to the woman from Lakewood who sent me a note about Shattered

Could you please email me? debbieshapiroofjerusalem@gmail.com

Debbie

A trip up North published in Binah

Some Things Never Change

---A Trip to the Galilee

By Debbie Shapiro

When Azamra Seminary in Beit Shemesh invited me to join their girls on a two day trip to the north of Israel, I was excited at the thought of getting away for a couple of days and spending time in parts of Israel that I hadn't seen since my own seminary days, some thirty-nine years ago (gulp). But when they told me that Rebbetzin Heller would be coming with us to provide insights into the kivrei tzaddikim, well, the word "thrilled" would be an understatement. Although I'm no stranger to the mekomos hatzaddikim – after all, they're just a bus ride away -- I never really learned about the tzaddikim's lives and how standing at their graves should impact my tefillos.

Monday morning I joined Yona and Rebbetzin Heller in a taxi that took us to the the Beit Shemesh highway, where we boarded the bus with the rest of the group. By ten thirty, we had arrived at the kever of Rabi Meir Baal Haness and his wife, Bruria.

There's something about the exquisite pristine beauty of Eretz Yisrael that causes the tears to well in my eyes. Yes, the world is full of majesty and splendor, but the beauty of Eretz Yisrael is different, for I know that these Hashem Himself granted these precious mountains and valleys to us as a holy nachala, a yerusha forever, and therefore spiritual connection is deep and all encompassing. The large imposing building housing the tomb of Rabi Meir Baal Haness is located halfway up a mountain overlooking the Kinneret. The combination of shimmering blue water reflecting the towering mountains leaves one breathless.

Sitting on the steps outside the kever, Rebbetzin Heller spoke about the inherent holiness of Eretz Yisrael and why we travel to the kivrei tzaddikim. She explained that Hashem wants us to attach ourselves to the tzaddik's merit since the tzaddikim are yesodei olam, foundations of the world. Just as a building needs a foundation to remain steady, we need the stability of attaching ourselves to the tzaddik's kedusha to keep ourselves from toppling. Although tzaddikim led very real lives – they ate and drank, and faced plenty of challenges -- they were successful in finding Hashem within all these mundane activities.

Since the Maharal explains that the more we identify with the tzaddik, the greater our sense of attachment, Rebbetzin Heller told us a little bit about Rabi Meir's life and the kochos that he exemplified. He was one of the main codifiers of the Mishna; whenever a Mishna is quoted without a name, we assume that Rabi Meir Baal Haness was the speaker.

The Tanaim and Amoraim lived in the time of gzeiros shmad, when the Romans ruled Eretz Yisrael and decreed that it was forbidden to keep Torah and mitzvos, which is the reason so many of them moved to the rugged and mountainous Galil, far from probing Roman eyes. After the Romans executed Rabi Meir's father-in-law Rabi Chananiah ben Teradyon –one of the ten martyrs – and his wife for teaching Torah, they imprisoned their daughter, Rabi Meir's sister-in-law. Rabi Meir tried to bribe the guard to release her, but the guard was afraid that when his supervisor would discover that the girl was missing, he would have him executed. Rabi Meir told him to take half the money for himself, and use the other half to bribe the officials.

"But what will happen when I don't have anymore money to bribe the supervisor?" the guard asked.

Rabi Meir told him to recite the words, "Elokai d'Meir aneini," "G-d of Meir, answer me," and he would be saved.

"But how can I be sure that these words will really save me?" asked the guard.

Rabi Meir walked toward a pack of man-eating dogs that threatened to tear him apart. Then he cried, "Elokai d'Meir, aneini," and the dogs turned around and left him alone.

The guard was convinced that he'd be saved and released Rabi Meir's sister-in-law.

Although at first the guard was able to bribe his supervisor, eventually the money was used up and the guard was arrested and sentenced to death by hanging. But when the rope was tied around his neck, he cried out, "Elokai d'Meir, aneini," and, to everyone's amazement, the rope tore and he was saved.

"This Roman soldier had no merit," explained Rebbetzin Heller. "Yet, because he attached himself to the tzaddik – held on to someone much greater than himself – he evoked Rabi Meir's merit –'Elokai d'Meir aneini,' 'G-d of Meir, answer me,' and experienced a miracle.  Just as he had full trust in Rabi Meir's promise (otherwise he would have never endangered his life like that!) we have to believe that Hashem is all-powerful and can turn around a seemingly hopeless situation. We can daven and evoke Hashem's mercy; we can plead for the seemingly impossible, because it is within Hashem's power to give it to us. There is no such thing as despair."

As I stood in front of Rabi Meir's kever, davening to find a solution for a seemingly irresolvable problem, I, too, was infused with renewed hope. After all, if a Roman soldier could be saved through simple emuna, then there's hope for me as well.

After leaving Rabi Meir Baal Haness, we passed by the gravesites of Moshe Rabbeinu's wife, Tziporah; sister, Miriam; and mother, Yocheved, as well as Rabi Akiva's wife, Rochel. Rebbetzin Heller pointed out that whereas with the other graves in the Galil, we know their location from either a chain of tradition or through the Ari z"l's ruach hakodesh, the sites of these graves were determined according to a dream, and therefore cannot be verified.

Our next stop was banana boating on the Kineret. For the uninitiated, banana boating is somewhat akin to water skiing; a speed boat pulls a long banana-like tube through the water, while the passengers – who sit on the tube horseback-riding style -  hold on for dear life!  Until recently, the bananas were made in such a way that they would almost inevitably turn over, dumping their screaming (life jacket encased) passengers into the cold water. For obvious reasons, the government passed a law that the boats had to be built so that no matter how bumpy the ride, they would remain upright in the water.

Don't get me wrong; I love fun and, for a woman who passed the forty five year old mark over a decade ago, I'm really quite adventurous. But somehow, the idea of banana boating seemed, well, s-c-a-r-y. Rebbetzin Heller, however, thought otherwise. On the bus ride from Beit Shemesh to Tiveria, as she told me about the joy of holding on for dear life as the boat plunged through the waves, falling off into the icy-cold water (before the new law!) and then somehow climbing back on to the slippery tube, my first reaction was NEVER! But after I saw her enthusiasm and anticipation, I changed my mind. After all, if she could do it, then why can't I?

