One summer day in 1980, Dr. Bob Friedman and his son Andrew
buckled their seatbelts on an El Al flight to Israel. The
excitement of a transcontinental flight showed on Andy's
face. His father, a frequent international flyer, sat calmly
reading the New York Times.
Andy looked out the window. "This is the greatest gift I
could ever have dreamt of for my bar mitzva," he
said.
"You deserve it, Andy," Bob Friedman turned to his son. "More
than that, it's a present for me, too."
Bob Friedman had never been to Israel and had never put much
thought into the little country with its long ancestry. Not
even the Six Day War or the Yom Kippur war had stirred him
into some kind of affiliation. Instead, he had excelled at
climbing the ladder of American success. First was a medical
degree. Then, after working in various hospitals, he settled
down in Albany, where he became director of a radiology
department for twenty years. As a radiologist, Dr. Friedman
attended conferences around the world, which gave him a
cosmopolitan and universalistic view of mankind.
In Israel, the Friedmans' two week guided tour was filled
with a series of "hit-and-run" type views of all the sites
from Dan to Beer Sheva. Andy was enthralled by all that he
saw and heard. Bob, however, had been to a lot of the great
historic sites on the globe, from the Great Wall of China to
the pyramids in Egypt. Though he was pleased to see the
ancient ruins of Caesarea and the fortifications at Masada,
and though he experienced pride in the country's
accomplishments, Bob had not encountered anything which
really moved him.
On the last day of the tour, after seeing the major sites of
Jerusalem the previous day, they were led through the Old
City. Like sheep of the flock, the Friedmans followed their
shepherd from place to place. When they came to the Kosel
plaza, their guide gave a historical digest of the Temple and
the Wall. Afterwards, he told them that they were free to go
up to the Kosel if they desired, but they should be careful
to meet by the flagpoles in fifteen minutes.
Dr. Friedman and Andy strolled up to the Kosel. Aware of the
significance of the place, they donned the kipas which
they had brought for such occasions. One of Bob's sisters had
asked him to stick a note into the Kosel, a request which he
dutifully fulfilled. As he stood there facing the Kosel
stones, Bob felt it appropriate to say a prayer, but nothing
came to mind. Then he decided to rest his head against the
Wall.
Suddenly Bob burst into tears. Spontaneously, without rhyme
or reason, Dr. Friedman was sobbing like a baby. Andy,
stunned by his father's behavior, looked around anxiously. It
was completely unlike his father, the epitome of Western
society, to break down into uncontrollable weeping. Bob
pressed his head to the Wall and continued to cry, stopping
to breathe, and then crying again.
During those intense minutes, thoughts raced through Bob's
mind. He was both actor on a stage and spectator in the
theater. The scene of the play was at the climax, and both
performer and viewer were completely absorbed. He also saw
his grandfather, the only Orthodox Jew he recalled from his
childhood. Grandpa had died when he was four years old and
left a nostalgic memory of the "old country" in the recesses
of his mind.
Slowly, as he regained control of himself, Dr. Friedman wiped
the tears from his bloodshot eyes and kissed the Wall. With
his son by his side, he walked to the meeting place by the
flagpoles. He tried to analyze what he had just experienced.
A gentile friend had called their visit to the Great Wall of
China "an intellectual communion." He called his experience
at the Wall a spiritual communion. Yet so deep was the
emotional wellspring within him that for months he was unable
to verbalize it distinctly.
He looked at the Kosel from afar and wondered what the G-d of
his forefathers was asking of him. Slowly, after returning to
Albany, he began reading about Judaism and attending Jewish
study classes. In the course of time, a metamorphosis began
to take place. Four years later he was shomer Shabbos
and in 1987, he was active in helping Soviet Jewry return to
their roots.
Dr. Bob Friedman had reoriented his life goals and chose to
make aliya. His son Andy, beginning his path towards a
medical career, joined him, eventually earning a medical
degree from Hadassah Medical College. A fully observant Jew,
Bob only wanted to live in the Old City close to the Kosel.
For him, living within earshot of the Wall was fundamental
for his Yiddishkeit. It was there, at the Kosel, that the ear
of G-d listened to his wordless prayer and whispered the
eternal sound which awakened his inner soul. Bob, in turn,
wished to reciprocate by serving Him in the palace of the
King of Kings.
[based on an interview with Dr. Bob Friedman]
