Book Review by Susie Garber
The book, One Day in October: Forty Heroes, Forty Stories, by Yair Agmon and Oriya Mevorach, is a powerful tribute to the people in Eretz Yisrael who demonstrated pure ahavas Yisrael on the highest level.
Reading the stories, I was totally in awe of the raw courage of the people who fought against tremendous odds with one goal in mind, to save lives.
The authentic voices of the story tellers are captured in this English translation, which was originally written in Hebrew. Some of the stories are told by the actual heroes and, in cases when the person was killed, a family member shares the story.
Each story goes straight to your heart. I found myself crying, gasping in amazement, and feeling awed at the courage of these heroes and their families.
The author, Yair Agmon, shared in his introduction that when war broke out around Gaza on the seventh of October, his reserve unit didn’t call him up for duty and he sank into a deep depression. He remained home in Tel Aviv, experiencing shame and frustration. He shared, “All my friends were called up for reserve duty while I was left behind with children who were too frightened of the sirens to fall asleep at night.”
His co-author Oriya presented him with the opportunity to work on this book. He shared how, at first, he could hardly breathe, let alone read, but that each successive story made it a little easier to breathe. The stories gave him consolation and resilience. “Even though they were set in the midst of the horror, they all uncovered veins of light that pulsed through that day of darkness. This book lifted me out of depression.” He added, “These stories are a still small voice that soars above the noise and turmoil. Theses heroes don’t know it, but they saved my life, too.”
The book shares 40 different incredible stories, and each one gives the reader a sense of hope and a renewed faith in the incredible resilience and inner strength of the Jewish people. There are stories of non-Jewish heroes who also risked their lives to save Jews, and these stories, as well, renew our faith in humanity, as well. (This review does not imply endorsement of the lifestyle choices of all those involved.)
I will share the endings of a few of the many stories that really touched this writer deeply.
Two brothers, who were heroes and fought valiantly, were Noam, age 31, Hy”d, and Yishai Slotki, age 24, Hy”d. Their story is shared by their parents. At the end of the story, this is what the parents write: “Since they were killed, our lives have changed. Life is harder now. We have a gaping hole, there are widows, there are orphans. We all miss them terribly. On the other hand, we have great pride in how their lives ended and in the legacy that they left – not only to their own children but to everyone. Their heroism, their concern, sensitivity to others, unity, mutual responsibility – this is truly their legacy; this is the last will and testament that they left us: a legacy of unity. We have taken this upon ourselves as a mission for our family and nation: to try to change the national discourse in Israel, to try to lead Israeli society to a different place, to one of mutual respect and unity. We want to make the change from divisive language to a language of unity, of fraternity, and of mutual responsibility… Our two sons were killed saving their brothers, their people – brothers they didn’t even know – because of their awareness that we are all responsible for each other, that we are all brothers.”
At the end of another story, that of Yohai Dukhan, age 26, Hy”d, his brother Yehuda writes about his brother:
“It might sound crazy to say this, but I’m not at all surprised that he jumped on that grenade.” (He did this to save the people he was with.) “Nothing he did that day surprises me. And if I ask myself what Yohai would say if he were here now, I think he’d say to us: Come on, guys, get up, get on your feet, hold your heads high; we still have a lot to do here in this country of ours.”
The parents of Daniel Perez, age 22, Hy”d, wrote at the end of his story: “People ask me, “Don’t you have questions for G-d?” and I answer that I don’t. For whatever reason, I don’t. I don’t believe that we can ever fully comprehend G-d’s ways; I don’t believe that I have the answer to the question of divine justice in this world. Sometimes you have to know how to live with painful questions, instead of accepting shallow, partial answers. But one thing I do say: If you’re already deciding to ask questions, you have to ask all the questions. If I ask why the Almighty took Daniel, I also have to ask why he spared Yonathan (their other son). We’re used to asking questions about the bad and taking the good for granted; but it could be that every day – every, every day – we should wonder and ask what we’ve done to deserve all our blessings. Why is it that I have health, or a livelihood, or a family? So, if you want to ask questions, ask, but ask all the questions.”
They end by sharing that their son wrote in his diary about the privilege and duty of defending our home. He has a sentence that he writes to himself. “And who will do it, who – if not me. If not me, then who?”
I try to remind myself of those five words every day. To take responsibility, personal responsibility, full responsibility to fulfill my purpose – for as long as my soul is within me.”
Yossi Landau, age 55, shares his harrowing experience as a volunteer for ZAKA and the unimaginable horrors he witnessed. He and other volunteers were so traumatized by what they saw, that many had trouble functioning afterwards. He spoke to a 92-year-old survivor of Auschwitz and described what he saw that day on October 7. The survivor said it sounded worse than what he had witnessed.
Mr. Landau concludes that he felt those bodies were talking to him and telling him their story. The other volunteers had the same feeling. “The victims – those holy and pure people – they made sure that we’d pass on their message so that they weren’t killed in vain. They told us: “They tried to take away our personal dignity, they tried to take away our identities, they tried to erase us, to leave no trace of us, but you’ll tell the whole world! You’ll tell them, you’ll tell them what happened, you’ll tell them what we went through. Your eyes will be our mouths. What we can’t tell, your eyes can.” That was their last will and testament; that was their final request. I’ve been trying to fulfill that request ever since.”
The last story is told by the father of Awad Drawsha, age 25, Hy”d. He shared how, at the funeral, there were Muslim, Druze, Christians, Jews, and Circassians. Awad was a paramedic. He drove people back and forth, trying to save them from the terrorists. He stayed with the wounded to take care of them all by himself.
His father writes, “Why shouldn’t there be quiet; why shouldn’t there be peace? Why can’t we all live together? I mean, how dong do I have to live? Maybe 70, 80, maybe 90 years – in the end, I’ll leave this earth. This earth isn’t mine or anyone else’s. So come, let’s live in peace, let’s live like that, loving each other, respecting each other. How did we turn into animals here? How were we created? How does G-d want us to live? Even animals have hearts that are better than ours.
“Really, I’m ready to accept it, to give up on Awad and to say, ‘Yalla, let’s go; the final tragedy was mine.’ But from now on it will be better, quieter, brighter. Inshallah! G-d willing, may we walk along this path, the light.”
