BORN OF GRIEF, By Baila Rosenbaum | MISHPACHA MAGAZINE, DECEMBER 25, 2019

BORN OF GRIEF,  By Baila Rosenbaum | MISHPACHA MAGAZINE, DECEMBER 25, 2019

The Torah tells us that after the death of Aharon’s two sons, “Vayidom Aharon — and Aharon was silent.” “But what about his wife?” asks Baruch. How did she cope? What does the Torah tell us about her life after this tragedy?

It wasn’t so long ago that Baruch Cohen and his family, content New York transplants to Los Angeles, were living a life of innocence. Baruch ran a successful high-powered litigation law practice and the four Cohen children attended the local yeshivos and Bais Yaakov. A product of over six years of beis medrash and kollel, Baruch was kovei’a itim and his learning schedule included Mishnah Berurah yomi and the daf. Life was good.

He was going strong and two-and-a-half years into daf yomi when, within days of 9/11, the family’s upwardly mobile life experienced its own ground zero. The Cohens’ daughter, 15-year-old Hindy, was diagnosed with a pediatric cancer called Ewing’s sarcoma and the Cohens’ world changed irrevocably.

“I had to juggle an active law practice, we had to take care of our other children, deal with the emotional trauma of pediatric oncology, arrange medical care, babysitters, Chai Lifeline, Bikur Cholim — the works — while avoiding the gravitational pull of the black hole of anxiety, fear, and depression,” Baruch remembers. Though he was a very active learner before the crisis, his learning fell by the wayside as Hindy’s battle took center stage.

Hindy faced her illness with grace and courage, but succumbed after two-and-half-years, leaving the family bereft and grieving. Her passing demanded a new set of existential challenges for Baruch and would send him on a unique journey in his learning.

“During the shivah,” he remembers, “people would express meaningless clichés and drop platitudes that were almost repulsive to me. Phrases like ‘ein milim,’ there are no words. What did that mean? There is a word for everything in the Torah. Torah is timeless, it has messages for everybody. How could it be that there were no words in the Torah for a bereaved parent?”

Certain that there must be words in the vastness of Torah that would speak to his situation, Baruch set out to find them.

Back when Hindy had been healthy, Baruch had kept to a daily regimen of Gemara learning. During her illness, he dropped out of learning entirely. Now, after her tragic death, as he grappled with the new contours of his world of bereavement, his passion for learning was reignited — with a new focus on the weekly sedra.

When learning the parshah, Baruch found that he was listening through the ears of a bereaved parent. “A baal nisayon breathes different oxygen than everyone else. He processes things through a different lens. I was perceiving things differently and started learning Torah differently.”

Reading about Yaakov and Yosef’s reunion in Mitzrayim the mefarshim say that Yosef cried, but Yaakov did not cry. Rashi says he was reciting Krias Shema. “What I understood from that was, of course he couldn’t cry! He was hyperventilating. He was face to face with the son whose death he had mourned.”

Looking through what Baruch describes as “tainted lenses” led him on a quest to find an understanding of the Torah that would provide him with consolation, connection, and, ultimately, enlightenment. He started learning again — but differently, on his terms. “I reinvented myself,” he says.

He began to note every tragedy and researched the mefarshim to understand how Torah personalities coped with their challenges. Kayin killed Hevel, now Adam and Chavah were bereaved parents. What does the Torah tell us about how they reacted? Unlike material about grief and mourning available on the broader market, Baruch’s learning was on a level that resonated with the well-seasoned ben Torah and kollel avreich — using every commentary in the Mikraos Gedolos, the Midrash Rabbah, the Yalkut Shimoni, and other high-level sources, where he sought to discover how our forefathers coped with tragedy.

His studies expanded and he started researching gedolei Yisrael, reading their letters and seforim to discover how they coped with challenges. The result: a 500-page compilation of his writings, correspondences, and helpful articles he’s accumulated over the years, which he shares as chizuk for those in need, titled Reb Yochanon’s Bone: Chizuk for the Bereaved Parent (referred to by several gedolim as “the encyclopedia of nechamah”).

Baruch’s learning morphed into community-wide mussar vaadim (i.e., Shaar Habitachon of Chovos HaLevavos; Shaar Hasimchah and Shaar Ha’anavah of Orchos Tzaddikim; Shaar Hanekius of Mesillas Yesharim; and Bilvavi Mishkan Evneh) and a yearly public speech given on Hindy’s yahrtzeit in which he shares insights into grieving and healing. In these speeches, Baruch takes a topic that fascinates him and dives in. That means delving into myriad mefarshim, camping out in the kollel late at night, following leads, calling rabbanim, and attacking the issue like a legal researcher would.

The topics he chooses are not outside the mainstream, but they are beyond the typical perspective; he describes them as “the stuff wedged in between the cracks of the sidewalk, the space between the words, or the pause in between the musical notes.” For example, the Torah tells us that after the death of Aharon’s two sons, “Vayidom Aharon — and Aharon was silent.”

“But what about his wife?” asks Baruch. How did she cope? What does the Torah tell us about her life after this tragedy?

In another example, Baruch cites that a navi needs to be b’simchah when he receives and conveys a prophecy. So how, then, did Yirmiyahu write Eichah? He could not have been in a joyous state of mind when reliving the Churban! Most of us would never have thought of this question, but Baruch discovered that many others already have — including the Chazon Ish, Rav Yehonasan Eybeschutz, Yam Hamelach, and the Ben Ish Chai.

Questions like these coupled with Baruch’s exhaustive research have culminated in magnificent articles and presentations that Baruch shares, both by speaking publicly and in his writing. He is the author of Grieving and Healing in the Prism of Torah: Parents’ Spiritual Guide through Pain and Grief, a book devoted to bringing hope to the bereaved and help them reclaim happiness from tragedy.

Today Baruch is a steady address for speaking requests and it’s rare that a nichum aveilim visit is not met with a request for tender words of chizuk and consolation. But Baruch Cohen is not a man who lives in sadness. Whereas tragedy brings pain and profound sadness, he resists thoughts that may lead to depression and attains nechamah from the fact that, though his daughter has died, her neshamah is everlasting.

“I feel a close connection to Hindy’s neshamah. I have a fidelity and awareness to her neshamah that I always try to honor. It’s a mindset and it brings me tremendous consolation. I don’t carry myself as defeated or destroyed, it’s not in my DNA.”

He reasoned that Hashem wanted him to have this experience for a specific purpose. “So where does this pain lead me?” he asked himself. “What middos are surfacing? How can I inspire others?”

Baruch Cohen’s focus is on grieving rather than healing, because it’s a critical stage that is typically overlooked but can’t be bypassed. This realization has brought his learning to a rare and unusual level that has provided insight not only to those who share his unique “lenses,” but to many others seeking growth in Torah and hashkafah.

“My learning now is my own charted path,” he says. “I’m learning on a high level b’iyun, sourcing 20 to 30 mefarshim on a topic. But I’ve redefined myself and my approach to learning. I’m not learning the regular topics; I’m finding and sharing gems of insights normally not recognized.

“Yes, my focus is on grief,” he admits, “but that’s not because I’m mired in sadness. It’s because that grief became my channel to a learning regimen that motivates and inspires me. We all have difficulties in our lives, and our job is to remember that the ‘obstacle is the way.’ Those seeming obstacles often point us in the direction we need to grow closer to Hashem.”

(Originally featured in ‘One Day Closer’, Special Supplement, Chanuka/Siyum HaShas 5780)

WHOLE BROKEN VESSELS, By Barbara Bensoussan | MISHPACHA MAGAZINE, JULY 18, 2018

WHOLE BROKEN VESSELS, By Barbara Bensoussan | MISHPACHA MAGAZINE, JULY 18, 2018



“Suddenly you’re breathing a different oxygen than everyone else. I used to flip past the Chai Lifeline ads in magazines with pictures of sick kids — I never imagined it could concern me!”

