40 minute read
Rabbi Yosef Zvi Rimon
Rabbi Yosef Zvi Rimon
A member of the Mizrachi Speakers Bureau mizrachi.org/ speakers
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The Rosh Hashanah Simanim
The source
In the book of Nechemiah, we find a description of the first Rosh Hashanah in Jerusalem after the city’s walls were rebuilt by the Jews returning from Babylonia. Nechemiah tells the people that the day is a holy one and they must not mourn. On the contrary, he says, “Go, eat rich foods and drink sweet beverages” (8:9–10). Simply understood, his words mean that good food is in order because it contributes to the joy of the holiday. However, this is not the only possible explanation. The Mordechai (Yoma, no. 723), citing the Geonim, writes that eating rich and sweet foods symbolizes our desire for a good year of sweetness and plenty in agriculture and other pursuits. According to this interpretation, the custom of eating simanim is ancient, dating back at least to the time of the return to the Land of Israel from Babylonia. Another source is Abaye’s statement in the Talmud that simana milleta hi, that “portents have significance” (Keritot 6a). Therefore, at the beginning of the new year it is desirable to eat symbolic foods like squash, black-eyed peas, leek, beets, and dates.
Why are these particular foods listed? Rashi explains that they grow quickly, so that they symbolize growth and development. Alternately, he says that they are sweet, symbolizing a sweet new year. Abudraham, Magen Avraham, and other Rishonim and Acharonim note that additional symbolic foods may be chosen because their names correspond to a particular request. Today, many Jews eat apples and honey, a practice that appears in Machzor Vitry. Many add further simanim and requests of astonishing variety and imagination.
The order
There are two common customs governing the order of the symbolic foods. Most Sefardim and some Ashkenazim, following Ben Ish Chai and Kaf haChayim, eat the dates first, because they are one of the seven species of Israel. Meanwhile, most Ashkenazim and some Sefardim eat the apple first, as preferred by Tur and Maharil. A piquant reason offered for the second approach is that the nation of Israel is compared to the apple. This is so, explains the Gemara (Shabbat 88a), because just as the apple tree gives its fruit before it grows leaves, so did the people of Israel say “we shall do” (na’aseh) before saying “we shall listen” (nishma). It is written that “a righteous person shall blossom like a date palm” (Tehillim 92:13), suggesting that the date represents a person who is on a higher spiritual level than most other Jews. Nevertheless, the Jewish people as a whole is more important than a few uniquely righteous individuals. The power of the righteous few stems from the holiness of the nation, and so the nation as a whole, which is likened to an apple, takes precedence. What is more, the apple represents the merit of saying “we shall do” before “we shall listen.” For this reason, putting the apple first has special significance.
One night or two?
At its core, the custom of the simanim consists of eating the symbolic foods on the first night of Rosh Hashanah (Eshel Avraham). However, there are those who also eat the symbolic foods on the second night, in accordance with Sha’arei Teshuvah and others. Many reserve pomegranates for the second night so they can be used for saying shehecheyanu, while also eating apples with honey and saying the accompanying yehi ratzon prayer, just as they did on the first night of Rosh Hashanah.
Rabbi Yosef Zvi Rimon is Head of Mizrachi’s Educational Advisory Board and Rabbinic Council. He serves as the Rabbi of the Gush Etzion Regional Council and is the Founder and Chairman of Sulamot.
Choices
Shayna Goldberg
The established Jewish calendar ensures that Parashat Nitzavim is usually read on the last Shabbat of the year, just before Rosh Hashanah (Shulchan Aruch 428:4). As we approach the Day of Judgment, we read: “I have placed life and death before you, blessing and curse; and you shall choose life, so that you will live, you and your offspring” (Devarim 30:19). What does it mean to choose life?
Choosing life is not a one-time decision of choosing option A over option B. Rather, it means realizing that in any situation, there are always choices to be made. It means thinking about what we believe is right and how to move forward in that direction. It entails taking active responsibility for our responses and for each decision we make.
Taking responsibility for our choices means stopping to think about what we ultimately want. It often means holding back and exhibiting selfcontrol in order to achieve goals that are more important and ultimately more worthwhile and fulfilling for us. It requires selfawareness and reflection. It can mean demanding more from ourselves, overcoming our fears and making courageous decisions. Given that fear so often prevents us from making the right choices, why, throughout the Yamim Noraim tefillot, do we repeatedly ask Hashem, ןֵת ןֵכְבו לָכ לַע ךְתָמיֵאְו ךיֶׂשֲעַמ לָכ לַע וניֵקל-ֱא ‘ה ךְדְחַפ ָתאָרָבֶׁש הַמ, “to cast His fear over all His works and His dread upon all that He has created”?