As I gingerly made my way down the stony slope to the shore, I felt my excitement growing. Bubby was really going banana boating – my einikalach will be so proud of me! But – whew!--  it was not meant to be. All the boats were filled to capacity, and I ended up sitting on the "tornado" the term that very aptly describes the speed boat that pulls the banana. So yes, this bubby had no bananas (that really tells my age!) but I did have a tornado, and that was scary enough for me! And yes, Rebbetzin Heller joined the other girls on the banana, and they all had a fabulous time doing it – while I enjoyed every moment sitting at the water's edge, watching the boat twirl through the waves. 

Our next stop was at the kvarim of Rambam and the Shlah Hakodesh in Tiveria. Rebbetzin Heller told us how the Rambam had led a very difficult life. Exiled from Spain, he fled to Egypt where he became the official leader of the Jewish community. In addition to his responsibilities to his brethren, he was forced to become Sultan Saladin's personal physician. In the evening, after returning home exhausted from his duties to both the Jewish community and the Sultan, he would see the many patients who were waiting for him. Only then, in the late hours of the night, would he finally sit down to write his seforim. Yet, despite his heavy schedule, he succeeded in writing the encyclopedic Mishneh Torah and the Guide to the Perplexed, among others. From this we learn that although we cannot control the challenges that Hashem gives us, when it comes to ruchniyus, it is within our ability to reach the greatest heights. "When you daven," Rebbetzin Heller concluded, "let the Rambam be your example of someone who accomplished despite incredible odds, and aim for the heights."

From the Rambam and the Shlah Hakodesh, we drove to the top of Mt. Arbel, which soars to more than 181 meters above sea level. Standing upon its cliffs, we could see the Golan, the Kinneret and even Har Chermon! Under Roman rule, a small settlement of Jews lived on this mountain top, where the remains of an ancient synagogue were discovered. The settlement's most famous resident was Rabi Nitai Ha'arbeli, who said, "Keep far from an evil neighbor and do not associate with the wicked, and do not abandon belief in retribution" (Pirkei Avos 1:7) (footnote: Artscroll translation).

 

While our guide, Yona, led the girls – and Rebbetzin Heller – down the steep path to the bottom of the cliff, a hike which is rated by the nature authorities as "l'miteivei lechet," "for excellent walkers," (one category that I do not fit into!) I took the bus to the meeting point, where I enjoyed communing with a herd of goats and strolling along a meandering stream, a quiet interlude of peace and tranquility on a very busy day! 

 

[picture: Shortly before we arrived on Mt. Arbel, a car drove off the cliff. This is the medic, who had just returned from rescuing the driver, who sustained several broken bones.]

From Mt. Arbel we continued on to Chatzor, to the tomb of Choni Hamaagal. During a draught in Eretz Yisrael, the chachamim asked Choni Hamaagel to pray for rain. Choni drew a circle, stood inside of it and proclaimed, "Ribono shel Olam! I swear that I will not move from here until you have mercy on your children and send a good and blessed rain." The Chachamim were upset with Choni. What chutzpah! How could he, so to speak, force Hashem to send rain? Choni explained that he is similar to a son in his Father's house, and a son can request whatever he wants. "When we daven," concluded the Rebbetzin, "we are like children coming to our Father and we should ask Him for whatever we need."  

At supper that evening, Rebbetzin Heller spoke about Parshas Noach. "The flood was the worst catastrophe to ever take place. It was absolute destruction; nothing was left. How do you think Noach was able to continue after that?"

The answer, of course, is emuna. But then she pointed out the difference between Moshe Rabbeinu and Noach's emuna. When Hashem told Noach that He is about to destroy the world, Noach accepts that as Hashem's Will. But when Hashem told Moshe Rabbeinu that He was going to destroy the Jewish People, Moshe Rabbeinu extended himself to the point of self sacrifice to annul that decree. "It's up to each of us to do our hishtadlus," she explained, "yet, at the same time, we have to understand that the world will unfold according to Hashem's Will."

The girls asked questions about what is the proper measure of hishtadlus and how to prioritize. "How do we know where to focus our emotional and physical energy?" one girl asked. The Rebbetzin explained that we should focus on the things that will still be important five years from now. "Yes, some things are urgent, and they must to be taken care of, and sometimes they must be taken care of immediately, but don't waste too much mental energy on that. Stick to the important things."

Later on, I joined the girls for a kumsitz. Sitting in a circle in the candle-lit lounge, singing slow songs of dveikus and yearning, I almost felt as though I had gone back in time thirty-nine years to my own sem year at Machon Sara Schneirer -- except that I didn't know any of the songs! But the room was dark, so I just hummed along and enjoyed every moment of the achdus and harmony.

The following day was spent davening in Meiron, touring a winery, hiking down a river and then up a waterfall, and dancing on a boat as it circled the Kinneret. The day also brought home to me just how much I have changed. As young as I may sometimes feel, I'm far from being the agile, surefooted girl that I was at age eighteen. One difficult hike alongside a river was enough to teach me that I should stick to the straight and even asphalt. But although I slipped in the rushing waters, and needed several helping hands to climb down a ravine, I was amazed at the girls' patience when my snail paced hiking kept them from rushing ahead to greater and more exciting adventures. And so, while I have definitely changed over the years, some things—such as good middos – will always remain the same, and that's what is really important.

A COMPLETE HEALING

A Complete Healing

By Debbie Shapiro

The following story is true. Names and identifying details were changed for the sake of privacy.

It was an icy-cold winter evening. The streets were dark and deserted and covered with snow. The snow had piled into huge mounds that covered the gutters and blocked the sidewalks, keeping all but the most determined residents of Yerushalayim confined to the warmth and safety of their own homes. No one -- except, perhaps, for a few children who were excited at the rare opportunity to build an igloo or snowman -- would venture out in such conditions. According to the newspapers, Yerushalayim hadn't been hit by such a fierce storm in over fifty years.

My husband and I wrapped ourselves in layers of sweaters and heavy wool stockings before setting out to speak with Rabbi Yisrael Yaakov Fisher, the beloved sage of Yerushalayim's Beis Din, Rabbinical Court.

Our family had been going through an extremely difficult time. A few weeks before, my mother, may she live and be well, was hospitalized for a minor surgical procedure. To our distress, she ended up with blood poisoning. To make things even more complicated, the Israeli doctors had never encountered the specific germ that was causing the infection, and therefore had no idea which antibiotics they should use to combat it. So she was, as one doctor termed it, "bombed with every type of antibiotic available.” He hoped one of them would work.

There is usually a long line of people waiting to speak with Rabbi Fisher. Much to our delight, we were the only ones to have braved the inclement weather. The Rav was able to give us his undivided attention.