Baruch C. Cohen is a tall man with a commanding presence, the sonorous voice of a stage actor, and a trial lawyer’s way with words. His law office, on the ninth floor of a swanky professional building on Wilshire Drive, affords a sweeping view of Los Angeles, with downtown at one end and the Pacific Coast at the other. The walls are adorned with framed degrees, awards, and news articles in which he’s been featured.

Everything in this immaculate, gleaming office speaks to prestige and success, and Cohen presents as an alpha-male lawyer, an intense and forceful advocate who knows what he wants to achieve and will go after it tenaciously. He has been described by others as a “pit bull” in courtroom battles, and is equally aggressive about defending Israel’s right to exist, authoring a blog entitled American Trial Lawyers in Defense of Israel.

Yet despite his powerful personality, Cohen was brought to his knees some 14 years ago when tragedy struck his family. His oldest child, Hindy, was diagnosed with cancer, and passed away at age 17 after two and a half grueling years of struggle.


Baruch Cohen loved his daughter with a fierce intensity, and he mourned her equally intensely — to the point where he thought he might never recover. But grieving is a process, and over the past 14 years he learned a lot about healing — what helped him, what brought him down, what his triggers were. A former avreich, he sought comfort and validation in Torah sources, and found much that spoke to him. The result is a new book, Grieving and Healing, a collection of divrei Torah and his own insights that are his offering to anyone who’s suffered a loss.

Nothing Prepares You

Born into a Modern Orthodox family in Far Rockaway, Cohen wasn’t sheltered from rough living or family tragedy. His father, Rabbi Dr. Samuel Cohen, headed the Jewish National Fund, but passed away at the relatively young age of 66.

“My parents were old-school religious Zionists,” he relates.

His mother, a Holocaust survivor descended from the Hager family of Vizhnitz, would later remarry Rabbi Berel Wein (she was nifteres this past January). “Rabbi Baruch Chait’s father was the rav of our shul,”he adds.

Baruch was sent to Camp Torah Vodaath, where he became inspired by learning. He spent six years there before marrying his wife Adina (n?e Mandelbaum, a descendant of the family who built the house that became the Mandelbaum Gate). After marrying, he enrolled in kollel at Yeshivas Chofetz Chaim while earning a degree at Queens College at night.

“I always had a bug for the law,” he says. “In beis medrash we were only allowed to read the Wall Street Journal, but I’d read the New York Times at college, and sometimes go to the courthouses in Lower Manhattan to observe.”

He went for his law degree at Southwestern Law School in Los Angeles, which he describes as similar to NYU. He clerked for judges, worked for a Wall Street firm, and eventually segued from bankruptcy cases to business and civil law and trial litigation.

“I learned to fine-tune my speaking skills, learned how to address a jury,” he recounts. “I am aggressive, but not abrasive. I aim to be confident without being arrogant.”

By 2001, he seemed to have achieved the perfect upwardly mobile life. He had moved into his current office, bought himself a house in Hancock Park, and had four beautiful children. Just one day before 9/11, however, his family found themselves reeling from their own personal catastrophe: Hindy was diagnosed with Ewing’s sarcoma, a rare and aggressive pediatric cancer. At the time, Hindy was a student in Bais Yaakov of Los Angeles. Photos depict a sweet-faced teenager with dark hair and her father’s blue eyes.

“She was a normal, terrific frum kid,” her father says. “She loved school, she loved her family. She had many friends who visited all the time. During the times she was out of the hospital, they’d constantly go out for coffee, go shopping at the mall. She didn’t want to draw attention to herself or be a ‘chesed project.’ ”

Having a child with cancer rudely catapulted the family into a brand-new terrifying mental space.

“It was Gehinnom, a terrible nisayon,” Cohen says. “Suddenly you’re breathing a different oxygen than everyone else. I used to flip past the Chai Lifeline ads in magazines with pictures of sick kids — I never imagined it could concern me! I used to go to Disneyland, and just see balloons and cartoon characters. But once I went there with a child in a wheelchair, I only saw the sick kids.”

Cohen’s wife Adina would stay at the hospital during the week with Hindy, while Cohen would visit after work and spend Shabbos with her. They’d sing zemiros together on Friday nights, and make Shabbos parties on Saturday afternoons with Chai Lifeline nosh, often sharing with the hospital staff and friends who walked over to see her. Hindy loved hearing stories about her father’s trial victories and setbacks, and having her father read her news and columns from Jewish newspapers. Both enjoyed the lively DMCs those articles would provoke.

“During the week, I would save hysterical jokes to share with Hindy on Shabbos,” Cohen says. “She loved a good laugh, and would try to guess the punch lines. Sometimes we’d watch old ‘I Love Lucy’ clips, and she’d giggle early into the episode as she anticipated the comic situation about to unfold.”

Rabbi Hershy Ten from Bikur Cholim walked many miles to visit them every single Shabbos, and Hindy always enjoyed his funny, entertaining company. “Her eyes would light up when he came,” Cohen says. “He was the perfect blend of optimism and realism.”

Cohen says he himself got through their ordeal by assembling a “dream team” for himself, a Rolodex of top rabbanim and advisors. No one rav could be all-purpose in their situation; they needed one rav who was good at empathy, another who could give medical guidance, yet another to pasken on other issues.

“My ‘team’ was a lifeline,” he says.

He kept up his law practice even while Hindy was sick, having seen other families who gave up jobs and went into bankruptcy in similar situations, and/or suffered serious shalom bayis problems.

“It kept me sane,” he admits.

But he and his wife barely saw each other during the months Hindy was sick. With three other children at home, they took shifts in the hospital, and were obliged to accept help from Chai Lifeline and Bikur Cholim. He tried not to let his brain go into fast-forward mode, knowing that fear is an adversary that could cripple him at a time his family could ill afford for him to collapse.

Dashed Hopes

Fifteen years ago, he says, people were still whispering “yenneh machlah” rather than calling cancer by its name. A well-intentioned person suggested that to help his daughter’s refuah, he should do a chesbon hanefesh, to uproot any aveirahs or character flaws he had.

“That hurt me,” he says. “It’s not a healthy suggestion, either psychologically or religiously, for someone emotionally compromised by trauma.”

He wasn’t the type to start running around to rabbis and rebbes for brachos.

“I’m Litvish. I’m not into kabbalah,” he says. But he did join parent support groups from Chai Lifeline, and found them helpful.

Hindy herself was never a complainer, and held on to her emunah peshutah throughout her ordeal, always conscientious to express deep hakaras hatov to the nurses and doctors.

“She got that solid emunah from my wife,” Cohen declares.

At first, it looked like their positive outlook was justified: Hindy went into remission after the first course of treatment at Children’s Hospital, lasting about nine months.

“It is hard to describe the simchah in our home and at school when Hindy returned at the very end of tenth grade after her first bout with cancer,” Cohen would later write. “Teachers and classmates [were] running up to her, hugging her and kissing her.”

But Ewing’s sarcoma often comes back, even after a decade. In Hindy’s case, it returned just a year later, and Hindy missed out on the end of 11th grade and the first half of her senior year. Then a CT scan in January showed her to be cancer-free, and she was able to go back to school in February to the rejoicing of her family and friends.

“It was as if Adar had come early,” Cohen recalls.

But their joy was premature. In mid-February, doctors determined that the tumor had returned, and informed Baruch and Adina that the situation was critical — and terminal. Hindy herself knew the tumor was back, although she didn’t know just how critical things were. She was having trouble breathing, but managed to attend her brother Yehuda’s bar mitzvah. She had had her heart set on going to the Bais Yaakov Shabbaton in Malibu, and with heavy hearts her parents selflessly let her attend, despite their own longing to spend every last moment with her.

The Cohens had prayed that Hindy’s end not be painful or prolonged, and Hashem listened: He sent her a misas neshikah. The following week, on Rosh Chodesh Adar, January 23, Hindy’s neshamah left This World. Her parents had hoped one day to accompany her to the chuppah in a white gown; now they accompanied her to Olam HaEmes, in white shrouds.