In On Repentance, Rav Joseph B. Soloveitchik addresses this question: A very eminent psychiatrist once said to me: ‘Had I the authority to do so, I would eliminate the prayer recited on the High Holy Day that begins with the words, “Cast Thy fear,” as fear is the major cause of the mental illnesses that beset mankind. In order to preserve one’s mental health one should be free of fears, and so there is certainly no reason why one should ever pray for fear.’ Though I am not a psychiatrist, what he said helped me to understand the true nature of that prayer which was ordained by the Sages of Israel. And that is what I told that psychiatrist: “Everyone seems to be beset with fears of all kinds. Some are afraid that they will not be able to succeed in their careers, others fear losing their wealth or status or that they will fail to attain sufficient prominence. Many people are afraid of sickness and bodily weakness… Man is plagued constantly by all sorts of lesser fears. I am not a psychiatrist, but I do know that one major source of fear can wipe out all of these lesser fears. What fear can overtake man, thereby uprooting all other fears, such as that of failure, of poverty, of old age, of rejection or of disease? Only the fear of the L-rd! We pray that this great fear will free us from those other ones which lurk everywhere, upsetting our lives.” (On Repentance, 223) Sometimes, fear can be liberating. Fear of G-d can allow us to submit, let go, and acknowledge we are not really in control. A little fear can help us cut through the illusions that we create for ourselves and force us to confront the realities of our lives and of the decisions we have made. We ask G-d to bestow His fear upon us so that we can regain perspective, recall what is important to us and contemplate what we want our priorities in life to be. The Days of Awe are meant to be awe-inspiring. They are designed to shake us out of our routines and give us additional clarity. They remind us of our temporary nature, our dependence, our vulnerability and the fragility of life. By even briefly experiencing the fear of G-d, we are reminded of the purpose of our existence. And that awareness fills us with the strength we require to take responsibility for our commitments. This Yamim Noraim season, let us not be afraid to feel some healthy fear of G-d. We do not need to avoid feeling a little uneasy. We pray, though, that we can ultimately transform this feeling into a deeper awe and reverence that will propel us towards good decisions and serving G-d with trust and love.
Shayna Goldberg is the author of the book What Do You Really Want? Trust and Fear at Life’s Crossroads and in Everyday Living (Maggid, 2021) and a mashgicha ruchanit in the SKA Beit Midrash for Women of Yeshivat Har Etzion (Migdal Oz).
Rabbi Steven Miodownik
The Three Shofarot of Rosh Hashanah
June 21, 1977, in Jerusalem. The Prime Minister of Israel, Yitzchak Rabin, is relinquishing his office to the opposition leader, Menachem Begin. There is a brief ceremony, many rounds of handshakes and awkward embraces for the cameras, and then Prime Minister Begin turns to enter his new office for the first time. Suddenly, as Yehuda Avner relates in The Prime Ministers, a reporter calls out after him: “Mr. Begin, what does it feel like to walk into that room after so many years in opposition?” Begin pauses, and with much gravity says: “It is a compelling moment, my friend. It is a compelling moment of extraordinary opposites. On the one hand, it is a terrifying feeling, and on the other, it is an exhilarating one. It is a feeling of the highest privilege, and it is a feeling of the deepest humility. It is a feeling of grave responsibility, and it is a feeling of wonderful hopefulness. It is a feeling of sisterhood and brotherhood, and it is a feeling of solitude. I have the feeling of the chazzan on the Yamim Noraim when he stands alone before the Aron Kodesh and he appeals to the Almighty in the name of the whole congregation.” We can ask this same question of ourselves on Rosh Hashanah, as we enter a new chapter in our lives – a new year of opportunity. What does it feel like to walk into this room, on this day? I submit that many of us would betray the same mixed emotions as Begin did. On the one hand, it is a terrifying feeling, and on the other, it is an exhilarating one. It is a feeling of the highest privilege, and it is a feeling of the deepest humility. It is a feeling of grave responsibility, and it is a feeling of wonderful hopefulness. It is a feeling of sisterhood and brotherhood, and it is a feeling of solitude. When feelings are so complex, it is nearly impossible to convey them in mere words. Sometimes we need a musical instrument to express our innermost thoughts, and so we use the shofar to blow the sounds of tekiah, shevarim, and teruah.
But in addition to these three sounds, there are also three possible shofarot to blow, as enumerated in the Shulchan Aruch (Orach Chaim 586:1): “The mitzvah of shofar on Rosh Hashanah is with a bent ram’s horn.” Ideally, we should use the horn of a ram for the mitzvah of shofar, and one that is twisted and bent rather than straight. But what if none is available for use? “If that is not possible, all shofarot are usable, whether straight or bent; but bent is preferable to straight.” One still fulfills the mitzvah of shofar using the horns of other kosher animals, whether bent or straight. But what if, theoretically, no horns from a kosher animal can be found? Although the Shulchan Aruch cites the Ran that “a shofar from a non-kosher animal is disqualified”, the Mishnah Berurah points out that “the Achronim wrote that this law is not clear and therefore if there is no other shofar to blow one should use [a shofar from a non-kosher animal], but without a berachah.” It may still be possible to fulfill the mitzvah of shofar by hearing the blasts from the horn of a non-kosher animal. And so the halachah enumerates three levels of fulfillment: the ideal, the satisfactory, and the absolute last resort.