My husband waited for me in the anteroom while I entered the rabbi's study. After hearing the details of my mother's strange illness, Rabbi Fisher asked for my mother’s name, the names of both her parents, and my father's name. He carefully wrote the names on a small sheet of paper and then spent a few minutes making calculations and drawing an elaborate diagram.

"The names are fine. There's no problem there," he finally said.

I breathed a sigh of relief.  Rabbi Fisher was famous for his unique ability to check combinations of names and their inherent spiritual qualities to see if they are compatible. In kabalistic tradition, a name defines the essence of a person. Frequently, couples on the verge of a divorce would come to ask his advice on how to repair their marriage and end up leaving his study with new identities.  Amazingly enough, this name change would often bring about a radical change in their shalom bayis, domestic harmony.

But if the names weren't causing the problem, then what was?

I waited for the great sage to continue, but he remained silent, deep in thought. Suddenly, he threw me a sharp glance before looking down at the list of names again. "Do you have a grievance against your mother?" he asked slowly.

I did not answer immediately; I could not answer immediately. I realized that I was trembling.

My father passed away when I was an infant. Until I turned five, my mother was what is known today as a "single parent." I remember that we were very poor. In addition to single-handedly raising her four small children, my mother worked full time to afford the bare necessities. As an adult, I realize that it must have been very difficult for her, but I remember her always smiling and singing, although she was probably crying inside.

Despite her loneliness and our lack of financial resources, I had a wonderful childhood, at least until my fifth birthday. Although my mother worked during the day, she devoted the evenings to her four children. I have vague memories of summer picnics in the park and long cozy bedtime stories while snuggling under the heavy down quilt that kept us warm in our chilly Yerushalayim apartment. I realized that we were different from other families, but nevertheless I felt secure in my mother's love and was happy with the way things were.

All that changed, however, on my fifth birthday. My mother married a young widower who had five small children of his own. Suddenly her love had to be divided among nine young children who were constantly clamoring for attention. I felt there wasn't enough left over for me.

Since I was the youngest of our new, large, "blended" family, and therefore the most vulnerable, I became the object of much unpleasant teasing, and on more than one occasion, physical attacks. As an adult, I realize that my older "siblings" were just children trying to cope with a major change in their own lives. But at the time, I was devastated.

To make matters worse, we moved from the cozy apartment that I loved -- but that was too small for our blended family -- into a spacious, unfriendly two-story house. I was even forced to share a bedroom with a stranger who took great pleasure in hitting me when no one was looking! I couldn't understand why my mother had done this to me. Why did she have to remarry? Everything was just fine before.

My mother often tells a story about those first difficult years, when we were struggling to become one family. It was the day of my kindergarten's Purim party. My father (yes, today I call him my father -- after all, he's the only father I know) was in the middle of eating breakfast before leaving to work. Flushed with excitement, I raced down the stairs and into the kitchen to show my mother how beautiful I looked in my Queen Esther outfit.

My father took one look at me and with a quizzical look on his face, he turned to my mother. "Rebbetzin," he said (for some reason he always called my mother Rebbetzin), "you didn't tell me that we're having such important company this morning. If I had known, I would have worn my hat and tie."

I stopped in my tracks and threw my father a scornful look. Then, I tiptoed to my mother and whispered in her ear, "Mommy, did you hear what he just said? I told you that he is stupid. He doesn't even realize that it's really me and not Queen Esther! Why in the world did you marry such an idiot?"

By the time I was ready to marry and start building my own home, we had become one family. In addition to raising the two blended families, my mother was kept very busy taking care of the new "common factor" -- my younger brothers and sisters.

It's funny how childish emotions can get in the way of what we know to be true. Of course, my mother's remarriage was for everyone's good. I feel very close to my stepfather, and the bond between the two families has become so strong that at times I actually forget who are my “real” siblings, and who are just "steps."

I hate to think what might have happened had my mother never remarried. Most probably, she would have become a tired, bitter woman instead of the vibrant and busy wife, mother and grandmother that she is today.

Although I realized she had done the right thing in rebuilding her life, I still harbored anger. Deep within myself, I was five-years-old and forced to share my beloved mother with strangers. Logically, it made no sense. But the grievance was still there, pressing painfully against my heart.

I didn't tell Rabbi Fisher the entire story. I just answered, "Yes, I am harboring a grievance toward my mother."

The sage threw me a quick, penetrating look. It felt as if his eyes were boring into my soul. "Are you willing to let go of that grievance for your mother's recovery?" he gently asked.

I had to pause and think for a few moments. Could I really let go of something that ran so deep? Could I overcome my childish emotions?

My eyes were brimming with tears. I quickly looked away. Finally, in a choked voice, I told the rabbi that I could. I knew that I had no choice. I would have to let go of that grievance. I would have to find the courage to forgive and move on.

Rabbi Fisher quickly stood up and told me that he was going to call in a beis din, an impromptu court comprised of three rabbis. I was petrified. Would I have to tell them everything?

The actual hataras nedarim -- the formal renunciation of a past vow or, in this case, a grievance -- took just a few seconds. When it was over, Rabbi Fisher smiled and said, "Your mother will have a refuah sheleima, a complete recovery."

As I left the rabbi's study, my emotions were in turmoil. My husband was waiting for me in the outer hall, and together we started trudging through the thick snow. Despite the heavy clothing that was weighing me down, I felt light, as though a stone had been lifted off my heart. I knew that although I had come to ask Rabbi Fisher to pray for my mother's recovery, I had also been cured. I felt free, like a bird, ready to wing its way to new heights.

That same evening, the laboratory succeeded in identifying the germ that was causing my mother’s infection. Armed with that information, the head of the infectious diseases department was able to determine which antibiotics would be most effective. Within a few days, my mother was discharged from the hospital. After a few months of rest, she returned to her former vibrant self.

* * *

Rabbi Yisrael Yaakov Fisher passed away the following morning. The Jews of Yerushalayim were stunned and mourned the loss of their beloved sage. Despite the heavy snow, thousands of people braved the weather to accompany Rabbi Fisher on his final journey.

When my husband and I heard the news, we were, of course, shocked. But at the same time, we were extremely grateful to have been one of the last to benefit from Rabbi Yisrael Fisher’s incredible wisdom. May his memory be for a blessing.

Shadows of the Past Published in Binah December 20, 2010

Shadows of the Past

As told to Debbie Shapiro

It's not easy to carry a secret inside of your heart, yet, I carried my secret for over forty years. I tried not to let if affect me, but as I later learned, it was silently impacting my life. The traumatic event that I tried so hard to forget haunted my life, looming like an ominous clould, shading my every move.

