Dear Tzvi Aryeh,
I want to add a few words about the event of a few weeks ago.
I know that you have already read articles and heard
hespeidim, and I'm sure that much more will still be
written and said, but I wanted to convey some of my own
experiences on that day and share feelings that I and many
others had and still have.
We first heard from the loudspeakers. Despite what we knew
about HaRav Shach's precarious condition, hearing the actual
news was a tremendous jolt. Eleven-year-old Etty was getting
ready to leave for school. When she heard what had happened
she cried, "No!" and burst into tears.
Although the announcement had said that there would be buses
leaving from our neighborhood, I didn't think it wise to rely
on that and I realized that if I wanted to leave myself any
chance of getting to Bnei Brak, there wasn't a moment to
spare. I davened quickly and left the house
immediately. My parting words to Malka were, "An era in
Jewish history has just ended." That was just how it felt.
It's hard to explain; it was as though the unbelievable had
happened. Suddenly, everything was different.
. . . As soon as we turned on to the Gei'eh Highway that goes
past Bnei Brak, the traffic slowed. The road was virtually
full of vehicles. Boruch Hashem, we kept moving but
the nearer we got to Bnei Brak, the slower the driving.
It's hard to explain how it felt sitting in the cramped car,
in the heat, inching along, listening and longing to finally,
actually be there. It was as though a giant, invisible magnet
was pulling us towards the yeshiva, faster than the car was
able to move. The cries of the crowds saying Tehillim,
selichos and Shema Yisroel, were unlike anything
I'd ever heard at a levayah, with more longing and
more desperation even, than the Yomim Noraim. (Malka
later said to me -- and in those moments it was exactly how
one felt -- that when Rav Shlomo Zalman zt'l, passed
away, it had felt like Tisha B'Av, and when Rav Shach
zt'l, passed away, it felt like Yom Kippur.)
On all the bridges along the highway, we saw people crossing
into Bnei Brak. As we continued to crawl along, we heard the
beginning of HaRav Bergman's hesped.
We found a spot in between two parked buses and alighted. I
crossed the nearest bridge and began to make my way as fast
as I could through the almost deserted streets in the general
direction of the yeshiva. A few minutes later I found myself
approaching Rechov Chazon Ish at the outskirts of the
crowd.
One sensed the importance, the fatefulness of the moment; we
were witnessing a turning point. There was absolute silence
as people strained to catch the hesped being broadcast
over loudspeakers in the street.
"I want to read another excerpt from his testament. ` . . . I
would also like to ask all those talmidim . . . '
`Talmidim'? I am not among those who can refer to him
as `the Rosh Yeshiva.' Neither, judging by their age and
appearance, are most of those standing with me.
` . . . Who know that they received some benefit from me,
whether in Torah, whether in yiras Hashem or whether
in good character traits . . . '
`Who received some benefit from me'? That's something else.
As you know Tzvi Aryeh, I did once receive a significant
piece of personal advice from him, but our entire generation
has benefited from him, even those who never saw him or knew
him; even those who don't realize it; even those who realize
it and don't want to admit it.
` . . . To act kindly towards me and to learn for the
elevation of my neshomoh, even a single
mishnah, or a single mussar thought . . . '
After all he has done for us, that is all he asks for!
` . . . And this shall be my reward. For I too, sacrificed
myself for the sake of your success in learning and if it
will be in my power to do anything or to advocate good for
you, I will do so beli neder . . . "
Our success in learning! We can all thank him that we are
learning altogether!
`I sacrificed myself,' he says. He can say that about
himself! Do we realize what this means? We always knew that
Rav Shach was wholly, completely and utterly immersed in
Torah. We thought though, that he was different, simply a
different order of human being. Perhaps his attainments
didn't obligate us because after all, we were ourselves and
he was Rav Shach.
But no! He says that he sacrificed himself. He was also a
human being and with that, all he had was Torah. He was
conscious that there was a decision -- and a sacrifice --
involved. At times he must also have wanted to rest or to
relax. That he didn't do so, was not because he deprived
himself or made himself suffer. It was simply because he
allowed himself to be drawn towards a higher, more spiritual
source of nourishment. He found the joy that suffused his
life in true fulfillment, in turning away from oneself and
one's unfulfilled or imagined needs and allowing oneself to
receive the spiritual bounty that Heaven longs us to imbibe.
What turmoil this plunges us unto! What shame! What
embarrassment!
" . . . At the end of the testament he concludes ` . . . And
my prayer is that I should merit to stand before Hakodosh
Boruch Hu after having done complete teshuvoh,
Mimeni, haporeish mikem be'ahavoh . . . From me, who
parts from you with love . . . '
Pereidoh is a parting of the ways, between two
separate entities that have hitherto gone side by side but
perishoh, means a separation, a coming away, when a
part of something breaks off, like a limb, or a piece of
flesh being torn from a living body.
Akiva! Kol haporeish mimecho keporeish min hachaim!
And he zt'l, feels that this is a perishoh! So
do we. A perishoh be'ahavoh. Right now, at the moment
of separation, we feel that love most poignantly. As HaRav
Bergman utters these words, the loud sounds of many voices
raised in sobbing and weeping inside the beis
hamedrash come over the loudspeaker and mingle with the
bitter sobbing and weeping of the crowd standing in the
street.
Ribono Shel Olom! Such a feeling of loss! Is this the
pain of bereavement? Is this the agony of churban? We
are suddenly aware of the opening of a gulf, of ourselves
poised on the edge of a precipice.
And with this, another feeling rushes in! No! We can't lose
what he gave us! We won't let it happen! We mustn't! How can
we go on without the connection to a higher, more refined
world that he represented? Without his standard of dedication
to Torah and his caliber of learning? What kind of world are
we now entering? Who will now show us what we had? And an
even more frightening thought: who will now show the next
generation what there once was?
And amid the lamenting and the bitter, confused, pain, we
hear ourselves saying, "Ribono Shel Olom! There is nothing
left! We just can't continue by ourselves any longer! You
have to come and save us!"
Wait, nothing is left? Torah is left. Even at the height of
the pain, the awareness steals in that now it is up to us. We
can't do more than our utmost but we daren't do less. The
more we mourn our loss, the more of a connection we will
establish but it is up to us all to go forward, to the best
of our ability. And perhaps all it needs is that awareness
that there is nothing left, except for Ovinu
Shebashomayim. Perhaps all it needs is the urgency of
that realization, to provide the spur for us to do everything
that we possibly can.
Tzvi Aryeh, . . . since that day there have been many
hespeidim and the void feels as large as ever. May we
soon experience the only true consolation, uvo letziyon
go'el, bimeheiro be'yomeinu omein.
Yours,
Meir Dov
