Maasei Emunim
A Story About Amen and Tefillah
It was late one dark night. A shady figure furtively slipped out of one of the houses, looked to each side, and not seeing anyone, disappeared down the street.
It was the days of World War I. Turkey had aligned with Germany and its allies to help out in their war effort.
The Turkish army, known for its failings and the dismal conditions it offered its soldiers, was lacking manpower. It needed soldiers to join in order to push back the army and win the war. At that time, all the subjects of the Ottoman Empire were compelled to enlist, and the decree was signed and issued.
Anyone with common sense knew that the chances of returning from the battlefield after serving in the Turkish army were minimal, if only because of the army’s brutal nature. Many soldiers who were sent to the front never returned, and their families did not know for the rest of their lives what their fate was. The derision for human life was notorious in the Turkish army. Everyone made every effort to evade this terrible draft decree.
In the city of Bagdad, Iraq, as well, the winds of war were blowing. Turkish gendarmes were patrolling the streets and forcibly picking up men – Jew and gentile alike – to send them to the army. If a person who had received a draft notice and didn’t report was caught, he would be found the next day dangling from the gallows in the town square. Merciless, with no guilt, the Turks forced people into the army.
Rav Bentzion Meir Mutzafi, ztz"l, one of the rabbanim of Baghdad, the son of Rav Yechezkel Mutzafi, ztz"l, Rosh Yeshivas Midrash Beis Zilcha, a young talmid chacham, had to part from his wife and young children and flee northward. If he would remain at home, he would likely be drafted, and was unlikely to ever see his family again.
Late at night, Rav Mutzafi packed his tallis, tefillin and a bit of food, and left the house secretly.
He was the only Jew in a group of Muslims that were planning to flee for the mountains in northern Iraq, led by professional guides that they had hired, who agreed to take them to a safe area until they could return home.
The route was exhausting and difficult. The fear of being caught by gendarmes also weighed them down, as it had happened before to people who tried to escape to safety along these routes. When darkness fell, the convoy stopped to rest and regain some strength for the next day.
The smugglers led them to a cave in a crevice in the mountain, where they could put their heads down and disconnect for a few hours from the existential fear that gripped them. Everyone slept, except for Rav Mutzafi, who sat in a quiet corner and learned the holy Torah.
Silence. Only the sound of the snores of the other members of the group filled the cave. A pale moon peeked through the opening and cast a dim glow on the cave.
All too soon, it was over.
"Up, quickly!" the head smuggler urged them. "We have to be on our away in a few minutes!"
"Can we wait and set out in another hour?" Rav Bentzion asked cautiously. "In another hour it will be sunrise, and then I will be able to pray Shacharis."
The smuggler laughed and explained that they had to make it to the top of the mountain and get down the other side before they would be spotted by the Turkish gendarmes. If they missed the time, they would be exposed to danger the entire day. The projection was that in about an hour, the Turkish soldiers would already be patrolling the area.
Rav Mutzafi bent down to his bundle and took out a large sum of money, which he kept for emergencies. "Please," he urged. "It’s very important to me to stay in the cave so that I can pray before we set out."
For a moment, a spark of greed lit up the smuggler’s eyes, but he recovered quickly: "There’s nothing to talk about. Pack up your things and go out. Take into account that we have a long and difficult road ahead. You won’t be able to rest. We will have to walk for many hours without letup. There is no choice. This is the only way to escape the Turkish monster – we are all deserters!"
Rav Mutzafi stood at the entrance to the cave and studied the dark expanses that would soon be bathed in light. He so yearned to daven as always, with the neitz. As it is, he was missing out on davening with a minyan, but not to daven k’vasikin? And who could guarantee that he would be able to daven afterwards?!
The decision was an excruciating one, but together with the weight, Rav Mutzafi knew that it was the only thing that would give him peace of mind. "I’m staying here," he announced. "I will pray and join you afterwards."
The other members of the convoy tried to persuade Rav Mutzafi to come with them, and not to remain in a dangerous place. "You won’t be able to get out of here on your own," they urged him reasonably. "You won’t find the escape route, the Turkish army patrols will catch you and you’ll be sent to the gallows. It’s it a shame?"
Rav Mutzafi remained alone. The sun began to peek above the mountains and he began to pray – slowly, calmly, lovingly, passuk after passuk.
The tefillah ended, he took off his tefillin and quickly got ready to go. The mountain rose ahead of him, looming and threatening, and he began to climb it quickly. Beads of sweat poured down his face, but they could not rinse away the fear. But the decision to remain had been the right one. He would hurry and maybe he’d be able to catch up to the convoy and to see where it was when he reached the peak of the mountain.
The summit was nearing, as breathtaking scenery of sand and skies spread out before him. He lowered his eyes to the slopes of the mountain, and then he saw them: beneath him was the convoy, surrounded by Turkish gendarmes whose weapons were trained on the people. His convoy had been caught. Their fate was known.
Rav Bentzion Mutzafi stood there, between sand and skies, and thanked Hashem for saving him from certain death, and giving him the strength to stick to his principles, and to daven vasikin as he always did, even on this day.
Shvilei HaTorah, Parashas Vayeira