By the time I was almost thirteen, my older siblings had all married, and only my older brother, Steve (who almost seventeen at the time,) and I were living at home. We had a lot in common – we were both pudgy, with glasses, freckles and buck teeth. I was a prolific reader, and would let my imagination run wild as I dived into the world of fantasy. Steve loved science, was an amateur ham radio operator, and in his spare time, puttered around the basement building strange contraptions that were supposed to be useful, but rarely were.

I remember lying in bed one night, trying unsuccessfully to fall asleep. I thought it was my imagination – perhaps I had read too many scary mystery novels – but I heard strange scraping sounds and muffled yells coming from the basement below me, where Steve slept. I was petrified. Was there a robber inside the house? Was the bogey man doing something terrible to my brother? Although I wanted to run to my parents, to tell them of my fears, I felt foolish. After all, I was almost a teenager, and much too mature to let a silly nightmare frighten me. I tried reasoning with myself, to calm my pounding heart, and somehow managed to convince myself that the creaking, scratching sounds, and the strange, guttural noises were nothing more than our old house settling in for the night. The noises finally stopped, and when all was quiet, I fell asleep.

The next morning, I was so exhausted that my mother had to literally pull me out of bed. I really wanted to remain securely cocooned in my warm, fleecy blankets. I was afraid that the strange noises would return. Looking back, I realize that although I didn't want to admit it to myself then, deep inside of me I knew the source of those noises.

My mother looked impatiently at her watch and told me to run downstairs to get Steve out of bed. "But Mom," I lied, "he's up already. I heard him brushing his teeth." I couldn't go downstairs to face the source of my nightmare.

Ten minutes later, my mom asked me again to go downstairs. She was getting upset; if he didn't hurry, he'd be late to school. This time, I had no excuse. And besides, the sane, reasonable part of me told me that I was being silly. So although I was petrified, I yelled Steve's name from the top of the stairs. When he didn't answer, I forced myself to go down the stairs to wake him up.

That's where I found him. At the bottom of the steps. Dead. Mutilated.

After that, time seemed to go in slow motion. My mind was racing as I ran up the steps. How could I break the news to my parents? What could I say to calm them? Somehow, I felt that I was responsible to protect them, to make it easier for them. I ran into the kitchen and found my parents sitting at the table, reading the paper while drinking their morning cups of coffee. In a voice that wasn't my own – oh, how I wanted to sound calm, but I couldn't – I screamed, "Call the police. Steve's…"

I didn't finish the sentence; I couldn't get that last word out. My parents raced downstairs and I ran after them. My father was the first one to see my brother. He quickly turned around and grabbed my mother, to protect her from viewing his mutilated body. For me, however, it was too late.

After that, I have no idea what happened. It's a huge blank. I have no memory of my father calling the police, or of the police coming to our home. As much as I've tried to put the pieces of that day together, I can't. The only other thing that I do remember is that sometime shortly after we discovered my brother's body, my mother told me to run over to our next door neighbor to tell him that Steve was dead. The neighbor had spent a lot of time with my brother, helping him with his experiments and teaching him all kinds of interesting tricks. When the neighbor's wife opened the door, I blurted out the news. I remember feeling strange – how do you tell someone something like that? Was I supposed to sound casual, as though this was an everyday occurrence? She looked at me in shock, and then went inside to call her husband to the door. But he wasn't home. We later learned that he was an escaped convict, a serial murderer who preyed on teenage boys. I know that there was a trial, and I also know that he was acquitted. But other than that, I don't really know what happened. My parents never discussed it with me.

My next memory is of the following day, the day of the funeral. I have no idea how I got there, but I was at my brother-in-law's parents' house. Their three teenage daughters were busy trying to decide what dress was most appropriate to wear. "I hope my mascara doesn't run," said one. "Try this eye liner" said the other. I felt strange; I wanted to cry and scream, but no one else seemed sad or upset. They were behaving as if they were getting ready for an interesting outing, rather than going to the funeral of a young man – my brother! – whose life had so abruptly come to an end. Instead of allowing myself to mourn and feel the pain, I made some inane comment about my dress being wrinkled and squeezed into the back seat of the car, together with the other girls. As we drove to the funeral home, I stared out the window at the rainy streets, and felt as if I was in a reality warp. People were walking back and forth, talking and enjoying life, while I was the strange one, out of sync with everyone else. Everywhere I looked, all I could see was my brother's mutilated body. I wanted to cry and scream; instead, I stared at the passing scenery and occasionally made a vain attempt at participating in the light banter going on around me.

No one cried at the funeral. Really, not a single person shed a tear. Everyone sat stony faced, as the rabbi spoke and recited some Tehillim in English. After my father recited Kaddish in a strange, husky voice, I was whisked back to the house while the other, older members of the family accompanied my brother on his final journey.

Although we had a very strong sense of Jewish identity, my family was far from being Orthodox, so we did not sit shivah. That afternoon, there was what I can only describe as a cocktail party in honor of my brother's death. Everyone stood around making small talk, while skirting the reason for our being together. Sometimes, after making a few jokes, sharing recipes, or talking business, one of the adults would sigh and say something about how we have to go on – after all, we're Jews, and Jews believe in life. My brother's name was never mentioned.

That was it. That was the last time I ever heard of my brother. For forty-five years – forty-five years! – his name has never been mentioned. It was as if he never existed, as if the memory was so painful that all my family could do was bury it deep in the ground, together with him. All our pain, all our love, all our emotions, were shoved into an iron box and securely sealed, never to be opened again.

I have very fragmented memories of the years following my brother's death. The first few days, after he died, I complained of nightmares; our family physician prescribed sleeping pills. No one bothered to ask me about my dreams, or how I was feeling. As strange as this must seem in today's world, where people seek professional help for every little problem, no one thought of sending me for therapy. It just wasn't done. This was the mid-sixties, and in those days people thought that psychological counseling was for the crazies. So we forced ourselves to "be strong," to smile and act normally. But that was exactly what it was; a huge act, a total farce. Inside, we were screaming in agony.

My brother was killed on the fifth day of Tishrei. I returned to school the day after his funeral. We lived in a small, Italian, working class enclave, surrounded by inner city slums. All the kids in my neighborhood attended the local Catholic high school – I remember watching them as they left their homes en masse, dressed in their plaid, pleated skirts and matching v-necked sweaters. But I attended a public inner-city junior high school. Other than a German girl named Heidi, I was the only white girl, and of course, the only Jewish girl. When I entered the classroom and quietly took my seat at the back of the room, I heard whispering and saw several heads turn. A few kids snickered and laughed, they were probably happy that another Jew was dead, but no one said a word to me about what had happened. The teacher smiled and said, "Glad to see you back," without mentioning my loss. At that moment, I realized that the subject of death, especially my brother's sudden, painful death, was taboo.

