That was the korban Hashem took. That was my friend
For Martin, this was his first time here. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he landed, and they didn’t stop flowing until he headed back. Over the course of the trip we davened in holy places, where they recited Kaddish for their mother. The kevarim of Rabi Shimon bar Yochai in Meron, Rabi Akiva in Teveria, and Mamma Rochel in Beit Lechem. When we finally came to the Kosel, Martin said he felt the presence of his parents looking down upon him.
After we davened, Martin asked me if we could go up to Har Habayis and say Kaddish there. This was not something I can do and I await the day when we will once again be able to go up and kiss that holy ground. But a tour guide can’t just say no. We have to have an alternative.
As a rabbi, as well, I saw Martin’s longing and knew that his holy inspiration had to be channeled; the she’ifos d’kedushah needed to be realized. So I told Martin I would take them to another place — a place I believed to be even more powerful. We got into the car and made our way to Har Nof, where I spent my yeshivah years in Israel studying.
But there were no children playing on the streets. The city was quiet, in mourning and in shock. Police vans and reporters lined the streets. Here my childhood friend, Aryeh Kupinsky, and four other kedoshim had been massacred the day before while davening in tallis and tefillin. As we entered the shul, passing through the front doors ridden with bullet holes, I paused to wipe away tears and told them the following.
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