Parashat Tetzaveh, Exodus 27:20-30:10, Shabbat Zachor, Deuteronomy 25:17-19

This Shabbat we struggle with two forms of memory.

Music has always had a mathematical component, but now it looks as if mathematics is shaping music. First there a musical intelligence software program that analyzes the likelihood of a song becoming a hit based on some thirty different factors. Now, for a small fee, you and your struggling band can submit a song to a number of companies for analysis. They can then advise you where to make changes that will result in a hit-producing mathematical pattern.

Currently, these cookie-cutter tune treatments only deal with the music. I've always been more of a lyrics person, and I'm waiting for the day when the focus will shift to dissecting the words of hit songs. "Love" is sure to be the most popular choice, but to my algorithmically challenged mind it is too obvious. Were I to try my hand at popular songwriting I would probably choose "remembering" or "memory" as a theme. There are nearly as many songs about remembering as there are about love, and it is a theme that is more diverse and subtler. It is found in words sung by Elvis Presley:
Memories, pressed between the pages of my mind
Memories, sweetened thru the ages just like wine
(Written by Bill Strange and Scott Davis)

As well as the poetry crooned by a cat:
Memory
All alone in the moonlight
I can smile at the old days
I was beautiful then
I remember the time I knew what happiness was
Let the memory live again
(Written by Trevor Nunn and Andrew Lloyd Webber, based on T.S. Eliot's "Rhapsody on a Windy Night")

Or echoing in the Oscar-winning Barbra Streisand hit "The Way We Were": 
Memories,
Like the corners of my mind
Misty water-colored memories
Of the way we were
…Memories, may be beautiful and yet
What's too painful to remember
We simply choose to forget
(Written by Alan Bergman, Marilyn Bergman and Marvin Hamlisch)

We all know that memory can play tricks on us. Perhaps that’s what the Bergmans meant when they wrote: What's too painful to remember/We simply choose to forget. Really?  What would it be like to have no memory? Would it be a blessing or a curse? Two recent examples from the media lead to the conclusion that it would be both. Last December, Henry Gustav Molaison died at the age of 82. Over half a century ago he underwent surgery for a seizure disorder. The operation left him unable to form new memories.

For the next 55 years, each time he met a friend, each time he ate a meal, each time he walked in the woods, it was as if for the first time.
And for those five decades, he was recognized as the most important patient in the history of brain science. As a participant in hundreds of studies, he helped scientists understand the biology of learning, memory and physical dexterity, as well as the fragile nature of human identity.

H. M., an Unforgettable Amnesiac, Dies at 82, Benedict Carey, 

New York Times, December 5, 2008

Memories may be beautiful, but Henry Gustav Molaison was unable to know that.

Then there's the experimental use of the beta-blocker Propranolol, which has been found successful in treating Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Should it be used to erase painful memories, specifically those of elderly Holocaust survivors?

Simply put, how can we help those who have suffered in war, end their lives in peace?
In their extreme age, with the decline of short-term memory and the ravages of dementia, some survivors who enter hospital believe they are back in the camps.
In an institution, routine elements of care can trigger horrors from the past. They may be afraid of showers, suspicious of staff in uniform, even the sharp click of heels in a hallway prompted one woman to shout "heil Hitler" from her room. They resist injections, remembering the numbers tattooed on their arms. They refuse haircuts, because their heads were shaved in the camps.
What brings this issue to the fore is that drugs, which can blunt the force of an emotional memory, are now available and have been tested on rape and accident victims, war veterans and others who suffer post-traumatic stress disorder.

War memories raise ethical dilemma, Leslie Scrivener, 

Toronto Star, November 10, 2008

How can we fail to ease the trauma of elderly survivors? Have they not had enough of remembering?

Ironically, this is Shabbat Zachor, the Shabbat of Remembrance, when we are admonished in the additional Torah reading to Remember what Amalek did to you on your journey, after you left Egypt — how, undeterred by fear of God, he surprised you on the march, when you were famished and weary, and cut down all the stragglers in your rear. Therefore, when the Lord your God grants you safety from all your enemies around you, in the land that the Lord your God is giving you as a hereditary portion, you shall blot out the memory of Amalek from under heaven. Do not forget! (Deuteronomy 25:17-19)

The commandment to remember is incumbent upon the community. Certainly we can shoulder the burden of those who have spent their entire lives not only remembering but reliving. Zachor, remembering, is about transferring the responsibility from one generation to the next.

