(Scroll down to the purple script for my take.)
Meet your brother, St. Sgt. David Solomonov, OBM.
"Sgt. David
Solomonov, 21, was shot and killed by a Lebanese sniper while his unit was on patrol near the northern Israeli town of
Metulla Saturday afternoon.
IDF troops returned fire. In one week's time,
Solomonov, who was born in the United States and moved to Israel at the age of thirteen, was due to complete his army service. He had already made plans to return to his
Kfar Saba home and begin studies to improve his high school matriculation scores.Overnight,
Hizbullah forces fired five mortar shells from Lebanon into Israel. It was the first mortar attack on northern Israel since April 2002,
Haaretz reported. (From Israel Insider)" (Taken from
israeliconsulate.org.)
* * *
St.-Sgt. David Solomonov had volunteered to return to his Golani unit over the Yom Kippur weekend. He had been asking his commanders to serve on Shabbatot and holidays for the past month so that during the week he could attend a matriculation course to prepare for his release from his three years of military service.
He was to have finally taken off his uniform for the last time this coming Sunday when he was slated to begin post army leave and get on with life. Solomonov, 21, was cut down by a Hizbullah sniper Monday. He will be buried Wednesday at the Kfar Saba Military Cemeter.
Since his death, members of Kfar Saba's Anglo community have been streaming through the home of his mother, Evelyn Solomonov, to comfort her in her grief.
The Solomonovs immigrated from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, in 1994 when David was 12.
According to the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, his parents met and married in Israel. His mother, a native of Ohio, went to Israel after college and fell in love with a native-born Israeli, Mordechai Solomonov, better known as "Solo."
Their first son, Michael, now a sous-chef at a Philadelphia restaurant, was born in Israel before the family moved to the United States. After working for a time in a family jewelry business, Solo Solomonov opened a Subway sandwich shop in Greenfield.
In Pittsburgh, Solomov attended the Community Day School, a Jewish school. One year Evelyn Solomonov went as a chaperone on a school trip to Israel.
"She hadn't been back since she lived there, and she totally fell in love again with Israel," the Post-Gazette quoted a friend as saying.
And that is what led the family to return to Israel when David Solomonov was 12. His older brother Michael found it difficult and returned to the US. But David loved life in the Jewish state and quickly learned Hebrew, acquiring a sabra's accent.
"You couldn't tell he was American from his accent, but from the way he behaved. He was too polite. He left America but America didn't leave him," said Fran Rotholz, a close family friend. His parents split up about a year after making aliya and he lived with his mother, but maintained close contact with his father. Evelyn taught English at Herzog High School in Kfar Saba.
David went to Katzenelson High School, where he focused on media and film. His life was so filled with activities, such as learning Capoiera, picking up stray cats and dogs, and volunteering at a veterinary clinic, he he had little time for matriculation during high school.
"He grew into a Zionist. He had a chance to live in the United States, but he chose to make his life here," Rotholz said.
David was filled with idealism and did not want to join the army until he came to understand the importance of it while in 12th grade.
"To be a combat soldier was very important for him," Rotholz said. "He was very optimistic. He learned to sharpen his elbows a little. He was much more of a giver than a taker."
David enjoyed the discipline and order in the army and was glad the Golani Brigade had chosen him.
Solomonov's death touched a chord of fear in many immigrants from the West who have chosen to bring their families here, knowing one day that their children will likely serve in the military. Too overcome to speak directly, Evelyn asked her friends to say that her son had told her, after a year in the IDF when he completed an educational seminar, he had never felt so close to the state and its heritage.
Evelyn told her hometown paper, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, that her son was proud to be a soldier and proud to be protecting his country.
"But he loved the United States. He was a real American. My friend said you can take David out of America, but you can't take the American out of David," she told the Pittsburgh paper. "Israel is a great country. And I suppose he died defending it, didn't he?"
Surrounded by her friends, and even former students, Evelyn was not alone in her grief. Hebrew had never been fully mastered, and many spoke English for her sake.
"Evelyn feels herself as an Israeli, but there is still a lot of American in her," said her friend Judy. And then came the knock on the door at the end of Yom Kippur that made the Solomonov family forever an integral part of this country.
"David was her whole world," said
Benzion Ben-Moshe, a family friend who runs a bookstore down the street from the
Solomonov apartment. "He was such a gentle young man, and now his poor mother is part of the family of the bereaved in Israel." (Taken from
dallasdancemusic.com)
* * *
I can't say much about St. Sgt. David Solomonov because I never physically met him. When I first learned of him, he was just a name on my bracelet, a memorial- or, testament- to the person he was. I got it in high school as one of those "gifts" for tzedakah; it was one of those bracelets that marked the name and date of passing of victims of terror.
