Rabbi Daniel Glatstein

The Precious Day of Yom Kippur

Yom Kippur is the most glorious day of the year. Every moment is precious and sacred. Rav Yisrael Salanter writes in his seventh letter, “Ein lanu davar tov mimenu—There is nothing greater for us than a moment of Yom Kippur.” Even if we can make the smallest improvement, “Ein aroch lah b’inyanei ha’olam—There is nothing in this world that can compare to it.”

Let me tell you what Yom Kippur means to a Jew. A Yid, even in the darkest situation, in the darkest hour, cannot sever his neshama from Yom Kippur. In the concentration camps, perhaps the greatest treasure a person could possess was a piece of bread. What would a starving person not have done for a piece of bread? People were emaciated and dying, and even great tzaddikim confronted unimaginable questions of survival. A piece of bread could literally mean the difference between life and death.

And then came Yom Kippur.

My grandfather, HaRav Mordechai Leib Gladstein zt”l was imprisoned in that most cursed of places, Dachau. He had typhus fever and was gravely ill and delirious, and yet he possessed one precious piece of bread. Was he permitted to eat it? Absolutely. His life was in danger. But it was Yom Kippur, the Yom HaKadosh, and how could he eat the bread? And even moreover, in his condition, how could he possibly trust himself not to eat it?

Let me quote what my grandfather later wrote in an article published in the 1979 jubilee edition of Dos Yiddishe Vort. “To keep the piece of bread to oneself—can one overcome the urge of a hunger-stricken, emaciated, and tormented body?”

My grandfather was afraid that in his delirium, he might take the bread and eat it. But to whom could he entrust it? In the camps, a piece of bread was more precious than gold. Starving people stole bread simply to survive. Who could be trusted with such a treasure?

My grandfather gave the bread to his closest friend, Rav Avrumche Zemba, a tzaddik and a nephew of the great gaon Rav Menachem Zemba. Rav Avrumche guarded it throughout the fast. After the fast, he returned the bread to my grandfather, after which my grandfather took that single piece of bread, sliced it in half, and the two of them broke their fast together.

Could my grandfather have eaten the bread on Yom Kippur? He could have. But to him, the question was not simply whether he was permitted to eat. It was Yom Kippur. There was nothing more precious, not even a piece of bread in Dachau, than a moment of Yom Kippur.

So here we are. Bask in the glory of the day, soak up its grandeur and take in its majesty. Feel the Shechinah, the presence of Hashem. It lasts for only a short while.

Several years ago, on Erev Yom Kippur, I was sitting in my office trying to prepare the Ne’ilah derashah. I was struggling. I had already used so many of my good stories on Rosh Hashanah and Shabbos Shuvah. What was I going to say at Ne’ilah? What could I possibly speak about?

In the middle of all this, a man came to see me.

I let him into the office and asked, “How can I help you?” At the moment, I began thinking to myself, “What is this man doing here on Erev Yom Kippur? This is my most important preparation time. What does he need now? “I came to see a plaque,” he said. A plaque? On Erev Yom Kippur? “Whose plaque?” I asked. “My father,” he said. “Do you know where it is?” I asked further. “I remember that it was somewhere in the back of the shul. I haven’t been here in a while.”

I proceeded with him toward the back of the shul. As we walked, I asked, “Where are you from?” “North Carolina,” he answered. “There aren’t too many Jews where I live.”

We reached the memorial plaques and began searching through the names. “What was your father’s name?” “Jack Goodman,” he said.

I looked until finally I found it: Jack Goodman—28 Sivan 5717. I stared at the plaque and then at the man. “Your father passed away in 1957?” “Yes,” he said. “My father died two weeks after my bar mitzvah. I had bar mitzvah in this shul fifty-seven years ago. Rabbi Lax was the rabbi. Two weeks later my father died, and for that entire year I came here morning and evening to say Kaddish.”

I was stunned. “When was the last time you were in this shul?” “1961.” It was now fifty-three years later. “What brought you back today?” I asked. He explained that he had an aunt who lived on Long Island and was gravely ill, apparently near the end of her life. Since he had come to New York to see her, something inside him told him that he had to return to the shul of his childhood.

And then he said words I will never forget: “I had to come back to where I said Kaddish. I had to return to my father.” This man had traveled from North Carolina and, after more than half a century, returned to the place that connected him with his father.

If the story ended there, it would have been remarkable enough. But then something happened that I am almost hesitant to tell you.

The man looked at me and said, “Rabbi, would you mind if I took the plaque?” “What?” I asked. Most people left their plaques at the shul.  “My father’s plaque. Could I take it with me? It would mean everything in the world to me.”

