I've started writing this column a few times and deleted it because Uri Auerbach would say it was kitsch. He would tell me that a lot. In fact, almost everything I thought was terribly moving and terribly meaningful, he later described to me as tainted with "schmaltz.".
Wherever I went all the way with the emotion, he came with his heyday and said I was just exaggerating. That's what our relationship has been like for twenty years. But this time I really don't feel like being kitschy, because the column is about Auerbach himself.
So where does it all begin?•
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No, not in the Bnei Akiva newspaper 'Zeraim', nor in 'Nekuda', nor in 'Autyot' (in our country they called it 'Zerkor'). It starts with the fact that sometimes I was late for prayer. And when I was late for prayer at the yeshiva where I was studying at the time, Rabbi Neuwirth's yeshiva in the Beit Vegan neighborhood of Jerusalem, I would go to pray at the nearby synagogue, 'Migdal'.
Orbach also prayed there, and was already a very well-known journalist. He wrote in the newspapers, appeared regularly on Dalia Yairi's popular program on Channel 2, and huge posters of "Reconciliation Order" with a large picture of him and Gil Koptash were posted at bus stops. And I, as the last of the snoozers, went up and asked him there at the end of the minyan a very smart question: "Are you Uri Orbach?"'
Orbach saw in front of him then, twenty years ago, a young and enthusiastic yeshiva student. 99 percent of people would have said "Yes, that's me" with a look of "Get out of here, snoozer" and that would have ended the relationship, but Orbach - as I understood this week - was actually a public figure long before he was a member of Knesset. He was, in effect, a walking bureau for public inquiries on media matters.
He talked to me there at the synagogue and took an interest in me and spent time with me, and heard that I liked to write, and that I had already published some of my first pieces there, some under a pseudonym, and he gave me the feeling that he had all the time in the world to discuss my professional future with me, and my personal future in general.
A short time later I met him again, on the bus. We both took a bus from the central bus station in Jerusalem to the central area, me to get home from the yeshiva and him to take a picture.
He told me that a new radio show is going on air soon, probably called 'The Last Word,' and that he is now traveling to shoot for public relations ahead of the first broadcast.
He continued to ask about things I had written, and also about programs I had started broadcasting on the radio, and within a few weeks I found myself invited to the Orbach family for Shabbat dinner.
Why would the most famous religious journalist in Israel invite a teenager like me to a meal (and send his righteous wife to ask me lots of questions about kosher beforehand)? I'd like to think I'm special, but I know I'm not.
Dozens, perhaps even hundreds, of people received this treatment from him during his lifetime. When I thought, during the long weeks in which we prayed for the healing of Uri Shraga ben Pnina, what I could take upon myself for his healing, I reflected on the possibility of strengthening myself precisely at this point. In my availability to others.
Why, for example, am I not enough to even answer the emails that come to me from dear readers of this column?
I once heard that just as a person should give a tenth of his money to charity, he should also give a tenth of his time to charity. That is, to give a tenth of his time for the sake of others. Orbach gave much more than a tithe.
Since he passed away this week, I can only recall more and more long conversations in which he was completely attentive to a specific question that bothered me, and therefore immediately bothered him too: names of programs, headlines of articles, new formats, choosing a job, financial negotiations with bosses in the media world, and a host of other large and small media issues.
The more I think about it, giving such a tithe of time is a much harder thing to do than paying a tithe of money. Giving charity to the poor on the street is easy and simple, compared to having to really pay attention to the dilemmas someone chooses to share with you.
Everyone knew his reserved media persona. He arrived at all those panels and programs armed only with a friendly smile under his mustache, and around him – the abyss of the storm. And that's exactly how he was in life.
In all our conversations over the years, I never remember him raising his voice. Auerbach was always calm and measured. When I fired back at him over his party's alliance with Lapid, he listened patiently and responded briefly and moderately.
When I passionately argued in his ears that it was doubtful that his religious media revolution was going forward rather than backward, because in many cases it was influenced by secular media much more than it was influencing them, he was not quick to take offense and answered calmly. We disagreed on a lot of things, but it was simply impossible to argue with him about it.
I only remember him being angry once, but really. Ostensibly it wasn't because of an ideological issue, but in fact it was the most ideological: a well-known journalist - and not one of his protégés or close associates - was fired from his job one fine day, for no justifiable reason. Just because the manager had a meltdown.
Auerbach called me angrily. He knew the details of the case, knew how unjustified it was, and was most of all amazed by the unbearable ease with which a man lost his job in seconds, as well as quite a bit of his good name (because the flash layoffs were leaked).
I remember his voice coming out of the car's speakerphone and filling the space of the car: "What does it mean to be religious, tell me? What is this boss religious for? Just to buy a lulav on Sukkot? Is that what it means to be religious? Can you really just fire someone like that?""
I have heard many sermons in my life about how the commandments between man and place and the commandments between man and his fellow man complement each other, but Orbach did not say this as some Torah saying, but was simply amazed to see that it was not being realized in practice. How can a religious boss be so disrespectful towards his employee?
I told about my first meeting with him, and I skip over many meetings over the years and jump to the last meeting.
About a month and a half ago, on the 8th of Tevet, a festive ceremony was held at the Ramada Renaissance Hotel in Jerusalem by the Lottery, where prizes were awarded for Torah writings written by members of religious Zionism. I hosted this ceremony, and Auerbach, who was among the thinkers of the idea, spoke there.
Everyone knew that Uri had some kind of rare blood disease, but they didn't know exactly what his condition was. So did I. Three times a day I mentioned Uri Shraga ben Pnina in prayer, but the truth is that there, that evening, when we met, I was a little ashamed to tell him about it. I noticed that many of his friends were afraid of Urbach's cynicism. They could finish an entire book of Psalms for his cure, but they were willing to finish another book so that he wouldn't know about it and would skilfully snipe at them.
In the hall that evening were excited avrechims, students of Seder and high yeshivahs, whose essays reached the finals. There were also the winners' families and some of the ceremony organizers, as well as the chairman of the Lottery Authority, Uzi Dayan. A small audience, a few dozen people, who were privileged to hear the last speech of Auerbach's life.
From there, after the Torah binding ceremony (which perhaps should now be named after him), he went directly to Shaarei Tzedek for treatment, from which he never returned. Of course, Auerbach did not say that he was continuing to be hospitalized that evening; I only found out about it a few days ago.
At that event, everything seemed normal. He ate and shook hands, and even laughed, and then I invited him on stage to congratulate the winners.
This week, after his funeral, I watched again the short speech he gave there, which ended with these words: "I want to congratulate you, dear essay writers, avrechim, Bnei Torah, you and your families. This is what the world exists for. All the politics and the primaries and the nonsense – it's all important, and at that moment it seems to you that it's the most important thing in the world, but it's all for the existence of a world in the way of Torah, in the way of love of people, love of Israel, love of the land. And I am happy and joyful to be here and congratulate you with all the best words.".
And here, after the phrase "in every millie demeitav," Auerbach jumped at him and he quickly added with a knowing smile: "That means, as the rabbis say, 'in every millie demeitav'..." Then came the last sentence, before he left the stage, essentially forever: "And may you be blessed to write, learn and teach to keep and do.".
After dozens of columns, punchlines, speeches, polemics, jokes, and witticisms, these were the last words of the late Uri Auerbach in front of an audience. I have a lot to say about this, but he would surely tell me it was kitsch.
• The column is published in the newspaper 'Bisheva''
