Our phones were simultaneously buzzing. A split-second later we heard the high-pitched wailing of the air raid siren which snapped us out of the therapy session and into crisis mode.
“This is supposed to be relaxing, not a stressful experience Doctor!” Reuven told me nervously.
——
——
Two weeks ago when I decided to get up Erev Shabbos after the initial evening spent in our bomb shelter, I made sure to let the kids sleep. There was no way I was going to make them cranky in addition to on-edge about the war we’d suddenly become a part of. I davened by myself at the crack of dawn in our yard, thinking about Rebbe Reb Elimelech and Rebbe Reb Zusha and the time the nearby trees miraculously became their minyan. By the time I had finished Tefillah, one of my sons had already joined me outside with his Tallis and tefillin. Apparently we didn’t need to count one of the willows in order to say Kaddish. I knew how tired I was based on the fact that this thought actually crossed my mind.
My son, Yosef Chaim, and I snuck through the house quietly and grabbed the car keys without waking any one up. We made our way on over to Osher Ad and joined the throngs of people hoping to stock up on the necessities. For me, this meant non-perishable food and boxed milk. For Yosef Chaim, it meant enough Doritos and Gummi Worms until his vort a decade from now.
“Abba,” he asked me with a smile as we waited in line to pay for our groceries. “Do you remember when we had to do this while wearing masks?”
I did. Not that I wanted to, but I nodded.
“Let’s not buy five thousand rolls of toilet paper this time,” he laughed.
Yosef Chaim and I bagged the groceries together about as fast as we could. Anxious people behind us in line seemed to want to throw their cash down on the register and just leave with their food, forget the change. Who could blame them? It wasn’t like anyone had slept, the news was unclear beyond the facts that The Israeli Airforce was bombing our enemies in Iran and that they were sending ballistic missles back in our direction. It wasn’t every day that people were trying to kill us with such serious firepower.
The sounds of fighter jets was quite audible for us all as I handed the cashier my credit card. She scanned it and I watched the machine processing my payment. It read, “Mechake Leteshuvah.” I knew that this meant that the two companies were confirming the charge on my card but the torahdig interpretarion was far more powerful: Hashem was waiting for us all to do teshuvah.
——
——
A month before, Reuven had booked an extended consultation as part of his perfectly-planned trip to Eretz Yisrael. A few business meetings to hear updates on various investments, a visit to the new apartment he’d purchased in Shaare Chessed to ensure the Kablan wasn’t dragging his feet, a sit-down with The Admor Shlita to hand over a kvittel. And of course an evaluation with a frum psychiatrist to get a third-opinion on his drinking problem. Or at least what his wife believed was a drinking problem.
Reuven was a brilliant business man with an even better kup when it came to learning Halachah, but he’d been digging himself into a hole with glasses of whiskey that were growing larger and more frequent by the year. After a recent episode in which he’d lost his license for driving-under-the-influence in his native Zurich, his wife decided to speak with their Ruv who recommended a local therapist.
“He was just a mehanech who took a course, he doesn’t even have a proper psychology degree,” Reuven said in a manner that was accurate and yet dismissive. “And then they sent me to a goyish psychiatrist who obviously didn’t understand the subtleties of our community. He mistakenly thought that have a few lechaims at my cousin’s bris meant that I like to drink every day in the morning before work. So I figured I’d hear an expert’s perspective to let my wife know that if I’m able to balance learning two sedarim and making enough money to support half of the Kollel that I’m clearly not an addict. And because there isn’t a single decent frum psychiatrist in all of Europe, here I am.”
With this introduction, Reuven had planned to defend his case that his wife was over-worried and that his drinking was most certainly not out of control. Whether or not this was the case, Reuven was clearly not in control of the matzav that had unfolded here in Eretz Yisrael and he was currently unable to return home to Switzerland.
——
——
My older boys came home from Yeshivah while we were still unpacking the groceries.
“Thanks for getting more tuna fish Abba,” Sruly joked. “Now we can add it to the 150 cans we have in the storage closet. Now if only we had more than 50 jars of peanut butter and some pitas we’d be ready to feed the entire street with the worst sandwiches possible.”
