Hidden in the Rosh Hashanah machzor lies a portal connecting us to the thrilling world of Jewish folklore that blurs the line between fantasy and history. Embedded in the Shacharit tefilot a seemingly insignificant acrostic begs: “Elchanan my son, may he live for long days, for eternal life may he be inscribed. Amen, Selah.” This plea calls out to us in the form of a piyut—a Jewish liturgical poem—written by Shimon HaGadol of Mainz in the 11th century CE. But, who is Elchanan, and what events conspired for Shimon HaGadol to write this piyut on his behalf?
Rav Shimon Hagadol was a Talmudic master and uncle of arguably the most celebrated Jewish thinker of all time, Rashi. He also contributed massively to the establishment of Ashkenaz (modern day Germany and Northern France) as a centre of Jewish life and learning in the Middle Ages.
As such, Rav Shimon was a rather busy man. During the daytime, he opened his study to provide counsel to his quarreling congregants and anxious students. His evenings, though, were reserved for his son. While the townsfolk prepared their suppers, Rav Shimon and Elchanan could be heard toddling together down the banks of the Rhine, singing the aleph bet and dancing as they walked. And although Elchanan’s hands were barely large enough to grip the pieces, the two always shared a game of chess before Elchanan was put to bed. At nighttime, Rav Shimon locked himself in his study, reading by candlelight until dawn.
One night, while engrossed in his sefarim, Rav Shimon heard a crash. He sprang out of his chair and sprinted toward the source of the noise: Elchanan’s room. But he was too late. Across the pillow where the child’s payos had lain just moments before, a wooden cross basked in the moonlight.
Rav Shimon fasted for weeks. He tore his garbs and wandered the countryside for days on end, calling out to God for an answer to his suffering. He no longer allowed others into his office, spending every moment in his study, scribbling poems and prayers pleading for his stolen son’s safety.
Over the years, Rav Shimon came to terms with the possibility that he may never see Elchanan again. However, as one wound healed, countless more were torn open—and by the same knife.
Night after night, with swords in their belts and hatred in their hearts, Christians from the surrounding villages terrorized the Jews of Mainz. The floor of the synagogue grew more and more crowded with mourners until the entire community was whispering Kaddish together. Rav Shimon could not bear to witness his community suffering as he had. So one morning, in a fit of divine courage, he mounted his horse and set off for Rome to meet the Pope and beg him to instill mercy in the hearts of Europe’s Christians.
When he arrived at the Vatican, Rav Shimon—safeguarded by Hashem—strode through the gates unimpeded. At the end of a great hall, Pope Andreas sat in his papal robes and cap. As Rav Shimon approached, something about the Pope’s face unsettled him. It was so familiar, as if it were his own in a past lifetime. But before Rav Shimon could consider this peculiarity, the Pope insisted Rav Shimon share his grievances over a game of chess.
As they began their match, their moves mirrored one another almost perfectly. Until, as the endgame approached, Pope Andreas stunned Rav Shimon with a breathtaking maneuver. Rav Shimon immediately recognized the move, for it was of his own creation. He had never shared it with anyone before—except for one person: Elchanan.
Rav Shimon gasped. With tears in his eyes, he raised his gaze to meet the face of the man before him.
“Elchanan, my son?” he whimpered.
The Pope said nothing.
Through quaking breaths, Rav Shimon began to sing the aleph bet.
The melody sank into the deepest depths of the Pope’s mind, unlocking long forgotten memories of Mainz—of the Rhine and the old synagogue but, most of all, of his father. With tears streaming down his cheeks, Elchanan yanked off the golden cross that had hung heavy by his heart for so many years. Sobbing, Rav Shimon embraced his son. Finally, his prayers had been answered.
From here, accounts diverge. Some conclude that Elchanan abdicated the papacy and returned to Mainz where, with his father’s guidance, he returned to Judaism. Others assert that after meeting Rav Shimon, Elchanan grew so disillusioned by his own existence that he threw himself off a Church spire to his death.
In either instance, Elchanan and Rav Shimon’s legacies live on through us in our annual participation in Rosh Hashanah services. As such, we have a duty to embrace the essential message of Shimon HaGadol’s life, especially now. We must strive to believe that where there is great tragedy, there is also great hope.
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