She was a Holocaust survivor. She was nine years old when the Nazis and their Polish compatriots murdered as many Jews as they could get their hands on.
It was a different time, long ago but not so far away.
Those murdered included her grandparents, parents, siblings, aunts, uncles, and cousins. They were all among the six million Jews systematically eliminated by the evil Hitler killing machine along with overzealous Polish complicity.
Last week she died at home rather unceremoniously. She was released from a local Brooklyn hospital a few hours prior to her passing. Early last Friday morning things spiraled downhill very quickly.
Burial took place on Monday morning at the Eretz HaChaim cemetery in Beit Shemesh. Planning and having a levayah in Israel involves a lot of moving parts. Everything needs to fall in place, and everyone involved has to cooperate in order to make it happen properly, with respect to the niftar as the primary consideration.
First there is the matter of the Chevra Kadisha in New York. I had to wake up Shmuli Hartman in Brooklyn at 2 a.m. Friday morning. It took less than a half-hour for him and his son Yehuda to arrive at my mother-in-law’s apartment in Boro Park to do what they have to do.
One of the first challenges that we had to reckon with was that it was the week of Lag B’Omer. I didn’t realize it previously, but it seems that the demand for airline seats prior to Lag B’Omer might be just as great or perhaps even greater than the demand for airline seats leading up to the High Holy Days—especially Sukkos.
There were really no other options to explore other than to make the trip with El Al. They might be the only airline that has the sensitivity and understanding for what it means to be fulfilling a person’s final wish of burial in the land of our fathers and mothers—in the land of Israel.
On a personal level, I have experience with this matter, as my father chose kevurah in Israel 33 years ago, back in 1989. Was it easier in those days than it is today? Probably.
Here is one indication that today the demand is much greater than it was a few decades ago: there were six funerals scheduled for this past Monday in this one cemetery in Beit Shemesh—and most were from the United States.
I suppose we can use some conjecture and say that while there is a natural, innate connection between a Jew and Eretz Yisrael, very often the circumstances and obstacles that keep us away from making the move to Israel during our lives has one last opportunity to express itself—kevurah in Israel.
I went through this with my father over 30 years ago, as mentioned above. He told me more than a few times that he did not mind living in America but that after his corporeal life was over, he did not want to be laid to rest in America.
I thought that it was a fairly pithy thing to say but I also knew how much he loved Eretz Yisrael and how his every thought was focused on that spot on the map and the challenges its Jews dealt with, especially in the aftermath of the Holocaust. He also knew and understood that this is where our destiny is, one way or another.
My father-in-law apparently took note of my father’s intent on this matter and began the process of doing the same thing for himself and his wife, my mother-in-law, Chana Nudel, a’h. In fact, my father-in-law is buried very close to my parents, and now my mother-in-law will be there, too. She hadn’t mentioned it in a while, but there were times, as she aged, that she asked me to make sure there was a place for her next to her husband. I assured her that there was, and this week I fulfilled that assurance.
For us and for her it is the end of a long run filled with obstacles and difficulties, and not necessarily the type that you hear about today. Her early life in Poland of the 1930s and 40s was about dealing with daily life-and-death matters. Then there was survival and a new country, where it took a lot of insight and ingenuity to successfully interface with a new world.
Eretz HaChaim in Beit Shemesh is not what it was twenty or thirty years ago. Today it is a place bustling with activity, very un-cemetery-like. Thanks to Yehoshua and Yehuda Konig, the place runs flawlessly. On Monday morning there were six funerals here; people were coming and going, and groups were waiting for their turn in the chapel in order to address those gathered to listen to some final words about the newly deceased.
I never envisioned myself being so comfortable and knowing the ins and outs of a cemetery, especially one in Israel. For people who were there with us for the first time, I pointed to where Rabbi Zechariah Wallerstein, z’l, is interred, not far from my parents and in-laws and at the edge of a road because he is a kohen.
Across the way from my in-laws are their friends from the old country, the Finkelmans, plus so many others here and there. Once our family members who live in Israel or who are visiting joined us, it was my turn to speak. I talked about my in-laws’ challenges and just plain hard life. But they endured, and they both lived into their nineties and raised beautiful families.
I told the people gathered—mostly children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, and even one or two very young great-great-grandchildren—that we were all there today—about a hundred of us—even though the Nazi plan was to murder my in-laws as young children. It occurred to me that the presence of these hundred people made this occasion less of a funeral and more of a victory over those who had designs to murder Jews.
I told them (and scores more family members watching online) that “despite impossible odds, you can see that Chana Nudel won!”
She passed away Friday morning and was interred in Israel on Monday. We weren’t concerned that in order to accommodate some family members there would perhaps be a delay in the matter of burial. We believed all along that whenever it would happen, this woman would get a free pass. She didn’t have to knock on heaven’s door upon arrival. There’s no question that for her, the door was wide open.
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