Valley of the Shadow

Shivah is always painful, but Cohen found that many well-intentioned but thoughtless people inadvertently twisted the knife in the wound. Himself overwrought and hypersensitive, bromides like “Ein milim, there are no words” grated on him. He didn’t want to hear, “Hashem only sends these sorts of tests to people who can handle them” (who said he was handling?), or, “You must be very special if Hashem chose you for this nisayon” (please, Hashem, make me less special!). People would shake their heads and cluck, “Life will never be the same,” condemning him to a lifetime of depression.

Nor was it helpful to hear hagiographic accounts of gedolim who lost cherished family members over Shabbos, but didn’t let a single tear fall until after Havdalah.

“Baruch’s persona as a lawyer is aggressive, but it’s only a persona,” comments Rabbi Shlomo Einhorn, the rav of his shul. “One on one, he’s a very sensitive person.”

“How was I supposed to feel, reading those?” Cohen says. “Are we not supposed to have any emotions? Am I a lesser person because I’m devastated by my daughter’s death?”

He very much appreciated when Rabbi Label and Vivian Steinhardt flew in from New York to meet with his family. The Steinhardts had tragically lost their son Dovi, and established Ezras Dov to help bereaved families. Rabbi Steinhardt was a menahel in the mesivta of Chaim Berlin, and Cohen had been Dovi’s counselor when Dovi was a camper in Mogen Avraham.

“They communicated a healthy outlook on grief,” he says. “You can’t defer grief. Grief is there for a reason. If you try to defer it, the basketball will still be under the carpet. “

He didn’t go into denial — quite the opposite. “I fell into a black hole,” he says. “Depression was now my potential adversary.”

During the following months, he saw what helped him and what didn’t. It didn’t help when, as he broke down crying during davening, someone said to him, “You’re still with that?” On the other hand, a gentle squeeze on the shoulder by a friend as he sobbed under his tallis made him feel supported. A walk with a friend who didn’t say anything, just kept him company in a caring way, was helpful.

“That sort of validation was the key to healing,” he says. “My pain was very real. But Hashem wanted me to have it, so I know there must have been something there for me in the experience.”

He learned what events are painful triggers for him. “I still won’t go to a child’s funeral,” he says. “It’s too devastating. It takes me too long to recuperate.”

He went to events with other bereaved parents, finding them very helpful at the beginning. He saw different approaches to grief, learned from different therapists. After a while, however, those events produced “diminishing returns” for him, and the speeches became predictable.

Eventually he was able to move from “being pain” to “having pain,” as bereaved mother Sherri Mandell describes in her book The Blessing of a Broken Heart. The major turnaround, the moment the river changed course for him, was the epiphany that he had to come out of his own grief to help his family deal with their pain.

“That’s what started me on the path to healing,” he says. “I saw the toll on the others, and that pushed me to be stronger for them.”

Around that time, while in shul on a Friday night and feeling low, he started paying attention to the words of Kabbalas Shabbos. “Rav lach sheves b’eimek habacha — Too long have you dwelt in the valley of tears,” the men sang, and the words seemed to speak directly to him.

He was finally tired of being stuck in a ditch, and tired of reading books about tragedy. “I’m a lawyer. I’m used to creating trial strategies and preparing for a litigation fight,” he says. “But here I found myself in the ultimate fight, a fight with the yetzer hara.”

A fan of Sun Tzu’s classic, The Art of War, he knew the first principle: Know your enemy and know yourself. In his case, he knew his enemy to be competing, paralyzing emotions, and he needed to be strong and focused in his battle against them, like a true warrior. His new game plan was to seek counsel from the truly wise, our Torah sages.

“Baruch is a deep person and a product of his Chofetz Chaim background, in that he looks at everything through a Torah lens,” says his friend Rabbi Nechemia Langer, rav of Beis Medrash Shaare Torah in Los Angeles.

“I wanted to hear advice directly from Chazal,” Cohen says. “I started amassing a library of divrei Chazal, Tehillim, tefillah, and Torah insights on bereavement, looking for gems that would speak to me.”

He began collecting letters from great rabbanim and even secular writers about grief. For example, Rav Moshe Feinstein wrote a letter to Rav Shneur Kotler when the latter’s beloved son was niftar; even President Lincoln, who lost three children, wrote a sensitive letter about mourning to a bereaved mother who lost two sons in the Civil War.

Passages from Torah that he’d never paid attention to when things were going well now leapt off the page with question marks. Why don’t we hear about Yaakov crying for Rochel, although we are told Yaakov cried at other times, and we are told Avraham cried for Sarah? How did Aharon HaKohein’s wife react when her sons were consumed by fire? Why did Yaakov allow Yehudah to bring Binyamin to Yosef in Mitzrayim? (Because Yaakov knew Yehudah, also a bereaved parent, would understand what was as stake.)

Ironically, shortly before Hindy was diagnosed, Cohen developed a strange yen to learn the Shaar Habitachon section of the Chovos Halevavos. “I’d always avoided it when I was in Chofetz Chaim,” he avows. “But suddenly I felt interested. It’s as if Hashem wanted to send the refuah before the makkah.”

He found many of his own reactions addressed in Torah sources. For example, after Hindy was nifteres, he found it painful to watch other parents kiss their children in shul. Then he found a Chazal in Sefer Hachassidim that says one shouldn’t kiss his children in shul, because it could hurt the feelings of someone without a child.

“I felt validated,” he says.

Cohen’s rav, Rabbi Shlomo Einhorn of Kehilat Yavneh, gives him credit for tackling the loss head on. “So many people are struggling with loss, and books like When Bad Things Happen to Good People aren’t appropriate for the frum crowd. So they’re left with three options: leave religion, ignore the questions and get busy with life, or engage in questioning HaKadosh Baruch Hu through Torah.”

The bereavement process requires time and patience, and it’s life-altering. “Life now seems so tenuous, so fleeting,” Cohen remarks. “The secular ideals of money and fame lose all importance. As it is, every day we see in the news that someone can be on top of the world one day, and a pariah the next.

“We don’t think much about it, but Elisheva, Aharon HaKohein’s wife, also fell from a great height. Before she lost her sons, she was on top of the world. Her husband was the Kohein Gadol, her sons his priests. Her brother was Nachshon ben Aminadav. The day her sons died, she had five simchahs! We should never get too comfortable with our lives being ‘perfect.’ ”

Nowadays, when he goes to shul, he doesn’t look at the rich and famous; he seeks out the people in pain. He says he’s developed a special radar for them.

Eventually, he compiled many of the divrei Torah he’d found into a collection called Reb Yochanan’s Bone, which he printed up and distributed to friends and others he felt could benefit. (Rabi Yochanan lost ten children, and when the tenth died, he made a necklace out of a bone from that child’s little finger. He would wear it when he visited mourning parents to show them that they should not feel singled out for punishment by Hashem, since he himself, the gadol hador, had been similarly afflicted.)

As the years went on, Cohen was often called upon to speak at various functions. He speaks in his shul every year at the Seudah Shlishis before Hindy’s yahrtzeit, and the crowd has steadily grown so that now there’s usually standing room only. He attends the Bais Yaakov graduation and speaks while presenting an award he and his wife established in Hindy’s memory. It goes to a girl who, like Hindy, excels in good middos.

Another time, he was able to speak to a very high-profile group of bereaved parents in the secular world, household names in music, entertainment, and politics. One woman asked him, “Why aren’t you angry at G-d?”

He replied, “When you go through any difficult test, you can always think of ways it could be worse, but find simchah instead. You can’t forget all the good things G-d does for you even when one part of life is hard.”

“She was touched by that,” he remembers. “But to ask, ‘How could Hashem do this?’ is arrogance. Who are we to judge His decisions? It takes a certain humility to accept His decisions.”

Reaching Out Yet Further

Cohen began emerging from his grief when he realized he needed to be there for his family. And the steep climb upward was further aided by his desire to help other people as well. He wanted to use the Torah insights he’d gleaned along the way to help other bereaved parents learn the right hashfakos to deal with their challenge.

