Monday, Tammuz 26, 5779 - July 29, 2019; Naaseh v'Nishmah (Heb. First we will do and then we will listen .) First and foremost, my friends, BELIEVE!

We Jews are now in the midst of a mourning period for the loss of our two Temples and the myriad of tragedies suffered by our people throughout the last nearly 4,000 years since the time of Abraham. Today I wish to present a story which should induce "empathic unsettlement" to each and every one who reads it. Consequently, please consider the lessons you draw from your read through the ideas below The story is meant to be solely a "beginning" to a discourse.

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"I and Thou: Selfhood Through Ethical Action"

"It is an intriguing [Aristotelian] illusion that the solitary thinker, in his state of eudaemony, is most liely to attain full selfhood. We [Jews] know, however, that the isolatewd self exclusively engaged in thinking cannot be an ethical self. The ethical self must be engaged in action. For this self, there exists no I without a Thou. Reah means "the other," the one who is like you. He is the Thou of the I. Selfhood is the result of an unending relation of I and Thou as well as its abiding ideal. True, the ideal remains the ideal, as the task [of ethical action] remains the task. But an ideal is an ideal only because and insofar as it asks tobe emulated so that I may approimate it. And a task is a task only because I am charged with it, because it is incumbent upon me. By working at this task, I work on myself, toward ,y selfhood.

"In short, selfhood ensues from the interaction between I and Thou."

---Reason and Hope: Selections from the Jewish Writings of Hermann Cohen. trans., edited and with an introduction by Eva Jospe, The B'nai Brith Jewish Heritage Classics.W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., New York, 1971, 218.

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"Ethics of the Fathers," Chapter 1

18. Rabbi Shimon the son of Gamliel would say: By three things is the world sustained: law, truth and peace. As is stated (Zachariah 8:16), "Truth, and a judgement of peace, you should administer at your [city] gates.'' English Translation by Chabad.org <https://www.chabad.org/library/article_cdo/aid/682498/jewish/English-Text.htm>

18

??? ????? ?? ?????? ????:

?? ????? ????? ????? ??? – ?? ???? ??? ???? ??? ?????. ????? (????? ?) ??? ????? ???? ???? ???????. Hebrew original by Chabad.org <https://www.chabad.org/library/article_cdo/aid/1178760/jewish/Hebrew-Text.htm>

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"'Rabbi Tarfon understood the dilemma--'Don't try to take on more than you can bear'"-- when he cautioned, 'It is not your obligation to complete the task, but neither are you at liberty to desist from it entirely.' Go carefully and may the Almighty grant you strength."--Come Back For me." Hart-Green, Sharon. New Jewish Press, University of Toronto. 2017, 182.

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"An individual human spiritual evolution

Challenged ab incunabulis to

A re-evaluated philosophy

OF

Humanity"

---Nitzarim, Yoel. "Of Humanity."Affair of the Mind: A Literary Quarterly. Vol. 2, Issue 2. Limited Edition II. Ed. Tracy Lun Rottkamp. Rottkamp Publish. 1998.

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"The Likeness"

By Yoel Nitzarim

Tisha B’Av

"Blessed is the Judge of the Truth.

"There stood a weathered ewe at the very edge of the property, not far from the banister leading to the Sachins’ back door. On this summery day, the ewe appeared placid, almost indifferent to the acrid smell of heat scorching belongings as it was emanating from the parents’ bedroom. This was twenty-first century Israel. Violence, destruction, separation, and inconsistency—all of the trappings of events connected to the present intifada—overcame first the bedroom, then the entire second floor of the nineteenth-century structure in a matter of seconds. One would think that the animal’s instincts would be provoked to the point of self-preservation, for the grass looked on at the blaze like a lit cigarette having only momentarily been ignited to the detriment of the smoker. But, alas, the animal did not follow its senses and, likewise, succumbed unnoticed from its quiet life to an even more silent death. Redolence saturated the late-afternoon boredom: an acrimonious accent on an epoch flatulent with animosity, cold-hearted acerbity.

