The daughter of Rabbi Chaim Yechiel Rothman, z’l was among the speakers Tuesday night at a special memorial ceremony for bereaved families organized by the OneFamily organization in Jerusalem.
Yaffa Rothman’s father was one of a number of English-speaking rabbis who were slaughtered in a bloody terror attack at a synagogue in Jerusalem’s Har Nof neighborhood on November 19, 2014. But Rothman’s father did not die right away: Somehow his condition stabilized, and he hung between life and death for nearly a year until finally succumbing to his wounds in November 2015.
His daughter Yaffa spoke of her love for her unique father in the following text, translated into English:
The first time we met was in the car, on the way to the hospital.
You drove fast
And Mom was having contractions.
I, as usual, could not hold back, and defiantly came into this world.
You immediately stopped the car, and helped Mom deliver me.
You were the first to touch me.
You hugged me with warmth,
And you covered me with your black jacket.
I was always “Daddy’s Girl”
Friday night after Shalom Aleichem and Eshet Chayil, you would give all the children a blessing, from the oldest to the youngest.
You would bless me that I should be “like Sarah, Rivka, Rachel and Leah” and then you would give me a kiss, and I would shy away
From both the kiss and the blessing.
I loved the Shabbat Zemirot.
You would sometimes fall asleep in the middle of the song,
But I miss that atmosphere.
I remember the Shabbatot in the summer when you would take me to the garden
Yet, instead of resting, you would push me on the swing.
And then I had a turning point.
I left the path that you taught me.
It was tremendously painful for you.
You sought counsel with rabbis and scholars
In order to save me from punishment in the World to Come.
And I kicked, and didn’t want your path.
I wanted freedom.
I thought independently.
And you included me.
You loved me and believed in me.
With your hat and your suit, you would proudly boast about me.
On Shabbat after the meal, you would suggest that we go for a walk.
We would stroll around the neighborhood
And with a smile and appreciation, you would declare that I am your daughter.
When I came to work in your office during vacations,
I came wearing short clothes that in no way resembled religion.
Everyone would ask me with wonder “You are the daughter of Chaim Rothman”?
And I would answer yes, with pride.
You introduced me to your boss,
And with a gleam in your eye you told him
That one day I would manage a successful company
And support 100 kollel students.
That’s not the only time you believed in me.
You always encouraged me,
Even when I didn’t believe in myself.
You were always there for me.
The night before my world was destroyed,
You called me as you normally did.
I was in the middle of work, so we didn’t talk for long.
Everything felt normal.
Nothing would change.
But,
From the next day,
Nothing remained as it was.
I was far away, in a sweet dream, when it happened.
An hour’s drive from your city,
And when I got up and heard what had happened,
I was hit with panic.
It was at the synagogue during prayers.
You were in the middle of the Amidah.
Wrapped in your tallit
And your tefillin.
Oy, the tefillin were still on your head and arm.
The prayer of that morning you didn’t manage to finish.
They said that you felt the need to fight.
The cries of “Shema Yisrael” from your friends you heard
Until you lost your consciousness.
And there, as you lay in your blood on the floor,
The rescue services found you.
They resuscitated you
And managed to delay the end by a year.
For almost a year you lay in the hospital unconscious
The entire family, and the whole community surrounded you.
You heard them reciting Tehillim,
But you didn’t react to the treatments from the doctors.
A year passed over me without sleep
A year in which I never believed your end would come.
I believed with all my heart that you would get up and come back
To hug me and my pain.
I visited you often,
I sat close
And held your hand.
I told you about everything that happened.
I asked you questions expectantly,
An expectation that was not answered.
I learned in that year
How much I love you
The arguments, the anger
And the difference in our paths
Did not distance us.
On your last day, I heard the Viduy of the ten who prayed
They took their leave of you in prayer
And sent your soul to its salvation.
I took my leave with thanks, and begging for forgiveness.
They had already completed their prayers
And I kissed you
For the last time.
At the funeral
The important rabbis stood on the podium.
They said that everything happened from God
That we need to be strong and to repent.
And I sat at your feet
In pain
That they didn’t let me eulogize you.
But you are my father,
Not their father.
You raised me
You loved me
And I am the one they didn’t allow to tell the world how much
I love you back.
I looked for someone who would remind me of you.
A person who would fill the void you left.
I frequently stayed with a family
That took me in to their embrace.
But, when the father hugged his daughters,
My heart was pinched with pain.
And now, I am still looking for a way to mourn
Afraid to fall and to break
Understanding that I will find you only within myself.
And doing everything to strengthen myself.
On this day,
Yom HaZikaron,
I think about the future.
In another month, I will be in uniform
And the doubt arises in me.
Had you been alive,
Would you escort me to my enlistment?
Would you take me on my first day to the induction center?
Would you hug me and take your leave only for a while?
Would you give me your blessing?
Would you ignore the slogan,
“Better for a person to die than to send his daughter to the army”?
These questions give me no rest
I will never be able to know your answer
And I lack your approval
Because they
Took you from me.
I want to believe that you would keep me in your heart
And wish me success.
And every time that I see a person dressed in a suit
I remember your hug
Wrapped in your suit
Just like in my first moments.