An air of seriousness filled the room, creating a heavy, solemn mood, and not simply because the Yom Hadin was fast approaching. Quite to the contrary, because of the Day of Judgment that had already gone by in Av, that awesome, fearful Day of Judgment that left those present hanging, between shomayim and aretz, between hope and despair.
Everyone there sensed their own imperfection, all of them full of wounds and fresh bruises. Even those who were not physically wounded carried on their souls the wounds of others.
Broken vessels, patches of human beings, gathered together. The ma'ariv service of Rosh Hashana in the year 5690, eighty years ago. The silence that precedes the davening only adds to the distress, as they recalled the days of awe that took place 40 days before. Nearly everyone present had lost a part of their inner being or left shreds of their individuality behind, back in Chevron in the horrific massacre they had experienced on the 18th of Av, 5689. This one is missing an ear lobe, that one has a tear in his heart formed by the memory of the corpses' convulsions, this one lost his left hand and that one lost his best friend who was like his right hand.
Ma'ariv should start in a few more minutes. They wait. Ploni is trying to study the machzor, and Almony is bending his head like someone in hiding as he delves into maseches Chulin. No one sings or hums any niggun. The air is too heavy to lift, serious enough to make one tremble and despair. People enter and sit down like downcast mourners. Anguish from all corners of the room cuts through the silence, all are brokenhearted. The holiness of the day enters. Where is the comforter of Tzion and Yerushalayim?
The mashgiach, tzaddik and gaon, Rav Leib Chasman zt'l stood up at his place, countless eyes following him in silence. They gaze at him fatigued and drained of all energy, and weary. He approaches a certain well-respected bochur, Betzalel Cohen Shakovitzky (who later became a well-known talmid chochom and author of Mishkan Betzalel). He asks him to be the shaliach tzibbur for ma'ariv.
"Why me? I'm just a bochur."
Rav Betzalel was indeed known amongst him friends as a talented and emotional chazon, but this still does not answer his query. Why should he, a young man, have the honor of coming before the congregation, before the surviving remnant of the yeshiva, these that were scattered in every direction because of the pogrom. They had come from all over the country to spend Yom Tov and daven with the yeshiva's rabbonim in Jerusalem's general meeting house. He did not understand how he had landed the davening that is always delegated to known baalei tefillah or gedolei Torah and choshuva avreichim.
In a serious, sharp, unquestionable tone, the mashgiach instructed him to push aside his modesty and to go ahead and immediately fulfill his Rav's decree.
Rav Betzalel put on the white kittel, wrapped himself in a tallis, and came towards the omud haShatz. Until now everything went as usual, like any tefilloh of a typical older shaliach tzibbur. A loud, festive "Borchu es Hashem Hamevorach" cut off all gloomy thoughts. It was sung joyously in the traditional, yeshivishe melody. At once, all present were thrown into the festive atmosphere. As we said previously, until now everything was as usual, similar to any shul or beis medrash.
*
The shaliach tzibbur and the congregation had already completed the brochoh Ma'ariv arovim, and the congregation also said the second brochoh "Ahavas Olam. Everyone was waiting and anticipating the chazon to begin chanting, "Ve'ahavosecho al tosir mimenu le'olomim..." They sat and waited. A slightly festive silence spread in the air, beautifying their faces with a Yom Tov glow.
Then the cue was given. A weak cry began cutting into the holiday atmosphere. He began to choke as if something were filling his throat, as if a round, oozing, abscessive ball were blocking his vocal chords. Reb Betzalel kept singing with a stifling cry, a cry that got stronger and stronger.
"Ve'ahavosecho al tosir mimenu le'ol—" Oy, slowly the whole congregation joined him, crying in bitter pain. Reb Betzalel wept and repeated, "Ve-a-h-a-v-o-s-e-ch-o," and the whole tzibbur responded, moaning, singing and weeping, davening and melting in tears.
Reb Betzalel repeated it again, and a third time, and a fourth, on and on, "Ve'ahavosecho al tosir mimenu le-o-l-o-m-i-m"—the dam burst open, the melody filled the whole building. Within these words the whole emotional storm has drained, yissurim shel ahavoh, an entire month of thoughts and pain let loose amidst a sea of tears and immersed in drops of the day's purity.
No words. All the pains, emotional scars oozing with blood—lonely orphanhood and endless suffering, no escape—came out like a red, malignant abscess that a specialized surgeon has operated on, and everything drained out with one sentence: "Ve'ahavosecho al tosir mimenu le'olomim." It was as if they were saying, "We love you, Ribono shel Olam, without limits, despite the massacre, even though we were left without hands or feet, everything gone-and You, do not remove your love from us e-v-e-r..."
No one counted how many tens of times they repeated the words that night: "Ve'ahavosecho al tosir mimenu le'olomim"; likewise no man counted the rivers of tears that poured out there. Every tear arose from the floor and went up to shine above their heads, above the aron hakodesh directly to the upper heavens.
Everyone present identified with this simple, common sentence. Everyone managed to see in it his personal pain and view. These words penetrated below all the layers and walls in which they were hiding.
True, we were punished, but You still love us forever, one man consoled himself. A second looked up to the King above, mercifully watching over his creations, who do not know the purpose of the deeds of the perfect Rock, all of whose ways are fair, both in justice and mercy. A third one felt moved, it suddenly became clear to him that Someone will still gather us onto his lap, a succah sholom exists which spreads over infinite love. A fourth one heard in the niggun the mal'achei shomayim joining in the tefilloh and making judgment. A fifth, sixth, and seventh grasped, remembered, absorbed, understood, sensed and saw—everyone on his own level.
The words sunk in deep, dug into the destruction with that famous melody, discarded the pile of rocks, and raised up all the weepers from the valley of tears. A new life spirit began to bedeck the dry bones, and everyone happily donned clothes of salvation and festivity.
An eyewitness said, "It was as clear to me as the afternoon sun that then and there the yeshiva was founded anew. In that ma'ariv the yeshiva stood up on its feet again, a revival sprouted from heaps of ruins, and better days were on the horizon, everything poured out from the piles of ashes of Hashem's fire."
The Hevron yeshiva was founded forever, on its yeshivishe, mussaristic foundations, during that Yom Tov ma'ariv, Rosh Hashana, 5690. All the wounds drained facing the therapeutic sun, there all the death wounds the yeshiva had suffered were bandaged.
Through the breaking of the tablets, amidst the destruction and collapse of the wall, every stone came out joyfully, and was polished, sterilized, cleansed, immersed in dew drops of purity, until it glistened with light. The Doctor of the brokenhearted had bandaged their grief again, changed the bandage and adhesive tape. The yeshiva was rebuilt, the cornerstone was laid. Even mo'asu habonim, hoyiso lerosh pina.
After ma'ariv the mashgiach Rav Leib Chasman approached Reb Betzalel, shook his hand warmly, blessed him "Leshanah tovah tikoseiv veseichoseim le'alter lechaim tovim ulesholom," he conferred with him for a moment, and slowly whispered to him, "This was my intention!" (Tzu dem hub ich gimeint.)
The eyewitness to these words was Rav Betzalel zt'l. Another Betzalel, who was yet in the shadow (tzel) of his youth, peeked at these events like a young lad. He later served as Jerusalem's Chief Rabbi, HaRav Betzalel Zolti zt'l.
Eighty years have passed, and this story is worthy of being recorded, to recall those Days of Judgment and mercy that the yeshiva gedola, Knesses Yisroel experienced. To know that despite its years of golus and hardships, Hashem's mercy and kindness has never departed from us. Ve'ahavosecho al tosir mimenu le'olomim.