"Why this disaster? Why, the Sachins again? No . . . again and again. This family’s lot had already been pierced by hatred upon hatred. First, a son was lost in a joint Israeli- Palestinian raid to capture Jabr Abu Husseini, a leader of subversive attacks against Palestinian storekeepers attempting to engage in business in the Old City of Jerusalem. Secondly, the eldest son Ephraim Eitan was captured in his bedroom by some members of the al-Aqsa Brigade, while he was studying the book of Yehezkel. He was tortured and finally exiled into an oblivion of nefarious proportions in the same refugee camp where only recently the new cease-fire had been accepted with seeming reluctance by the Palestinian populace. This abduction of Ephraim Eitan was initially followed carefully and then precipitously decried both by Israeli commentators and Palestinian spokespersons as another terrorist attack. To what end? This faction of the al-Aqsa Brigade did not—would not—accept any cease-fire whatsoever.

"On Ephraim’s desk sat a bread-and-butter letter, folded in half, written in his very own handwriting. When Yehezkel Sachin, the family patriarch, opened the letter, he immediately noticed the emotion set in every letter, word, and phrase. Apparently, this letter had not been written in haste; however, it was encoded with the arcane vocabulary, signs, symbols, and references invented by Yehezkel’s father, a colonel during the War of Independence between February-April, 1948, in order to impede the incessant onslaught of Arab legions against his brigade. Over and over again the same encryption glared at the knowing reader: pat lechem shachor, k’tzat d’vosh, um’lo ha’yad melach (Heb. A piece of black bread, a little honey, and a hand full of salt).This grouping of words in Hebrew was, of course, familiar to the Jewish readers because it at once referred to the hospitality code common at the inception of the country; furthermore, its underlying meaning had consistently pertained to vigilance in addition to alertness in times of trouble. Yet what could Yehezkel make of the language in this dire missive? His son was obviously speaking to him. Where would Ephraim be taken? More important—was he still alive? One last interesting aspect of the writing should be noted: the slant was the exact opposite of Ephraim’s customary slant. What statement could this strange orientation possibly make?

"How could this horror happen to Ephraim? He was always at the pinnacle of his act. Everyone who knew him liked him and appreciated his optimism. Just having spent a few minutes in Ephraim’s company proved to be an exhilarating occasion, for like his name denotes, his associations in life would be fruitful both in quantity as in the multitude of children issued from his own being and in quality according to the hopes and dreams of his grandfather Israel. Ephraim, Ephraim, what really happened to you?

"One might ask, Why did Ya’akov bless Ephraim, the younger brother, with his right hand instead of blessing Menashshe, the first-born son? Between the time when Ya’akov placed his hands on the heads of the lads and the time in which Yoseph, Ya’akov’s son and their father, beseeched his father to change hands and the actual time of the blessing, what could Ya’akov have been thinking? Is the question relevant to our Ephraim's destiny as well? Do we sons not follow in our fathers’ footsteps? Yes, Ya’akov favored Ephraim, who would ultimately receive an “additional shoulder” or greater inheritance than any of his relatives. Nevertheless, fate would have it that a future offspring of this patriarchal namesake, Ephraim Eitan, would not benefit from Israel’s benediction. By chance, the vicissitudes of life had on this particular occasion in the life of one Ephraim Eitan changed their predisposition in favor of the sons of Ishmael, as represented by the al-Aqsa Brigade. Perhaps, though, Ephraim’s life would be vindicated at a later date as the fortunes of the modern-day Israelis and Palestinians would remain in the balance. Ephraim, to what self-imposed exile have you delivered yourself?

"Remember the likenesses of the faces in biblical Yehezkel’s dream; the four images reminded him of the appearances of the Holy One of Being. In His like image could the Creator of the Universe have created one more satisfying than Ephraim, the son of Yehezkel? And Ephraim’s middle brother Nachshon?

