The United flight to Philadelphia had barely cleared the runway in Portland when I took out my Chumash, put on my headphones and played the tape Rabbi Vogel had sent me to help me study for my upcoming haftorah. I couldn’t help but smile as I heard his first few words, “Okay Shloma Yakov, here is the tape, I am sure you are going to be FANTASTIC!”
Fantastic indeed. I had been studying for six months and no matter how much I tried, I simply could not retain the haftorah melodies. Six months before, during Simchas Torah, I had made a mitzvah pledge to learn and chant the haftorah that I should have presented at my bar mitzvah 33 years earlier. Unfortunately, back then; I was such a poor Hebrew school student that my merciful teacher Rabbi Lapedus had wisely limited my role to a morning Aliyah and leading the mincha service later that day. And even that had been an enormous challenge.
Of course life had changed since I discovered Chabad, and finally reciting the haftorah of my youth seemed like a great idea while I was dancing with the Torah and singing with my friends on Simchas Torah. But now it was almost “game time” and I simply was not ready. Even as I was practicing on the plane, subconsciously I was trying to find the right excuse to get me off the hook. “I had business in St Cloud, Minnesota and couldn’t get back to Delaware, or an elk ran into my car on the way to the airport and I missed my plane.” I was desperate to avoid looking foolish in front of friends and family in June.
As I sat in my seat wallowing in self-doubt an elderly woman strolled past, looked at my open Chumash, looked at me and then kept walking. A short while later she walked by again looked at my Chumash, then at me and kept walking. Repeating this for the better part of a half hour, she finally stopped in front of me and motioned for me to remove my headphones. She said, “It isn’t often you see someone reading from a Hebrew book on an airplane. What are you reading.”? I explained that I was practicing for my haftorah.
She smiled, and then uninvited, sat down in the seat next to mine and proceeded to tell me her life story. She was a retired Jewish doctor living in Los Angeles and she and her husband were on their way to Philadelphia to see their son. After about 45 minutes she walked back to her seat and started conversing with her husband. Several minutes later he got out of his seat and walked back to speak with me. He pulled an old newspaper article from his jacket pocket and gave it to me to read. He explained that the photo in the article was of his cousin’s school class back in Hungary during World War II. He pointed to his cousin and said he was the only member of the class that had escaped when the Nazis invaded his village. He thought since I was studying for my haftorah I would appreciate reading the article.
The story moved me but I was mystified why he thought it had a connection to my haftorah. When the plane landed, the doctor and her husband said goodbye and disappeared into the undulating crowd at the airport.
After picking up my luggage, I jumped into a rental car and pointed the car South on I-95 toward Chabad of Delaware, where Rabbi Vogel’s second son Areleh’s Bar Mitzvah celebration was about to begin. As I crossed the state line into Delaware I could almost smell the aroma of the Rebbetzin’s mouthwatering kugel cooking in the oven!
The next evening Shabbos got off to a joyous start as friends and family from around the world davened, made Kiddush, ate, laughed and sang together. The next morning Areleh made us all proud leading the davening, laning from the Torah and chanting a magnificent haftorah.
When davening was over the celebration began in earnest. After more food, and of course more kugel than I could eat, a full-fledged Fabriging began. Each participant at the table shared insights and wisdom about the parcha, the responsibilities a boy assumes on his bar mitzvah and numerous discussions of spirituality and commitment.
Midway through the festivities Rabbi Vogel asked his father, Reb Noson Vogel, to recount his miraculous escape from the Nazis, on the last boat out of Calais, France, before the Nazis overran the country. After much encouragement from family and friends Reb Vogel acquiesced and described how on that fateful day, which “coincidentally” was exactly 61 years to the day of Areleh’s bar mitzvah, his sister had convinced a guard to let she and her family secretly scale the wall of the ship and board before it sailed out of port. How in the end they were four of the less than seven hundred souls that finally escaped from the clutches of Hitler’s henchmen that day. He told of the anguish of leaving port, as thousands stood on the docks, their last hope of survival slowly disappearing below the horizon.
He explained that only through G-d’s blessing did he and his family escape the hands of the Nazis and how he had dedicated his life to foiling Hitler’s ultimate plan by promoting and supporting Jewish education throughout the world. Years after departing Calais, Reb Vogel established the Lubavitch Boys High School and eventually the Lubavitch Yeshiva in London, ultimately sending hundreds of boys to spread Yetiskeit to Jewish communities around the world. He went on to say that with every mitzvah performed, with every bar mitzvah celebrated ( including those of his wonderful grandchildren), and with every new Jewish boy or girl educated, he in some small way ensured that not only would the Jewish people survive spiritually, but thrive in the post Hitler world.
When Shabbos was over and it was time to return to Oregon, I returned with a new passion in my heart. When I first started this journey I was fearful of “looking foolish” in front of my friends because the tune of my haftorah was less than perfect. After meeting the engaging couple on the plane and then listening to Reb Vogel’s words of inspiration, I realized that learning and chanting the haftorah was more important than I had ever imagined.
I realized that no matter the final melodic quality of my haftorah, it was imperative to complete it. For every note of my haftorah and the millions that others have and will chant, serve to remind us that despite the evil intent of the Pharaohs, the Hamens and the Hitlers of history, the spirit of the Jewish people still burns brightly throughout the world. They ensure the tears, the lone surviving schoolboy from a middle school in Hungary; still carries in his heart 60 years later, were not shed in vain. That the determination and faith a young Jewish boy and his family displayed to climb aboard the last ship leaving Hitler’s Germany would now and forever serve as a beacon of enlightenment for Jewish boys and girls and deepen their commitment to Jewish learning and living.
As I sat back in my seat I couldn’t help but marvel at hearing two such painful, yet inspiring stories over the course of a few days. I thanked Hashem for these wondrous blessings, smiled, picked up my Chumash, slapped on my headphones and went back to work.
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