So I wore it. He became a point to wonder about while I dazed out in class, this twenty-one-year-old brother of mine that I had never known. Eventually, all I ever did find out about him are stated in the above articles- A quick summary of his life and a statement of his death. Of course, he was more than just that. And I wish I knew how much more he was. I wish I knew about all that he did and all the potential he held, so that I could offer something more here in his name. But I don't.
Now my sister wears it and it is her turn to ponder his life. And of course, her being the neshamah she is, she feels utterly connected. When she realized she had accidentally left it home on our way to shul this past Rosh Hashanah, she turned to me with a look of desperation to go back and bring it for her, as if it would represent his presence or memory as we listened to the blast of the shofar on that holy day.
So here is to you, David. Thank you. May your neshamah rest in gan eden, and may we merit to see you soon with mashiach.
* * *
Update: Make sure to read this article by David's mother, Evelyn Fisher Solomonov. The link won't take you directly to the article (you need to click on "Archived Issues," then Aug/Sept 2007), so I am adding a poorly-formatted version below:
Family Matters: The Worst Knock of All
By Evelyn Fisher Solomonov
The beginning of the Jewish year is a pensive, somber time. How much more so for a mother who lost a child during the days of reflection.
Yom Kippur 2003, 6:25 P.M. The best time of the day. The streets in Kfar Saba are still empty of cars. The Holy Day’s heavy silence is broken by the happy babble of voices marking its end and the sound of footsteps hurrying to synagogue to hear the tekiya gedola that concludes the Ne’ila prayers. a In my study, I stand near the open window and hold my breath in anticipation of the trumpeting of the shofar.
A knock on the door. I open it and see four men in Israel Defense Forces uniforms. They wait, silent. I stare at them, uncomprehending. My mouth struggles to form words.
“Is it my son? Is he dead?”
They back me through the living room to the sofa.
“Hezbollah snipers…killed instantly….”
I get up and smile, reassuring the soldier who follows me to the bathroom that I am not going to faint, pass out, do whatever he expects me to do. And I stand there, leaning against the cold white tiles, not even crying because how do I know what I am supposed to do when someone comes to tell me that my son is dead. My son David, who was to be demobilized in only three more days after serving for three years. Three years less three days.
“Our Father, our King, we have sinned before Thee.”
I was invited to a friend’s house to break the fast, but as I didn’t fast, I didn’t want to be the first guest. Besides, I wanted to call David after Ne’ila to ask how his day was and to talk about what he was going to do when he arrived home on Thursday. But instead of breaking the fast and chatting with David, I must answer questions.
“No family here in Israel? Who should we call?”
They call Fran, my closest friend, who has been part of my family since I made aliya in 1994. She will make all the necessary calls—to my sisters and my son Michael in the States, friends and work. As the soldiers leave to go to my ex-husband’s home, to knock on his door, honey cake—the symbolic break-the-fast cake saturated with the sweetness of a new year, instead saturated with grief—appears on the table, with coffee and tea, to sustain the people who stream through my home.
Some come directly from synagogue, still in their white shirts and tennis shoes. Others arrive from home, traces of hastily eaten eggs and fruit juice on their faces. Young men in dirty Army uniforms, David’s friends, have rushed to be here. Some cling to me, embrace me, others are unable to do more than nod as they congregate in David’s room, trying to find comfort in tears and silence and in a language of their own.
“Protect our beloved and bless them with the spirit of Thy loving-kindness.”
The Army gathers my family together for a final viewing before the burial. At Tel Ha-Shomer Army base, a stern-faced rabbi from the hevra kaddisha leads me into a stark room. I approach my son’s body, laid out in a pine box.
“Don’t touch him,” the rabbi warns. “He is ready for burial. He is clean. If you must touch him, touch only the shroud covering his body. Don’t touch him,” he repeats, inserting himself between my son’s body and me, ready to leap if I even reach out a hand to caress his face, a face without a mark, a face with a gauze baby bonnet wrapping his head.
I try to memorize david’s face as I kneel next to the coffin, willing myself not to impress upon his cold skin some warmth from my palms. His lips are set in an unfamiliar smile, a grimace I do not recognize. It is not my son. And yet I want my hands to warm him. The rabbi says, “Get up now. It is enough time.”
“Wait, it isn’t time. It is not enough time.” Two of David’s friends, now not in uniform, kneel beside me, weaving their arms under my arms and around my shoulders. They help me up, their eyes pleading for time alone with him. I leave the room to my son and his friends.
“Give us strength to overcome our weakness and fill us with compassion that we may bring cheer into darkened lives.”