"Nachshon was more than a mere dilettante as a writer turned exegete. His writing became the inspiration for a whole generation of novitiates. What motivated him was an inherent desire to seek out his own personal expression through developing novel interpretations of patriarchal and matriarchal thoughts, feelings, opinions, and sentiments heretofore never considered in the midrashim. Nachshon’s bold, innovative approach attracted the incredulous wayfarers around him in a quasi-sect fashion. And his cadre of disciples would carry on his work if something were to happen to him. How could so gifted—so fantastically intriguing—a personality become outright depraved! After all, dedication to a holy text requires a certain personality type . . . and sheer devotion to the every nuance of language in conjunction with the expression of that language. In the name of all that is holy, then, what in the world happened to Nachshon? One name may suffice: Reb Elisha ben-Abuyah. How so? Such a proper upbringing was given Nachshon, the son of the renowned literary critic and professor Yehezkel Sachin. The grandson of an illustrious war hero, Yehoshua Sachin. What happened? Why did the miracle etched in the life of every living Israeli Jew run astray in this case? First, look at Nachshon’s magnum opus for its oracular singularity; then venture into its stretch of the imagination to a fantastic sphere confounding even the most dedicated of his adherents.

"Nachshon’s debacle begins and ends with a curious review of the book of Yirmiyahu and focuses on the liberation of a Hebrew manservant or maidservant by a fellow Hebrew. Instead of the prophet Yirmiyahu’s speaking with HaShem and dictating to the people of Yehuda and Yerushalayim, telling them to pay heed to the commands of the Lord and no false prophet, Nachshon created an incredible interpolation into the text:

• "And Yirmiyahu told the people of Yehuda and Yerushalayim that they should follow the sense of their collective conscience , that is, their true lord; for they would see to it that they would live in Bavel as they had lived in Yerushalayim—as kings and queens, princes and princesses—because they would follow the dictates of their true masters, themselves. The king of Bavel, on the contrary, as well as his followers, would someday become subservient under the dominion of the Hebrews.

"Thus between the time of the Divine revelation to the moment of the prophet recounting to the people, a radical transformation in the meaning of the Divine command took place.

"When the true Redeemer told Yirmiyahu that only seventy years would pass until the people of Yehuda and Yerushalayim would regain their former stature in their own land, Nachshon again interpolated his own meaning, one fitting to a paganish people:

• "And Yirmiyahu continued by issuing this decree that the Hebrews’ time of captivity would be decreased commensurate to their adjustment and acclimatization into the Babylonian culture. Therefore, the more accepting of the Babylonian gods' modus vivendi, manners, and customs, the Hebrews would become, the less time their captivity.

"It should be emphasized that Nachshon did not adduce his interpolations as evidence of an impure text; on the contrary, his was to be a novel interpretation, perhaps a more authentic derivative of the text in consequence of the more recent history of the Jewish people. Who could say? Maybe he was on to something worthwhile. The numbers of acolytes following Nachshon rose exponentially until his downfall. How could he save face? It has always been a sign of disgrace when a man of letters exploits his position in an effort to improve his standing in the literary field. Charlatans abound in all fields of endeavor, yet their appearance amongst the literati in any society automatically effects anathema. What was Nachshon thinking at the time he devised these midrashim? And who was he, a layman, anyway, to attempt to draw new exegeses more than 1500 years after the sages of the Talmud? Did he have a raison d’etre, or did some other external motivational factor(s) engender his behavior? Take the following case in point:

"In the midst of the second intifada, at approximately the tenth month, when the Israeli focus was diverted from internal domestic affairs, such as feeding the poor, improving the unemployment predicament, and discovering ways to reinvent tourism, Nachshon resolved not only to publish his midrash on the Yirmiyahu text, but also a political manifesto of sorts, whereby he would proclaim a new movement of writers to revise this new insurrection by means of who he was: a writer, critic, exegete. Who was he after all, a master redactor of the Talmud for heaven’s sake? Secondly, whom did he represent? What interests were at stake? Whose interests? Thirdly, why then at that particular time in Jewish history? Why not sooner? The questions boggle the mind!