On Rosh Hashanah 1933, Rav Kook delivered a powerful sermon in the Old City of Jerusalem, reflecting on the three Divine calls summoning the Jewish people to be redeemed and to redeem their land. With Germany growing more threatening under Hitler’s reign, and with immigrants streaming to the Land from Europe while facing new hatred from rioting Arabs, it was a tumultuous and frightening time. And so Rav Kook asked the people: which shofar’s sound do we hear at this time? Which level of shofar will we use to usher in our redemption? The ideal, the satisfactory, or the absolute last resort?
We also live in uncertain times, and so nearly ninety years later we can also ask ourselves: which shofar animates our lives and propels us into action? Let us begin with the most unfortunate possibility. The least desirable shofar comes from the horn of a non-kosher animal. This shofar corresponds to the wake-up call that comes from persecution by other nations, when we are driven to action by the piercing siren of fear. This is the shofar of affliction. This is the shofar that unites the Jewish people because of antisemitic threats. This shofar produces results, but only because it drives us to “flee from” danger instead of “running towards” redemption. There is no blessing made on such a shofar, for “we do not make a blessing on the cup of persecution” (Berachot 51a). This is not the shofar we hope to hear. We don’t want to act out of fear! Yet we are too motivated to act thinking “it would be bad if we didn’t” instead of “yes, this is the right thing to do”. Ideally, we should not act in response to the shofar of negativity and affliction.
Fortunately, there is a better shofar to be used. The horn of any kosher animal, if it can be hollowed out, is suitable for the mitzvah of shofar. The one who hears its sound is motivated by something much more positive: the desire to serve G-d, to be part of a community devoted to Torah and mitzvot. This shofar blast causes the Jew to ask: Did I do enough to satisfy my obligations? Have I minimally met the demands placed on me by the Torah? If yes, I am completely satisfied. The Jew who heeds the call of this shofar is animated by one question: Is it good enough? But that motivation can produce religious paralysis, as it does not lead to personal spiritual growth and development. What was “good enough” at age 20 may no longer be “good enough” at age 40 or 50, for we have grown and matured since our college years. Or maybe what was “good enough” for my father or mother should not necessarily be “good enough” for me, due to different circumstances of my upbringing. An attitude of “good enough” produces stagnation in Torah knowledge and observance.
The “good enough” Jew also exhibits selective aspirations, because “good enough” does not satisfy him in other areas of life. He does not accept “good enough” when striving for a promotion at work, choosing a doctor or ordering an expensive steak at a fancy restaurant. “Good enough” is only good enough when it comes to religion. But there is a third and final shofar whose cries we can choose to hear. The preferred shofar of redemption is the Divine call that awakens and inspires us with the excitement and electricity of being selected by G-d to receive a unique and special mission on Earth. This is the shofar of the ram – and only the ram – because it binds us to the actions of Avraham Avinu whose supreme love and dedication for G-d became evident at akeidat Yitzchak (Rosh Hashanah 16a). On Rosh Hashanah, we model the shofar of idealism, of reaching for the stars. One who hears the sounds of the ram’s horn is animated by a quest for the best possible life. This is the shofar blast that echoed through the generations and inspired Ramban, Rabbi Yehuda HaLevi, Rav Ovadia MiBartenura, the students of the Vilna Gaon, and the disciples of the Ba’al Shem Tov to ascend to Eretz Yisrael.
The shofar of Avraham is a call to action based on the principle of limitless potential. When we hear the sound of the ram’s horn, it awakens us to aspire for growth, both individually and nationally. The call of the ram’s shofar resonates in those who envision themselves in Avraham’s shoes, journeying to a new place at G-d’s bidding, ascending a mountain, saying “hineni”, “here I am”.
Of the three possible shofarot, to which call will we respond? Rabbi Steven Miodownik is the Rabbi of Congregation Ahavas Achim in Highland Park, New Jersey.