“Grief is one of the most-searched terms in Amazon,” he says. “It can be a rudderless boat. I wanted to give people healthy guidelines to navigate it.”

“What makes Baruch tick is his ability to inspire others,” says longtime Chofetz Chaim friend Rabbi Avrohom Stuhlberger. “Some people would have suppressed their memories [of a trauma] after a few years, but he retained the fire to channel his sorrow into strength.”

Cohen would send letters or poems to parents who had lost a child. Then he compiled his various hespedim, speeches, meditations, and Torah gems into a self-published book he entitled Grief and Healing through the Prism of Torah (sold through Amazon). Also included is his correspondence with the Sanz-Klausenberger Rebbe, in which the Rebbe compassionately speaks about the soul’s desire to return to its Maker, the impossibility of understanding Hashem’s ways, and the way his father, the previous Rebbe, coped with hardship and death in Auschwitz.

Another moving piece of writing in the collection was found on an American soldier, Colonel David (Mickey) Marcus, who died during the Israeli War of Independence. Marcus describes a ship leaving port for faraway lands, as a mashal for passing to the Next World. The people on shore cry as it departs; they’ll miss their loved ones on the boat, and don’t know when they’ll be reunited again. Although the ship seems to get smaller and smaller as it sails away, of course it remains the same size it always was. After a long voyage, it reaches a far-off shore in a foreign land. There, another set of people is waiting. “It’s arrived!” they cry joyfully.

A similarly encouraging perspective on death can be garnered from the excerpt from Rav Yechiel Michel Tukachinsky’s Gesher Hachaim, concepts that were later adapted into a song by Abie Rotenberg entitled “Conversation in the Womb.” Rav Tukachinsky describes twins in their mother’s womb, beginning their descent into this world. One twin, who’s comfortable in the womb and doesn’t believe in a world beyond it, doesn’t want to leave; he’s convinced it will be the end of him. The other, a baal emunah, tells him there’s another, amazing world beyond the womb, where they’ll walk freely and breathe and eat through their mouths.

The believer is born first, and the other twin hears shouting and crying. Now the next one is really terrified, convinced the “next world” means death! What he doesn’t understand is the shouts are happy cries of “Mazel tov.”

Cohen found inspiration from Rav Kalonymus Kalman Shapira, the Rebbe of Piaseczna and rebbe of the Warsaw Ghetto. When the ghetto was about to be liquidated, Rav Shapira buried the manuscript of his writings with the plea they be taken to Eretz Yisrael if found after the war. The manuscript was indeed found and published as Aish Kodesh.

Cohen warmed to the idea that just because we “lose” something doesn’t mean it’s lost forever. And when he read Aish Kodesh, he was inspired by the discussion of a midrash in which Moshe Rabbeinu expressed a fear to Hashem: “Will I truly cease to be remembered when I die?” Hashem’s response, in brief, was that when the Jewish People carry out mitzvos, they will remember him. Any time we perform mitzvos on behalf of a departed loved one, especially mitzvos that were dear to them, it helps keep them alive both in This World and the Next.

Similarly, all these projects in Hindy’s zechus help keep the Cohen family connected to her. “I don’t like to say I ‘lost’ a daughter,” Cohen says. “She isn’t lost. I still have four children, three here and one in Shamayim. I’ll always be her abba.”

When the Cohens’ daughter Tali Hertz gave birth to a baby girl and named her Chaya Chana Hindy, it brought whole new levels of nechamah.

“Tali and her husband Yechiel told us the name with such sensitivity,” Cohen says. “Just to hear Hindy’s name said to the baby in a normal, loving manner is very healing. To see her name perpetuated is the ultimate gift.”

He adds that Rav Michoel Ber Weissmandl lost five sons during the war, remarried in America, and had five more sons whom he named for the deceased ones. At the bris of the fifth son, he said, “Nekadeish b’shimchah b’olam,” the sons should be mekadeish Sheim Shamayim on earth like their namesakes in Shamayim.

It’s not easy to be shattered, Cohen says, but Hashem treasures broken luchos. A short chapter in his book discusses the Japanese art of kintsukoroi, in which broken pottery is repaired by bonding the shards together with lacquer mixed with gold, silver or platinum. The gleaming fault lines are evidence of an irreversible trauma that marked the object forever. But instead of trying to hide or disguise the damage, the Japanese transform the repair into art, creating a final product that is even more valuable than before.

“We always think about her [Hindy], but we continue on, with the ‘second set of Luchos’ even after our first set was broken and shattered,” Cohen writes in his book. “When we feel that our ‘set of Luchos’ are shattered, we need only to open our hearts to receive Hashem’s gift of a ‘second set of Luchos’ — the belief that joy can, and will, find a place in our lives again, with Luchos that will never be broken.” (Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 719)

https://mishpacha.com/whole-broken-vessels/

Shedding Tears over the Deaths of the Sons on Aharon Hakohein Comments of Baruch Cohen in Observance of the 13th Yahrtzeit of Hindy Cohen

Hindy's 13th yahrtzeit which will be observed on Monday Rosh Chodesh Adar 2-27-2017 - Adar 1, 5777.

1. Rav Akiva Eiger’s Pure Dove

HaGaon Rabbi Akiva Eger (1761 – 1837) was an outstanding Talmud Chochom, an extraordinary Torah scholar, an influential Posek HaDor and foremost leader of European Jewry during the early 19th century.

He married Glicky Margolis (who was then 16 years old) in 1778 and had 4 children together. After 18 years of marriage, Glicky got sick and tragically died. Rabbi Akiva Eger was 34 years old at the time and was absolutely devastated and distraught. 

Shortly thereafter, his deceased wife’s sister and brother-in-law, saw that Rabbi Akiva Eger was in need of a life’s partner and offered him their daughter’s hand in marriage (Breinda Feivelman who was then 16 years old). His four children were still unmarried at the time. 

In a most powerful and remarkable letter (Michtivei Rabbi Akiva Eiger, 109) Rabbi Akiva Eger wrote a response to the Rabbonim who were asked to make the marriage suggestion for Ms. Breindel Feivelman to him. He respectfully declined the offer for the time being, explaining that he was unable to move forward until he first came to grips with the tragedy of his loss [Rabbi Yosef Tropper translated large segments of this incredibly powerful letter in his book “The Aishes Chayil Song” which you can get on Amazon. Rabbi Akiva Eger wrote: 

“How can I answer you (regarding the proposed match)? My senses are confused, I cannot concentrate on anything.... ‘I firstly must state that I find this proposal to be insulting to my in-laws who are mourning the loss of their daughter as well.’”

Still, he reacted with astonishment to the thought of a match being proposed so soon after the loss of:

“the wife of my youth, my pure dove, with whom Hashem blessed me ... She walked a son and a daughter together with me down the aisle with joy and happiness ... Who will I share my worries with and receive comfort, who will look after me and care for me ... Who knew her righteousness more than I? Many times we were up in animated discussions about the topic of Yiras Shamayim until the middle of the night.”

Rav Akiva Eiger did not hesitate to bare the depth of his despair, which rendered him, as yet, unfit for marriage: 

“As you can see, I am a broken man, in a dark world (See, Sanhedrin 22a), I lost all pleasure. I accept Hashem’s decree. I cannot answer any Sh’eilos now, the tears make me unable to read.... I am unable to eat or keep down any food.... I cannot daven without distraction or even learn a simple topic.”... I did all that was in my power to care for my wife and keep her alive, and now I am weak and in grave danger.  I was unable to eat or keep down any food, I could not sleep. Thank God some of the medications have helped a little. I could not daven without distraction and could not learn a simple topic of Gemarah.... Even if I were to accept to marry your proposed suggestion, it would not be worth anything as I am not considered mentally stable enough to agree .... please give me time to regain my composure and clear thinking...”

Six months later, he accepted the match with his 16-year-old niece, to whom he was wed for 39 years, in a marriage that produced 13 children who survived into adulthood. When she too passed away, he was again broken, and passed away little more than a year later at age 75 in Posen (September 23, 1837).  