"How unfortunate a figure you were, Nachshon. How could you have succumbed to such a delusion to believe that you had the insight to recreate history? "What a mess you put yourself into. . . . This last faux pas would be the last straw. Almost all of Nachshon’s followers withdrew their support subsequent to reading his proclamation. Only two determined to remain at his side, only one in every eventuality. And shortly after, the latter individual escaped into a self-imposed oblivion. Nachshon also went into a self-inflicted hiding of sorts, catatonia. Nu, Ephraim — Nachshon, the obverse sides of the same coin.

"What could possibly happen next to the Sachin family did so... and then some. The loss of the two brothers was to be but a prelude to a narrative of Mosaic proportions—and this in the Jewish state, a place whose very establishment rested on the pursuit of justice. Another brother would create a contemporary tel, never witnessed before in the annals of a monotheistic, Hebraic population in Jerusalem. Here the layers of reality and civilization could either reflect on one another or totally separate into strata. A twist on Plato’s cave?

"A secret brother. A boy tucked away in the semiotic chasms of time. A boy so fragmented in conception that only shadows of his very appearance in this world could be descried. Yet his brethren numbered more than a billion souls. A brother so unlike his well-known younger brothers because of the way in which he was both brought into the world and raised apart from his family.

"This brother was named Uriyya, after the Hittite officer married to Bat-Sheva, David’s future bride. Even the selection of the name proved ironical, for as its literal meaning denoted “God is light,” its namesake verily abode in inaccessibility, approximating the world of his family, but never ever engaging in the family circle. His was forever a coterminous existence, having a common boundary, never actually shared with those whom he would naturally most will to do so.

"Uriyya was not born of the same mother as Ephraim and Nachshon. In fact, Uriyya’s mother Sitareh never married Yehezkel in the religious sense. Theirs was a relationship primarily based on need and happenstance. During the Second World War, thirty-seven-year-old Yehezkel joined the Jewish brigade in the Royal Air Force. He became an extraordinary officer and fighter pilot. Unfortunately, his luck ran out on one fateful morning when the single engine to his spitfire became inactivated due to ack-ack near the Isle of Wight over The Solent.

"It took a monumental effort to escape the fiery plane in its terrifying descent into the frigid waters of the English Channel in early March, 1940. Yehezkel managed to swim to safety after shucking his parachute in the choppy waters. There on an abandoned western shore lay Yehezkel for forty-eight straight hours until a young woman orphan of Persian descent named Sitareh spotted him unconscious, face down in the sand, countenance embedded in blue-green algae. Falling down on her knees to listen for a heartbeat was Sitareh. Then she ran to her grandmother’s classroom more than 1700 meters away for help. Her grandmother Kit Taylor, an eighty-two-year-old widow, a teacher for more than thirty-nine years in the local primary school, hastily brought her students into the adjoining classroom and set out at once to see for herself whom her granddaughter had found. After only ten minutes had passed—the time seemed closer to an hour and a half to the twenty-three-year-old waxen-haired young woman—wizened grandmother and fit granddaughter—two irreconcilable generations of an Anglican twentieth-century definition—approached a shared eternity of a likeness more so than any two women had appreciated since the Biblical matriarchs Sarah and Rachel.

"Can you imagine the consummate astonishment Mrs. Taylor felt upon eyeing this almost dead British airman donning a kippah and tzittzit? “A man’s heart devises his way: but the Lord directs his steps” (Prov. 15:9). Here was a case where the heart of the man, his consciousness, had been savagely divested in an existential manner so that he no longer had any say about his life; his only hope, albeit unknown to him, rested in the serendipity of reaching so opportune a destination. Notwithstanding, having followed the commandments to the best of his ability, he “felt no evil thing” (Eccl. 7:5) in the seat of his emotions. The kindness of the elderly Christian woman permeated the very physical being of the unconscious man, but not his soul. The latter entity was unquestionably impenetrable to an outsider, although she was conceived of good heart. Kit’s first inclination was to resuscitate the fallen man. She had passed a course in medical intervention some thirty years prior to this incident; this material had never been put to use in all her years of service as a teacher. Could she muster not only the knowledge and skill, but the courage to apply what would need to be life-saving measures?

