April 14, 2002

Joined at the heart
Comment By Stewart Weiss

(April 14) - Last week I thought that I had died. The name echoing across the news reports was Shmuel Weiss - my name.

The family he belonged to came from America - my birthplace; and from Chicago - my hometown. My phone began ringing with tentative, puzzled inquiries from friends. Could it be?

With each day's new list of victims, we hold our breath as we hear the latest casualty reports. Will we recognize the name? Will the attack have been on a bus route we frequent? Will the soldier hail from our town?

For those of us with boys in the army, we grip the wheel a little tighter, and perk our ears up each hour on the hour.

The name last Monday was Shmuel Weiss, but the fallen hero was not me. The bad news was that the slain soldier was the gentle, gifted 19-year-old son of one of my closest friends whom I've known since we were classmates in first grade.

The father, Aryeh Weiss - Ira, as he was known back then, or "Iky," as he is still known to his close friends - has been a natural leader since his high school days, a brilliant and charismatic rabbi who epitomizes the highest ideals of Judaism, Zionism and mentschlechkeit. Blessed with a keen intellect and moral compass, and an insight into human nature beyond his years, everyone sought his advice and friendship. They still do, friends and students alike.

His greatest passions were Torah and Israel, and he combined the two by studying for the rabbinate in the Merkaz Harav Kook yeshiva. He came to Israel after high school graduation, and never returned to America. He married a girl from kibbutz - a second-generation survivor who wanted to help repopulate a Jewish people decimated by the Holocaust - and they had nine children. Shmuel was their third.

At the funeral, Iky's classmates living in Israel surrounded him like a protective wall. Ironically, our 30th high-school reunion is scheduled for next week in Skokie, Illinois. The Israeli contingent never dreamed we'd hold our own reunion two weeks early, at a cemetery. And tomorrow night we will be reunited again at RemembranceDay ceremonies, when all our thoughts will be focused on Shmuel.

At the shiva last week, Iky told of a coincidence, or unis as we all call it, that so often occurs in our small world. Iky was a counselor at Bnei Akiva's summer seminar program for 12th graders in Pennsylvania, where one of the participants was Rina Tolchinsky. Iky had a major influence on Rina, and would later help her to make aliya.

Her son, Matanya Robinson, served in the same unit as Shmuel. On Monday, Matanya was mortally wounded in Jenin. Shmuel, a medic, rushed to his side to try to save him, and it was there that the two of them were killed in a spray of bullets.

In this little country that is more a family than a nation, more a People than a State, we are inextricably bound to each other like Siamese twins joined at the heart. Our critics say we are weak because we have such an intense love of live. But our weakness is also our greatest strength, for good, in the end, always conquers evil.

As parents of soldiers, Aryeh and Tzipora knew there was always that chance that their boy would leave the house and never come back, that he might join the too-full ranks of those who are forever young, the best and brightest of our youth frozen in time at 19 and 20. But they showed no fear; their love of Eretz Yisrael and their determination to safeguard the Jewish homeland surpassed their parental instincts. Faith in G-d and belief in Jewish destiny gave them a special strength which they instilled in all their children. Shmuel's soul soared, even as his body fell.

Last week, I thought I had died. I wasn't entirely wrong, for each time a soldier breathes his last, each time a hero is slain in the noble war against terror, a little bit of each of us dies with him.

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