One memory that stands out in my mind is when my father asked me to go together with him when he hauled my brother's belongings to the nearest dump. He was extremely angry and drove very fast. When the freeway forked into two different directions, he found himself in the wrong lane and when he realized his mistake, tried to turn around to go back into the proper lane. The car spun out of control and we came within inches of crashing head on into the huge concrete pillar dividing the freeway. At that moment, I squeezed my eyes tightly closed and whispered, "Shema Yisrael…" I was sure that I was going to die, and I wanted to die as a Jew. After that, I remember feeling slightly embarrassed at my surge of religiosity, and confused as to its source.

Shortly after that, our family moved to a totally different neighborhood, this time, a Jewish neighborhood. My parents escaped into alcohol. Their evenings were spent at the local bar. When my father pulled the car into the driveway at night, he was often so drunk that he couldn't possibly get up the stairs – even with my help – and he'd end up sleeping on an old couch in the basement. My mother stopped cooking and cleaning; every night we ate out at a different restaurant, and lived in total chaos. Yet, every Sunday, when my sister and her husband would come for a family brunch, somehow we managed to gloss everything over so that it would appear normal. Once again, we were the happy, picture-perfect family and our house was full of laughter and light. But even as I played the game, I realized that it was nothing but a farce. Our home was not bursting with happiness. It was a dark, dreary place, full of dusty cobwebs and unspoken fears. I was living a dual life; on the outside, I was a normal teenager, talking with her friends on the phone half the night about absolutely nothing, but on the inside, I was miserable and confused, and bursting with unasked questions.

Fast forward forty something years. I had become religious, was happily married, a mother and grandmother of a large, growing family, and held down a great job – the epitome of the frum success story. Although I had suffered several life-threatening illnesses, baruch Hashem I was now basically healthy. I had also put on a few extra pounds with each successive pregnancy, and now I was much more than what we might kindly call pleasantly plump. When I started having problems with my sugar and cholesterol, I did some research into the dangers of obesity and realized that I had better lose the excess weight before I become another statistic. I made losing the weight a top priority

I joined our health insurance's weekly obesity clinic. Monday mornings were devoted to weigh-ins, and consultations with the clinic's dietician, psychologist and physician. Each week we had an hour long meeting, led by either a nurse, a dietician or a psychologist, where we learned about the different aspects of getting down to and maintaining a normal weight. The program was a lot of work, and it took a lot of time that I really couldn't spare, but I was motivated to attain my goal of a healthy weight.

In one session, the psychologist talked about how childhood experiences impact our lives. After a short introduction, she dimmed the lights, put on quiet, soothing music, and led us through a guided imagery exercise where we went back into time and experienced a negative incident from our pasts. At the beginning of the exercise, I found myself balking; that was one place I did not want to go! So even as I forced myself to focus on how I felt when the kids in grammer school taunted me with calls of "buck-tooth beaver," (thank G-d for orthodontists!) my mind kept on wandering to the day of Steve's death, and each time it did, I  forced it back to the less traumatic incident.

After we shared our experiences, the psychologist spoke to us about the impact of childhood trauma on our daily health. "It's important to go back to them, relive them and reframe them. The unconscious is very powerful, and if we don't resolve these issues, they can have a very negative impact on our entire life. They can even cause us to become sick or to engage in self-destructive behavior, such as overeating. Usually, when we view these incidents again, through the eyes of an adult, we see that they are not as bad as we thought they were."

Humph, I thought, if she were to know my secret… “not as bad as we thought they were,” she said…. On the very few occasions that I had shared this story with a friend, the resultant look of horror made me wish that I hadn't.

But the psychologist's words continued to haunt me… if we don't resolve these issues, they can have a very negative impact on our entire life. They can even cause us to become sick or to engage in self-destructive behavior, such as overeating. I felt like a hypocrite. Here I was putting so much time, energy and money into losing weight so that I could maintain my fragile health, yet, I balked at the idea of facing an issue which was quite possibly the source of my health problems. I decided to make an appointment with the clinic's psychologist.

The following Monday morning, I entered the psychologist's office. I wondered how I was going to break the news to her that the confident, successful woman that she knew, the one who always seemed so normal and on top of things, was really insane; after all, I was positive that the minute I'd tell her my story, she'd look at me as if I were some lunatic. After all, what type of person can be normal after lying in bed, listening to her brother being murdered? And who, in their right mind, talks about wrinkles in her skirt while getting ready to go to a funeral?

Yet, as I related the entire story, including some more graphic parts that I chose not to share with the reader, her expression remained passive and professional – as if hearing about young men being murdered was something she did on a regular basis! When I asked her if such a trauma could have serious repercussions on my health, she responded with a resounding yes. She suggested that I use guided imagery to relive the event with a psychologist.

That evening, my husband and I had a long talk. It had always bothered me that whenever I began to get emotional, I would somehow put a cap on it. I envied the women in shul who could daven so fervently, the tears coursing down their cheeks. As much as I tried, I always felt as though I was standing on the outside, observing, without really feeling – almost as though I was afraid of actually feeling something. I had no doubt that this, too, was a result of what had happened to me so many, many years before. My husband was proud that I was finally willing to face the bogeyman head on. He also felt that instead of speaking with the clinic's non-religious psychologist, I should see someone frum. Although it was much more expensive, he felt that it would be a good investment. He certainly didn't want a non-religious therapist delving into the depths of my soul.

What can I tell you? The first time I walked into the therapist's office, I felt like a real nutcase. Me, who everyone knew as responsible, and clear-thinking, seeing a shrink? But Mrs. E. was warm and accepting, and in no way made me feel that I was crazy. On several occasions she expressed her amazement that I had succeeded in living such a normal, productive life despite my background. As I faced my past, I discovered that it was not nearly as painful as studiously avoiding it. And after several sessions, for the first time in my life I was able to truly cry for a young man's life that was so tragically snuffed out before he had a chance to truly live.

Why do I feel that it is important for people to hear this story? Many of us are carrying baggage from the past that is relentlessly weighing us down and not allowing us to grow to our full potential. Without our even realizing it, that part of us is bubbling beneath the surface, impacting us in ways that we can't even understand. Although many of us were raised with the idea that needing help is a sign of weakness, in truth, asking for help when we need it is a sign of bravery. After all, it says in Pirkei Avos; “Eizehu gibor? Hakovesh es yitzro.”  And we can only begin learning to control our yetzer when it's our true selves,  rather than the dark echoes of the past, guiding us.