This week's parashah, Tetzaveh, is not about memories, though it hints at things that are or will be tantalizingly out of reach. It is the one parashah in the last four books of the Torah that does not mention Moses by name. Where elsewhere we find instructions to the people beginning with the form Adonai spoke to Moses saying, this structure is absent in Tetzaveh. As the twentieth century Bible scholar Umberto Cassuto points out regarding the beginning of the parashah: "This paragraph contains three allocutions to Moses, all of which begin with the word ve-atta… followed by a verb in the imperfect or imperative." (Translation: Israel Abrahams) 

While he is not named, the use of ve-atta, "and you" certainly implies that Moses is to initiate what is instructed and then transfer the duties to others.

The portion is very much about the taking on of responsibility. All the preparations by the unnamed Moses are for the priestly ordination of Aaron and his sons that takes place at the end of the parashah: Thus you shall do to Aaron and his sons, just as I have commanded you. You shall ordain them through seven days…(Exodus 29:35). The unnamed Moses has a critical but temporary role:

For seven days, before "the eighth day" (Leviticus 9:1) on which Aaron and his sons took over the ritual duties, Moses would set up the tabernacle each day, bring the offerings, and in the evening he would take it down. On the eighth day – the 1st of Nissan – he set up the Tabernacle permanently, as described in [Exodus] 40:17-33. From this point on Aaron and his sons performed ritual duties.

Rashbam on Exodus 29:35, translation from The Commentators' Bible: 

The JPS Miqraot Gedolot, Michael Carasik, translator and editor

Moses isn't gone. He has delegated responsibilities as per God's instructions. Omitting his name from this parashah allows the focus to be on others who must also play a crucial role in the community.

This Shabbat we struggle with two forms of memory. First, there is the longing for that elusive memory just over the horizon, so near and yet so far. It is the memory on the eighth day, as the priests take up their duties, of all that went on for the seven days before. This is the memory of Moses who performed these rituals until the priests were ready to do so; the same Moses whose presence is felt in the parashah, but whose name is absent. This is akin to the memory we feel on birthdays, anniversaries, or holidays when we gather for celebration, but there are empty seats at the table. We may now be sitting at the head of the table, leading the seder, or making the matzah balls, but the voice of a beloved parent or grandparent whispers the ritual instructions in our ears. These memories are beautiful, painful to remember, yet we would never forget them.

Then there is the memory that pierces us like a cold howling wind. This is the memory of what Amalek did to us. We must brace ourselves and remember. This ugly memory we may wish to forget, but tradition teaches us to do otherwise.

Jewish memory is communal. It is at once breathtakingly beautiful and hideously painful. Memory reminds of us of who we were, affirms who we are, and shapes who we will be. Jewish memory is our Yizkor (memorial) candle; it is also our ner tamid (eternal light) and we provide the clear oil of beaten olives to keep the lamp lit continually. (Exodus 27:20)

Shabbat shalom,
Rabbi Michal Shekel

Parashat Vayikra, Leviticus 1:1-5:26; Shabbat Zachor, Deuteronomy 25:17-19

The soul laid bare before God.

I love the music of Kurt Weill. The only reason I took High School German was so I could understand Mack the Knife in the original. In North America those familiar with this song from the Threepenny Opera know the Bobby Darin version, or perhaps the Louis Armstrong rendition. Some might be familiar with the German version, Die Moritat von Mackie Messer, because it was used by Ernie Kovacs as the music to accompany many of his sight gags in the golden days of television. There is a world of difference between the 1950's hip North American version and the original 1929 Berlin item which exudes cynicism both in the lyrics of Bertolt Brecht as well as in the music of Kurt Weill. Alas, there is no original cast recording of the Berlin stage production. The song about Mack the Knife which opens the play was actually a last minute addition. It was performed by one of the most popular actors of Weimar Germany, a fellow named Kurt Gerron, who also happened to be Jewish. A few years ago I saw a film about Gerron that forever changed this song for me.

