’s nice to say this about your own
son, but if that is true, it is so heroic!”
To witness a moment like that – when
a father discovers a new, transcendent dimension to his child – was nothing
short of a privilege. He knew his son lived as a hero. He knew his son had
died a hero. But this added an entirely new level to that title.
* * *
On the Shabbat of the shiva
of Moishy, we read the account in the Torah where Bilaam blessed the children
of Israel: “How goodly are your tents, Yaakov!” I wonder if Bilaam saw the
tents of the encampment of Israel and was struck by a contrast. He may have
peered back over his shoulder at the sullied tents of his own people. Perhaps
he noticed that their tents were filled with cynicism. Curses. Weapons. Maybe
even terror tunnels.
And then he gazed forward,
observing the tents of Israel. There he saw goodness and positivity and
blessing. He opened his mouth, and all that could come out were words of
praise.
Even in tents heavy with
farewell. Even in tents heaving with mourning. In every tent of Israel,
there is goodness.
* * *
It’s different when it happens
to Moishy.
But we all know a
Moishy. So, whether we sigh, we cry, or we click, it’s always different.
And through the pain, we somehow also uncover the good. And discover the
heroic.
“Moishy!”
* * *
May the memory of Moshe Shmuel ben
David Betzalel always be a blessing for his family, his friends, and all of
Israel, along with the memories of all the other “Moishy’s,” whether their
names were Moishy or not.
Jeremy Staiman and his wife Chana made aliya from
Baltimore in 2010 to Ramat Beit Shemesh. A graphic designer by trade, Jeremy is
a music lover and produces music on a regular basis – one album every 40 years.
He likes to spend time with his kids and grandkids slightly more often than
that. This article is reprinted with permission from The Times of Israel blogs.
