"The TorahAnyTimes" Newsletter    Print Version

Parashat Matot
2nd of Av, 5776 | August 6, 2016

Compiled and Edited by Elan Perchik

Rabbi Dr. Akiva Tatz
From Thirteen to Two Hundred

טפנו נשינו...יהיו שם

Our small children, our wives… will be there (Bamidbar 32:26)

One year in South Africa, I met a Chassidic Jew from Brooklyn who told me the following story:

As the Germans prepared to invade Warsaw, my mother who lived there with her family at the time was expecting a child. Sometime then, however, she needed to see a doctor.

Managing to escape from the ghetto, she came across a Christian doctor from the old Polish aristocracy. Successfully treating my mother, as she was just about to take leave, the doctor said, “Do you know what will happen to you if you return to the ghetto?” “Yes,” my mother replied. “Well, come and stay with me. I will take care of you.” “But I cannot leave my husband,” my mother said. “Bring him too.” “But I cannot leave my family,” continued my mother. “Bring them as well.”

Returning to the ghetto, my mother told my father how this Christian lady had offered to save their lives. “But I cannot leave my family,” said my father.

Making their way over to this lady’s house were thirteen people – my mother and father and their respective families. She placed them in her attic for twenty-two months, including a time during which the Gestapo occupied her house. There was no bathroom, no water and no food in the attic. But this woman single-handedly took care of all their hygienic needs, and provided them with food and water.

After twenty-two months of staying in the attic, the Christian woman managed to safely get them all out of Poland to New York. Incredibly, all thirteen people survived.

Decades later, a wedding was held in New York for one of the grandchildren of those thirteen survivors. Before the wedding, however, my family knew that they needed to take care of one thing: return to Poland. Doing their utmost to track down this Christian woman who had saved their lives, they eventually were successful. She was by now an elderly lady, but agreed to attend the wedding thousands of miles away. And so, they brought her back.

At the wedding, there were two hundred people who danced around her as she sat in the center. And they were all “her children.” Those two hundred people were all descendants of those thirteen people she had sacrificed her life to save seventy-five years earlier. There were children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren. All thanks to her.

During the meal, we asked her the question which had preoccupied all of our minds for years. “Why did you risk your life to save the Jews?” “Because I read the Bible,” she said. “And I saw that when G-d was about to annihilate the city of Sodom, Abraham negotiated with G-d. He said, ‘If you can find fifty righteous people, will you save the city?’ And G-d said ‘Yes.’ ‘Forty-five righteous people?’ And G-d said, ‘Yes.’”

“And I chose to follow Abraham’s lead,” concluded the woman.

She indefatigably cared for those thirteen people despite the danger that existed and gave them her life. And years later, she merited seeing the tremendous dividends it paid off.

Here was one small action whose ripple effect carried on and on. While this woman may have believed she was saving merely thirteen people, little did she realize the magnitude of her actions. She was saving parents, children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, great-great-grandchildren and on and on. In essence, she was doing no less than fulfilling the dictum of our Sages, “One who saves one life is as if he saves an entire world” (Sanhedrin 37a). That is how we ought to view every little deed we perform. Its effect lasts forever.

Rebbetzin Slovie Jungreis-Wolff
Eternal Am Yisrael

After giving birth to my daughter, I remember bringing her home from the hospital and calling over my grandmother who I called “Mama.” Mama was a tiny, yet fiery woman. And in particular, she loved children, babies and noise. Having personally witnessed the inferno of Bergen-Belsen and lost so much, she cherished and loved every child and every cry from a baby. For her, that was life.

Bringing my baby inside, I remember Mama sitting in my kitchen as she took the little baby in her arms and began singing a Hungarian lullaby that her own bubby had sung to her.

When she was done, she looked at me with her eyes filled with tears and said, “My dear daughter, there was a time in my life when I never thought I would ever see another day. I didn’t even know if I would see the sunshine again. And here I am holding my great-granddaughter in my arms. Hashem is so good; Hashem is so good.”

A few years later, Mama passed away. As my daughter continued growing up, she eventually got married and moved to the Holy City of Yerushalayim. One day, as I was finishing the last pages of one of my books, I received a phone call from my son-in-law. “Ima,” he said, “we had a little baby girl!” As I heard the great news, all I could say was “Baruch Hashem.” It was a most incredible moment of my life to see another generation continue. I, of course, got on the next plane to Yerushalayim and headed straight for my daughter’s home.

Walking through the door of her apartment, I met her holding the baby. And then she said to me, “Mommy, do you want to hold her?” “Of course I do,” I said. “Do you want to know what her name is? We named her Miriam after Mama.”

That night I kept the baby in my room with me. At five in the morning when she awoke with her cries, and the beautiful golden sun of Yerushalayim came in through the window, I took her in my arms and sang that same Hungarian lullaby I had heard from Mama. And then I said, “Look Mama, you never thought you would see life again? You never thought you would see the sun again? Here is your great-great granddaughter with your name, happily and healthily alive in Yerushalayim Ir Hakodesh.

This is the eternal story of Am Yisrael.

In spite of all the hardships, misfortunes and vicissitudes our nation has undergone for thousands of years, we continue on. Never will the eternal flame of the Jew be extinguished. It will stay aflame forever, warmed by the goodness and compassion of G-d. Generation after generation, we will continue to see many sunrises and sunsets and bask in the beauty of life.

Rabbanit Kineret Sarah Cohen
The Unpainted Square

As we enter the period of the Three Weeks, known as the Bein HaMe’tzarim, we encounter a world of restrictions. With various laws implemented by our Sages, this time of year is meant to have us feeling that we are missing something and at a loss. We come to realize that something so dear which we once had in our midst – the Beit Hamikdash – is no longer with us.