Rav Akiva Eiger, the Godol HaDor, could not even learn a page of Gemarah because the crushing pain of his loss of his loved one was so intense. 

2. Why Parshas Acharei Mos on Yom Kippur, and not Parshas Shemini?

The Shulchan Aruch: Section 621 Hilchos Yom KaKippurim, Seder Krias HaTorah; concerning the order of the Torah Reading for Yom Kippur rules: [After the Morning Service,] two Sifrei Torah scrolls are taken out of the Aron Kodesh. From the first Torah scroll, six men read [passages] from [the beginning of the Torah portion of] Parshas Acharei Mos...”

The Mishneh Berurah explains that it is stated in the Zohar : 

“Kol Mi SheMitzTaer Al Misas Bnei Aharon - that whoever grieves over the deaths of the sons of Aharon; 

O Morid Dimaos Aleihem - or sheds tears over them; 

Mochlin Lo Avonosav - will have his offenses pardoned; 

Uvanav Ainam Meisim BeChayav - and his children will not die in his lifetime.”

The deaths of the sons of Aharon HaKohein (Nadav & Avihu) are described in the Torah in two places: (1) in Sefer VaYikra - Parshas Shemini; & (2) in Sefer VaYikra - Parshas Acharei Mos.

In the 1st version in Parshas Shemini, the two sons of Aharon are named: Nadav & Avihu. The Torah reports their deaths in real time - as it’s happening: they offered an “Aish Zarah” an unauthorized foreign fire to the Mishkan and were burned to death immediately. Aharon HaKohein was silent and Moshe Rabbeinu consoled his brother. 

In the 2nd version of the same story, in Parshas Acharei Mos, the two sons of Aharon are not named (their identities are merely the sons of Aharon), the Torah summarizes their deaths after-the-fact (hence the name of the Parsha“Acharei Mos Shnei Bnei Aharon” - After the deaths of the sons of Aharon). Here, there is no report of their sin, no report of the cause of their deaths, nor Aharon and Moshe’s reaction. 

So this begs the obvious question: if I am to reflect seriously on Yom Kippur, on the deaths of the sons of Aharon to the point of tears, that it cleanses me of my sins and protects my children from tragedy, wouldn’t it make more sense to read the 1st version in Parshas Shemini - in real time - to relive the tragedy? Why would the Halacha require us to read the 2nd version that is after-the-fact, from Parshas Acharei Mos?

It must be, that there is something unique in the  2nd version of Parshas Acharei Mos, that is not to be found in the 1st version of Parshas Shemini version. Something so powerful, that it can detonate the secret of God’s repentance of Yom Kippur, and can immunize our children from death? What is it?

I would like to suggest that the 2nd version of Parshas Acharei Mos contains an editorial that is not contained in the 1st version of Parshas Shemini:

“Hashem spoke to Moshe after the deaths of Aharon’s two sons - BeKirvasam El Hashem - when they approached before Hashem and they died.”

The Ohr HaChayim commentary explains that Aharon HaKohein’s sons Nadav & Avihu died “BeKirvasam El Hashem” because they got too close to Hashem. Their lives expired because of their extreme devotion to Hashem: “Sheniskarvu BiDeveikus Gamur LaKodosh Baruch Hu” Their Dveikus and intimacy with God was so intense, that it was “Neimus, Areivos, Yedidos, Chavivos, Neshikos & Metikus” words of great affinity, attachment and closeness. 

The Ohr HaChayim explains that when Nadav & Avihu served Hashem and performed Mitzvos, their souls were so on fire with love for God, that their Neshamos would reach like flames leaping to the sky, bursting out of their bodies, in an attempt to connect with their Heavenly Father. They didn’t go all the way and allow their souls to actually leave their bodies, and it took them great restraint to contain their souls within.

HaRav Yisrael Friedman of Ruzhyn (the Rizhiner Rebbe) compared Nadav & Avihu’s holiness to Rebbi Akiva - one of the 10 Martyrs the “Eser Harugei Malchus “ who was tragically murdered by the Romans when they tortured him for teaching Torah and combed his skin off his body. According to the Gemarah in Berachos (61b), at the time the Romans were tearing off Reb Akiva’s skin he was Mekabel Ol Malchus Shomayim - he accepted upon himself the yoke of Heaven and was prepared to give up his life to sanctify Hashem - and his students asked him “Ad Kahn” Rebbi, isn’t this too much to handle?” Reb Akiva answered: “all my life I was troubled by my inability to fulfil the Mitzvah of being prepared to give one’s life for Hashem. Until now. He then recited Krias Shema while being tortured and his soul departed from his body when he got to the word Echad. The Rizhiner Rebbe explained that Reb Akiva was able to be MeDabek and cling his soul “BeDeveikus Niflaah” to the point of almost death (just like Nadav & Avihu). But because of the Mitzvah of VeChai Bahem - that one must live, Reb Akiva performed his Mitzvos with such a holy fire and intensity from within, that his soul would leap out of his body to cling to Hashem (but not all the way) Ad Klus Hanefesh. A hairbreadth short of death. 

But now that the evil Romans were actually killing him, and there was not going to be a tomorrow, Reb Akiva no longer had the Mitzvah of VeChai Bahem and therefore Reb Akiva was able to say Krias Shema with total perfection (unlike in the past where he held back) and he was able to “go all the way” with total and complete and unimpeded devotion and Deveikus to Hashem until his soul actually departed from his body. 

Yes, the Romans killed Reb Akivah - but he controlled the narrative and he relinquished his soul on his terms, saying the word Echad completing the Shema - in an ultimate act of  “BeDeveikus Niflaah.” 

Thus bringing beautiful meaning to our daily prayer: “VeHoEr Einenu BeSorasecha; VeDabek Libeinu BeMitzvosecha.” We ask Hashem to connect our hearts to his Mitzvos. 

According to HaRav Gedalyah Schorr, this too, explains the deaths of Nadav & Avihu. As it says in the 2nd version of Parshas Acharei Mos, they died  “BeKirvasam El Hashem” because of their extreme and intense Deveikus to Hashem. Their physical bodies could not contain their powerful souls. They served Hashem with their souls literally (almost) leaving their bodies to cling to God.

This is why the Torah in the Parshas Acharei Mos version uses a double-Loshon: Acharei Mos and then “VaYamusu.” They (almost) died whenever they served Hashem in the past, but by this time, they came so close to Hashem, closer than ever before, this time they remained dead, instead of them returning their souls to their bodies. Now, they relinquished their souls and ultimately died. Hence, Acharei Mos and then “VaYamusu.” 

Says HaRav Gedalyah Schorr, this explains the point in the Torah that Nadav & Avihu sinned “Asher Lo Tzivuy” they did something that they were not commanded to do. Whenever they did a Mitzvah that they were commanded to do in the Torah, their souls temporarily left to cling to Hashem; but the merit of the Mitzvah that Hashem commanded them to do, served as a spiritual safeguard that caused them to fall short of actually dying, and cause their souls to return to their bodies. The Mitzvah, having been commanded, was their lifeline that brought them back to life. But here, since they were not commanded to bring the foreign fire sacrifice, they were Ainu Mitzuveh - they did not have the protections of a Mitzvah, they didn’t have the protections of VeChai Bahem, and therefore without the protection of the Mitzvah, nor the protections of VeChai Bahem, so that their souls were free to leave their bodies out of pure Deveikus, with no safeguards, that they were able to relinquish their souls.

3. "V"

This concept of being close to Hashem, having Deveikus to God, is of profound significance to me on Hindy’s Yahrtzeit. 

On March 15, 1998, Hindy celebrated her becoming a Bas Mitzvah. She gave a wonderful speech about what the letters of the words: “Bas Mitzva” meant to her, that it represented some of the Midos that would one day define her personality once she would become an adult [Her speech is reprinted in full at the end of this article]. 

She broke down the letters of the word B-A-S:

B stood for Beauty; 

A stood for Ambition; 

S stood for Sensitivity. 

