It has been 35 years since my Chanukah changed forever, and it’s actually still changing and evolving, its meaning deepening and strengthening over time.
Over these last three and a half decades, as I’ve recounted in this space for many years, I’ve always preferred to look at the positive side of how these situations occur and indeed, a great deal has changed.
A Chabad magazine recently ran a series of photos analyzing the fact that during my dad’s levaya on the sixth day of Chanukah in 1989 (5750), the Rebbe was in his office at 770 Eastern Parkway that morning when he was told of the passing of Rabbi Nison Gordon, and how the procession would be proceeding from the funeral chapel in Boro Park past 770, with a small contingent proceeding to the airport for the 4 p.m. flight to Israel where the interment would take place on Friday in Bet Shemesh.
If I had to pinpoint the day my life changed dramatically it would be that day. I was stunned, as was my mother and siblings, but somehow managed to maintain my composure and keep a level head, knowing that we had a mission to carry out and had no choice but to keep on thinking one step ahead.
That included tracking down my passport and my brother racing down to the passport office in Manhattan to request an emergency passport for the journey. The days had not yet arrived where you could go to an office in Brooklyn and request an immediate passport for a few extra hundred dollars.
Anyway, he secured his passport and we were off to the levaya in Boro Park, then via car to 770 where I stayed in the car so I did not personally not witness the Rebbe coming out to pay his last respects. But a few days later when I returned, the buzz was that after a ten-year hiatus on going out for levayas, the Rebbe, at that point around 87 years old, grabbed his coat (it was cold and snowing outside), and as you can see in the photo, stood with the crowd of hundreds as the hearse passed by Chabad headquarters in Crown Heights.
There were no eulogies or hespedim for two reasons. Firstly, it was Chanukah and secondly, the Chabad minhag is to never deliver a hesped. The rationale for that is the neshamah of the deceased, in all its purity and innocence, is still hovering over the body. Some say that if the speakers speak glowingly and even exaggerate the righteousness of the niftar, it will cause his soul great discomfort and begin the process that will attach it to the truth and honesty from whence it originated.
So, why after ten years of not leaving his office to join a funeral procession did the Lubavitcher Rebbe suddenly decide to reverse his policy and attend my father’s levaya? Today, 35 years later, this question is still discussed among the Chassidim and in particular, the attachment between Rabbi Nison Gordon and the Rebbe.
Some might say that the Rebbe had a special gratitude toward my dad for his promotion of Yiddish media and the way he represented the Rebbe’s efforts at a time when Torah Jewry were struggling to establish a foothold in America.
Others say that it was his multi-part series printed in a Yiddish magazine that consisted of an interview with the Rebbe’s mother, Rebbetzin Chana, about her life, the life of her husband, and what it was like to raise the Rebbe as a child.
You may have seen some of those photos over the years, but my dad was a Chassid, but not a stereotypical Lubavitcher, so to speak. The key component in that regard were that he was clean shaven and as many know, growing a beard and keeping it is sacrosanct amongst many Chassidim, particularly in Chabad.
My dad was an aristocrat and a man comfortable at home with all levels of Orthodox Jewry as it was still being defined and growing. I attended lectures by Rav Joseph Ber Soloveitchik with my dad somewhere in the city. We attended Agudah conventions and OU conventions as a family. I attended a Siyum Hashas with my dad when it was small enough to be held in a ballroom in Manhattan.
He was also a ghostwriter who penned newspaper columns and even several books for Holocaust survivors who wanted to present published volumes of their lives as a memento for their families.
He floated the idea that I should spend my junior year in college at Hebrew University in Jerusalem. I wasn’t sure exactly what he had in mind, but I was skeptical of the idea and rejected it without fully realizing that perhaps he had some greater reason for my going there.
From the time that my brother Yossy and I were about nine or ten years old, my parents would park us in sleepaway camp and then spend the entire summer in Israel. During the summer of 1980, Esta and I were married for about a year since Malkie was ten weeks old. We went to Israel for what would be one of my longest stays there: three weeks. My parents met us at the airport, and once we had gathered our belongings, our eyes locked amongst the throngs of people waiting for friends and family to exit the airport.