Rabbi Chaim Cowen
Rosh Hashanah and Healing
The danger of repeating things is that over time, we stop noticing them. The interesting houses and magnificent trees we encounter on our daily walk eventually lose their charm and grandeur. The unique qualities of our family and friends are ignored in the rigmarole of our daily routines. The texts of Torah are no different. Reading them week in and week out, we lose sight of the nuanced lives of our ancestors, the poetry of our laws and the stark beauty of the Hebrew script. In the words of Soren Kierkegaard, “There were countless generations which knew by rote, word for word, the story of Abraham – how many were made sleepless by it?” Teshuvah is such a word. Repeated so regularly, mentioned so much, uttered so casually, it has lost all its meaning. It means to be reflective, to change, to examine one’s past. However, deeper than that, teshuvah means to recover. Recovery is not just from wrongs that one has committed, but also from wrongs that were committed to us. Teshuvah means taking back control of our lives, irrespective of the choices made by others to harm us. It is for this reason that Aviva Zornberg, a contemporary Torah scholar, writes in her The Murmuring Deep that the story of the Akeidah is read on Rosh Hashanah. Avraham suffered a deep trauma in his youth. As the Midrash points out, Avraham was turned over to the pagan monarch, Nimrod, by his own father, to be put to death for his ‘crime’ of believing in one G-d. Avraham survived the fires of Nimrod, but didn’t survive the trauma of knowing his father wanted him dead. The purpose of the Akeidah, as Zornberg puts it, was therapy. Avraham needed to retrace his fears, relive them, and this time come out unscathed. There’s much more to it than that, of course; you can’t explain the Akeidah in a short paragraph, and I recommend reading Zornberg’s essay yourself. But the key teaching is relevant to us all. This Rosh Hashanah, unbind yourself. Confront a deep fear, set aside an insecurity, repair a lost relationship. Teshuvah is about healing, and it is only with a healthy body and a healthy mind that we can do the tasks that G-d has set us upon this earth to do. But teshuvah is more than just recovery. Two of the key markers of time are the month, chodesh (ׁשֶדֹח) and the year, shana (הָנָׁש). These two words can have other meanings as well: the same root word expresses itself as chadash (ׁשָדָח), meaning ‘new’, and yashan (ןָׁשָי), meaning ‘old’. There’s something to this, and I believe it’s at the core of growth, which is what time is truly about. To grow you need to be both ‘new’ and ‘old’. To be new is to innovate, to break from past shackles and reinvent ourselves, to recover from the scars of the past and open the door to a better future. To be old is to be steeped in history and memory, to hold onto the wisdom of generations and relive the experiences of our nation. To approach the future emboldened and motivated by the sacrifices of our ancestors. Each of these alone is powerful and compelling, but unhealthy. Traveling forward with no past is bound to lead you nowhere in particular. Remaining in a world of memory won’t bring the dreams of days-gone-by to fruition. On Rosh Hashanah we are introspective but also forward thinking. We look at the year that has passed, but also at the year ahead. We embrace the ‘old’ while charting a path towards the ‘new’. May this be a year of healing. A year in which rifts within our people, and those between all peoples, are healed, and perceived rifts between us and our Creator are mended, forever.
Rabbi Chaim Cowen is Deputy Principal at Leibler Yavneh College in Melbourne, Australia, and PhD candidate at VU College of Law.
The Man-Made Angel
On Yom Kippur, a Jew can attain the spiritual loftiness of a malach, an angel of Hashem – a level beyond our reach during the rest of the year. In comparing a Jew on Yom Kippur to an angel, the Midrash draws several parallels. Just as an angel stands on one foot, so too are our feet positioned together throughout the duration of this holy day. Just as an angel never sits in the presence of the Almighty, so too the Jewish people attempt to stand before Hashem throughout the day. And just as an angel does not eat or drink and keeps away from sin, the Jewish people also turn away from food, drink and sin on Yom Kippur (Yalkut Shimoni, Parashat Acharei Mot). But at what point during Yom Kippur are we most similar to angels? As we begin the holy day with Kol Nidrei, or as we near the end, during Neilah? Logic dictates that we are most angelic towards the end of this holy day, when we feel the effects of the fast, have confessed our sins and prayed for an entire day. By contrast, when we first begin the fast our stomachs are still full from our meal, we feel physically strong and we are still attached to the physical world. Surely during these beginning hours we do not have the ability to bring ourselves to the level of an angel! In Hadaiyah v’Hadibur, Rabbi Zalman Sorotzkin offers a fascinating approach to this question. In contrast to the rest of the year, when we recite baruch shem kevod malchuto leOlam va’ed in an undertone, on Yom Kippur night we recite these words out loud, with a raised voice. Why do we change our standard practice on Yom Kippur night? The Shulchan Aruch explains that Moshe heard the angels praising Hashem with these words and that he ‘stole’ the words from them. Therefore, since these words are not truly ‘ours’, having been stolen from the angels, we generally recite it silently. On Yom Kippur, however, the Jewish people are elevated to the status of angels, and so we recite baruch shem out loud just as they do.