"The minute that Kit removed the man’s shirt and paraphernalia, such as aerial apparatus, a glaring blue swastika immersed in the letters SVASTI on his chest loomed overwhelmingly at her and Sitareh. How could this be? A British airman wearing a kippah and tzittzit as well as displaying the arch symbol of both Nazism and anti-Semitism? Since the man could not be verbally addressed, this question would need to wait; however, in all good conscience, how could Kit now proceed with any resuscitative course of action? Kit felt as though her heart had stopped beating when she reached to take the man’s pulse. It was barely palpable.

"Next she futilely placed her right ear near the man’s nose; to no avail she listened for any air escaping his mouth. She forced his mouth open and exhaled a great mouthful of carbon dioxide into it. Repeating this action, she also started pushing down on his sternum in a syncopated fashion to coordinate the pulmonary and cardio aspects of the resuscitation. These actions continued for about fifteen minutes until the man slowly commenced coughing up an amalgam of blood and water, gagging persistently until his blue face turned a translucent pallor, and finally started to regain a limited Apgar score, if one were to perceive the revival of this man in the way as if his life would now receive the status of a tabula rasa. A clean slate. A swastika. A skullcap and fringes. What was going on? This confusion effused through the very arterial awareness, especially through the elder’s; for she better comprehended the concept “evil” as she had consciously been following the turn of events in Europe for decades. In her mind, if the world were to be saved from the Nazi peril, it had bloody well be done soon. The insidious Nazi menace would gobble up all that were of value before Neville Chamberlain could realize the utterly inimical import of his handshake with Adolph Hitler. Kit had some explaining to do to Sitareh, who would surely be full of questions.

“'You see this man,” Kit began. “He was saved by Divine intervention.'”

“'How so, Grandmother?'” conjectured Sitareh.

“'He has some explaining of his own to do. That’s how so.'”

"Somewhat lost in her own thoughts, Sitareh attempted to pay attention. Nevertheless, she kept on visualizing the first time she had seen the man. At that time the swastika was hidden. Only his Jewish ritualistic appurtenances had filled her imagination with an image of his identity.

'Kit continued, 'You know that we are at war. You should also be aware that Hitler has no sympathy for the Jews. His speeches foment with bitter hatred, especially concerning the Jews. Maybe you’ve heard about this in school. Surely you’ve seen it in the newsreels on the telly and read about it in the papers. Why haven’t we talked about it before?'”

“'Grams,' responded the young woman, 'you bet that I know something about this Nazi era. It’s crazy. . . absurd. Why, I have some Jewish friends. They’re kids just like I. Once my friend Tillie told me that it has always been so—Jews have been treated as scapegoats; they’ve been stereotyped, discriminated, and persecuted. Her father lost his job at the university because he wouldn’t put up with the ethnic jibes from his colleagues. Besides, on more than one occasion the academic dean castigated him for the war on the mainland.'”

“'Jews are not any more to blame than anyone else for the goings-on over on the mainland. I, personally, only have one Jewish friend, my good friend Ruthie. She and I have been girlfriends since we were three-and-a-half years old. We were even cared for by the same nanny until we started our formal schooling. One thing ‘bout Ruthie, though. On Saturdays she always stayed with her family and went to synagogue. We were never allowed to play during the daytime, or later, to go out together until after dark, even when we were in our late teens. I know that Saturday is their Sabbath, but why was I excluded? I never had the courage to ask her why. . . . Maybe this man can provide the answer.

“'My dear girl, rituals, rites, traditions, customs—these factors comprise the cornerstone in any formalized religion. For her part, a woman, though, part of her—or sometimes all of her—dies with the birth of a child, that is, the coming of a new generation. I have lived long enough to witness this innumerable times. It is not necessarily the length of days that furnishes the seal of life worthy of having been conceived in the first place.'”