Fruits of Her Labor published December 11, Binah magazine

Title: Fruits of Her Labor

Subtitle: Radish rhapsody

Byline: Debbie Shapiro

Lead in:

Text

Friday morning: my hands were still sticky from kneading the challos and I was just about to place the dough back into the well-greased bowl and set it on the counter to rise. The first batch of onion cookies –my husband's favorite – were in the oven, and I was waiting for them to finish baking so that I could fulfill the mitzvah of tasting the food l'kavod Shabbos kodesh – and sit down with a cup of steaming hot coffee and a magazine while doing it.

Instead, the phone rang and I quickly wiped my doughy hands on the nearest towel and ran to pick it up before my answering machine. "Boker tov, Bubby. This is Rochie." I could hear the smile in my granddaughter's voice and almost see the mischievous sparkle in her eyes.

"Oh, Rochie," I answered, "How's everything?" I could sense that she was plotzing to tell me something.

"Mommy bought us a planter, and we planted some vegetables, right?" This was the first I heard about it, but I was all ears. She continued, "Well, the seed grew into a plant and now, b'kitzur, we have radishes."

"Oh." I waited for her to continue.

"So now, well, can I please speak to Zaidy. I have a...” she giggled in excitement and then continued in a very slow, grownup sounding voice, "I need to ask Zaidy a halachic she’eilah."

"Okay, I'll call Zaidy right now."

I went into my husband's study and, handing him the telephone said, "There's a young woman on the phone with a she’eilah. It's very important." I emphasized the word she’eilah, saying it very slowly so that Rochie would hear.

I watched my husband's expression turn from perplexed to serious to a huge Cheshire-cat-sized grin. In a very rabbinical voice he started peppering our twelve year old granddaughter with questions: "Where were the radishes planted?" "Ahh, was the planter made out plastic or was it earthenware?" "Plastic, so is there a hole on the bottom?" "Where was the planter? In the window? On top of the sill? Resting on the metal bars?"

"Ask her if the bars overlook a garden or the downstairs neighbor's porch…" I whisper, glad that I had paid attention to Rabbi Neuwirth, shlita, our Halachah teacher, when he taught us the halachos of terumos and maaseros.

"Ahah," I heard my husband respond. "I have to give this some thought. I'll call you back in a few minutes." Despite his serious tone, I could catch a hint of laughter.

Ten minutes later my husband walked into the kitchen and handed me the phone. "It's for you, Bubby," he said. His eyes sparkled with that special glint of nachas that is unique to grandparents.

"Bubby, there are three radishes."

"Three radishes," I repeated. "How nice."

"Three radishes. That's one for Mommy, one for Tatty, and one for you and Zaidy."

I could feel my eyes fill with tears. "Radishes are Zaidy's favorite vegetable. I'll put it in his salad."

A few days later – it was on my birthday -- my son came over to do some desperately needed repairs and give us our radish. There was a tiny slice missing. "Ah, this must be where she took off the terumos and maasaros," I said.

My son broke out in a huge grin. His face was shining. It was my birthday, and I had received the best present a grandmother could ever ask for – a tiny radish with a slice missing.

Rachem --

I just saw a video about Chayeinu, and wanted to share this very moving piece that I wrote close to four years ago. January 17, 2007 
Rachem (Have Mercy) 
By Debbie Shapiro

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"Rochela has it in the femur. The doctors had already given up hope. They're trying an experimental medicine. It seems to be working, thank God."

I was in a taxi, listening to Chaiyanu's dedicated director of volunteers describe the children I would meet that evening. We were on our way to a private concert, to hear the famed Jewish singer, Yaakov Shwekey, perform for a select group of child cancer patients.

An elegant five star hotel donated one of their simcha halls for the performance. There were light refreshments, a small stage, a sophisticated PA system, and, of course, a mechitza. It looked like a small, exclusive wedding reception. But instead of women in fancy evening gowns and men in suits and ties, many of the guests were in wheelchairs, and almost everyone's head was covered.

On our way into the hall, Chaiyanu's director of volunteers bent down to greet an adorable little girl. An oversized cap was perched on her hairless head; a silk scarf was wrapped around her distended neck. The director of volunteers introduced us. "This summer, Esterka traveled to New York to attend Camp Simcha," she said.

Esterka grinned. "I sang on stage, together with Shwekey." Her voice was rough and hoarse. But before we could continue she caught sight of a tiny waif of a girl, supported by two wooden crutches, navigating her way to the women's side of the mechitza. Esterka skipped across the room to greet her.

Esterka's mother, a middle-aged Yiddish speaking woman, wearing a black Yerushalmi tichel, her lace shawl modestly draped across her dark suit, started speaking. "Esterka takes morphine for the pain. Sometimes it is almost overwhelming. But whenever there's a special function, like tonight, or Chaiyanu's trip to Kibbutz Chafetz Chaim last week, the anticipation and joy literally banishes her physical discomfort."

Esterka is in the last stage of her terminal illness. The nurses at Hadassah told the Chaiyanu volunteer that works with her that it was time to begin saying goodbye.

A young woman walked over to me and introduced herself. "I'm Shaindy," she said, radiating health.

"You're a volunteer?" I asked. It was more a statement than a question.

"I'm finishing my first round of chemotherapy."

Our conversation was cut short by a little girl looking almost celestial in a flowing cream colored dress. "Shaindy! Look!" she cried, jumping into Shaindy's outstretched arms. "My eyebrows are growing back!" Her joy was palpable.

"And I'm just losing mine!" Shaindy laughed as she spun the girl around in the air. "But they'll grow back again soon." Her smile was real. (And I complain about having to pluck mine.)

The lights dimmed. Shwekey entered the hall. He immediately broke into a lively rendition of "shehechiyanu, v'kiymanu v'higianu l'zman hazeh," thanking Hashem "Who has kept us alive, sustained and brought us to this moment." The words blasted across the room. Conversation became impossible.

I peeped over the mechitza. The men were dancing in a circle. A teenage boy in a wheelchair, his face puffy and pasty-colored, was observing them. Meanwhile, his attendant administered oxygen. Someone else arranged the boy's pillows and helped him find a more comfortable position. The men started dancing before the youngster -- forwards, backwards -- exuberantly singing, almost yelling "shehechiyanu, v'kiymanu v'higianu l'zman hazeh." One danced a kedatchke; another turned a cartwheel, while a third twirled in the air like a spinning top. An elderly man with a broken foot jumped out of his wheelchair and, using a crutch for support, started hopping on his healthy foot, all the while holding the second crutch triumphantly in the air. Victory! The boy grinned.

