Goodbye, Sweet Boy
I talked to Hersh Goldberg-Polin a few times each week. Heading home from the supermarket, out walking the dog, it didn’t matter where or when. It was easy to summon him and send him my thoughts. In the beginning, I’d start with, “You don’t know me, but I’m a Jewish mother from New York City. I have sons around your age. And I know your mother.” And then I’d communicate whatever hopeful message I could, always adding that people all over the world were thinking of him, praying for him, and I’d advise him to use that energy to keep going. I really believed that these talks, my own and those across the globe, would help. In fact, I was certain.
Why was I so certain? Because I met Rachel Goldberg-Polin, the indefatigable mother of Hersh. If you met her, you’d feel the same. With six of my friends, I sat in a Jerusalem conference room and listened to this small woman subsumed by titanic fear, detail the herculean actions she and her husband, Jon, had undertaken to bring home their only son. That included meeting with us. We were mothers of sons close to Hersh’s age, not power brokers, or intelligence officers. But because we had traveled to Israel to try and help, Rachel was willing to meet. It was day 152. Rachel was weary but spoke at length of her efforts, including her plan to attend her daughter Leebie’s play that week, which meant declining an invite from President Biden to the State of the Union address. But Rachel wanted to be there for Leebie. During our meeting, she was, at times lighthearted - we even shared some laughs - and we poured out our hearts and our eyes telling her of our commitment to her, Hersh, and the other hostages. I told her that if Hersh shared one iota of his mother’s strength and determination, he would soon be back in her arms. Later, as our meeting concluded and I hugged her goodbye, she whispered, “Maybe he’ll be home in time for Leebie’s play?”
How was she able to be so hopeful I do not know, but I know that she gave me and my friends hope. That day in Jerusalem, I left convinced Hersh was alive. I became a proselytizer of Hersh’s and the other hostages’ survival. There were many people who sought to assuage me of this idea by telling me not to fool myself because, “The hostages are all dead.” To these naysayers, I would politely say, “I choose to believe otherwise,” and countered with stories Rachel had shared: Knowing Hersh’s arm was blown off below the elbow, Rachel sought out veterinarians – the only doctors attending to hostages - to see if a below the elbow human amputation was something they would be able to do. It was…a sure sign of hope. Similarly, there had never been news about Hersh from the IDF, another sign of hope. Rachel and Jon adopted the phrase, hope is mandatory, and it became gospel. And then, the miraculous proof of life video featuring a gaunt, fearful Hersh, yes, but an alive Hersh, perhaps the best sign of hope one could ask for. And though more grueling months passed, Rachel and Jon appeared like beacons, basking audiences in the light of their optimism. Just recently, they spoke at the Democratic National Convention, their desperation palpable, their certainty edifying, their son, America’s son.
Only a short time ago, Rachel and Jon and other hostage families went to Israel’s South to scream their loved one’s name through a powerful microphone, in hopes their voices would carry across the border. Rachel’s cry was guttural, primitive. With all the top diplomats in the US and Israel working (unsuccessfully) on a hostage release, the families had taken to screaming their children’s names, hoping against hope that their voices would be heard. And maybe they were. Because they were still alive then.
Hersh and five others were murdered days later. I still believe I wasn’t foolish to hope….just foolish to underestimate the toll that the absence of hope takes on the soul. It is an ache in a place that can’t be reached. A hollowed out cavity, now replaced by a powerful fury and a paralyzing sadness.
As I write this, I am in a state of disbelief. Though I have just planted a bush to honor Hersh’s life and watched his funeral, I find myself locked in this vortex of magical thinking. What if. What if the IDF had reached them earlier? What if they had been able to break free? And the biggest what if: What if Netanyahu had put his own political interests aside and instead focused on his own people? What if, what if, what if. The thoughts flutter around my brain like a plastic bag in the wind. If I still have the impulse to speak to him, one can only imagine the disbelief of the Goldberg-Polin family, and the agony of letting Hersh go.
If there is any solace to be taken, it was in Rachel’s own cry during her eulogy that Hersh, you are finally, finally, finally free. Goodbye, sweet boy. I’m sorry we won’t ever get a chance to meet. But you live on in my thoughts. And I planted a bush, deep in the earth of my yard, watered by 1,000 tears, to ensure your memory takes root and grows. Because in the face of unspeakable darkness, a plant will find the light. Even when those left behind cannot.
To the Goldberg-Polins, the Yerushalmis, the Daninos, the Lobanovs, the Gats, and the Sarusis, may all their memories be blessings.