I knew they were there amid the crowd, and then our eyes met and he was waving his arms almost like a windmill so we would notice him. I was balancing Malkie on some contraption on my back, and when I saw him and my mom in the distance, I pumped my fists into the air. We had made it. We were finally in Israel together. That would be the only time we would be there together until 1989 when we flew over for his burial in Eretz Hachaim in Bet Shemesh.
It was sad and we were broken, but somehow, I felt an exuberance about the experience. It was Shabbos Chanukah and there was a freewheeling giddiness everywhere we looked, even though my brother and I were reciting Kaddish for the first time.
All around us there was joy and celebration as this was the custom on this day, especially in Jerusalem. We were there from Friday morning until late Saturday night, then caught the 1 a.m. flight back to New York where we would sit shiva with the rest of the family at our parents’ home in Brooklyn.
It was difficult to imagine what life would be like 35 years later, but here we are. During those early years, we speculated on why he wanted to be buried in Israel instead of beside his parents and siblings near the Rebbe’s Ohel in Queens. His decision to be laid to rest in Israel illustrated what an independent thinker he was and how he saw things his own special way. I have long thought that he wanted to make sure his children had the same strong feelings and love for Eretz Yisrael.
I’ve calculated that out of the 35 yahrzeits, I managed to be in Israel for 27 of those special days of remembrance. If I was not there on that date, then one of my siblings or one of my father’s grandchildren was there. One way or another we always had the day covered.
Israel is particularly spectacular on Chanukah. There are torch-like menorahs that dot the landscape that you can catch a glimpse of wherever you turn.
The Gemara on the subject of Chanukah records the dispute between Beis Shammai and Beis Hillel on whether you begin lighting the menorah from one upward or eight downward. They do, however, both agree on the purpose of lighting the menorah in the first place.
They both say that the purpose of lighting the chanukiyah is to rekindle in ourselves the triumph of light over darkness. And they both agree that we light a different number of candles each night to signify that each day of the Chanukah miracle is unique unto itself.
And that is what I think about on the sixth day of Chanukah—my father’s yahrzeit. I think that is what made him so unique in his own special way. He instilled in his progeny the light of Eretz Yisrael over the darkness of this mysterious exile, preparing us for the ultimate redemption and salvation that should come speedily in our days.
Update On Israel
Our daughter-in-law, Mari, was due to give birth on December 18. Originally, we had planned to be present for the blessed event and then zoom off to the airport to catch our El Al flight to spend the rest of Chanukah in Israel in addition to observing my father’s yahrzeit on the sixth day of the chag, which falls out on Tuesday, December 30.
Okay, that was a good plan whether it was a boy or a girl. Of course, it’s easier to know what G-d’s plan is, but it usually doesn’t work that way. So, a few months ago I told our son Dovi that I didn’t need to know the gender of the child, I just asked him if it was imperative that we be here in New York for the birth.
The fact is that if nature had taken the proper course and stuck to the original due date, we had given ourselves a ten-day window for the birth to take place. So, if need be, we would be able to attend the shalom zachor and a few days later, the bris milah.
Sounds like a plan. But then December 18 came and went, and so did the next six days until a beautiful young man came into this world on December 24. He was born at 7 lbs., 5 oz., and his two sisters and brother are overjoyed with their new baby brother.
And so are we, Baruch Hashem. I called my travel agent to cancel our travel plans and lo and behold, two seats suddenly became available for some lucky travelers on the Saturday night of Shabbos Chanukah.
Now, if all goes well and with Hashem’s help, the bris will hopefully take place on New Year’s Day, 2025, corresponding to the first day of Teves. My father’s 35th yahrzeit will be the day before that, on the 30th of Kislev, the sixth day of Chanukah.
So, it’s not just another in a series of 35 yahrzeits. This time it is being punctuated by the birth of a baby boy. What greater way to celebrate the continuation of life in this mysterious, incredible world? It’s an extraordinary circle of life that in most cases we find it difficult to fully understand. This time, however, I think we get it. At least I hope so.
Read more of Larry Gordon’s articles at 5TJT.com. Follow 5 Towns Jewish Times on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter for updates and live videos. Comments, questions, and suggestions are welcome at 5TJT.com and on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter.
