May His Memory Be A Revolution

4 days, 16 hours. It was a last-minute decision.

“Fay, I need a favor,” Isaac said, scrubbing his hand over his face. “I’m working a waitering job, and they need another waitress. It’s decent money and a one-time thing. Are you in?”

I think about it for a grand total of twenty seconds, "I have nothing better to do,” I reply, with a noncommittal shrug.

“Perfect,” he says, relieved. “I’ll be by you in twenty minutes.”

4 days, 15 hours. It happened so fast.

An hour later, we arrive at the venue and meet the man in charge. 

A boy who looks to be in his early twenties stands nearby - the other waiter. I look toward him, and smile. "Hi, I’m Fay, and this is Isaac.”

The boy flashed a smile. "I’m Hersch. It’s nice to meet you.”

We head inside and get to work prepping food, setting up tables, and doing all the other things that young waitstaff are expected to do. People begin filing in, and they fill their plates while we set up. Work is in full swing, and we are in the rhythm.

4 days, 14 hours. We had only just met.

About two hours later, all of us staff members sit together in the kitchen. We have some time to relax until we clean up. One of the chefs passes around a few beers, and we sit around the small kitchen island chatting and getting to know each other.

I’m sitting near Hersch, so naturally we get to talking. “Your English is really good. Did you grow up here?” I ask.

He grins. “No, I was born in America, but my family moved to Israel when I was young.”

We talk about many things, from family to friends to hobbies and passions. I smile while I listen to him talk about his love for music. He mentions, “I’m actually going to the Nova Music Festival in two days. That’s why I took this job, to pay for the ticket.”

4 days, 12 hours. I didn’t know…

Soon, we are back to work, cleaning up the hall. After we finish, and Isaac and I are heading toward the exit, looking tired and eager to go home, Hersh caught up to us to wish us goodbye and a safe trip home.

We exchange a few words. “It was really nice to meet you, Hersch. Have an awesome time at the festival.” I figured we’d probably run into each other again - Jerusalem is pretty small, in a way. You tend to see people you recognize every so often.

He smiles again. “Likewise to you,” and we head our separate ways. 

0 hours. …there was no time.

On October 7th 2023, I woke to an ear-splitting siren. Rockets detected. I threw on something warm over my pajamas and rushed to the stairwell, the safest option in my building. If a rocket hits, I would be at least somewhat protected.

My neighbors are all there, panting and blearily checking the news, the WhatsApp chats, the Telegram updates. The air feels different than the other times I’ve been there waiting out sirens, but I can’t figure out why. 

Until someone says breathlessly, "There's been an attack. They don’t know the death count yet. But there are hostages.”

The sirens went off six more times that day. Each time I head into the stairwell, I learn more and more.

“Thousands of infiltrators.”

“Multiple points of entry.”

“The death count is upwards of a thousand.”

“We’re at war.”

For the next three weeks, my world stops. I don't leave the house. For those three weeks, it feels like the world is standing still. I don't do much of anything as I await the inevitable next siren. 

Eventually, though, life must go on. At some point, I decide that it is time to live again. I go to the grocery, meet up with friends, trying to claw back some feeling of normalcy - but it all feels heavy.

The war rages on in the foreground for some, in the background for others, but for all of us, there is no end in sight.

When this all started, I had promised myself I would not look at social media or the news. I was afraid to see photos and videos of the atrocities that were circulating.

I was walking in town when I first stumble upon posters of the hostages being hung up. 

This was my first time seeing their faces. It broke me, like it broke many before me. Nothing quite prepares you for that feeling, the knowledge that people just like you, normal people, have been dragged into such a horrific situation. 

But nothing could have possibly prepared me for what I saw on one of those posters.

Hersch’s face.

“No no no no…” 

I called Isaac immediately, tears blurring my vision.

Ring. Ring. Ring. Then, “Hello?”

My voice cracked. “Isaac, it's Hersch. Hersch is being held hostage oh my God.”

"Hersch who?” Isaac sounded confused.

“We met him at the waitering job.” I said, trying to stem the river of tears flowing down my face.

“Oh.” He was quiet for a moment, grappling with the information.

“I need to go.” I was overwhelmed, utterly unable to process anything. That night, I was curled up into a ball as I cried and cried myself to sleep.

The very next day, I got a Bring Them Home Now necklace. I wore it every day going forward. It felt like the least I could do.

Months passed, and Hersch was with me everywhere I went. I promised myself I would live, live for real, live with intention, for him. For his sake. I prayed every day, more than I had ever prayed before, and the more I prayed, the more I knew he would come home. I felt it deep in my soul. I saw posters of him everywhere, at my favorite coffee shop, on the street, at the bus stop. I talked about him to anyone who would listen. I checked the Instagram page made for him daily, hoping desperately for updates. The more I learned about him, the more connected I felt to this boy, who I only met once. 

In those days, I lived with one thought on repeat. Make it through today, so that when the day comes when that boy is free, when Hersch is finally home, I could breathe once again.

September 1st 2024

I woke up to an alarm that I snoozed twice. After my morning prayers, I checked my phone.

New message from Zee:

Fay i love you so so much. If you need me, I am here.

A pit formed in my stomach. This was very nice, but it belied something worse. I responded, hands shaking as I wrote the words:

Why? What happened?

Thoughts racing, I listened to my sinking gut. I opened Instagram. I found the account. And then, I read the post that changed my life.

“With broken hearts, the Goldberg-Polin family is devastated to announce the death of their beloved son and brother Hersch. The family thanks you all for your love and support and asks for privacy at this time.”

Time stopped. My heart stopped. My vision blurred, and I let out a months-old heart-wrenching sob. This wasn't real. It couldn't be. He was coming home. I knew he was coming home. He had to come home. It wasn’t supposed to end like this.

My stomach churning and my eyes a relentless storm, I ignored the time difference and called my mother on her American phone number. The tears running down my face matched hers.

“He’s gone Ma. I can't do this... How… how is he gone?”

"I know.” she whispered. And then, she let me cry.

I barely functioned the next 24 hours. I was on autopilot. I cried on the bus. I cried at work, and then I cried again when I got home. Crying didn’t feel like enough.

The very next day, I joined thousands of Jews at the funeral. We were there to pay tribute to the soul who had so thoroughly changed our lives. Everyone there had been touched in some way by this boy. We sang together, and cried together, and listened to stories from Hersch’s family.

“May his memory be a revolution.”

That sentence, uttered by Hersh’s father, at that funeral, carried itself with me every day since.

The day that Hersch died, I died a little too. I felt like I couldn’t go on.I thought nothing would ever be okay again. Most importantly, for a time, I was robbed of hope. 

But I know you wouldn’t want that Hersch. I know you would want us to continue hoping for the release of the remaining hostages. I know you would want us to remember that love and kindness is free. I know you would want us to be whole together. I know you would want us to try and smile. I know you would want us to try and garner peace. I know you would want us to keep fighting for a better tomorrow. 

This is how I live with the memory of Hersh. A boy I met at a job. A boy I met just once. A boy I barely knew, and yet grew so fond of. A boy who touched so many.

I hope that he now soars above us and sees us changing the world for the better.