She further broke down the letters of the word M-I-T-Z-V-A: 

M stood for Meaning; 

I stood for Independence; 

T stood for Truth; 

Z stood for Zealousness; 

... and when she got to the letter “V” Hindy wrote:

“V = Velcro: “I want to be attached to Hashem’s Torah & Mitzvos like pieces of velcro to one another. I want to stick to Hashem and be the best that I can be, and let no one pull me away from Torah & Mitzvos.”

A = Achievement

I believe that Hindy was “connected” in so many ways, and as a 12-year old girl, she already possessed the emotional maturity and intelligence and wisdom of an adult, to yearn to cling to God, even in the most trying of times. 

4. Are you Looking in, or Looking Out?

Going back to the question, if I am to reflect seriously on the deaths of the sons of Aharon to the point of tears, wouldn’t it make more sense to read the version in Parshas Shemini - in real time? Why does the Halacha require us to read the version that is after-the-fact, from Parshas Acharei Mos? Morai VeRabbosai, I would like to suggest the following:

I believe that the Halacha is sending us an incredibly powerful message: and that is, that hard times hit us all. No one is spared from tough times or pain. No one. But the real barometer of gaging how we’re doing after a setback, how we’re surviving, how we’re coping, how we’re transcending the test, is what is contained in Parshas Acharei Mos and that is “BeKirvasam El Hashem.” How close are we to Hashem? 

When we stand at Neilah before the end of Yom Kippur during the last final moments, watching as the Gates of Repentance close, do we perceive ourselves as standing outside of the city gates, looking in as the gates close, leaving us, on the outside? Or do we view ourselves standing within the city gates, from within, feeling God’s heavenly embrace and love as the gates close as a divine hug keeping us in his Kingdom for just another minute, for just another second of closeness to Him? Where are we? How close are we? 

Our focus is not on our tragedies, and not on the past. We don’t dwell on our pain. We read the Torah portion on Yom Kippur from Parshas Acharei Mos about our intimacy with God now. It’s about “BeKirvasam El Hashem.” How close are we to Hashem - now? 

That’s the genius behind the Halacha. That’s why we read Parshas Acharei Mos on Yom Kippur. 

5. A Carrot, an Egg, and a Cup of Coffee

A young woman went to her mother and told her about her life and how things were so hard for her. She did not know how she was going to make it and wanted to give up. She was tired of fighting and struggling. It seemed, that as one problem was solved, a new one arose. 

Her mother took her to the kitchen. She filled three pots with water and placed each on a high fire. Soon the pots came to boil. In the first pot she placed carrots, in the second pot she placed eggs, and in the last pot she placed ground coffee beans. She let them sit and boil, without saying a word. 

Turning to her daughter, she asked, "Tell me, what do you see?" "Carrots, eggs, and coffee," she replied. 

In about twenty minutes she turned off the burners. She fished the carrots out and placed them in a bowl. She pulled the eggs out and placed them in a bowl. Then she ladled the coffee out and placed it in a bowl. 

Turning to her daughter, she asked, "Tell me, what do you see?" "Carrots, eggs, and coffee," she replied. 

Her mother brought her closer and asked her to feel the carrots. She did and noted that they were soft. The mother then asked the daughter to take an egg and break it. After pulling off the shell, she observed the hard boiled egg. Finally, the mother asked the daughter to sip the coffee. The daughter smiled as she tasted its rich aroma. The daughter then asked, "What does it mean, mother?" 

Her mother explained that each of these objects had faced the exact same adversity and trauma ... boiling water. But each reacted differently. The carrot went in strong, hard, and unrelenting. However, after being subjected to the boiling water, it softened and became weak. The egg had been fragile. Its thin outer shell had protected its liquid interior, but after sitting through the boiling water, its inside became hardened. The ground coffee beans were unique, however. After they were in the boiling water, they had changed the water.

"Which are you?" she asked her daughter. "When adversity knocks on your door, how do you respond? Are you a carrot, an egg or a coffee bean?" 

Think of this: Which am I? Am I the carrot that seems strong, but with pain and adversity do I wilt and become soft and lose my strength? Am I the egg that starts with a malleable heart, but changes with the heat? Did I have a fluid spirit, but after a death, a breakup, a financial hardship or some other trial, or pain, have I become hardened and stiff and unapproachable? Does my shell look the same, but on the inside am I bitter and tough with a stiff spirit and hardened heart? 

Or am I like the coffee bean? The bean actually changes the hot water, the very circumstance that brings the pain. When the water gets hot, it releases the fragrance and flavor. If you are like the bean, when things are at their worst, you get better and change the situation around you. When the hour is the darkest and trials are their greatest, do you elevate yourself to another level? How do you handle adversity? Are you a carrot, an egg or a coffee bean? 

May you have enough happiness to make you sweet, enough trials to make you strong, enough sorrow to keep you human and enough hope to make you happy. 

Bilah HaMoves Lanetzach, Umacha Hashem Elokim Dimah Meyal Kol Ponim - May He swallow up death forever; may Hashem wipe away tears from every face (Isaiah 25:8) T'hei Nishmasa Tzrurah B'tzror Ha'chaim.

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Hindy’s Speech on the meaning of the letters in the words: Bas Mitzvah

“On March 15, 1998, I will celebrate my becoming a Bas Mitzva with my family and friends. The letters of the words: “Bas Mitzva” represent some of the Midos that will hopefully define my personality once I become an adult. I have chosen to work hard at improving the following:

B = Beauty: I believe that beauty goes beneath the skin. To me, a truly beautiful person isn’t defined by her physical appearance, but is to be appreciated by her sterling character. For example, when the Torah introduced us to our mother, Rachel Imeinu, the Posuk said that she was: “Yefas Toar Viphas Mareh” - fair in appearance. The great Yalkut Shemoni explains that she was beautiful because she was Gomel Chesed to her sister Leah, when she gave her the signals under the Chupa to avoid embarrassment. Like Rachel, I want to be known as having beautiful Midos.

A = Ambition: I have strong desire to achieve something important with my life. For example I have set a very high standard of scholarship for myself, in that I hope to complete the hole Tanach (Torah, Neviim & Kesuvim) by the time I’m 20. I am determined to do what Hashem tells me, even if it gets difficult and makes no sense. I believe that Hashem will show me the right way and make it easier to follow Him. Just like in Parshas Teruma, we see that Moshe Rabbeinu tried and tried and tried to build the Menorah until Hashem finally showed him how to make it. Up until this point in my life, it’s been pretty easy to follow in Hashem’s ways. Mitzvos were spoon-fed to me, my whole life, and all of my Aveiros went to my parents. Now that I am Bas Mitzva, and I am responsible for my actions, I am going to make sure that my personal record is complete with Mitzvos and accomplishments. 

S = Sensitivity: Sensitivity is very important to me. Not only should I be sensitive to my own feelings, but I should be extra sensitive to the feelings of others. Just like our Imahos & our Avos were. 

M = Meaning: I  want my life to be meaningful, and that means, that I want a life full of Hashem’s Mitzvos. I don’t want my birthdays to simply come and go without there being an important accomplishment in my life to make it special. I want the years, the months, the weeks, the days, the minutes, and even the seconds of my life to be important. Especially now that I am a Bas Mitzva, and all my Mitzvos count, I cannot afford to throw away a single Mitzvah. We can see that from all our Chachomim and Rabanim, who try to make every moment meaningful, doing everything that comes their way B’simcha.

I = Independence: In the past, if I messed up, my parents assured me that it was OK to goof, and that there’s always a next time. While it’s still OK for an adult to mess up every once in a while (after all, they are human too), nevertheless, now that I am turning Bas Mitzva, I must take complete responsibility for my actions and make sure I am doing the right thing. I am starting over pure and new, with a clean Neshama.

T = Truth: Truth is very important to me because my friendships and relationships must be built on Emes (truth). I cannot exist with Sheker (lies). As the Torah says in Parshas Mishpatim, “Midbar Sheker Tirchak” - distance yourself from a lie. I believe this means that I must be truthful even when it is difficult. Only truth is the path to being a true Bas Yisroel. 

