Rabbi Chaim Dahan
My Precious Tefillin
ואזכר את בריתי
And I remembered My covenant (Shemot 6:5)
For the many boys who attend the yeshiva of Greater Washington, Maryland, summertime often brings with it the opportunity to attend and work in camp as counselors. However, for one particular boy, Avi, one upcoming summer looked slightly different. He wished to volunteer his time to work in a Jewish old age home. And that is exactly what he did.
Amongst the handful of volunteers, one of the duties they were held responsible for was gathering together a minyan of senior men each morning to daven in the shul located on the first floor. While it was not always easy to find ten men who were capable of coming, as aches and pains often left many bedridden, for the most part, the daily efforts were successful.
However, there was one elderly gentleman, Mr. Rosenbaum, who stood out from the others. And that was due to his unbending reluctance to ever join the davening. Whenever approached by a volunteer to help join the minyan, he would grow sorely upset and begin hollering, “No! I am not going to pray with you!” From time to time, this scene repeated itself. He made his point clear: he did not wish to daven at all.
When Avi began his volunteer work, it was not long before he noticed Mr. Rosenbaum’s usual strong and loud refusal to daven. Approaching him, Avi said, “Sir, I understand if you do not wish to attend the minyan. However, we are just trying to be nice and offer you the option, and there is no reason to scream and get upset when we ask you. You can just politely decline the request.”
Mr. Rosenbaum looked back at Avi. “Come here! Let me show you something!” After Avi slowly made his way over, Mr. Rosenbaum pointed to a drawer straight ahead of him and looked towards Avi. “Open the top drawer!” Avi proceeded to open the drawer and take a peek inside. There lied a pair of tefillin. “Do you see anything there?” asked Mr. Rosenbaum. “I do. It’s a pair of tefillin.” “That’s right. Do you know whose tefillin they are? Let me tell you a story.” And with that, Mr. Rosenbaum went on to explain.
“When I was in the concentration camp with my father, no one in our barracks had a complete set of tefillin. All that we had was the tefillin shel rosh to put on the head, but not the tefillin shel yad to place on the arm. Yet, every day, all the men eagerly anticipated putting on the tefillin that we did have. It was the highlight of their day. Personally, however, I always dreamed of putting on a complete set of tefillin. And so, as my thirteenth birthday drew near, my father told me that he would do his utmost to find a tefillin shel yad so I could do so.
“A little while later, my father heard about another barracks which had a complete and extra set of tefillin. And so, on the day I turned bar mitzvah, my father cautiously snuck out from our barracks and made his way to the other one. I looked out through the window with both excitement and nervousness as my father moved along.
“Minutes went by until out walked my father carefully clutching the pair of tefillin he was given from the other barracks. Looking in all directions, he started walking back to our barracks. But he only started; he never finished. Midway through, a Nazi guard ym”s spotted him and pulled out a gun. The next thing I knew, my father fell to the floor and remained there motionless. The tefillin still remained in his hands. I was heartbroken.
“Some time later, I returned to the spot where my father previously lay and took hold of the pair of tefillin he had brought back to give me. Looking heavenward, I said, ‘Hashem, my father was trying to do something special for me and here he died in such a way! I cannot pray with this pair of tefillin, I cannot pray…’ From that day on, I never put on tefillin. Then I decided to stop davening altogether. And so, here I am, now an old man, and I have not touched those tefillin nor prayed in years. Now you understand why I refuse to join your minyan.” As Avi listened to Mr. Rosenbaum’s words, he quietly and politely said, “I am sorry; I didn’t know your story.” And with that, Avi left the room.
Summer continued on, week by week, until the day arrived when one of the senior gentleman in the building had a yaartzeit for his father. Needing to gather together a minyan, Avi went around from room to room asking who could join. After a while, he was left with nine people. One more was needed. But no one seemed available. And then he figured. Why don’t I try asking Mr. Rosenbaum one more time? I know he has always said no, but maybe this time will be different. Slightly apprehensive yet optimistic, Avi proceeded to enter Mr. Rosenbaum’s room and make his request.