From the height of celebrity in Weimar Germany, Gerron fell into the depth of Nazi hell known as Theresienstadt. There he was given the task of making a film for Nazi propaganda purposes to show the world how wonderful Jewish life was under Nazism. Gerron weighed his decision: The Jewish council told him to do what he must in order to survive. And so the film The Führer Gives a City to the Jews came into existence.

Being the consummate professional, Gerron put his all into the project, making the best film he could. All this is documented in the 2002 film Prisoner of Paradise. There are scenes of soccer games and people at cafes. Children are shown eating fresh bread and fruit. Smiling for the cameras, Gerron's fellow inmates were forced to act as though all were well.

Because the film was made for the Nazis, the once popular Gerron was viewed as a traitor by his community. Not that this made any difference in the long run. The Nazi shark showed his pearly white teeth and Gerron became one more victim of this monster's insatiable appetite.

Why am I reminded of this film on Shabbat Zachor, the Shabbat before Purim? Zachor means remember, and on this particular Shabbat we are to remember all those in history who sought to destroy us. Amelek is the symbol of these adversaries from Haman of old to his modern descendants.

Remember what Amalek did to you on your journey, after you left Egypt —how, undeterred by fear of God, he surprised you on the march, when you were famished and weary, and cut down all the stragglers in your rear. Therefore, when the Lord your God grants you safety from all your enemies around you, in the land that the Lord your God is giving you as a hereditary portion, you shall blot out the memory of Amalek from under heaven. Do not forget!

Deuteronomy 25:17-19

In the Bible Amalek attacks when Israel is famished and tired, striking from behind where one would find the weakest members of the group: The old, the infirm and the very young. Shabbat Zachor is more than a reminder of the evil that threatens to destroy us. It is an exhortation to our moral responsibility in the face of evil.

Nonetheless, this selection from Deuteronomy is the additional reading for this Shabbat. The primary reading is the beginning of the book of Leviticus, Vayikra, a portion that deals with a variety of sacrificial offerings and the proper way of bringing such offerings. While the majority of offerings involve various animal sacrifices, Chapter 2 deals with the simplest of offerings: the meal sacrifice. The chapter begins with the words nefesh ki takriv "when a person brings an offering." Normally, the biblical text uses ish or adam to designate a person. The biblical word for person nefesh is the word we use today for soul. In addition, the cantillation marks for this phrase are an unusual combination. Listen closely and you can hear: This is the soul laid bare before God.

Rabbi Yitzchak said: What distinguishes the meal-offering that the term 'soul' is used? Because the Holy One, Who is Blessed said: "Who normally brings a meal-offering? It is the poor person. I account it as though he had offered Me his very soul".

Talmud, Menachot 104b

The individual, who cannot afford an animal, or even a bird, brings a meal offering. This meal offering is termed kodesh kodashim, most holy (Leviticus 2:9).

Every time I read this parasha the meal offering stands out from the rest of the sacrifices. There is tremendous power in the starkness of the words: In bringing this simplest of offerings, we come before God as our innermost being, nefesh. This is the sacrifice of one who has nothing else to offer and it is considered most holy.

This brings me back to the Weimar superstar Kurt Gerron, physically imprisoned in Theresienstadt and morally incarcerated by an all-too-real Amalek decked out in fancy gloves and jackboots. We remember Amalek; Gerron faced the real thing. What did he accomplish by putting his heart and soul into a project that many viewed as a pact with the devil?

He was a nefesh who brought a sacrifice, offering the best he could, putting his soul into it. Some reports say he hoped to save a few lives by making this film. We know what happened to him once the film was finished. But the results of his efforts are not what Amalek anticipated. Gerron's film allows us to see souls otherwise lost and forgotten. Images that cry out zachor, remember.

One particular image haunts me: It is of group of young children eating fresh bread; in Theresienstadt Kurt Gerron's project made it possible for these children to get a slice of fresh bread, perhaps one slice at the most. For some of these children it was probably the best meal they had had in their young lives.

One slice of bread, a meal offering of the finest flour. Gerron's sacrifice brought a moment of fleeting happiness into their too-short lives. On this Shabbat, when sacrifice and memory are intertwined, this too we must remember.

Shabbat shalom,
MS