“'I suppose I’m still a child in your eyes. My years on this earth are few, indeed. So what of a woman’s length of days? Are they not equivalent to those of a man? After all, we are both God’s creatures.'”

"At this point Kit and Sitareh became silent. The questions posed by the two would remain left to be discussed at a future time. Before them now lay an enigma whose very presence required attention. His eyes opening slowly, fluttering uncontrollably at first, then fixating initially on the old woman, subsequently on the girl. A loss of presence of mind seemed to be about him. His forehead stretched beyond endurance. His fingers, especially of his left hand, alternating between clutching his left thigh as though he was having a cramp and opening abruptly, perhaps a sign of the tension’s easing off. The muscles in his right bicep quivering ever so visibly. Would he be able to speak? What would he say? The two women waited for a prolonged hope, a hope weighted with all of the generations of humankind wrestling with the dreams of unconsciousness meshed together with the inspirations inherent in consciousness. In just moments a sigh could be heard. That utterance lingered for some additional long seconds, until a gasp, as if a new idea had awakened the soul and brought him back to them. Hence the words dredged the tide of memory and the man began speaking.

“'Why, well, I am somewhere strange. Dear ladies, can you tell me where I am?'” His voice quavering, his utterance unsure.

"Sitareh’s eyes welled up in tears as she responded, 'My dear sir, you are on the shores of the Isle of Wight. My name is Sitareh and my grandmother Kit is right here next to me. We are at your service.'”

“'Never heard of this place. Where is it?'” Consternation lined his every word.

"Now it was Kit’s turn to reply: 'It is a part of England, located in the English Channel. It appears that your plane took a direct hit, and you were forced to eject into the channel. Then somehow you swam to shore . . . and survived the ordeal'.”

“'Who am I?'”

"Kit started. The question literally threw her for a loop. 'You mean, you don’t know who you are! Don’t you remember anything before the crash?'”

“'I’m afraid, not at the moment. This is puzzling.'”

"His accent was not British. It was unrecognizable to the women. Why, who truly was this man?

"Utilizing her own special intuition, Kit could sense his failure to grasp the situation in which he found himself; funneling this cognition into a mode of action, she touched his right arm ever so gently, almost as a caress. The lineaments on her forehead flexing, as though they were massaging his arm as well. At this point her more mature physiognomy nearly resembled his as one human being’s assuming the distress of another. Pathos set into her demeanor. Fear into his.

"Kit explained what she could in a quiet, unassuming voice. “You’re going to be all right. It’s fine to feel confused, even a tad afraid when you aren’t able to remember the past. But give it time, sir. You’ve just undergone a terrible trauma.”

The man closed his eyes for several seconds until all at once with a start he sat up. The two women reacted in kind with a start of their own. What must have seemed like minutes to the man momentarily passed in the realization that he had entered a friendly—yet foreign—place. The language was recognizable, understandable. Nonetheless, two nagging questions persistently rattled his brain: Who am I? What am I doing here?

"Peering into his sunken grey eyes, the old woman cracked a faint smile. 'Have you read the Bible?' she queried.

“'The Bible. Why yes, of course.' He fingered the kippah on his head and glanced down at the tzittzit around his waist. The mention of the Bible: an association of the most visceral magnitude. Feeling his yarmulke, seeing his tzittzit—sensations of profound spiritual significance.

“'Listen to a brief parable; next tell me what, if anything, it means to you.' Kit’s voice sounded soft as an accompaniment to the half-meter waves lapping the sandy coastline. “it is a period during the Babylonian exile when the Israelites have been . . . ."

"While listening to this admonition, the man perseverated on a name: “Yehezkel, Yehezkel, Yehezkel, Yehezkel, Yehezkel, Yehezkel. . . .” Then in his mind’s eye, as might pass a certain kaleidoscopic series of events in the course of seconds, a chant at first. It progressed to an incantation, to a veritable mantra. Inhalation, Yehezkel, exhalation, Yehezkel. The framework of a Weltanschauung. The women chimed in.