My wife had just gotten off the phone with a patient of hers who was suffering a panic attack after learning that school had been cancelled.
“Classes are out for the rest of the year,” she announced to a mix of cheers and sighs from the kids who each had their own unique reaction.
“And if you want to do Zoom,” I joked. “I’m sure we will all have the zechus.”
This one predictably received only groans from those old enough to remember what school looked like five years ago.
“Just kidding guys, I’m sure that the collective tefillos of all the kids in Eretz Yisrael will ensure that the only building the Iranians explode will be Zoom’s local headquarters.”
——
——
Reuven had tried to make a pretty good case for his role as a productive member of society. He was a family man who always learned with his kids on Shabbos, gave a Halacha shiur for fellow chassidishe business guys before mincha during the week, and had successfully transitioned the family manufacturing business into the age of online sales.
It was a solid resume. But it had nothing to do with the fact that he was drinking a glass of whiskey most days over the past year and had promised to quit on more than one occasion without any real success. This was beyond the legal issues associated with his recent drunk driving incident and the shock his entire family had after their 11 year-old daughter had found him vomiting outside of the house one night after drinking too much at a neighbor’s Sheva Brachos dinner.
Reuven had very limited insight into the problems that drinking was causing him and his family. On top of that, his increasing consumption of alcohol was apparently linked to some abnormal blood tests at his yearly physical exam. Apparently it wasn’t just his wife’s nervouskeit when the family doctor who had known him for forty-two years also recommended laying off the sauce.
——
——
An hour before Shabbos, I got a phone call from one of my neighbors telling me that the Shul was open for business. I told him that I had just gotten off the phone with The Rav who had explicitly said that it was closed. I didn’t have time to argue as I wanted to speak with my parents too back in America before my wife lit the Shabbos candles.
My sons and I ended up davening Kabalas Shabbos at a minyan which was conveniently located in a communal bomb shelter. We made sure to pick up our regular guests—a pair of older Sephardi Israeli men both well into their seventies—to ensure that they’d have a place to go for seudah in spite of the war.
As it turned out, we ended up going in and out of the bomb shelter no less than three times during our meal. This was most certainly the trigger for dividing up Tehillim and saying the Sefer between us a full two times before the evening was over. Hacham Aharon was hard of hearing enough that Sruly had to yell in his ear to let him know why we were all getting up and leaving the table in the middle of the fish course.
The highlight of the evening was when Hacham David told us about his memories from The 6-Day War. He was still a bochur in yeshivah at the time, but was already known in his community as a chazzan. He had studied closely as a regular by The Ades Beit Knesset in Nachlaot which was famous for the piyutim sung by Rabbi Eliyahu Ver ZT”L, Rav Moshe Habusha, and his older cousin Yechezkel Zion. Hacham David told us about how when they went into the bomb shelters that summer close to 60 years ago, all of the neighborhood asked him to lead them in singing pizmonim. The bombs fell, they davened together in song, and the shelter mamish rocked back and forth as direct hits were felt close by.
Hours later when the local families came out of the communal bomb shelter, the children were overjoyed to see that Hashem had answered their tefillos: the local elementary school had been blown to smithereens!
——
——
For every reason that I had for him to consider decreasing his alcohol consumption, Reuven had perfectly well-crafted counter point.
The effect it was having on his children? Reuven was a great father and they knew it. His wife’s concerns? Everyone knew she was an anxious lady and would be much more likely to benefit from sitting in my office than he ever would. Abnormal liver tests at his last doctor’s appointment? These were probably caused by hereditary high cholesterol that he was ready to manage this with a commonly prescribed medication. Driving under the influence? He was barely over the legal limit and had a fantastic lawyer who knew the presiding judge personally.
“On a scale of 1-10, how badly do you want to stop drinking Reuven?” I asked him. “Ten means it’s the most important thing in your life right now.”
“I couldn’t care less. 1.5 sounds about right.”
“That’s fantastic Reuven.”
He looked at me quizzically as if I’d misheard his response before I clarified, “It could have been a zero.”
“Well I do feel like getting bothered about all of this is a waste of my time.”