At the cemetery, I stand clutching Michael as I watch David lowered into the ground. I stare at faces mouthing words about this young man now covered in earth. Rifle shots from the honor guard ring out. As I gasp and cower, hiding behind sunglasses to block out the living, I am as cold as the body in the coffin.
I turn away from people pressing close to me, smothered by their compassion, and allow myself to be pulled through the mourners to the Army car that will take me home. Home to more tables covered with food, death notices pasted on the building and the heat of bodies crowding the apartment for two days of shiva. The rabbis award me a consolation prize: “Because David died on Yom Kippur, you can end the shiva after only two days and then celebrate the joy of Sukkot.”
David’s soldier friends, many of whom are now on leave, assemble in my house to talk about him. I can cook for them and listen and not think and in their words see David. They try to cheer me with stories—things I never knew because he had not wanted to worry me. Ronen comes from Haifa every day for two weeks and sits in a corner, impassive. When Dror recalls David crawling on the ground to paste a bumper sticker of his Golani unit on the commander’s car (for which David was rewarded with three weeks without leave), Ronen finally smiles, his eyes shedding silent tears.
Suddenly, and yet too soon, two weeks pass and life returns to so-called normal. But David’s friends continue to come. I joke that they come for the homemade Chinese Chews (David’s favorite cookies that accompanied him to school, on class trips and to his Army base).
One Friday afternoon, as they gather at my house, Lior—the class clown since 6th grade, the tank commander, Lior who makes an entrance whenever he walks into the house—says, “Damn. I am sick of this! We are all trying to do things together, like going to the beach, just because David is dead. What’s the point? We didn’t kill ourselves to be together before, so why are we doing it now?”
Sharon, who had decided to wait until David was released from the Army to clarify their relationship, replies wearily, “At least we can do this. At least we can try to do things together. Maybe something positive will come out of his death. Maybe this will keep some of the pain away.”
Essi stares at his knuckles, still bruised from punching a tree when he heard that David had been killed, and finishes the Chinese Chews. And they go off, all of them together, to watch the sunset at the beach.
“Our Father, our King, have mercy upon us and upon our children.”
David is gone, and I clean out his room. Tucked away in a drawer is his favorite maroon T-shirt, which I pretend to myself still bears his smell. The beads from his high school graduation trip to Cyprus still hang from the bookshelf next to his bed. In his closet, the photos of David and his friends lie jumbled with the Army’s investigative report of his death and the standard letters of condolence from officers, Knesset members, the president and prime minister.
His Army awards share a shelf with Memorial Day gifts and cards from the Department of Bereaved Families.
“What is this for?” I recall asking.
“For being an outstanding soldier,” he replied.
“When did you get this?”
“Oh, a few months ago. They didn’t have any certificates, so they gave me a Walkman and told me the certificate would be in the mail.”
“Dave, this is great.”
“No big deal, Mom.”
Yes, it is…to me.
David’s birthday is March 6th, and for the past four years, his friends mark the day with their favorite food.
“We are coming over with hamburger buns, cold drinks and beer. Do you have the Sloppy Joe mix? The Chinese Chews? Do you need anything else?” As every year, I remind them to bring salad. The phone rings again, but the connection is filled with static.
“Where are you, Aviad? Bolivia? Yes, sweetie, I am managing. Are you O.K. today? I know, Aviad, I know. I wish you were here, too. Take care of yourself. Have a beer for him, wherever you are.”
The door opens and David’s friends—mine now as well—pour in. After hellos and hugs, they head for the table, helping themselves to salad and Sloppy Joes.
“Don’t you remember how he would stuff the sandwich in his mouth and then start to talk?”
“Are we going bowling afterward?”
“No, the exams this semester were terrible, and I had to do two make-ups.”
“…the skiing? Fabulous.”
“…what do you mean, miluim [reserve duty]?”
“Who are you dating now?”
“No, Hadas couldn’t be here tonight; she’s still in Goa.”
“Where is that cat? Do you need help cutting her nails? We could sit on her like Dave did.”
“No, I am not helping you with that cat. I still have the scars from the last time!”
“Hard to believe that Dave would have been 25 today.”
Silence. Rami squeezes my hand and says, “Pass me another Sloppy Joe, will you, Ev?”
Another year, another yom Kippur, 6:30 P.M. and Ne’ila but no fasting, no honey cake.
“In the Book of Life, blessing, peace and good sustenance, may these young people be remembered and sealed before Thee for a happy life and for peace.”
You owe me, God. Seal them so David can live through them.
“Uplift our depressed hearts and strengthen us with the comforting solace of Thy presence.”
If You do not, we will strengthen and comfort each other.
And again a knocking on the door, but this time it is the friends and their voices—David’s legacy—drowning out the trumpeting of the shofar from the nearby synagogue.
