By a shliach

I was nineteen.

That midnight, Motzei Shabbos, I sat upright on my bed with a start. I was woken by a loud piercing sound. It was the Shabbos siren. Then another shriek together with the siren. It was my mother.

In a fleeting memory, I can see her head on her arms, leaning on the cabinet in the kitchen, shivering. I was scared. But in the moment, it didn’t cross my mind that…actually…

The next thing was being in a packed car en route to Manhattan. Outside the hospital I couldn’t see past the crowd — I was short and weak. I only saw the black around me, the black of the sky, and felt moisture on my face.

The moisture stayed with me wherever I went; it was in my lungs, in my mouth. Through the Rebbe’s room. Through the Levaya. I couldn’t find myself.

Many times, during the week of shiva, my knees caved in, and I found myself on my bedroom floor. I would open and close my eyes, each time expecting either the world to disappear, or Techiyas Hameisim.

***

The real ache dawned on me on Simchas Torah the year after. Simchas Torah was the climax for me by the Rebbe. There were only a handful of us standing in the Rebbe’s Daled Amos by the Ohel. There was light rain, and we did the six Hakofos as much as we could. We couldn’t.

And before the seventh Hakafa, we called the Rebbe. I closed my eyes. I saw the Rebbe’s face shining by his Shtender. I heard the Rebbe’s voice clear: “Ata haraisa lada’as…” and everyone roared in response. It was hot. I felt the pressure from both sides of my shoulders from everyone around me. The Rebbe then started R’ Levi Yitzchok’s Niggun, and there was nothing else. The Rebbe’s arms spun as his gaze met ours, and something buried inside of us came alive.

I opened my eyes. Nothing. Crickets, rain, tombstones. There was barely light, barely any people. I was alone. I was hollow. I tumbled down onto the sidewalk, sitting with my head down. I cried. My quiet sobs echoed back.

For years, Simchas Torah was a stab in my heart. I smiled but it wasn’t real. How could I be happy on Simchas Torah?

***

When I got married, I moved out on Shlichus. I would go to the Rebbe for many of the Yomei Depagra, but Simchas Torah was not going to happen — it would make me bitter.

Year by year my pain would lessen. But a scar remained. Looking at my son when he came back from yeshiva, I could only pity him. I wished he had known that world. The Farbrengens. Birchas Habonim. And of course, the highlight, Simchas Torah. The golus is thick and muddy, I thought — the bochurim are not alive. How could they be? Am I…?

One Shabbos, when we were discussing years by the Rebbe, my son Mendel corrected me on one of the dates. He told me things the Rebbe did that I hadn’t known. It caught me off guard. I was there myself, and he knows more than me?

I started seeing the way he koched in a farbrengen. How his eyes shined when he spoke about them. I saw something. I looked twice. I saw…vitality. Something I still can’t fully find in myself. His “pekel” is filled with fire. Mine carries an extinguished candle.

***

I wanted to see more of it. The special liveliness that the Rebbe poured into the bochurim. This Simchas Torah I made the arrangements. I was going in with my son — just this once.

By the seventh Hakafa, I stood in the midst of hundreds of bochurim by the Rebbe’s Daled Amos. The sky was clear, and there was light from the tent. The Rebbe was called up.

“Iz men mechabed, k’vod k’dushas, adoneinu moreinu v’rabeinu…” Silence. The bochurim were closing their eyes with an intensity on their faces. They were listening. And then, Niggun Hakofos. The energy around me was pumping.

Where…?

I looked from face to face. They weren’t pretending.

I closed my eyes. But I wasn’t with everyone else. I saw him. I danced. I sang. I was on my own by Simchas Torah 5750. The Rebbe was dancing. I stopped feeling the crush when we started singing. When the Rebbe left, we continued. On and on and on.

I opened my eyes. The singing continued. There was a circle, and I was pulled in. I felt, for the first Simchas Torah in thirty years, a little happy.

In the corner of my eye, I noticed a bochur sitting on the edge of the sidewalk. His hands covered his face as he shook. I approached him.

I put my hand on his shoulder. I recognized the striped jacket. It was my son.

His face was wet, his eyes were red, and he looked directly at me with longing.

You were by the Rebbe, Simchas Torah. You saw the Rebbe with your own eyes. You felt the presence of the Rebbe. You have something I don’t and never will have.

He was right. Yes, I was there. And you weren’t. I wish with all my heart that you had been.

I looked around at the bochurim. The life. The innocence. But you too have something I don’t and never will have.