We’d found the motivation for change: busy guys don’t like a bunch of nudgekups bothering them to do something they don’t feel is worth their time. He was far too busy learning, working, and doing all sorts of important things in the community to have all these annoying conversations about his drinking.
“So on one hand you don’t have a drinking problem, but on the other hand it’s a pretty significant brain-drain for you to have to hear from your wife, your doctor, your lawyer, and also this new guy Dr. Freedman about the whole alcohol thing.”
Reuven nodded in agreement and then all of a sudden our phones began buzzing simultaneously.
——
——
After putting my children to bed one night, it was time to check in with some of the chevre.
I made sure to forward some silly memes to a few patients who I was sure could use a laugh to lighten their emotional burden. I also wanted to touch base with a few colleagues. Rav Paysach Freedman of Chaim V’Chessed had asked me to make a video for parents so naturally I asked my wife what I should say.
“Tell them the same stuff that works for you Yaakov: keep your schedule, don’t freak out and make the kids watch Zoom shiurim, and make sure to keep the mood positive with a bunch of your legendary dad jokes.”
Rav Shlomo Katz from Relief Resources had called to see me how I was doing. I had called back to ask him the same. We agreed on “pretty good considering everything,” and shared a drasha or two as well as strategizing about how to best get refills for the dozens of stranded tourists who had been calling home.
“Do your kids get nervous with the sirens Yaakov?”
“Some of them do,” I responded honestly. “Others are too Israeli to care and just want to get back to yeshivah or to go swimming now that the local pool is open for summer. All of them want to make sure that Iran is bombed at least 3937 times harder than Gaza.”
“I told my kids that sometimes I get nervous to give them the opportunity to share their feelings,” he added. “Normalizing normal emotions is better than pathologizing them.”
“Yep.”
“You getting all the good chizzuk Reb Mailich is sending out?” Shlomo asked referring to his Rebbe.
“It’s great,” I answered wishing I’d had more time to listen to all of the inspiring clips forwarded by a thousand loving people in my direction. I was tired in a way that reminded me of doing 36-hour calls in the psychiatric emergency room back in Boston during my training. I’d try to catch up on catching up after I rested up.
——
——
The air raid siren was waxing and waning as Reuven and I got up from our seats.
“This will be relatively relaxing compared to all the people who have to run to a shelter outside.” I let him know as calmly as I could. “All we have to do is to walk into the other treatment room in my office.”
“It’s a bomb shelter?”
“It’s the shpitz Reuven. Remember that this office is basically brand-new, they finished the building a year an a half ago,” I told him as I patted my patient on the back and directed him across the waiting room. “Apparently the door can withstand a direct shot from a rocket-propelled grenade launcher.”
“I hope you aren’t planning on testing that out.”
——
——
I had spoken with Rav Noach Orlowek Shlita about setting up a schmooze for the bochurim at Torah Ohr. Resilience and Emunah during war time. It was quite a relevant topic and I’d already given it over to a dozen yeshivos since the first day when I’d began the chizzuk marathon at in Beit Meir at OJ and then by Rabbi Senter’s.
“We have to wonder if Hashem makes us anxious sometimes in order to give us more insight into how our fellow Jews are feeling Reb Yaakov,” he told me with his patented loving sincerity. “We can then be better equipped to help them.”
Anxiety, fear, anger, sadness, panic. The emotions we were all feeling here in between inspiration, excitement, and a deep connection. I’d just gotten a phone call from my wife’s Rebetzin who was collecting donations to provide seven new pairs of tefillin for fighter pilots who wanted to take on the daily mitzvah as soon as possible. When hearing this, I made sure to pack about as much cash as I could find in my bag to bring it over to her immediately after work that day. Who could even fathom how many other individuals would be strengthened in their faith during this auspicious time. I was proud to be a Jew.
——
——
Our entrance into the office’s bomb shelter was certainly less awkward than it might have been had there not been a siren. Interrupting a colleague’s therapy session is never straightforward—no matter the reason for the intrusion—and how much more so when one enters and sits down on a chair without any plan to leave.
Reuven unceremoniously plopped himself down on the couch next to a shy young man who I’d seen come to the office a number of times over the past few months. The fellow tried not to make eye contact with me as commandeered the ottoman that would have otherwise been occupied by the feet of my colleague, Dr. Schwartz.