The spark of joy lasted for a split second before the youngster was overwhelmed with pain. The attendant bent down to adjust his medication and rearrange his pillows.

I was crying, but I wasn't the only one. I noticed several of the dancers furtively wipe away their tears.

In the women's section, several teenage volunteers had hoisted children onto their shoulders and were dancing wildly around the room. One tiny leukemia patient, with translucent skin and golden hair that had just started to fall out, leaving a bald patch at the back of her head, was in the center of the circle, twirling around like a ballerina. Her mother stood at the sidelines, laughing.

Shwekey stopped singing and asked one of the children, a chubby faced boy with peyos (sidelocks) glued to the side of his bald head, to sing a solo. His clear, innocent voice rang across the room.

When the boy finished, Shwekey asked two little girls to join him on stage. Each time he passed them the microphone, they screeched, "Bom, bom, bom." The room went wild. When they finished, the applause was deafening.

Later, a small girl asked Shwekey to sing his well known and well loved song, "Rachem." "Rachem, have mercy, Hashem, on your people, Israel, and on your city, Yerushalayim. Rachem; rachem; rachem. Have mercy; have mercy; have mercy."

The words washed over the audience. Have mercy, Hashem! There was not a dry eye. Have mercy, Hashem! Mercy, mercy, mercy! The entire room was united in prayer. Have mercy Hashem! Mercy, mercy, mercy.

At the conclusion of the evening, Rabbi Yaakov Pinsky, Chaiyanu's Director, thanked Shwekey for donating his time to giving the children such a wonderful evening. The two men hugged each other. There was nothing false in the love and respect they felt towards each other.

I had come to that evening expecting to encounter desperation and defeat. Instead, I discovered life and joy; love and respect. In their battle to survive, the members of the Chayainu family had learned to savor each moment of life.

When I returned home that evening, I hugged my daughter, phoned my married children and told my husband how much I appreciate him. After all, life – and love - is too precious to become routine.

For more information about Chaiyanu the Israel Division of Chai Lifeline please call 212-699-6683 or email Chaiyanu@bezeqint.net or visit the web site www.chaiyanu.org.il

Postscript: Prior to publication of this article, "Esterka" passed away. She was thirteen years old. May her family be comforted among the mourners of Tzion.

comments?

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Up from Nogales Bina November 29, 2010

Title: Up From Nogales

Subtitle:

Byline: Debbie Shapiro

Lead in:

The girls of Bais Yaakov Denver were Torah pioneers, creating a new reality in the spiritual wilderness of America's spiritually barren west. Many of today's flourishing Torah communities and Bais Yaakovs did not yet exist. The girls felt a sense of responsibility; they were the generation after the churban, it was their task to rebuild and create a vibrant Orthodoxy. This ideal was reflected in the school's song:

In an endless barren land
a dream of Yiddiskeit
thrives beneath the red sun.

A town with hopes so high
will reach their goal
before their lives will be done.

We girls with achdus
and spirits strong
must keep the Yahadus rolling along

Oh, glory to Denver
for with Bais Yaakov
a barren land no more!

Text:

The generation after the war; the children of the survivors: although they bore no scars from the endless beatings nor did they sport numbers on their arms, the Holocaust shadowed every step they took. They grew up knowing that they were the future, the fulfillment of their parents' dreams. Their parents had suffered unspeakable pain, and it was now their responsibility to give them joy and a future. It was an awesome responsibility.

When Bernie Cohl (Schwartz) entered Bais Yaakov Denver in 1970, she felt the weight of that responsibility. Her parents, both survivors, had struggled to carve out a new life for themselves. Health problems had forced them to move to the sunny south, to Nogales, Arizona, a small town on the Mexican border with a minuscule Jewish community. Both Mrs. and Mrs. Cohl were proud Jews with a deep belief in Hashem and — despite the indescribable suffering that they had gone through — a strong trust in the Almighty's ultimate goodness. Although Mr. Cohl was the most religious and knowledgeable Jew in the city, neither he nor his wife kept Shabbos. They weren't rebelling against Hashem and His Torah. They had been torn away from their heritage; another success for Hitler.

The Cohls’ strongest desire was that their children would never suffer the way they had. They thought the key lay in education and were willing to sacrifice everything to make sure their children received the best education possible. So when Mr. Cohl's boss and close friend suggested that he send his two daughters to one of the top college prep schools in the country, the Cohls jumped at the opportunity. Although they knew that the school was attached to the Episcopalian Church, they were told that it was non-sectarian. In their innocence, they assumed that meant it was “non-religious.”

They couldn't have been more wrong. The missionary school required its students to take classes in religion and to attend chapel ten times a week.

Although twelve-year-old Bernie spent her days studying another religion, in the evening, after classes, she studied Judaism on her own. She was the only student to fast on Yom Kippur. At the sight of three stars, she broke her fast on the school's non-kosher supper.

Bernie knew in her heart that a Jew must never kneel in a church, so although she attended chapel ten times a week, she never fully participated in the services. But just before school let out for the summer break, the administration — probably upset at Bernie's stubbornness — announced that the following September all students, without exception, would be required to kneel during chapel! So that summer, Bernie told her parents that she could not go back. “I spent the entire year learning about someone else's religion,” she explained. “Now I want to learn about my own.”

BAIS YAAKOV DENVER

Just a few days before Bernie arrived home, one of Mr. Cohl's friends from the Phoenix Jewish community mentioned to him that the previous year, a Jewish high school — a Bais Yaakov — had just opened up in Denver, and that they were now accepting pupils for the ninth grade. The previous year, Rabbi Myer J. Schwab had left his positions as assistant principal of Torah V'Daas (presently Torah Temima) in Flatbush and teacher in Rika Breuer Teachers' Seminary in Washington Heights to move to Denver, Colorado to open a Jewish school there — the first Bais Yaakov west of Chicago.

"When I arrived in 1968," Rabbi Schwab recalls, "I didn't think the school would last more than one year, and I made sure to have a return ticket in my back pocket! Now, forty-three years later, I'm still here. We started off very small: eight local girls and two girls from out of town. By 1977, we had so many girls from out of town that we opened a dormitory."

