"When I leave this world, say Yizkor for me. I have no one else in the world to ask"

Being a rabbi means having every utterance analyzed and scrutinized by others.

This Shemini Atzeres, I was surprised when Berel approached me after davening and said, “Rabbi, I couldn’t help but overhearing that when you said Yizkor today, you didn’t just mention your parents, I heard you say another name as well. What’s the reason for that, and who was this person?”

I didn’t realize people were listening in on my Yizkor, but, nevertheless, I decided it was time to come clean. I asked Berel to sit down and told him my story.

“Berel, it was almost a half a century ago. But I recall it as if it were yesterday.

“When I was younger I would walk from my home in Canarsie to the Mir Yeshivah for Simchas Torah. The four-mile walk took less than an hour and a half, and in the cool October evening, it was quite a pleasant stroll.

“The Mir Yeshivah at that point was at its peak. Back then in Flatbush the joke was that when your wife gave birth to a son, your first phone call was to the yeshivah you wanted him to attend to reserve a spot, even before you called your mother or the mohel.

“As I entered the beis medrash, I was swept away in the concentric circles that filled the room. The feeling of love for Torah and Torah leaders was evident as I watched the Mashgiach, Rav Don Segal, dancing along with Rav Shraga Moshe Kalmanowitz ztz”l and Rav Shmuel Berenbaum ztz”l.

“However, it’s not the dancing of one particular Simchas Torah that remains etched in my memory — it was the chance encounter I had with someone after the dancing ended.

“I had walked out to Ocean Parkway to cool off. Suddenly a bareheaded elderly man approached me, and said, in heavily accented English, ‘You enjoy the dancing inside?’ I nodded.

“ ‘I envy you.’

“ ‘Why?

“He sat next to me on one of the benches that line the grassy median. ‘I used to enjoy it too,’ he told me. ‘I learned in the Mir Yeshivah in Europe. However, when the yeshivah escaped to Shanghai, I remained in Mir. The entire Jewish population was murdered in 1941, except for 50 people. I was one of them. To escape the Nazis, I hid in a swamp for three days, under the water. I breathed through a reed I made into a straw. At the end of the war, I was destroyed, emotionally and spiritually. My parents, siblings, and aunts and uncles had all been killed. I had no family, no money and nowhere to go. I came here and worked as a taxi driver. And I never came back to Torah.’

“I was young, innocent, and brazen, and I impulsively said, ‘You can always come back! And you must really want to come back,’ I insisted, ‘or else why did you come here tonight?’

“ ‘You ask good, you must learn well, too,’ he answered. ‘I came here tonight to ask you a favor. When I leave this world, say Yizkor for me. I have no one else in the world to ask.’

“He stood and began to walk down Ocean Parkway.

“I called after him, ‘Wait, I don’t know your name! And how will I know—’

“He turned. ‘Asher Anshel ben Chaim. And don’t worry. You’ll know.’

“The next year I returned to the Mir Yeshivah for Simchas Torah. As soon as I entered the building, I noticed a small handwritten sign on the bulletin board. As it was pocked with multiple pinholes, I knew it had been up for a while.

“A shudder went through me.

“It read, ‘The hakamas matzeivah for Asher Anshel ben Chaim will be on Sunday, Erev Rosh Hashanah.’

“And now you know why I say an extra Yizkor.”

 (Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 783)