By contrast, during the Ma’ariv service immediately following the conclusion of Yom Kippur, after we have fasted, prayed and confessed our sins before Hashem for the entire day, we say the baruch shem in an undertone – unlike the angels! What is the logic behind that? If we can say baruch shem out loud at the very beginning of the fast, when our ability to reach the status of angels seems unlikely, surely at the end of Yom Kippur, when we have reached a spiritual high and atoned for our sins, we should shout the baruch shem at the top of our lungs! It seems that the power of Yom Kippur is somehow greater at the beginning of the day than at the end. But how is this so? At the beginning of the fast, when we still feel full from our meals and remain somewhat attached to the outside world, we must make a great effort to achieve the proper spiritual mindset: that we are dedicating ourselves fully to Hashem. Knowing that a full day of holiness and total immersion in Hashem’s world awaits us requires us to make a great commitment. I am giving this coming day to You Hashem – to You and only You! But at the end of the fast, though we are physically weak and more comparable to an angel due to the effects of the fast and a full day of prayer, knowing that in a few minutes it will all be over and we can return to regular life reduces, in a sense, our lofty spiritual level. Such a mindset lowers us to the level of mere mortals, and so we no longer recite baruch shem in a raised voice. The takeaway is clear, and deeply empowering. The power of Yom Kippur depends on our mindset. Irrespective of our external surroundings, the way that we mentally and emotionally approach this awesome day will determine the outcome of what we are able to achieve.
Rabbi Alon Friedman is a Rabbi of the Yeshiva Mizrachi community in Johannesburg, South Africa, a teacher at Yeshiva College High School and an Avreich at the Beit Mordechai Campus Kollel.
Rabbi Alon Friedman
Rabbi Shlomo Kimche
The Magnetic Tefillin
After repeated attacks by PLO terrorists operating in southern Lebanon, the IDF launched ליִלָגַה םֹולְׁש עָצְבִמ, Operation Peace for the Galilee, on June 6, 1982. During what is now known as the First Lebanon War, 654 IDF soldiers were killed and 3,887 wounded. In commemoration of the 40th anniversary of the war and in memory of the holy soldiers who gave their lives to defend our people, we share the following reflections from Rabbi Shlomo Kimche, who served as a tank driver in the war.
A member of the Mizrachi Speakers Bureau mizrachi.org/ speakers Back in 1982, I was a highly motivated IDF soldier. As the first soldier serving in a Jewish army since the Bar Kochba Revolt 1,850 years ago and a son of Holocaust survivors, I bore a strong sense of responsibility on my shoulders. Named for my Uncle Shlomo, murdered at the age of seventeen in Auschwitz, Jewish vulnerability was never far from my consciousness. I was drafted to a tank unit through my hesder yeshivah, Yeshivat Hakotel. Baruch Hashem, I excelled at every stage, became a tank driver, and was encouraged by my officers to continue on to tank commander and officer courses. For various bureaucratic reasons I wasn’t able to pursue these opportunities, but I raised my eyes to Hashem and said: “OK, I will remain a regular tank driver – but I will try to be the best one the IDF has ever seen!”
I spent every spare moment learning more and more about my tank – an American Patton 6B. I found an English copy of the manufacturer’s instructions and maintenance manual and read it cover to cover. I became such an expert that IDF tank mechanics sought my guidance when they encountered mechanical issues with the Patton tank.
In late May of 1982, we were training at a base in the Golan Heights. Everybody wanted to go home to spend Shavuot
Rabbi Kimche during the war in Lebanon.
with their families, and so we drew lots to decide who would have to stay at the base to guard the tanks during the holiday. I ‘won’ the lottery and was one of only a handful of soldiers on the base that Shavuot. I prayed with a minyan of tanks – though they weren’t impressed with my reading of Megillat Rut!
The following Thursday, Shlomo Argov, Israel’s ambassador to Great Britain, was shot and critically wounded by Palestinian terrorists. Israel was on high alert, but the IDF nevertheless allowed me to go home to my parents in Haifa. Over the course of Shabbat, our phone rang a few times, but we did not answer it. Word soon spread that a war was about to begin, and the IDF was calling up combat soldiers. On Shabbat afternoon, in consultation with Rabbi She’ar Yashuv Cohen, I began packing up my bags to get back to my unit as soon as possible. My parents, who were very worried for my safety, helped me pack. My father gave me a blessing and asked me to take his
Rabbi Kimche davening with the tefillin in Lebanon.
old spare pair of tefillin instead of my beautiful new pair. I put them in my bag and waved goodbye, not knowing if and when I would see them again. When I arrived at the base and saw my tank, I hardly recognized it. It had five big new antennas on top instead of one. I learned that the highest officer in command, General Doron Rubin, had to ride in the lead tank so that he could direct the air force, paratroopers, tanks, and infantry. Riding in the lead tank, the commander would naturally choose the most protected vehicle and the best team. That's how I found myself driving the first tank of Brigade 500 into Lebanon on the 15th of Sivan, June 6, 1982.