I tried to explain. “I’m only the rabbi here. I don’t know how these things work. The plaque belongs to the shul. The light is turned on for the yahrtzeit and prayers are said. I don’t think you can simply remove it.” He looked at me and said, “Rabbi, please. It would mean everything to me.”

I tried one final tactic. “How are you even going to get it off the wall? It’s screwed in.” “Do you have a screwdriver?” “No,” I said. “How about a knife?” “Look,” I said, “I cannot give you a knife to remove a memorial plaque from the wall. I can show you where the knives are kept, and after that, I know nothing about what happens.”

So I showed him the drawer. This seventy-year-old man took a knife, climbed onto a table, unscrewed his father’s memorial plaque from the wall, and took it home.

For years afterward, if you looked at that memorial board, every slot was occupied except for one glaring empty space in the middle. That was where the plaque of Jack Goodman had hung for fifty-seven years, until one Erev Yom Kippur his seventy-year-old son traveled hundreds of miles to return to his father.

Before he left, I asked him, “Do you have a few minutes?” I gave him a tallis and I gave him tefillin. And then he said Shema.

I do not know when the last time was that this man had put on a tallis and tefillin. I do not know when he had last said Shema. But I will never forget that Erev Yom Kippur, when a seventy-year-old Jew from North Carolina returned after fifty-seven years.

He came to return to his father. That is exactly what Yom Kippur is about.

There is one final story.

Tzvi Sperber was once driving in Israel when he heard an elderly man being interviewed on the radio about the Kindertransport. The man described how he and a friend had been rescued from Nazi-controlled Europe and brought to England as children. One day, the school they attended announced some extraordinary news. The following day, King George would be passing by, and the children would have an opportunity to see the King. Everyone was instructed to dress in his finest clothing.

The next day, the children lined the streets in their best clothes, each holding a flag. Finally, the royal procession approached and everyone cheered and waved as the King’s automobile slowly passed. But one boy was disappointed.

He had not come merely to see the King. He wanted to speak to the King. So he did something astonishing. He broke away from the crowd, darted into the middle of the street, and forced the royal procession to stop. Everyone was aghast. But incredibly, King George rolled down his window and spoke with the boy. They exchanged a few words, and then the procession continued.

Everyone thought the child had lost his mind. What kind of audacity was this? Who runs into the street and stops the King? Two weeks later, the boy was summoned to the principal’s office. The principal asked him, “What exactly did you say to the King that day?”

The boy explained, “I thanked the King for allowing me to be saved through the Kindertransport. But then I told him that my parents were still trapped in Nazi-occupied Europe. The King asked me for their names and their address, and I gave them to him.”

The principal looked at the boy. “The King has a present for you.” The door opened.

And in walked the boy’s parents.

The elderly man being interviewed on the radio then said something heartbreaking. At the time, everyone thought his friend was crazy. Everyone thought he had gone too far. But his friend recognized an opportunity that the others had failed to recognize.

“He was reunited with his parents,” the man said. “I was not.”

Rabbosai, the King is here. HaMelech basadeh. But the gates are closing.

Every moment of Yom Kippur is precious. There are moments in life when the King passes by, and we have to decide whether we will simply stand at the side of the road and watch or whether we will run toward Him and ask for what we truly need.

My grandfather would not surrender a moment of Yom Kippur even for a piece of bread in Dachau. A seventy-year-old Jew traveled hundreds of miles because something inside his neshama told him, “I have to return to my father.” And one little boy refused merely to watch the King pass by. He ran toward him and asked the King to bring him back to his parents.

Now it is our turn. The King is here. The gates are still open and our Father is waiting.

Do not simply watch the moment pass. Return to your Father and take advantage of every precious moment that remains.

G’mar chasimah tovah.

Rabbi Menachem Feifer

The Flashing Red Lights

The students of Rabbi Yochanan came to him shortly before his passing and asked him for a beracha. Chazal tell us that Rabbi Yochanan said to them, “Yehi ratzon sheyehei mora Shamayim aleichem k’mora basar vadam—May it be Hashem’s will that your fear of Heaven should be as great as your fear of another human being” (Berachos 28b).

The talmidim were astonished. Ad kan? That is all? These were the talmidim of the great Rabbi Yochanan. Was there no higher level of yiras Shamayim to which they should aspire than the fear one has of another person?

Rabbi Yochanan responded, “Halevai—If only you would reach that level.” And he gave them a simple proof. When a person is about to commit an aveirah, he may know perfectly well that Hakadosh Baruch Hu sees what he is doing. Yet if another human being suddenly walks into the room, what happens? Immediately, he stops. Suddenly, he is embarrassed and suddenly, he cannot continue.

