Our dear father’s levayah was on Veterans Day, 2012. How befitting that a man who invested 21 years of his life in service to this country in the United States Army would have his burial on that day.
Of all the myriad titles that my father successfully and valiantly achieved and earned in his lifetime, the ones that were most valued and cherished, and of which he was most proud, were “Dad” and “Zayde Jack.” His family always came first, above all else, and his deep love and devotion for my dear mother, a”h, for my sister, and for me were a blessing and special gift from Hashem to us.
How is it possible to put into a few words a 21-year military career of dedication to serving our country and K’lal Yisroel—reaching out, protecting, caring, and saving thousands of Yiddishe neshamos, Jewish souls? My father was the link to Yiddishkeit for so many soldiers who clung to him, turned to him, and depended on him spiritually, emotionally, and physically. Rabbi Jack, as he was fondly called, was Hashem’s shaliach, and his life was devoted to and immersed in doing Hashem’s work. He accomplished great feats, rose above many challenging life situations, and did so much for so many.
My father taught by example—selflessness and caring for others before himself. He was always remembered for his beautiful, radiant smile and his endearing way of greeting every human being with sever panim yafos.
He was a career military chaplain and succeeded in achieving the high and distinguished rank of Colonel. He was the highest-ranking Jewish chaplain in the United States Army in his time. My father taught us the power of reaching out to others and having emunah in Hashem. He did an abundance of kiruv work in the Army and prevented much intermarriage from taking place. His chaplain’s office—whether in the United States, in the many places where he was stationed, or in Europe—was a safe haven for soldiers who were alone and away from their families and loved ones. He gave chizuk and guidance, held them, comforted them, and consoled them.
Dad and Mom’s home was a home with an open door and open hearts. I remember many visits from soldiers at all hours of the day and night. The young Jewish soldiers were always guests at our Shabbos table. The warmth in my parents’ home was palpable. With the immense, dedicated, and unified efforts of both our parents, whether in the States or in Europe, my sister and I were privileged and blessed to be raised in a home that was filled with Torah and chesed.
My father was a man of the world, yet he was firmly steeped in Torah values. He could give divrei Torah on any subject.
Dad had great emunah and was always confident that Yad Hashem, the hand of G-d, protected him always. This was especially evident during his year in Vietnam. He told us of a bunk bed that he slept in, in a hut surrounded by other huts of soldiers. A grenade and artillery attack was made on their camp. The attack leveled all the huts surrounding my father’s hut and killed and injured many of the soldiers in those huts. Even the soldier who was sleeping in the lower bunk of the same bed as my father was injured. Dad, who was sleeping on the top bunk, was untouched by any shrapnel. He considered this a true miracle, and only one of the many signs that he had of the shield of Hashem with him at all times. Although there was always constant danger on the battlefield, Dad put up the first sukkah in Vietnam for the young Jewish soldiers.
To my father, every Jewish neshamah was sacred. While flying in a helicopter over the battlefield, my father heard over the radio that there was a man wounded who had to be left because it was too dangerous to go down on the ground to get him. He called in to his commander and asked the name of the wounded soldier. They would not give the name, as this was against protocol, so he pulled some strings and some “rank” and called another source. He found out that the soldier had a Jewish name. He instructed the helicopter pilot to turn back and go down to pick up the wounded soldier. The pilot tried to convince my father not to go down into this dangerous territory, but my father insisted and was able to bring the soldier into the helicopter and take him to safety. He would never leave a Jewish soldier to die, even if it meant risking his own life to save him. My father always joked that on that day, he got a slight “demotion” for not following protocol and the commander’s orders, but he knew for sure that he got a “promotion” in Shamayim—and that’s all that really mattered.
My father was awarded many medals and was highly decorated over his 21-year career for his valiant and dedicated service to our country. He received two Legion of Merit awards for his meritorious conduct in performance of outstanding service. It is rare for this award to be given even once in an officer’s career, but my father received it twice.
When my sister and I were in our mid-teens, my father commuted to Fort Dix, New Jersey, where he was stationed at that time. He was the Chief Jewish Chaplain there. My mother stayed with us in New York so that my sister and I could continue in the yeshivah high school we were attending. After my father completed his years at Fort Dix, the government offered him another three-year tour in Europe. They told him that as soon as he went overseas, he would be promoted to General. This would have given him the honor of being the first Jewish Chaplain General in the history of the United States Army. Although this would have been very tempting to most, my father, without any hesitation, declined the offer. He knew that uprooting his family at this juncture would be detrimental for us and that we would not have the Yiddishe schooling and socialization he knew were so important for his teenage daughters. My father never looked for any honor or kavod. His family came first. He was an anav—a humble man, a true tzadik.
Another clear example of Dad’s emunah in Hashem was when he was being wheeled into the operating room for major surgery. I was with him as they were about to wheel him in. The nurse took his blood pressure, and it was a perfect 120/80. She was shocked, as most patients about to undergo such a procedure are agitated and very nervous. They often have such elevated blood pressure levels that it is sometimes necessary to cancel surgery. When the nurse asked my father how he was able to be so calm, his response to her was simply, “I have nothing to worry about. G-d is watching over me. He is with me, taking care of me, and He will protect me.”
Emunah and bitachon—always.
My father was a chazan, and he was blessed with a beautiful voice. His davening on Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur moved the kehilah to tears. He and my mother met while singing in choir together at the Young Israel of Bushwick in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. It was the start of a life of “harmony” and love—a fabulous journey that separated them only in her death. They were two birds that flocked together, two hearts that beat as one. Our home was always filled with song, love, laughter, comfort, joy, and warmth.
My father never complained and never wanted to be a burden on anyone. He was the supreme giver—never a taker. The aide who helped Dad for the last few years of his life told us at his funeral that Dad was a “prince.” She said it was such an honor and a privilege to work for such a prince of a man—a perfect gentleman with a regal presence.
Although it has been many years since our parents were niftar, I still remember a beautiful analogy that one of the grandchildren shared at the shivah for my father. She compared Bubby Malky to a kallah at her wedding badeken, anxiously waiting to see her chasan coming toward her. The joy, excitement, and euphoria that they were feeling were as strong, if not stronger, than those felt by a chasan and kallah on their wedding day.
We know that together they are watching over us and over K’lal Yisroel, just as they did in life, doing their best to send refuos, yeshuos, shalom, and brachos for us all.
My father was a pillar of strength—a beacon of light.
Dad, you are our hero, and we salute you. As your yahrtzeit approaches, may your neshamah have an aliyah.
By Esther Mochan
