Coincidence, Providence, and Remembrance: A Yom Hazikaron Story

April 21 was Yom Hazikaron, a day when the entire nation pauses, together, to commemorate our fallen soldiers and victims of terror. Over the past two years, I have been making a pilgrimage to Har Herzl, Israel’s national military cemetery in Jerusalem. I participate in a tour to learn about individual heroes buried there. And I pay my own respects to fallen soldiers — including soldiers whose funerals I attended, whose families I know, and to whom I feel connected.

In each of those years, the Israeli Air Force flyover, which immediately follows the national siren and two minutes of silence, has left me breathless. Just at the moment the siren dies down, those at Har Herzl are awestruck as four, low-flying fighter jets thunder overhead. As the jets reach Har Herzl, one symbolically falls away from the formation. The other three pilots travel on without their brother.

This year, there was an additional reason I wanted to visit Har Herzl on Yom Hazikaron. My son Zechariah Charish recently enlisted in the IDF, and he was going to be at Har Herzl in uniform, on duty. The IDF assigns each current soldier to an individual fallen soldier, to stand by his grave as an honor guard. When the family of the fallen arrives to visit their loved one, they find a young soldier keeping watch. They see that the IDF, and the Nation of Israel, are eternally grateful, and will never forget the ultimate sacrifice that their loved one — and they themselves — have made. L’hiyot am chofshi b’artzeinu. That we may live as a free people in our land.

Zechariah was assigned to a fallen solider who was born in Moscow in 1984 and made aliyah to Israel at the age of six. This soldier was a kind and brilliant boy. A talented violin player and chess player, and a military-history buff. His big heart motivated him to volunteer, from the age of 15, for the ambulance corps of Magen David Adom, where he eventually became a paramedic. He spent countless days and nights on calls, saving lives, and bestowing compassion upon patients. He dreamed of being a combat soldier but was deemed ineligible. He did not give up. He worked and labored until he qualified for combat service, and he became a combat medic in an IDF Paratrooper unit. On August 8, 2006, during the Second Lebanon War, Hezbollah terrorists struck his unit’s armored personnel carrier with an RPG. He was 21 years old.

My Zechariah had just begun basic training as a paratrooper. I had not been able to contact Zechariah to coordinate seeing him on Har Herzl. I did not know who his assigned soldier was or how I could possibly find him among the estimated 200,000 people who visited Har Herzl this Memorial Day. The scene at Har Herzl was overwhelmingly emotional and the crowds were enormous. My eyes were clouded by tears, but I kept one out for Zechariah, though I realized it was not realistic I would ever find him.

Yet, not too long after I arrived, in the distance I noticed a figure. Tall. Familiar. My heart hesitated. It couldn’t be. As the figure drew closer, I reached for my glasses, and once I slipped them on, I could not believe what I was beholding. My son. My paratrooper. Standing there in uniform — olive green, belt over shirt, red boots planted on sacred ground. His embrace was everything at once — pride, relief, joy, and something deeper I could not name.

I knew he had been awakened before the crack of dawn that morning and was physically and emotionally exhausted from his training and the gravity of the day. I had just started my tour, but offered to break away and drive him home. “No, Ma. It’s okay. I want you to continue your tour,” he demurred. “I’ll take a bus.” I persisted. But so did Zechariah. He walked off into the sea of people, searching for a way home.

Immediately, I was gripped with regret. “Why didn’t I drive Zechariah home?” I kept asking myself. Soon, I would learn why.

As Zechariah approached a streetside bus stop, he heard someone shouting in his direction, “Get in!” He lifted his eyes to see that our friend and neighbor Milty Levinson happened to be passing by in his car at that very moment, caught a glimpse of Zechariah, pulled his car over, stopped traffic, and was offering him a ride home. Zechariah hopped in.

Among Milty’s extraordinary virtues, accomplishments, and experiences, he is an officer in the Paratrooper Reserves who fought in the First Lebanon War. Every Yom Hazikaron, Milty journeys to Har Herzl to visit friends he lost during that war and others. He always took his children with him each year, until his children grew up — and had friends of their own to visit.

As Milty and Zechariah were traveling home, Milty’s phone rang. It was his son Gilad. “Abba,” he said. “Every year, I make sure to visit the grave of my friend Philip Mosco and say Tehillim (Psalms) there. But I had so many people to visit this year, I wasn’t able to make it to Philip’s grave.”

Gilad and Philip were friends growing up in the town of Maaleh Adumim, and the two boys volunteered together in Magen David Adom. Milty knew Philip from the neighborhood too, and remembered him fondly. Gilad Levinson is now 40 years old. Philip Mosco would have been 41.

“By any chance, Abba,” Gilad continued. “Did you get a chance to visit Philip today?”

“No,” Milty replied. “I’m so sorry.” “I also had too many people to visit today. I didn’t make it to Philip’s grave.” “That’s okay, Abba. I understand,” Gilad said acceptingly.

As Milty continued driving, he turned to Zechariah. “So who did you visit today? Who was your assigned soldier?” Zechariah answered: “Philip Mosco.”

“What?!” asked Milty incredulously. “And what did you do while standing guard for Philip?” “I spoke to his family a little bit,” Zechariah uttered. “But mostly, I said Tehillim.”

Out of the thousands of soldiers buried on Har Herzl, we thought it was random that Zechariah was assigned to Philip Mosco. We thought it was random that Zechariah and I happened to cross paths among the throngs of people at the cemetery. We thought it was random that after I, for some reason, allowed Zechariah to persuade me not to drive him home, he arrived at a bus stop at the split second that Milty was passing by. And we thought it was random that Gilad happened to call Milty and ask about Philip during Milty’s ride home with Zechariah. But it wasn’t random at all.

Milty later called Gilad back. “Gilad,” he said softly. “I know you wanted to say Tehillim at Philip’s grave today.” He paused. “I want you to know that Hashem sent a soldier, my neighbor from around the corner, to say those Tehillim for you.”

May the memory of Philip Mosco — David ben Luba Leah and Shlomo Zeev — and all of our fallen heroes, be for a blessing. May Hashem guard and protect all of our soldiers in service and crown them with victory. And may there be no more fallen soldiers to visit next year, or any year, on Har Herzl.