Doron was too busy to direct me, and there was no vehicle in front of me to show me the way. Until today I still hear an echo of Doron’s voice shouting at me: Kimche – ata roeh Levanon? – Sa! “Kimche – do you see Lebanon? Go!” I was making the first tank tracks, and the other drivers followed them to avoid mines. I had to decide when to stay on the road and when to go off-road, whether to go over a mountain or around it. My commander was too busy telling everybody else where to go and what to do. Over and over again, I whispered to myself: ךיֶכָרְד-לָכְב ,ךְרָמְׁשִל ךָל-הֶוַצְי ,ויָכָאְלַמ יִכ, “For He will command His angels on your behalf to guard you in all your ways” (Tehillim 91:11). Over the next several days, I would grab every opportunity to get out of my tank to lay tefillin, daven and thank Hashem for the many miracles I was experiencing during the war. But my commander, Doron, was not a religious man and pushed me to hurry up. It was war time!
One morning, when I finished davening, I turned around and realized why Doron wanted me to hurry up. A long line of soldiers was waiting to use my tefillin! There were a few other religious soldiers with tefillin in the battalion, but for some reason the soldiers all wanted to use mine. Like a Chabadnik at Tachana Merkazit, I helped each one say the blessings, lay tefillin and recite Shema.
Day in, day out, soldiers who experienced miracles and survived dangerous battles lined up to use my tefillin. I didn’t understand why this was happening. What was so special about my father’s spare set of tefillin? Six weeks later, after having no contact with my parents and no way to tell them I was ok, I was able to return home for the first time since the war broke out. When I finally arrived, filthy and smelly, they were in shock. For them it was like experiencing techiyat hameitim, the revival of the dead; they had expected the worst. That night at the Shabbat table, I told them about some of the many close calls and miracles I had experienced in Lebanon. I also told them about the strange attraction so many of my non-religious IDF friends had to my ‘magnetic’ tefillin. My father smiled, and said: “I never told you where this pair of tefillin came from?” My grandfather, Avraham Kimche, was a rich businessman in Switzerland at the beginning of the 20th century. In 1914, Rav Avraham Yitzchak HaKohen Kook traveled to Europe to attend the rabbinical convention of Agudat Yisrael, to try and convince European rabbis of the importance of the Zionist movement. Before the convention took place, World War I broke out and Rav Kook was stranded in Europe. Rav Kook traveled to Switzerland, where my grandfather, who understood the great rabbi’s situation, invited him to stay at his home as his guest of honor until the roads reopened. Rav Kook thankfully accepted the offer and stayed in my grandfather’s home, where he learned Torah and wrote books without distraction for the next two years. In 1916, Rav Kook moved to London, but he and my grandfather remained good friends. Years later, just as the Great Depression was beginning in 1929, my grandfather was swindled and lost all of his fortune. Overnight, he was transformed from a generous philanthropist into a poor man who was forced to receive charity in order to survive. The stress ultimately caused him to suffer a physical and mental breakdown. Hearing of his plight from Israel, Rav Kook sought to help my grandfather. In 1934, the year before his death, Rav Kook remembered that Avraham Kimche had a son – my father, Yisrael James – who was becoming a bar mitzvah. He realized that my grandfather was likely unable to afford a pair of tefillin for his son. And so a few weeks before my father’s bar mitzvah in Switzerland, a special gift arrived from Jerusalem – a pair of tefillin from Rav Kook himself! “These tefillin,” my father explained, “are the tefillin I wore most of my life. I recently bought myself a new pair, and these became my spare tefillin. I gave them to you because I hoped the merit of your grandfather’s friendship with Rav Kook would keep you safe throughout the war.” Our Father in Heaven works in amazing ways!
Rabbi Shlomo Kimche is the founder and Senior Rabbi of Yeshivat Bnei Akiva Orot Yehuda Yeshiva High School in Efrat, Rabbi of the Orot Yehuda Community and the Vice Chairman of the Bnei Akiva Educational Network of Yeshivot and Ulpanot.
Rabbi Kimche's father z”l giving his son the tefillin for his Bar Mitzvah in 2003.
Hadassah Goldberg
In Memory of Ari Fuld hy”d
On September 16, 2018, the 7th of Tishrei, Ari Fuld was stabbed by a Palestinian terrorist at the Gush Etzion Junction. Though mortally wounded, Ari heroically chased his attacker and shot him before falling to the ground, preventing the terrorist from attacking other Jews nearby. May his blood be avenged, and may Hashem grant his family, and all of Israel, strength and comfort.
Growing up in Kew Gardens Hills, Queens, the Fulds were a close-knit family. We spent many shabbatot and chagim together, and our Chanukah parties at one of the three Fuld brothers’ homes always brought us together for food, fun, presents, and quality family time. My cousin Ari always stood out for his warm heart, playful nature and – even from a very young age – his steadfast beliefs and convictions.