"The real work had only just begun. To bring this real-live man back to his old self would take both time and downright fortitude. He still inhabited a terra incognita. Somehow the women knew that his previous habitat was not terraquenous, but rather desert-like or the real thing itself. At first a great deal of rest as well as proper nutrition would be in order. Kit’s decades of propaedeutics would lend her the wherewithal to remediate Yehezkel’s being out-of-sorts and work on him to become more responsive to his own needs.

"After only a few short weeks, Yehezkel was ready to embark on the next step: what he was to do with himself. To stay or not to stay—that was the question. For all of these weeks Kit and Sitareh had kept votive candles burning in the front windows of their dwelling, facing the vast expanse of the ocean. Hands clasped in silent devotion, the two prayed for lengthy stints day after day. Yehezkel, for his part, prayed three times a day—Shacharit, Mincha, and Maariv—facing the East, looking for guidance. In the meantime, for the next fortnight Kit endeavored to contact the British War Office. Each time the same response would rebound in her ears: We don’t know about any Yehezkel. No such name appears on our missing person’s list. Ahem!

"Another half year passed. Yehekel had an incredibly fulfilling night one Friday night. By that time he had taught the women much about his culture and religion. His explanations brought clarity to their discussions, in fact, to their lives as well. He remembered that his life prior to the war had been that of a professor of literature and literary critic; that he had a family, though he could not recall any particulars about them; that he was a member of an ostracized sect, yet neither information nor tangible connection could be retrieved.

“'Hermeneutics,' Yehezkel averred at the dinner table, 'demanded untold dedication as a sleuth might invest to solve a criminal conundrum. I would never capitulate to the lack of evidence regarding a word, idea, or concept. Every one of them had a specific scent; I would just need to get on the right trail.'”

"Suddenly, Yehezkel lowered his eyes. His voice became virtually indistinct, his lips drooping. Perspiration ever so slowly was flowing down his left temple, while the right one took on a vague tint of angst. Almost to himself he murmured, 'O Lord, heed my plea; attend to my sorrow because my ways have deviated from your set path, not so unfamiliar to my ancestors. Pay me no attention until I regain my true calling and then part from this life'” (Psalm 39:13-14).

"The women looked at him attentively. How much they desired for him to find inner peace. That was all they prayed for morning, noon, and night. They knew he was a good man. On a Wednesday morning during breakfast, they tuned into the local news only to hear: 'Captain Yehezkel Colinskiy was finally reported lost at sea this morning by the British War Office. This declaration has finally been made official after two whole months of search and enquiry. His family in Palestine has already been notified.'”

"Accordingly, unless there was more than one Yehekel Colinskiy, this riddle found resolution at last. After two months of discussion with this erudite teacher, Kit and Sitareh realized that the Yehezkel living with them, whom they had become so fond of, was one and the same man that had been announced as missing in action. A mixed blessing. The authorities would be rightfully notified. Yehezkel would be taken to a veterans’ hospital for additional convalescence. And the world would return to its former wearisome self for the two women. But why so fast? Why not wait some more time? Would Yehezkel really be in tune with his surroundings to the extent that he would figure out what had actually happened to him at this point in time? No! Why, he was still feeling his way. He was fragile, vulnerable . . . an easy mark.

"More weeks passed. Then months. With the advancement of time, the three became more and more enamored with one another, so much so that it seemed to Kit and Sitareh that Yehezkel could depart from their midst. Until Kit fainted while hanging the laundry early one morning. The sound of a thud changed everything.

"The two precipitously ran to Kit’s side. Her eyes closed, Kit appeared as a mound of old clothing on the floor. She would come to her senses momentarily after giving Sitareh and Yehezkel some scare. Even more so than ever now, the question confronted the two ladies: How long before their dear Yehezkel would need to leave them? Everything had to be known about him. Time was of the essence.

