The Short Vort by Rabbi Eisenman

Three decades ago, I had just become the Rav of Ahavas Israel in Passaic. The shul was then transitioning from “traditional” to Orthodox. This meant there was a wide range of observance levels among the membership. We were navigating the transition together peacefully and respectfully.

That first Erev Succos was an especially hectic day. Dealing with all the varied personal issues of diverse congregants made my work as a new rav very challenging.

There was a constant stream of visitors requesting last-minute checks of their arba minim. There were 11th-hour calls from desperate balabatim beseeching me to check the kashrus of their succahs.

As things finally started to settle down, I sat down to begin preparing my drashos. Then came a knock at the door.

Standing before me was William “Bill” Goldenberger*. Bill was a stout man in his mid-seventies. His wife had passed away a few years before, and his two sons lived out of town, making Bill a very lonely man.

Bill — or as he now preferred to be called, Velvel — was a proud veteran of the US military in World War II and felt especially privileged to have helped defeat the Germans. His most prized possession was a large American flag he had brought back from the war. He had served in the Battle of the Bulge and was taken prisoner. The Nazis sent him to Berga, a subcamp of the infamous Buchenwald concentration camp, where he was forced into slave labor.

I now realize Bill suffered from severe PTSD.

He was a constant presence at shul, arriving promptly for every minyan.

Yet it was not uncommon for him to begin sobbing uncontrollably at random parts of the davening.

Every new religious experience for him, from putting on tefillin to learning between Minchah and Maariv, was both invigorating and intimidating.

Now Velvel stood silently at my door, holding his arba minim still sealed in plastic. He was emotional when he finally found the words to speak.

“Rabbi, I’ve never held my very own lulav and esrog. Can you please show me how to set it up?”

I brought Velvel inside to my dining room table, and together we assembled his arba minim.

The next day, the first day of Yom Tov, as we were about to begin Hallel, I looked down from the bimah at the men preparing their lulavim for the mitzvah.

Suddenly, my eyes caught hold of Velvel.

He was clutching his lulav and esrog, paralyzed with anticipation, and also by memories of his past trauma.

I reflexively knew what I had to do. I descended from the bimah and made my way over to him. I set down my own lulav and esrog.

“Velvel, let’s make believe we’re back at my dining room table and it’s just the two of us.”

He suddenly awoke from the past and was fully present, on task. Together we raised his lulav and esrog, and with tears streaming down our faces, we ascended to spiritual levels we had never experienced before as we performed the mitzvah.

A few months later, Velvel left this world.

When his sons cleaned out his modest apartment, they found his lulav and esrog, lovingly wrapped next to his tallis and tefillin, together with his beloved American flag.

A note tucked in with them read, “These are my precious possessions. I served my country with honor fifty years ago. And for this past year, I served Hashem with love.”