For as long as I can remember, our entire family was involved with the needs of the community. My dad, Rabbi Dovid Fuld, has been a mohel for over 50 years, my uncle Rabbi Michael Fuld z”l was a rabbi and an accomplished sofer, while Ari’s father, Rabbi Yonah Fuld, is a trailblazer in Jewish education and was the principal of SAR Academy. Ari picked up that dedication in spades. Before all else, Ari was a man of chessed. An accomplished 4-degree black belt and martial arts teacher, he welcomed students who weren’t able to afford his classes with open arms. But it was his work on behalf of the Jewish people that set him apart. Ari devoted his life to his own personal version of the Religious Zionist ideal: “Torat
Ari and Shaya Goldberg Yisrael by Am Yisrael in Eretz Yisrael.” While working for Standing Together, an organization offering love and support to IDF soldiers, Ari was in his element. When a company of soldiers finished a tough mission in Gaza or Jenin, Ari was there in a truck, handing out pizza and ice cream with a broad smile and high-fiving and congratulating “his boys” on a job well done. His work required significant fundraising, which often brought him to my home in Teaneck, NJ. In between meetings and speeches, we relished every moment with Ari; our kids would beg us to let them skip school whenever he came for a visit.
Nothing brought Ari more joy than talking about his family: his wife, Miriam, and his children, Tamar, Naomi, Yakir and Natan. I’ve never seen a prouder father; he loved talking about what each of them were up to. Together, we would have a great time shopping for them. I remember when Ari bought a Super Deluxe Nikon camera for his picture-happy wife; I think Ari may have enjoyed buying it even more than she enjoyed using it! They were a match made in heaven. Ari maximized every moment in America. I remember when he taught
Ari and Elie Goldberg
(ARTWORK: ILAN BLOCK)
The Goldberg family with Ari and Miriam Fuld.
random strangers in Costco about the Jewish people’s right to Eretz Yisrael! He worked constantly, driven by his passion for our people and our Land, and never tired of trying to convince and persuade people all over the world about the importance of the Jewish homeland. He would argue, both online and in person, at all hours of the night and day. Once, when he was arguing with a particularly difficult person, I asked him why he was wasting his time. He explained that his argument was not for that person alone but for the tens of thousands of others who were following their discussion online. My family forged a very close bond with Ari, and primarily due to his influence, we took the plunge and made Aliyah in August 2021. My two sons drafted into the Israeli army and are serving with pride – thanks to Ari, their hero and mentor. As I write these words of memory with tears streaming down my face, I can’t believe he isn’t here to shep nachas – to see that the seeds he planted in my small family have borne fruit. May his memory be a blessing for his family, and all of Am Yisrael.
Hadassah Goldberg is a first cousin of Ari Fuld hy”d. Learn more about Ari at AriFuld.com.
David Olivestone
J E R U S A L E M I T E S
An occasional series of interviews with notable veteran olim who have chosen to make their homes in Jerusalem.
DR. EFRAIM ZUROFF
Dr. Efraim Zuroff is director of the Israel office and chief Nazi hunter of the Simon Wiesenthal Center, which is based in Los Angeles. He has dedicated his life to tracking down and bringing Nazi war criminals and their collaborators to trial. The author of four books, which have been translated into 15 languages, he is an imposing, warm and vibrant man with an extraordinary memory for names, numbers, dates, facts, places and, of course, history.
Surely no one grows up thinking “I’m going to be a Nazi hunter”. What else might have you become?
I was always tall, so as a kid my fantasy was to be the first Orthodox Jewish professional basketball player. I was on the teams both in high school and in college, but I wasn’t anywhere near good enough, nor could I have remained frum if I had tried to follow my dream. But basketball is still a passion of mine, and I’m a fan and go to Hapoel Yerushalayim games.
What’s your family background?
We’re a Yeshiva University family. My father, Dr. Abraham Zuroff, was a YU musmach and the principal of the YU high school for boys in Brooklyn for 30 years, and supervisor of all the YU high schools. My mother, Esther, was director of student services at Stern College. My maternal grandfather, Dr. Samuel L. Sar, who was dean of men at YU, was also one of the leaders of Religious Zionism in America, and head of the Va’ad Hapo’el of American Mizrachi.
Were there any survivors of the Shoah in your family?
Neither my parents nor my grandparents were Holocaust survivors. I tell you point blank that if they had been survivors, there is no way I could do what I’m doing, because it would be too emotional, way too emotional. I am, however, named for my grandfather’s brother who was murdered in Lithuania, together with his wife and two sons.
Did you always want to make Aliyah?