"What could be discovered about the swastika on Yehezkel’s chest? This question seared at their curiosity so much that they decided to put Yehezkel to the test. One evening after supper a sort of inquisition took place right at the dinner table. Delicacy in formulating the proper mode of enquiry would be of the order.

'Yehezkel,' Kit paused and then continued, 'we have become quite close, haven’t we?'”

“'Why yes. Sitareh and you are like my family, although that entire affair is still not clear to me. I think I must have a family in Palestine. Who they may be baffles me to this day.'”

Sitareh initiated her inquiry from a more direct vantage point. 'Maybe it’s my age. My years haven’t yet afforded me the opportunities to endure the experience of subterfuge, rancor, malevolence. Your chest . . . .'”

“'Why, what ‘bout it, Sita?'”

“'It’s bearing the emblem of the Nazi regime. You are a Jew. How could you have tattooed such a horrid symbol upon your chest?'”

“'There’s a reason, and explanation of sorts, Sita. Is the present moment really the right time to engage in such a discussion?' Yehezkel rather choked on the word ‘engage,’ as if the verb challenged his probity of intentions.

“'I don’t have too much longer to remain in life, Yehezkel,' rejoined Kit. 'Please tell us the story.'”

“'All right. It’s somewhat simple, you know. I don’t know for sure where I grew up, who my family was, what background or lineage preceded me. However, I do recollect the myth reiterated under various guises throughout the Prophets in the Bible. Reuven, Shim’on, Yehuda, Yissakhar, Zevulun, Ephraim, Menashshe, Binyamin, Dan, Asher, Gad, Naftali; Yerushalayim; the Israelites—all one and the same—would have to prove themselves through their good deeds and absolute devotion to the commandments of the One and Only Holy Being. Wavering faith, wavering action would place their legacy based on the covenant made between their forefathers and their Almighty God in grave jeopardy. This testament to the eternal pact between God Almighty and Abraham would be a sign of dedication for the faithful. In Sanskrit, the word ‘swastika’ means ‘prosperity, a blessing.’ Isn’t the lot of the Jewish people to be one of prosperity and blessing? I glommed onto the evasive meaning of the morpheme svasti, ‘well-being, benediction,’ and had it tattooed onto my chest. The tattoo was etched in place before the year 1919, the year The National Socialist German Workers’ Party was founded. If you examine it closely, the four arms are composed of the following adage: We will build The Temple in our time.'”

“'How mistaken you are, my dear man. Your intentions are decent, even commendable. But you have lost your way!'”

"Yehezkel recounted the great story of Bil’am, a person of mighty powers, whose service though was originally designated to cast a curse on the Jewish people, was instead mollified by God to bless these same people. Therefore, if Bil’am found the people favorable, even with some evident arm twisting by the Lord, wouldn’t others hired to curse the Jewish people follow suit? God would defend us against evil predators!'”

“'No! No! No!' exclaimed Kit. 'It was not Bil’am who changed his mind by virtue of God’s persuasiveness: it was God, Himself, who would not allow His people Israel to be cursed'” (Deut. 22:6)!

"A day later, my Great-grandmother Kit collapsed for the last time.

"The Days of Reckoning will soon be upon us. From Jerusalem, I tell you these stories because I am profoundly afraid. Afraid of my uncles’ legacy and afraid of my father’s convoluted thinking. His obtuse behavior—his utterly na?ve disregard for history—rankles me to no end. Where have I come from? A family without any principles. Should I be obliterated like those tribes which God deemed unsuitable to stay in the Land of Israel? Remember my namesake? If the family is the cornerstone of one’s life, as were the massive stones of The Temple, where are the quality ashlars I can turn to with quiet peace of mind? And goodness. Has it passed by my family? Oh Heavenly God, Ha’Elohim, Tell me it is not so. I so much want to be good . . . but what is Your will?"

~~~~~~~

from the June 2010 Edition of the Jewish Magazine

<https://www.jewishmag.com/144mag/story_tisha_bav/story_tisha_bav.htm>

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