The four of us had an excuse for a brief awkward silence for close to fifteen seconds as the sirens continued to wail. I looked at my phone to see a message from my wife who let me know that all the kids were accounted for: “The boys are at the shelter in the shul. The little ones are here. Leah wanted to bring in the rabbits so we have Abba Bunny, Knufflebunny, and seven bunny babies here too.”
The sirens had stopped. Reuven and the young man on the couch were nervously glued to their phones. Dr. Schwartz was checking in on his tribe back in Bnei Brak where the reality of direct missile strikes seemed slightly more terrifying than it did in Yerushalayim. I gave him a thumbs up and he returned it. It was time for us to get to work and make the most of our time with the patients.
——
——
My third-cousin Shimmy had lived with me for a little while over twenty years ago. He had been going through a tough stretch and was using drugs at the time. We had made a deal that he could stay with me as long as he was clean and he begrudgingly held up his end of the bargain for close to a month before entering formal treatment.
The years had passed and Shimmy gotten his act together, Baruch Hashem. He was married with three daughters, working as a union-certified electrician, and was doing infinitely better than any of us could have hoped for. Sure his Yiddishkeit was hurting, but it could have been much worse given where it was when he showed up at my door in shambles a few decades earlier.
Shimmy had called me and when I didn’t pick up he left a video for me. His hair was an astounding mix of male pattern baldness and wacky pony tail. His facial hair was reminiscent of a general from The Civil War and he was wearing a basketball jersey that could have been purchased from a Salvation Army store back in 1994. Shimmy asked if I was doing alright given the war and told me he was davening for me.
I sent a message right back asking if he was alright given his hygiene and choice of clothes. Emes is that I was davening for him too!
——
——
The four of us were sitting there in the shelter when I decided to shatter the quiet moment with a straight-faced announcement, “The bunnies are safe.”
Reuven raised an eyebrow and the kid next to him looked at me expectantly and asked, “Who’s OK?”
“The bunnies,” I answered. “Baruch HaShem they are all accounted for.”
“Who are the bunnies? Your kids?” Reuven wondered out loud.
“No, they’re my daughter Leah’s pets. Baruch HaShem they’re ok. This whole situation is tough enough. We don’t need her worrying about her nine most-favorite pets on top of all the davening she needs to do for Klal Yisroel.”
Dr. Schwartz started laughing and so did the rest of us. It was time to get used to being our new best friends.
“Dr. Freedman,” my colleague said in an uber-professional tone. “Please meet Levi Yitzhak.”
I jumped up and shook the fellow’s hand vigorously. I then introduced Reuven to Dr. Schwartz who caught Reuven’s anxious outstretched palm between his two enormous paws. The two patients then shook hands with each other.
It was working. The two patients were now at home. At least as home as they each could be with two therapists and a fellow stranger half-way across the world from their families who were anxiously awaiting notification of their safety.
——
——
It was a big zechus to speak at Beis Dovid with The Rosh Yeshivah Rav Avi Weisenfeld. Beyond a few solid jokes, the highlight was recalling my memories of our family’s Rav, Reb Beryl Chafetz ZT”L.
Reb Beryl had been a Rav and a friend of my Zaydie A”H after The Shoah when he first came to Boston. My Zaydie found him work teaching local boys how to leyn Torah for their Bar Mitzvah. Forty years later he also taught me how to leyn and my kids later became the fourth generation of his talmidim.
I told the bochurim at Beis Dovid about his vivid descriptions of the Chofetz Chaim ZT”L whom he learned by as a bochur in Radin. I remember Reb Beryl’s stories of the Yeshivah, the start of The War, and his time hiding from the Nazis with The Bieskly Brothers and other partisans in the woods. I tried to give over Reb Beryl’s mesirus nefesh, his courage, his ahavas yisroel in sharing every morsel of food with the other yidden while on the run from the Nazis. I remember the stories he told us as amongst the most inspirational moments from my childhood.
So as I spoke with the bochurim of Beis Dovid, I wondered out loud what kind of stories will we tell our our great-grandkids when they ask us: “Alter Zaydie can you tell me again about the time when Iran was bombing Israel ?”
