He Has a Visa!
A Long Island rabbi attended a taharah (ritual ceremony to prepare a deceased Jew for burial) for an individual whose background was rooted in a Chasidic community. Chevra Kadishas (burial societies) are often immune to the emotions, trauma and dread that would normally accompany a dead soul on a table.
The Chevra did their job almost perfunctorily, with hardly a word spoken, and that did not strike the rabbi as strange. Years of working with cadavers can numb the senses of even the toughest men. All of a sudden, a murmur bounced back and forth between Chasidic members of the Chevra. “Er hut a visa? (He has a visa?)” they queried. Then the conversation took a stranger turn. They began to mumble about a first class ticket.
The rabbi became concerned. Why was anyone talking about travel plans during this most sacred of rituals? That was not the time nor place. It just did not make sense.
Immediately the room became silent, it was now filled with awe and a sense of reverence. “Er hut a visa!” exclaimed the senior member of the group. The entire Chevra nodded and the atmosphere suddenly transformed.
They continued to prepare for the funeral as if the deceased had been a great sage or Chasidic Rebbe. The rabbi was unable to understand the sudden change in atmosphere until the eldest man beckoned him. “Come here,” he said. “I’ll show you something. The old man lifted the arm of the deceased to reveal seven numbers crudely tattooed on the dead man’s forearm. “Do you know what they are?”
“Of course,” replied the Rabbi. “They are the numbers that the Nazi’s tattooed on every prisoner in the concentration camps.”
“No,” the old man said. “These numbers are the first-class ticket to Gan Eden. They are the visa and they are the tickets. Period.”