And then we come home and walk through our front doorway and see something peculiar. There is a little unpainted square positioned right next to the entrance of our house. And then we remember. We have what we call “home,” but Hashem does not. Leaving an unpainted square in our home, as prescribed by our Sages (Bava Batra 60b; Shulchan Aruch, Orach Chaim 560:1), is meant to remind us of the destruction of the Beit Hamikdash.

Yet what is the real significance of this bland square? What is it meant to evoke more than sorrowful emotions?

There is nothing more unpleasant to look at than a square that is unpainted. How sad is it to see something in your life that is drably out of place? How painful is it to see the obvious sign which reminds you of the emptiness you feel and accentuates the difficulties that make life uneasy and incomplete? Suddenly, you are forced to look at the square in your life that is not beautifully painted. You are forced to look at your glass and see it half empty.

But, in truth, the deeper message of the square is not one of despair and remorse. It is quite the opposite. Although the parts of our life which we wish would disappear often persist, there is a silver lining to it all.

The days leading up to the tragic day of Tisha B’av are meant to provide our unsightly square with proper shape. We are supposed to learn how to draw a beautiful picture amidst the narrowness of restriction and mourning. We will then be left with a perspective which uncovers the beauty behind the despair and light behind the darkness.

As a Jewish wedding ceremony comes to a close, the chattan breaks a glass while still standing under the chuppah. Simply understood, the significance of this practice is to remember the destruction of Jerusalem. We are to place within the forefront of our minds the loss of Hashem’s home and Holy City.

Yet why do we go to such great lengths to emphasize the great pain in our lives at a time of immense happiness? Why during the joyous moment of building a home do we focus on the destruction of a home?

It is through this custom that we learn one of the great lessons of life in general, and marriage in particular. It is not always so perfect to have everything in life and marriage complete. There must be a deep-seated feeling of longing for improvement and something greater and better. The broken glass is aimed at reminding the chattan and kallah that there is always more to look forward to both on a personal and mutual level. Never is life or marriage to become painted over with feelings of complacency and perfection. There is always room to grow and become better as people and spouses.

Pondering this leads the chattan and kallah to arrive at a somber realization. They and the rest of their Jewish brothers and sisters have something much bigger to yearn for: the rebuilding of Hashem’s home. Coupled with the enthusiastic anticipation to build a beautiful home of their own must come the deep longing to rebuild the home of our Father in Heaven.

But even now, amid the shambles of exile, a trace of hope and optimism shines forth. Never is our predicament one of utter desolation and abandonment.

In describing the siege of Jerusalem by the Babylonians, the Prophet Yechezkel bemoans, “And then I [Hashem] will stand the city of Jerusalem empty upon its coals” (Yechezkel 24:11). The Midrash notes that Yechezkel was fortunate to have referred to Jerusalem as reika, “empty,” instead of shavur or harus, adjectives which depict destruction and ruination. Had he employed any of the latter terms, he would have been self-prophesying a doomful fate for Jerusalem. Yet, he viewed the loss of the Beit Hamikdash as something of temporary desolation, not utter ruination. He drew the great distinction between something which is empty versus something which is broken. Emptiness can relatively easily be filled, while breakage cannot.

A person in his or her own personal life must share the same perspective. Never is life broken or ruined. It may be empty and unpainted, but there is always hope that it will one day be filled with renewed vitality and vigor.

The unpainted square in our homes is thus aimed at reshaping our view in life. The square itself cannot be rounded out or reshaped, but our perception can. We can come to realize that the imperfections in our life are there to do no less than perfect us. Our troubled situations teach us how to draw nearer to Hashem amidst hardship and how to take solace in His absolute love and care. And it is precisely within that unpainted square that Hashem lives. That is where he finds His dwelling place in our home. That becomes our miniature Beit Hamikdash. Our crushed, forlorn situation becomes filled with Hashem’s comforting presence.

But even before Yechezkel, there was Yeshaya the Prophet. And he too voiced Hashem’s question as to where He dwells. “The Heaven is My Throne and the earth is My footstool; what house could you build for Me, and what place could be My resting place?” (Yeshaya 66:1). Yet listen to the answer Hashem Himself gives. “It is to this that I look: to the poor and low-spirited person who hastens to do My bidding” (ibid., v. 2) The one who feels empty and at a loss where to turn suddenly becomes the address for Hashem’s home. He becomes the building wherein our Father in Heaven finds a resting place on earth.

It is within the drab square which seemingly provides no window of a brighter and better future that Hashem resides. It is there, amid the paleness of life, that a beacon of light yearns to finds its way in. No matter how gloomy and dismal life may seem and no matter how pathetic the square may appear, there is always a ray of light which awaits to shine forth. If amid catastrophe lies the longing for rejuvenation and rebuilding, we can always remain confident that our dreams will one day come true. And when that day finally arrives, that very familiar unpainted square will transform into a beautiful, charming painting for us and our beloved Father to eternally enjoy together.

A Short Message From
Rabbi Daniel Mechanic

I remember once being approached by a delusional missionary in the Old City who passionately told me, “Jesus appeared to me!” Being taken aback by this offhand remark, I responded, “That’s interesting; Moses appeared to me too. He was right here at the Kotel and he told me that Judaism is the true religion and the right way to go. And then Moses walked away.” If you ever find yourself caught in an uncomfortable and unprepared situation like this, a response along these lines may do the quick job of ending the conversation. His argument holds no bigger weight than yours.