“Maybe just today,” began Avi, “you can join the minyan? Your friend has a yaartzeit for his father and it will be very nice if you came. You don’t even have to pray. I will just wheel you into the back of the shul and you can be the first one out when the prayers finish.” Listening to Avi’s offer, Mr. Rosenbaum thought for a moment. “If I come today, will you leave me alone afterwards?” “Yes, I will,” replied Avi. Considering that it was a good friend of his and he would easily be able to sit in the back, Mr. Rosenbaum acquiesced. And so, there was Mr. Rosenbaum ready to participate in a minyan after decades of not having done so.
As Avi went on to help Mr. Rosenbaum get settled in his wheelchair, he glanced over at the top drawer. He remembered that there lied the tefillin. “You know,” piped up Avi, “once you’re coming out of the room to join the minyan, maybe you want to bring your tefillin along.” Mr. Rosenbaum stared back at Avi. “If I bring them with me, will you forever leave me alone?” “You have my word that I will not bother you again. You don’t even have to wear them. Just take them with you.” And with that, Avi pushed along Mr. Rosenbaum who clutched onto his tefillin, and positioned him in the back of the shul.
Forty-five minutes later, Avi returned to the shul. And to his surprise, it was entirely empty save one person: Mr. Rosenbaum. Sitting in the back with tefillin on his head and arm and tears flowing down his cheeks was Mr. Rosenbaum. He was soothingly whispering to himself, “Tatty, I feel connected to you wearing these. I feel so bad that it took me so long to wear them. You gave up your life for me to wear tefillin, and here I am now…”
Watching this startling sight was Avi. He proceeded to walk up to Mr. Rosenbaum, take hold of his wheelchair and help him back to his room. Avi then went on to remove Mr. Rosenbaum’s tefillin and carefully put them away. And then Mr. Rosenbaum looked at Avi. “Can you bring me back to shul tomorrow with my tefillin? I want to pray again.” Avi let out a smile.
For the rest of the summer, day after day, Avi continued helping Mr. Rosenbaum put on his tefillin and make his way over to shul. It was a moving summer for both Avi and Mr. Rosenbaum alike.
One day, Avi as usual entered Mr. Rosenbaum’s room. But, this time, he was met with a different scene. No one was there. Panicking, Avi ran to the front desk. “Where is Mr. Rosenbaum! Is everything okay?” “I’m so sorry to tell you,” replied the front desk lady, “but yesterday, his daughter came and picked him up and brought him to the hospital. And last night we received news that he passed away.” Avi just stood there speechless. He could not believe that Mr. Rosenbaum, to whom he had recently grown so close, was no longer around.
A little while later, Avi’s high school held a special dinner. Among those who were honored, Avi was granted a special award in recognition of spending his summer helping at an old age home.
At the conclusion of the evening, a woman walked over to Avi. “Avi,” she said, “Mr. Rosenbaum was my father. I would just like to thank you so much for all that you did. You do not know how much you helped my father and all of us too.” Happy to hear that his time was wisely spent, Avi smiled and thanked Mr. Rosenbaum’s daughter for her kind words. But there was more.
“For years we had been trying to convince our father to wear his tefllin, yet we were unsuccessful. But then you got him started and for the last few months of his life, he was putting them on every single day.
“Then, one morning, I received a call. It was the hospital notifying me that my father needed to be rushed to the hospital. ‘But,’ my father insisted, ‘please take along my tefillin.’ Transferring him to the hospital, he laid down to rest with his tefillin on. And then but a few hours later, he passed away… wearing his tefillin. The tefillin which his father held onto when he left this world were the same tefillin he wore when he left this world…” Like father, like son.
It all began when Mr. Rosenbaum decided to extend himself and help his friend make a minyan one morning. From that act of kindness, he began to come closer to Hashem, to the life of Torah his father so dearly wished him to embrace and to his true self. And once that was all in place, he returned his last vestige – his neshama – to Heaven… along with his most precious tefillin.