That summer, thirteen-year-old Bernie flew to Denver for a few days to see if she would like to attend the school. “Rabbi Schwab picked me up at the airport and I spent three days in his home. His family tried to make me feel at home. I liked the people that I met — it was wonderful to be among other Yidden — and I decided to go there for ninth grade.

“But I was far from the ideal Bais Yaakov student. The modesty that I was raised with did not meet the halachos of tznius, and my Hebrew was so bad that I misspelled my own name on the application form!”

Although Bais Yaakov of Denver did not cater to baalei teshuvah — in those days before the baal teshuvah movement, the term was associated with Yom Kippur — its doors were open to any sincere girl desiring to grow in her Yiddishkeit. For girls like Bernie, being a part of a normal, frum community was a wonderful opportunity to experience Yiddishkeit from the inside.

That first year, Bernie, together with another girl, boarded with the Feder family. Shabbos, she appeared at the table wearing what she considered to be modest dress -- a sleeveless shell, pants, and her hair neatly pulled back into braids. No one batted an eye. They accepted her as a work in process and they had patience.

Bernie was astounded at Shabbos. Although at home her mother lit Shabbos candles and her father recited Kiddush, to Bernie Shabbos felt like any other day. "Mrs. Feder would make the brachah on the Shabbos candles and as if by magic the world was on a different plane. The difference was palpable. For me, believing in Hashem was like putting on the softest, silkiest sweater in the world. It enveloped me, and once it was on, I could never imagine being without it."

For a girl coming from public school, Bais Yaakov was a completely different world. “Mrs. Schwab entered the classroom and all the girls stood up as a sign of respect,” reminisces another student who had come from public school. "I was flabbergasted — respect a teacher? That was unheard of! And then, during the break, the girls sat around the classroom and — this was unbelievable — they started singing. Could you imagine? Singing! A few girls showed us the steps to a popular Jewish melody and by the time the bell rang for us to go back to class, we were all dancing. I felt as if I had landed on another planet: a beautiful, warm and wonderful planet!”

NAASEH V'NISHMA

"I was bowled over at the idea of na'aseh v'nishmah," Bernie recalls. "An entire generation of Jews — every single one of them! — accepted Hashem and His Torah! For me, this was a real eye opener. It was also a source of strength for me. When I came home to Nogales for a visit, I felt so isolated and alone. I was the only shomer Shabbos Jew within a 70 mile radius. I had this precious legacy, but everyone around me assumed that it was nothing more than a passing fad. My mom felt that she had a moral obligation to stop me from becoming what she viewed as a religious fanatic. The fact that an entire generation of Jews chose to accept the Torah empowered me. It gave me the courage to continue.

"I loved the davening. It was sweet, innocent, and musical — Adon Olam, Mah Tovu, and other tefillos were each sung to their own upbeat tune. Several amazingly warm families opened their homes every Shabbos afternoon for us girls to get together to schmooze, sing, dance, and, of course, eat."

In those pre-computer days, one of the twelfth grade girls was charged with manually pressing a red button located just outside the secretary's office to ring the school bell and signal the beginning and end of recess. If she found class boring, the entire school was rewarded with a few extra minutes of recess; but if the teacher was fascinating, well, everyone suffered!

One afternoon, all thirty-five girls in the school played a practical joke on the teachers. In the middle of math class, the official bell ringer left the classroom and pressed the button on and off for about one minute. In each class one girl stood up and shouted over the racket, "Fire alarm," and then the entire class proceeded to quickly exit the building. The teachers, positive that it really was a fire drill, urged the girls not to panic. Once outside, the girls began marching around the school singing “We Shall Overcome.” Everyone — teachers, principals, and most of all, the students — had a good laugh.

Because the school was so small and so many of the students were from out of town, the girls were like one family. Before Pesach, the school presented each student with three hand-made shmurah matzos for the Seder. On Shavuos, those girls who succeeded in counting sefirah with a brachah were rewarded with a piece of Mrs. Schwab's homemade cheesecake.

"Bais Yaakov really was my family," Sara* reminisces. "At home, everyone thought I was strange. They had no idea what it meant to be frum. During the summer, my parents made an extended family get-together in my honor, and would you believe it? — they served pastrami and cheese with the bagels. They couldn't understand why I was so upset; after all, they argued, no one was forcing me to eat it. But in Bais Yaakov, I was part of something larger than myself. I was accepted for who I was, while at the same time I was expected to grow."

Rabbi Schwab had a great sense of humor, and used it to make the girls feel comfortable. "One day," Bernie recalls, "I went to the lost and found, to search for my Nach. Rabbi Schwab came out to help me sift through the pile of sefarim. He opened a Nach that had the letters BC — my initials — written on it, and, looking very disappointed, said, 'We try so hard to educate the girls that it's BCE — Before the Common Era — and not BC!'"

Mrs. Schwab was one of the girls' favorite teachers. She often told the stories about growing up in Tel Aviv, and of her parents' mesirus nefesh for Torah. Bernie remembers, "Those stories were a peek into another world, a world that was normal and yet steeped in Torah. Hearing about real people who lived up to such high ideals gave me what to strive for.

"Looking back," Bernie continues, "I really don't know how Mrs. Schwab did it. She was a young woman with small children and her family lived so far away. She was solid in her belief in Hashem, which she succeeded in conveying to us daily."

"My first Shabbos in Denver, I was a guest at the Schwabs," remembered Naomi*. "Although I had been keeping Shabbos for about a year before coming to Bais Yaakov, there was a lot I didn't know, both halachically as well as practically. Although forty years have gone by since then, two things stand out in my memory. Erev Shabbos, Rabbi Schwab asked me if I could help polish the children's shoes. I had never, ever polished a shoe in my life, and I spent a lot of time shining one poor pair of shoes, trying to make sure that it would be perfect. Although I probably used up half a bottle of polish, Rabbi Schwab was lavish in his thanks. My second memory was of the chulent. As Mrs. Schwab brought it in from the kitchen, Rabbi Schwab made some comment about how great his wife's chulent is — a real Shabbos delicacy. I obliviously asked, 'What's chulent?' I don't remember the answer, but I do remember that after that, I realized that chulent was an integral part of oneg Shabbos, and one that I enjoy tremendously."

What ever happened to the girls who attended Bais Yaakov during those first few years? Among the graduates are nurses, doctors, teachers, even a Chassidic Rebbetzin. One became a well-known editor, another, a writer. Bernie became a social worker and active outreach worker. Their education formed the foundation of the frum homes which they built, where a second and now third generation receives a true Torah chinuch. Although the original students live in a dozen cities throughout the world, they all think of Denver as their second home.

* Names changed.