Shortly after our arrival in Basel, nearly a quarter of a century ago, I received a phone call from a woman named Judy, from Sydney, Australia. She was calling because her sister, Rachel, had once been in some children’s home in Basel — and had since passed away. From what I understood, her sister had not been well. Judy didn’t really know her; Rachel was only 14 when she left this world, and she had been much younger when their parents decided — for her own good — to send her from Sydney to live in a special children’s home in Switzerland.
Rachel passed away in the early 1980s. Judy, who called me in the early years of the current millennium, simply asked me to go and look for Rachel’s grave, to say some Mishnayot there, and perhaps even light a candle.
I have the date of Rachel’s yahrzeit written down in my calendar — and, truthfully, in my heart as well — and I make an effort to visit her grave each year on that date. I also sometimes stop by when I am at the cemetery for a funeral, reciting a chapter of Psalms and placing a stone there. “Regards from your sister Judy,” I whisper to her.
It moves me deeply, I admit. I don’t exactly know why — perhaps because it’s such a small act. Perhaps because I have the privilege of being the link between the two sisters. Last week, I passed by and stopped to place a stone and recite a short Shir HaMa’alot. A friend asked me, “Who is this Rachel?” I said, “Never mind, it’s a long story.” And in my heart I thought about the spiritual bond I was creating in that moment between Judy in Sydney and Rachel in Basel — without the conscious mind knowing consciously, without my being able to say exactly what was connected to what and how — but it moved me, and that was enough.
I am writing these words as I sit on the train from Frankfurt to Basel, having landed two hours ago from Almaty, Kazakhstan, where I spent about 19 hours visiting the grave of Rabbi Levi Yitzchak Schneerson, of blessed memory — the Rebbe’s father. Together with me were hundreds of other Chabad chassidim. I do not know what motivated each of them, though I can guess.
I know what motivated me, and it is very similar to my visit to Rachel’s grave on behalf of her sister.
My Rebbe, the Lubavitcher Rebbe, never had the privilege of visiting his father’s grave. The son left Russia before the war, while the father still served with dignity and pride as the chief rabbi of Yekaterinoslav — a city that later reverted to the name Dnepropetrovsk, and more recently was shortened to Dnipro (thank you to Ukraine’s Naming Committee for the abbreviation). The son was already by the side of his father-in-law, Rabbi Yosef Yitzchak Schneersohn, while his own father was waging the battle for Judaism in Soviet Russia — a battle that ended in arrest, imprisonment, exile to Kazakhstan, and passing away on the 20th of Menachem Av, 1944, in Almaty.
The exile did not end with his life; even his passing and burial were in exile. At that time there was no Jewish cemetery there — or at least not one in use — and he was buried where it was possible. It is not an easy sight to take in.
My Rebbe, the Lubavitcher Rebbe, was never there and never merited the basic human longing to stand at his father’s grave — to recite a chapter of Psalms, Mishnayot for his soul, Kaddish, and light a candle. And when I stood there alone yesterday at dawn, at Rabbi Levi Yitzchak’s gravesite, I quietly hummed his melody and asked in my heart to merit being there also on behalf of the son — to take part in honoring the Rebbe’s father.
I do not know if I am worthy of that. I do not understand these matters. I simply came as I am — a chassid who loves his Rebbe and wants to honor him. Without the conscious mind knowing consciously, without my being able to say exactly what was connected to what and how — but it moved me, and that was enough.
Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Zalman Wishedski