Z = Zealousness: It’s not just the quantity of Mitzvos that is important to me, but it is  also the quality of them that interests me. I want my Yiddishkeit to be alive with electricity. I do not want to be bored with Davening, and learning Chumash. I want my Davening to be “on fire,” and I want my learning to be exciting. I think it is very good to do everything in life B’Zrizus. Just like Moshe Rabbeinu, whenever Hashem told him to do something, he did with zealousness.

V = Velcro: I want to be attached to Hashem’s Torah & Mitzvos like pieces of velcro to one another. I want to stick to Hashem and be the best that I can be, and let no one pull me away from Torah & Mitzvos.

A = Achievement: I want to achieve in whatever Hashem tells me to do. Whatever I do in life, I want to be the best at it. I want to reach the greatest, most powerful goals. Learning Torah & keeping Mitzvos.”

Rancho Mirage, CA Sefer Torah in memory of Hindy Cohen

Today I learned from Rabbi Shimon Posner, Chabad Shaliach of Rancho Mirage, CA, that Adina's Uncle Isaac and Tante Selma Friedman dedicated a Sefer Torah in memory of their parents Menachem Mendel and Faige Rochel Friedman, and in memory of Hindy. Attached is a picture of the Sefer Torah "Mantel" cover.  I am overwhelmed with appreciation that Hindy's Neshama is now connected to a 2nd Sefer Torah.

Broken Hearts - Shattered Luchos - Comments of Baruch Cohen in Observance of the 12th Yahrtzeit of Hindy Cohen

1. Avinu Malkeinu: the Shoes of the Danube 

Rabbi Moshe Weinberger, rav of the Aish Kodesh shul in Woodmere, Long Island, tells of a remarkable story:

A Chassid asked his Rebbe: there are two lines in the prayers that are said on the holiest day of the year Rosh Hashana - the  Avinu Malkeinu that seem to echo the same sentiment:

Avinu Malkeinu; Asei LeMaan Harugim Al Shem Kadshecha - our Father, our King, act for the sake of those who were murdered for Your Holy Name; 

followed by: 

Avinu Malkeinu; Asei Lemaan Tevuchim Al Yechudecha - our Father, our King, act for the sake of those slaughtered for your Oneness. 

What’s the difference between those who were Harugim Al Shem Kadshecha  ‘murdered for Your Holy Name’ and those who were Tevuchim Al Yechudecha ‘slaughtered for your Oneness?’

The Chassid answered: 

“I am a Holocaust survivor. I lived in a small shtetl in Budapest, Hungary where, on the night of January 8, 1945 the Nazi division known as the Hungarian Arrow Cross Militiaman marched into my town, rounded up all of the Jews, approximately 100 people, to the banks of the Danube. They lined us up, side by side, at the river’s edge of the Danube River not far from the Hungarian Parliament building. We were ordered to take off our shoes, and were to be shot at the edge of the water so that our bodies would fall into the icy river and get carried away. The Nazis pulled the shoestrings out of our shoes, and used them to tie our helpless hands together before we were shot.  They positioned us at the edge of the water, so that when one Jew would fall into the Danube, the dead body would pull the still-living victims with it. The killers faced their victims without mercy; the victims faced the killers without blindfolds. 

Then one of the Nazi commanders who was standing on the embankment of the river, shouted:  “Shoot!” For just a second, a very long second, nothing happened. Another Nazi then lifted his machine gun at us and began to shoot, starting from the right side, moving to the left. All of us Jews raised our voices at once and cried out to G-d the sentence from the Torah that Jews say when sanctifying their lives in God’s name: “Shema Yisroel Hashem Elokeinu Hashem Achad!” The ones on the right side of the line, were unable to complete the Shema and they only got mid-sentence “Shema Yisroel Hashem...”, while those on the left side of the line, managed to say all of the words of the Shema before falling into the river. The Danube river was red with blood that day. All the bodies, tied together by shoelaces or rope or fate, would either sink or float away down the river. If the Nazis noticed that some of us Jews were still alive, they used us for target practice. However, most of the Jews – especially the children – died immediately because the water was freezing cold. During that day of horror in the winter of 1945, the Danube was known as "the Jewish Cemetery."

“Rebbeh” the Chassid said: “I survived that bloody brutal massacre, I passed out for a second or two but the ice cold water of the Danube in December revived me instantly. I remember coming to my senses and clearly realizing what had happened. I was floating without splashing so that they wouldn’t shoot me in the water. Those Yidden on the right side who were killed instantly, were Harugim Al Shem Kadshecha they were murdered by mid-sentence Al Shem Kadshecha by the word: “Hashem” His holy name; while those on the left, who managed to finish the entire Shema all the way to the last word Echad, they were Tevuchim Al Yechudecha they were slaughtered after reciting the word “Echad” His oneness.” 

Today, “The Shoes on the Danube Bank” is a memorial in Budapest, Hungary, on the banks of the Danube River, there sit sixty pairs of old-fashioned shoes, the type we wore in the 1940s. There are women's shoes, there are men's shoes and there are children's shoes. They sit at the edge of the water, scattered and abandoned, as though their owners had just stepped out of them and left them there. 

The Shoes on the Danube Bank is a memorial in Budapest, Hungary

Every Yom Tov that I daven in this shul, and ascend to Duchen, I and other Kohanim in this shul take off our shoes and leave them in a row up front, every time I see our shoes lined up, I’m reminded of the haunting scene of the Shoes of the Danube, and of those holy martyrs who were Harugim Al Shem Kadshecha  ‘murdered for Your Holy Name’ and those who were Tevuchim Al Yechudecha ‘slaughtered for your Oneness.

2. Broken

The Gemorah in Bava Basra 14a teaches us that: “Luchos Ve’shivrey Luchos Munachim Be’Aron”  the whole Luchos (the tablets) and the broken Luchos nestled inside the Aron Kodesh, the Ark of the Covenant.  

This seems strange. Why would Hashem place the broken tablets in the Kodesh Kodoshim? After all, these fragments were a constant reminder of the great moral failure of Klal Yisroel. 

In Parshas Eikev, we read that after Klal Yisroel created an Eigal HaZahav, the Golden Calf, Moshe Rabbeinu smashed the stone tablets created by Hashem, engraved with the Aseres Hadibros, the Ten Commandments. Moshe Rabbeinu, outraged by the sight of an Eigal HaZahav erected by Klal Yisroel as a deity, smashed the stone tablets. He apparently felt that Klal Yisroel was undeserving of them, and that it would be inappropriate to give them this Divine gift. 

On Yom Kippur, the holiest day of the year, the Kohein Godol would not perform the service with his usual golden garments, since gold was remotely reminiscent of the golden calf. Yet in this instance, throughout the entire year, the very symptom of the golden calf – the broken tablets – were stored in the Kodosh Kodoshim!

3. Broken Hearts; Shattered Luchos

The 16th century Kabbalistic work, Reshis Chochmah, teaches that the Ark is a symbol of the human heart. HaRav Eliyahu de Vidash of Tzfat: 

“The human heart is the Ark, thus a person’s heart must be full of Torah but simultaneously be a Broken Heart, a beaten heart. Only thus can it serve as a home for the Divine Presence. For She only dwells in broken vessels.”

The two sets of tablets in the Ark offer a striking metaphor. Namely, that brokenness and wholeness Luchos Ve’shivrey Luchos can coexist Munachim Be’Aron side by side, even in Judaism’s holiest spot – in the heart of the holy Ark.

People experience brokenness in many ways. One way that many of us experience despair and crushing pain is through the death of a loved one, especially when life is cut short. Those of us who have passed through the ‘valley of death’ and wept through the ‘valley of tears’ those of us who have lost loved ones, know that we forever carry ‘broken tablets’.  Shivrey Luchos. Loss forever remains a part of us. We carry the aching loss, and for some of us, we carry pain in our hearts and minds forever. The image of the broken tablets, unfortunately, offers an accurate representation of our lives and the life of the world around us. We carry our brokenness with us always.

