A Miraculous Flight with Rishon LeZion Rabbi Mordechai Eliyahu
This story was told by Rabbanit Tzvia Eliyahu, the wife of Israel's former Chief Rabbi,
Rishon LeZion – Rabbi Mordechai Eliyahu. As incredible as it may seem, it is completely true.
“ This happened during a flight to Los Angeles.
My husband and I were sitting in business class, directly behind the pilots' cabin. At first, everything proceeded as usual. The El Al Boeing lifted off confidently from the Holy Land, gained altitude, and began its long flight. Six or seven hours passed. As usual, my husband did not waste a minute: a stack of books towered on the table in front of him, and he continued working on a halachic topic. Suddenly, I saw him close his book and become so focused that it looked as though he were praying while seated.
It was the middle of the night, an inappropriate time for prayer. I did not dare ask him what was happening. I pretended to continue reading my book, while secretly keeping an eye on the rabbi. His face had gone pale from the inner strain, and his lips were pressed into a narrow line. Something unusual was happening, but I could not understand what.
The plane's engines hummed peacefully, the cabin lights were dimmed, and most of the passengers had fallen asleep. Suddenly, the door to the cockpit opened. One of the pilots emerged and walked straight toward our seats. His movements betrayed anxiety and confusion. The pilot kept his eyes fixed on my husband's face, which stood out brightly in the semi-darkness, illuminated by the small lamp directed at his books.
“May I speak with Israel's Chief Rabbi?” the pilot whispered to me.
“You can see,” I replied in an equally quiet voice, “that the rabbi is immersed in thought. Is it urgent?”
“Yes,” he said, hesitating slightly. “The instruments are showing a fuel leak from the tanks that cannot be repaired in flight. The captain knows that Rabbi Mordechai Eliyahu is on board and is asking him to do something.
“Can't we land at some airfield and repair the plane?” I asked.
“We are currently in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. The nearest airfield is an enormous distance away,” the pilot replied.
“What if we turn aside and land on one of the islands?”
“No. With a leak like this, there will not be enough fuel to reach any island.”
“Are you saying that we are going to crash into the ocean soon?”
“Not soon,” the pilot said, glancing around. “But the gauge showing the fuel level is moving frighteningly quickly to the left. At this rate of consumption, the plane will begin descending in about an hour and a half.”
All kinds of thoughts began swirling through my mind.
“I am no longer young, and I have accomplished much. But what about the two younger children we brought with us, sleeping peacefully somewhere behind us in the economy cabin? They are only just beginning their lives!”
A second later, I was ashamed of my own thoughts. There were several hundred people aboard the plane, and I was thinking only of myself and my children!
“Mordechai,” I said to my husband, “Mordechai, we are in danger!”
But the rabbi paid no attention whatsoever to my words. He sat with his eyes closed, deeply focused on something. I called him several more times, but he did not respond.
The pilot stood beside my seat, observing the rabbi with me. About ten minutes passed before my husband quietly said, without opening his eyes:
“Tell the pilot that the captain should continue flying to Los Angeles. He should not land at any airfield along the way. From this moment on, the fuel gauge will not move.”
The pilot nodded in military fashion, as though acknowledging receipt of an order, and hurried back to the cockpit. I rose from my seat and went to my boys. One of them was asleep, like most of the passengers, while the other was studying an open volume of Talmud. His face, illuminated by the bright light of the small lamp, resembled his father's. No one around us had any idea what kind of tragedy was unfolding in the cockpit.
As I returned, I noticed from a distance the pilot standing in the aisle near our seats. The rabbi remained deeply focused, and the pilot did not dare disturb him. When he saw me, he sighed with relief.
“The captain asked me to tell you,” he said quietly, “that the leak has stopped. The fuel-consumption gauge is standing still, as though the engines were not running. We are flying without using any fuel! It is impossible, but it is happening!”
About an hour passed. The rabbi did not open his eyes during that entire time. Perspiration covered his face, and his tightly pressed lips had turned white. I could not sit still and visited the boys several times. I desperately wanted to share what was happening with someone; the burden weighed heavily on my shoulders. But I understood that if the peacefully sleeping passengers learned the truth, the calm atmosphere on the plane would give way to panic and despair. I was forced to remain silent. No one except the pilots and my husband and me could know anything.
Time dragged on endlessly. I prayed for only one thing: that the rabbi would have the strength to endure such a burden. Three and a half hours later, the pilot I had already met emerged from the cockpit and stopped beside us again.
“We are flying over the continent,” he said. “The danger has passed. There is enough fuel in the tanks to reach Los Angeles. It is simply beyond comprehension!”
The rabbi opened his eyes and quietly said in a voice filled with exhaustion:
“Tell the captain that from this moment, the plane should return to its normal operating mode.”
The pilot nodded and returned to the cockpit. I called a flight attendant and asked her to bring the rabbi some mineral water. He recited a blessing and slowly began to drink. Each sip came with difficulty. I could see that he was completely exhausted.
The pilot emerged from the cockpit again.
“The gauge has started moving down,” he reported. “All systems are functioning normally, and the leak has not resumed. We have about an hour left until our destination. We do not even know how to thank the rabbi.”
After landing, the pilots came out of the cockpit and asked my husband for a blessing.
“Perhaps the honored rabbi would agree to compose a special prayer for us?” the captain asked. “A prayer for pilots.”
Rabbanit Eliyahu did not speak about the incident for many years, until the text of a prayer attached to the wall of the cockpit on El Al aircraft happened to fall into the hands of a journalist.
(R. Yaakov Shachter)
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