I hope that we will have moments of great Ahavas Yisrael to tell over to them. I daven that we will have Moshiach and a Beis Hamikdash by then as well.
——
——
Dr. Schwartz asked an amazing question to the rest of us as we tried not to pay too much attention to the explosions outside: “What building do you hope they will blow up?”
Levi Yitzhak answered first, “I hope that my Uncle’s house will blow up.”
Dr. Schwartz responded after a long silence, “It only took Milchemes Gog u’Magog to give you a place to express your aggression? This is great Levi Yitzhak, I’d much prefer you to feel comfortable verbalizing your pent up rage than keeping it inside.”
I could only imagine that this was a part of the trauma that had brought Levi Yitzhak into treatment with Dr. Schwartz. My colleague was the kind of genius who could turn a ballistic missile threat into a therapeutic breakthrough.
“My turn now,” I said. “I hope my neighbor with the yappy dog in the next apartment over has his apartment blown up. Of course with a targeted strike that somehow moves the animal to a different neighborhood without too much tzar baale chayim.”
It was a corny answer. But it was true. That animal needed to be forcefully relocated.
Dr. Schwartz let us know that the mosque next to his grandmother’s nursing home in Lod was at the top of his list.
“Their call to prayer is louder than any siren I’ve ever heard,” he grinned. “It’s ridiculous too. She’s never coming to daven there anyways so they can stop all the advertising!”
Reuven answered last, “I hope the courthouse in Zurich that is trying me for drunk driving will blow up. I know it’s farther away from Iran than Israel is and is therefore probably out of range, but I imagine this is a fair answer.”
——
——
I gave a talk at a chassidishe chabira near Meah Shaarim and we discussed many of the same things that I’d been speaking about all over town since the war began.
One particularly insight yungerman asked me, “We are all nervous nowadays, but how can we know if someone is nervous enough to need a professional?”
It was a great question and I tried to come up with a few relatively helpful answers. People who were having overwhelming physical symptoms of anxiety including vomiting or headaches that weren’t going away should probably speak with a licensed clinician. People who were reverting to bad coping skills from their past to deal with their distress would certainly benefit from a proper discussion. And frankly anyone who wanted to see a professional should definitely do so. I encouraged everyone present to take down the phone number for both Relief and Amudim; to call my friends in case they needed an anonymous referral.
A British bochur then asked a question whether I thought shmiras aynayim had anything to do with the current war. On top of that, did I think that smartphones putting Klal Yisroel at risk of destruction?
I answered him honestly, “I generally think that a a yeshivah bochur should have a sit down with his Rebbe to discuss the pros and cons of having access to the internet. From my perspective, the biggest problem with smartphones is the inevitable wasted time that comes with even filtered websites and ‘kosher app.’ As far as kedusha? It probably can’t hurt our team if we’re all a bit better in this arena, but I’m also betting you have some sort of OCD if you’re blaming yourself for all of these missiles tzadik.”
——
——
Dr. Schwartz had a relieving message to announce for the rest of us. Apparently it was safe to leave the shelter.
We all shook hands collegially with a smile and Reuven and I stood up to return to my room.
Levi Yitzhak finally looked me in the eye. And while it wasn’t such a shock given his story, I was pleasantly surprised when he asked me for my phone number, “Maybe I could call you sometime? I’ve been putting off scheduling a consultation with you to maybe get a medicine for my flashbacks but now I think I’m ready.”
I winked at Dr. Schwartz and told Levi Yitzhak that I’d be honored to be helpful.
Reuven and I jimmied open the metal door and walked across the waiting room to sit back down in my office where we started.
“So?” I asked with a grin.
“So what?” he responded with an appropriate amount of exhaustion.
“You were a 1.5 out of 10 about half an hour ago. You ready to make any changes in your life or we are just going to have to wait until the Iranians blow up that courthouse in Zurich.”
“Yes,” Reuven smiled. “I’m actually a 3.5 right now so maybe let’s hear what you have to recommend.”
I couldn’t help myself as I slapped my hands together in excitement.
Am Yisrael Chai.