That is the extraordinary challenge of yiras Shamayim. It is not merely to know intellectually that Hashem sees us. It is to develop such a vivid awareness of Hakadosh Baruch Hu that we actually feel ourselves standing in His presence. We live with an awareness of the Ayin Ro’ah, the Eye that sees, and recognize that there is never a moment when we are outside the presence of Hashem.

During these days, we are supposed to become increasingly conscious of that reality. These are days of din. We speak about Hashem’s judgment, about the fact that everything we do is known before Him. But there is an enormous difference between knowing something and actually feeling it.

I remember an incident that brought this lesson home to me in a very personal way.

It was the morning of the first Selichos. In Telz Yeshiva, we began Selichos on Sunday morning rather than Motzei Shabbos. I was supposed to daven for the amud, and I was late.

In my haste to get to the yeshiva on time, I pushed my old car well beyond its limits. I was driving about fifty miles an hour on a service road where the speed limit was probably thirty. And, to be completely honest, I went through a red light. I had to get to yeshiva.

The moment I crossed the intersection, I looked into my rearview mirror and saw flashing red lights. The police.

My heart began pounding and my palms were sweating. I could feel the perspiration on my forehead. The officer walked over to my window, looked at me, and said, “Rabbi, I was going fifty miles an hour, and I could barely catch up with you. And if I’m not mistaken, that light was already red before you crossed the intersection.”

I said, “Officer, I am so sorry. Today is one of the most important prayer services of the year. I’m late, and I got carried away.” He looked at me and said something I have never forgotten. “Rabbi, all your prayers are not worth one person’s life. Please drive more carefully in the future.”

And with that, mercifully, he turned around and walked away. I drove the rest of the way to the yeshiva very carefully, and very much within the speed limit. I arrived, jumped out of the car, and hurried inside to the tzibbur that was waiting for me.

But afterward, I began thinking: what in the world just happened?

I was rushing to daven Selichos. I was preparing to stand before Hakadosh Baruch Hu on behalf of the tzibbur and Klal Yisrael as we approached the awesome Yemei HaDin. I knew that I was approaching Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, days on which we speak about Mi yichyeh umi yamus, who will live and who will die. And yet my palms were not sweating. My heart was not pounding. My forehead was not dripping with perspiration.

Then one human being appeared at my car window—a police officer who, at worst, was going to give me a ticket—and suddenly my heart was pounding out of my chest. I remember being deeply disappointed in myself.

And then I understood Rabbi Yochanan’s beracha: Halevai.

If only we could feel the presence of Hakadosh Baruch Hu with the same immediacy with which we feel the presence of another human being. If only the knowledge that Hashem sees us could move from something we know intellectually into something we actually feel.

That is one of the purposes of learning mussar. Mussar takes truths that we already know and works to move them from the mind into the heart. We all know there is an Ayin Ro’ah. We all know that HaKadosh Baruch Hu sees everything that we do. The avodah is to make that knowledge real enough that it changes the way we live. And that awareness is one of our greatest protections against the yetzer hara. When a person genuinely feels that he is standing before Hashem, the nisayon looks different. The entire moment looks different.

Let us try, as we stand on Yom Kippur and beyond, to spend some time each day learning mussar and reminding ourselves of the Ayin Ro’ah, that we are constantly standing in the presence of Hashem. And through developing that awareness, may we be zocheh to overcome the nisyonos that confront us and take the Yamim Noraim with us into the future with genuine yiras Shamayim.

Rabbi Yehoshua Frankenhuis

Non-Negotiable Commitment

Perhaps one of the greatest areas of avoidance during these days, particularly on Yom Kippur, is the avoidance of kabbalos. We all do teshuvah. We all resolve to change. We are all mamlich Hashem upon ourselves. But the real question is: What remains afterward? If we try to take on everything, very often we end up retaining nothing.

The baalei mussar therefore emphasize leaving Yom Kippur with one concrete undertaking. The first rule of a proper kabbalah is that it must be small — small enough that even on your hardest day, when you are tired, overwhelmed, and the yetzer hara is fighting you, you can still maintain it.

Perhaps you aspire to learn twenty minutes of mussar every day. Your kabbalah might be five minutes. Perhaps you aspire to transform your entire davening. Your kabbalah might be one Shemoneh Esrei each day, or even each week, in which you slow down and genuinely speak to Hashem.

Never diminish your aspirations. Dream big. But distinguish between an aspiration and a kabbalah. Before Yom Kippur ends, identify one small, nonnegotiable commitment and hold onto it tightly. Then, even after the inspiration fades, a piece of Yom Kippur will continue living within you.