This year at the 13th Siyum HaShas, no matter how packed the stadium is, and no matter how large the crowd, I will save a seat for Ofir.

Y

ou have to be living in a cave not to feel the excitement in the air. This week we approach a monumental convocation, as over 90,000 Jews of all persuasions gather at MetLife Stadium for the 13th Siyum HaShas of Daf Yomi.

Each one of the 2,711 pages of Talmud Bavli is a labor of love that binds all of us together.

At the Siyum, many will recall their own long hours of toil to reach this milestone.

Women will be there joyously celebrating success in their indispensable role as facilitators, juggling family commitments and providing emotional and spiritual support to fathers and husbands to guarantee they never miss the daf shiur.

As the momentous event gets closer, my thoughts drift from MetLife Stadium and settle on the A Line of the New York City subway system.

I wax nostalgic as I recall 9th Siyum HaShas, which was the first to take place at Madison Square Garden on April 26, 1990.

I excitedly attended with my six-year-old son Meir, who was then in first grade.

As we had previously lived in Washington Heights and only recently relocated to Passaic, the strategy was to drive to Washington Heights, park, and then take the A train to Madison Square Garden.

My wife graciously prepared two sandwiches for dinner.

We contacted a former neighbor in the Heights, who allowed us to wash and begin our meal there with the intention to finish our sandwiches on the subway.

We washed, took a bite, thanked our friend, and boarded the A train barreling southbound.

After we ate, I took out two bentshers (back then you didn’t read it off your phone), and our Bircas Hamazon was infused with our enthusiasm for the upcoming event.

Surprisingly, after we finished, a man leaned over and said to us in Hebrew, “Ani mekanei bachem — I am jealous of you.”

I had no idea what he was talking about.

“I noticed how you and your son ate and then prayed. You have true emunah in G-d. I was brought up in Haifa and was never exposed to anything Jewish. I feel robbed when I see the comfort and contentment praying gives you. That is why I am jealous. I have no such comfort and no tranquility.”

“What is your name?”

“My name is Ofir. I am a professor at the Technion in Haifa, and I am a visiting professor this year at Columbia University. I am returning next month to Israel.”

“Ofir,” I pleaded, “it’s not too late. You have the same birthright as me. You can still taste the beauty of Judaism.”

I asked him for his phone number. He gave me his number at Columbia.

As we arrived at Penn Station, I said to Ofir, “Let’s stay in touch.”

I thought about Ofir the entire evening. That day was Rosh Chodesh Iyar 5750.

Sometime before Shavuos, I found Ofir’s number.

I called and asked the receptionist to connect me with the professor whose first name is Ofir. She put me through to his extension.

It rang several times, and then a recorded message said, “The person at extension 362 is no longer associated with Columbia University. No forwarding information has been provided.”

I never heard from Ofir again.

This year at the 13th Siyum HaShas, no matter how packed the stadium is, and no matter how large the crowd, I will save a seat for Ofir.

If I could speak to him again, just once, I would say, “Ofir, please know, wherever you are and whoever you are, you are still my brother and I love you. I have saved you a seat at MetLife stadium.

“It is never too late to start afresh. I hope to see you there.”

(Excerpted from Mishpacha, Issue 791)