I’m from the generation of 1967. At the outbreak of the Six Day War, I remember seeing a chart in a newspaper comparing the strengths of the Israel army and the Arab armies, and I said to myself, “There’s going to be another Shoah!” I was wrong of course, and instead it was a great victory. So in 1968, I came to spend a year at Hebrew University and I determined then that I was going to make Aliyah and nothing was going to stop me.
What was your plan when you came here?
Originally, I was on the path to become an academic. I did a master’s degree in contemporary Jewry at Hebrew University, with the Shoah as my field of specialization. I eventually completed my doctorate on the activities of the Vaad HaHatzalah rescue committee during World War II, which was published in 2000 as The Response of Orthodox Jewry in the United States to the Holocaust. But I decided that I was more interested in making history than in writing it.
How did you come to start working for the Wiesenthal Center?
In 1978, I was invited to become the first director of the Simon Wiesenthal
Center in Los Angeles, and I spent two years there. I returned to Israel in 1980 and worked here for the United States Office of Special Investigations for six years. I began to develop the tools with which I could identify the escape paths of thousands of Nazi war criminals, but at that time the only country that was taking any legal action against these Nazis was the USA. Yet we knew that many were living free, not only in South America, but in several other democratic countries. I approached Rabbi Marvin Hier, the founder and dean of the Wiesenthal Center, and told him that I could flood those countries with the names of so many suspects living in their midst that they would not be able to walk away from the issue. We did just that, and I’m proud to say that Canada in 1987, Australia in 1989 and the United Kingdom in 1991 all passed laws to enable the prosecution of Nazis who had entered their countries illegally.
Most people probably think of you as a sort of James Bond character with all kinds of exciting adventures.
You said before that no one grows up thinking that they’re going to be a Nazi hunter. But you have no idea how often people come up to me and say, “You have my dream job!” And they want to volunteer, thinking that I’m going to send them off to some exotic place with a big budget to go look for who knows what. But that’s not the way it works. Although I do spend a lot of time traveling around the world, it’s almost all careful and protracted research, devoting years to following a trail, helping the authorities build a case, and searching for survivors who can testify in court.
Tell us about one of your major cases.
One day I got an email from a gentleman in Scotland, a non-Jew who had a Hungarian girlfriend, and who participated with her in some social gatherings of Hungarians. He wanted me to know that he had met an older man there who used to brag that he helped deport Jews to Auschwitz. With the assistance of a journalist from the Glasgow Herald, I discovered that this man was still in touch with his former superior officer, Sandor Kepiro, a major Hungarian war criminal who was involved in the massacre of Jewish, Serb and Roma residents of the city of Novi Sad in January 1942. He initially escaped to Argentina but returned to Budapest in 1996, thinking he was safe. In 2006, when I learned that he was still alive, I went to Budapest and with the help of some local investigators I found that he was living quite openly, ironically right across the street from a shul. What a view for a Nazi mass murderer! It took five years to get him into court, but in the end, to my great dismay, he was released by the Hungarian court on a very questionable technicality. Meanwhile, he had sued me for libel for labelling him as a Nazi, which he, of course, denied. If I had lost the case I might have been sentenced to two years in jail. What could have been more ironic? That I would sit in a Hungarian jail while this war criminal would walk free!
How do you feel when a Nazi whose case you’ve worked on is brought to trial?
I don’t feel any sense of relief, if that’s what you mean, until the person is convicted and punished. But in Germany, for example, as long as the defendant’s appeal has not been heard, they don’t go to jail. In a well-known case, Ivan Demjanjuk was eventually convicted of being an accessory to the murder of 28,000 people at the Sobibor death camp. He was sentenced to five years, but wasn’t jailed, unfortunately, because he died before his appeal was concluded. I always joke that I’m the only Jew in the world who prays for the good health of Nazis – at least the ones who can be brought to justice.
There are so many who have avoided justice…
Look, there are many great obstacles to securing a conviction. Most countries just don’t want to prosecute, so I have to console myself with even partial victories. I made myself a scale of achievement: 1) the person is publicly exposed; 2) a government starts an official investigation; 3) there’s an indictment; 4) the person stands trial; 5) they are convicted; and 6) they go to prison before they die.
Your achievements speak for themselves, but on a personal note, how has your work impacted your personality?
I have never allowed what I do to ruin my life and I’ve never turned this quest into a personal obsession. I am at heart a historian of the Shoah, and my books testify to that. I remain committed to making sure that the Shoah will neither be forgotten, nor ignored, nor denied, nor distorted, and that those countries which still today deny their involvement and their collaboration will not be left in peace.
David Olivestone is an award-winning writer who served on the staffs of the British Museum and of the Encyclopaedia Judaica. He was Director of Communications at the Orthodox Union in New York before making Aliyah to Jerusalem with his wife Ceil in 2013.
(PHOTO ON FACING PAGE: ILANA DREYER-ZUROFF)