After a painful loss, life continues, but now differently than before. We move through life now with two sets of tablets. Luchos Ve’shivrey Luchos. There are times of joy; there are very happy times. They are encased in the same box; Munachim Be’Aron in the same heart.

The bereaved, and especially those that have suffered painful loss, often live their life with two compartments within one heart – the whole and the broken, side by side

We yearn for our lives to be whole, to experience a sense of unity and one-ness, but more often than we care to admit, that experience is elusive, evasive, unattainable. The intact tablets, pristine in their perfection, convey an image of completeness and wholeness that is at odds with our fragmentary experience. The image of the broken tablets offers a more accurate representation of our lives and our world.

4. Rising from the Ashes

Usually, we think of wholeness and brokenness as two diametrically opposed states of being. But that isn’t necessarily so. Sometimes brokenness leads to wholeness to the point that without the broken pieces, there could be no whole.

There are moments when Hashem desires that we connect to Him as wholesome people, with clarity and a sense of fullness; there are yet deeper moments when He desires that we find Him in the shattered experiences of our lives.

As Rabbi YY Jacobson said: 

“We hope and pray to always enjoy the “whole tablets,” but when we encounter the broken ones, we ought not to run from them or become dejected by them; with tenderness we ought to embrace them and bring them into our “holy of holies,” recalling the observation of the Kotzker Rebbe, "there is nothing more whole, than a broken heart."” 

What Moshe Rabbeinu accomplished with breaking the Luchos was the demonstration of the truth that holiness can be carved out from the very alienation of a person from Hashem. From the very turmoil of his or her psychological and spiritual brokenness, a new holiness can be discovered.

 

It is on this note that the Torah chooses to culminate its tribute to Moshe Rabbeinu’ life. In its eulogy for Moshe, the Torah chooses this episode of smashing the tablets as the highlight and climax of Moshe’s achievements. His greatest achievement? How about Yetzias Mitzrayim - his taking the Jews out of Egypt? Molding them into a people? Krias Yam Suf - the Splitting the Red Sea? Kabbalas HaTorah - the receiving the Torah from G-d and transmitting it to humanity? Shepherding them for forty years in a wilderness? Yet, the Torah chooses this tragic and devastating episode to capture the zenith of Moshe Rabbeinu’s life and as the theme with which to conclude the entire Torah, all five books of Moses?!

Perhaps the greatest achievement of Moshe Rabbeinu was his ability to show humanity how we can take our brokenness and turn it into a Kodesh Kodoshim.

The Sages teach that the Holy Ark “carried those who carried it.” When the priests “carried” the Ark, rather than feel its weight, the priests would feel energized and lifted up; the Ark miraculously “carried” them. So, too, our broken parts need not weigh us down. When we use our brokenness as a catalyst toward wholeness, our broken pieces lift us up and move us forward.

5. Turn to Nothing to Become Something

While it felt that my very being was dissolving after Hindy’s death, I realized at one point in time that I was undergoing a kind of alchemy, a transmutation of self, that may one day invite and include something much more powerful than the pain. Of course, I would prefer to be a more relaxed superficial person with my daughter alive than to be imbued with a profound sense of mission. But I came to realize that within suffering, lies a form of greatness. 

As Sherri Mandel, the author of “The Blessings of a Broken Heart” and of “Resilience”  wrote: 

“When we permit ourselves to enter the chaos, to stumble, to cry out, to surrender to our defenselessness, we may find that our pain leads us towards greater truths about our vulnerabilities, and our power in this world. Entering the chaos prepares us to receive a heightened clarity and wisdom as well as to engage in a more intimate relationship with Hashem.”

Dovid Hamelech’s Tehillim 126 is a psalm of hope; in it’s final lines, we recognize a deep connection between emptiness and formation. 

HaZorim BeDimah BeRinah Yiktzoru - Those who sow in tears will reap in song; 

HaLoch Yelech Uvacha Nosei Meshech Hazorah - Those who bear the measure of seed goes on his weeping; 

Bo Yavo BeRinah Nosei Alumosav - He shall surely come home with exultation, bearing his sheaves. 

When it feels like the earth that supported you has been irreparably overturned, there is a divine promise in Dovid Hamelech’s Tehillim that new seedlings will one day take root and grow. We are promised a harvest when it seems improbable, when we cannot imagine growth. 

Every seed has to disintegrate before it can grow into a fruit or vegetable. Every seed has to break apart to sprout. It has to surrender to the darkness of mystery in order to emerge. And therein lies the stunning truth of life, of grief, and of healing: the seed has to turn to nothing to become something. 

How do we cope with fear and pain of nothingness or of brokenness? By realizing that a crucial aspect of resilience is the ability to allow the darkness, to surrender, to pause in the chaos of pain, to suspend our routine, to wait, to receive. We have to learn to stop and allow the waves of pain to wash over us. Because once we are broken, then Hashem can be the Healer of the Broken Hearted as Dovid Hamelech calls the Rofei LiShburei Lev. 

We dwell in a crucible of doubt and imbalance, of emptiness and anguish. One has to undergo the process of decomposition in order to be reborn. “The things which hurt,” Benjamin Franklin wrote, “instruct.” What impedes us, can actually empower us. 

To be able to contain this truth requires deep humility, faith, and surrender. It’s almost impossible to believe that at the moment of destruction and dissolution, that rebirth is actually beginning. Yet it is said, that on Tisha Bav Moshiach is born. 

6. Chinese Zen Parable - CrackPots

A story is told about a man who owned two large pots. Each hung on the ends of a pole, which she carried every day on her shoulders to fill with water from the stream located at the end of the village. One of the pots was complete and always delivered a full portion of water; the other pot was cracked and arrived home each day only half full. Of course, the complete pot was proud of its accomplishments. It felt really good about itself. The poor cracked pot, on the other hand, was ashamed of its own imperfections; it was miserable that it could only do half of what it had been made to do. After years of what it perceived to be bitter failure, the humbled broken pot finally opened its heart to the woman at the stream.  "I hate myself,” the cracked pot cried, “I am so useless and valueless. What purpose does my existence have when each day I leak out half of my water? I am such a loser!” The man smiled and said: ”Did you notice that there are flowers on your side of the path, but not on the other pot's side? I have always known about your flaw, so I planted flower seeds on your side of the path.  Every day while we walk back from the stream, you have the opportunity to water them. "For years I have been able to pick these beautiful flowers to decorate our home.  Without you being just the way you are, we would have never created this beauty together."

This week, on Friday Rosh Chodesh Adar, we will commemorate the 12th Yahrtzeit of Hindy. We will never forget Hindy. 

We feel diminished and broken by her loss, for she was a beacon illuminating our family with a special light. I will continue to declare it every day, and especially on the day of her Yahrtzeit.

Hollywood screenwriter Robert Avrech, also a fellow bereaved parent, put it best, in describing his intense yearning for his deceased son Ariel’s Neshamah after years of bereavement - which I will apply and adapt to mine to Hindy’s: “Contrary to all logic, as time passes, our memories of Hindy have become more vivid. The images of every stage of her life are easier to evoke in all nuance and detail. This is a mixed blessing since it intensifies our longing for her smile, her steadfastness, her intelligence and kindness. Yet the enrichment of memory strengthens her role in our family as a luminous spirit, guiding us in the corporeal world. Her goodness, her modest piety are a constant reminder of what we should all strive for in our lives. Indeed, Hindy’s absence has been transformed into a deeply felt presence.”

We always think about her, but we continue on, with the “second set of Luchos” even after our first set was broken and shattered. When we feel that our “set of Luchos” are shattered, we need only open our hearts to receive Hashem’s gift of a “second set of Luchos,” the belief that joy can, and will, find a place in our lives again, with Luchos  that will never be broken.

Bilah HaMoves Lanetzach, Umacha Hashem Elokim Dimah Meyal Kol Ponim - May He swallow up death forever; may Hashem wipe away tears from every face (Isaiah 25:8) T'hei Nishmasa Tzrurah B'tzror Ha'chaim.