It Is a Book -1974

Beyond Words Vol 2 pgs 14-15

A story about the fallen soldiers "Yom HaZichron"

IT IS A BOOK - 1974

Rabbi Meir Kahane

The press had announced that, on March 11, booklets listing all 2,482 soldiers who had fallen in the Yom Kippur War would be handed out at post offices throughout the country, and now long lines of Israelis waited patiently to get them. Unlike the usual lines, here were somber and silent people who reached the window, extended a hand and quietly left with their copy. Each one had a special name that he wanted to see. Perhaps a son, a father, a brother, a relative or friend. Immediately, after leaving the line, the pages of the book would be gone through quickly in search of the name.

In one case, the silence on the line was broken by a man who approached the window and could see the stack of literature. He suddenly exclaimed:

“A booklet? It’s a book! My G-d, it’s a whole book!”

Indeed it was, for 2,500 names take up a great many pages, and it was only then that many people could begin to realize the magnitude of the loss. For each line was a person and each person had a family, and each family was left with only memories and sorrow.

Of course, as always, not everything went according to plan. At the main Tel Aviv Post Office on Allenby Street, thousands of people gathered to get their copies, but only 2,500 were delivered. The young soldiers who were handing out booklets couldn’t cope with the confusion and the anger of people who had waited hours and were told that there were no more booklets left.

“How should I know why there were only 2,500 sent here?”

asked an official watching the angry people. “At the Defense Ministry they have a key by which they distribute the material.” At 1:00P.M. the literature began to be handed out and by 1:30 it was gone. Many of the people pleaded for more than one copy.

“It is for my neighbor,” explained the woman. “She is sick and could not come.”

“I am sorry,” was the patient reply, “but the rules are that only one can be given to each person.”

“I want to send one to my relative in America,” cried one man. Again, the shake of the head. It is not allowed.

Outside the post office stand a few who have gotten their booklets. One is an elderly couple. The husband has his arm around his wife as they look silently at a name. A young woman sits alone, quietly weeping.

A day earlier, the booklets had been brought personally, by Defense Ministry people, to the homes of the families of the soldiers who fell. It was a thankless task. Usually it would go as follows:

The messenger arrived at the apartment. In this case, it was an address in the Tel Aviv neighboring city of Ramat Gan. Going up to the second floor, he paused for a moment, swallowed and slowly rang the doorbell. In his hand was the blue envelope that held the booklet, the envelope with the emblem of the Israeli Defense Forces on it.

Heavy steps could be heard from inside the apartment and then the door opened to reveal a short, tired-looking woman.

“I am from the Ministry of Defense,” the messenger began . . .

The woman heard the words and made an effort to overcome her emotions but the tears began to flow. The man held her for a moment to make sure she would not collapse and then led her to a chair. “I brought you the booklet with the names of those who fell. Here is the name of your son ...”

“Thank you,” she replied quietly. “For me, the booklet is not important. You can leave it or not. It does not matter. For me what was important was my son. He was a wonderful boy. A pilot.” She paused and glanced at the page. There was the picture of her son, a handsome young man in pilot’s uniform.

“He was born in war, more than 25 years ago, and died in war. I will never forget how, on the day he was born, the Egyptians bombed the Central Bus Station in Tel Aviv. During the war he flew more than 25 sorties into Syria — and returned. And then they sent him to the Egyptian front and he never returned. Why did they have to send him? Was it not enough that he flew so much in Syria?”

“Today is the thirtieth day. Last month they found his body in the vicinity of the Egyptian Second Army ...” She stops and the messenger rises and leaves. He has other “errands” . . .

“I do not know how I get the strength to do this each time,” he says as he climbs the steps to yet another Ramat Gan apart­ment, this one the home of a widow whose husband had been an officer.

The widow and her mother are at home. They knew that someone would come today and they had waited.

They stand as the messenger leafs through the book, searching for the name of the husband who would never return. The wife holds back the tears and the mother clenches her fists. The man finds the name and shows it to them.

“Thank you,” the wife says. “He fell in the north, on the Golan Heights ...”

The man from the Ministry of Defense leaves. The door closes behind him and from inside is heard the faint crying of an infant. . .

March 29, 1974