Renegade Litvak as appeared in Hamodia

Despite my having told all my friends that under no circumstances would I ever marry anyone chassidish, and especially not anyone having anything to do with Breslov, I ended up marrying a chassid, and not just any chassid, but a Breslov Chassid, which means that (gulp) I am too. And that just goes to prove that the old adage of never say never, because very often you will, is often true – and especially when it comes to shidduchim.

Being associated with Breslov does have its funny moments: like the time my sister called me all in a tizzy to ask if my husband regularly dances on truck rooftops. Just the thought of my extremely staid, very stick-in-the mud husband jumping up and down on a Nanach truck caused me to break down in hysterical giggles. And then to add insult to injury (which is what would happen to my dear hubby if he were to ever start dancing on the top of a truck) my sister assumed that her words had struck a painful chord, and that I was crying over my bitter destiny. After all, it really must be extremely challenging to be married to a rooftop dancer.

Before I got married, I thought that once I'd become chassidish, Shabbos morning I would have the luxury of sleeping in until ten o'clock, and then relaxing with Hamodia while enjoying with a delicious milchig Kiddush. After all, don't all chassidim daven late?  I very quickly discovered that some do, some don't, and mine most certainly does not. During the week, he gets up to learn fertug (that's Yiddish for a meshugenah hour before daybreak, when any normal person should be sound asleep) then he dunks in the mikveh before davening with the netz.  On Shabbos and Yom Tov we get to sleep in until quarter to six (oh, such decadence); after all, shul doesn’t start until a quarter to seven, but prior to, there is mikveh and Tehillim. So no, we do not eat before davening (there goes my dream of cheese cakes).

Before my husband and I decided to tie the knot, he informed me in no uncertain terms that if I decide to marry him, it would be with the understanding that he would never be home for Rosh Hashana. Although the whole idea of traveling to spend Yom Tov with a Rebbe, or, in this case, at the kever of a tzaddik, was foreign to me, I readily agreed. After all, it was only two days of the year. I could manage, right?

I'll never forget that first Rosh Hashana. In those days, when travel to Uman was nothing more than a pipe dream, the annual Rosh Hashanah kibutz took place in Meiron, adjacent to the Kever of Rabi Shimon bar Yochai.  As I watched my husband walk to the waiting bus, schlepping a large suitcase of clothes, seforim and some homemade goodies, I tried hard to quell my feelings of jealousy, but it was almost impossible. He's off camping; having a great time while I have to go to my neighbors for the meals, I silently fumed.

That year, as usual, I davened in the local Litvish yeshiva. And my neighbors were all great cooks, so the food was delicous. But at the same time, I couldn't help but envy the other ladies as they walked home from shul together with their husbands. They all looked so happy and beautiful together. "He's having a great time up in the mountains, while I'm at home, miserable. Why did I agree to this insanity? I asked myself.

My husband returned home very late Motzaei Yom Tov, totally exhausted. When I asked him if he had had a good time, he looked at me as if I was out of my mind. "A good time?" he asked. "I barely had time to eat! Davening started at five, and by the time we finished, it was nearly four in the afternoon! Between davening, mikveh and reciting Tehillim, I barely managed to sleep three hours a night."

He proceeded to tell me about toilets that didn't work, blankets that were scratchy and way too small, and mosquitoes that practically ate him alive.

 I felt sorry for him. "That's terrible," I began, trying to sound empathetic (although for the life of me I couldn't figure out why anyone would put themselves through such torture), "It must have been such a disappointment."

 "A disappointment?" he was shocked. "The davening was incredible!" His face glowed with enthusiasm. His elation was obvious..

By now, I was totally confused. Was I married to a strange masochist?

The following evening, after breaking our fast, my husband and I went outside for a few minutes to get some fresh air. We ended up walking, and talking, for a very long time. We spoke about Rosh Hashana, davening, and what it means to be an eved Hashem. We talked about our dreams, the home that we hoped to build, and the importance of our being on the same path in our Yiddishkeit. He explained to me the chashivus of limud Torah l'shma, and how his kesher to the chassidus is what gives him the inner strength to devote so many hours per day to the avoda of learning Torah.

And that's why, on Yom Kippur, I found myself squished into a tiny makeshift women's section, trying to daven with a small Breslov minyan held in the local bomb shelter. I missed the familiar tunes, and the singing in unison.  Instead of the orderly tefilla that I was used to, there were wordless niggunim that rose to a crescendo, followed by the Chazon screaming something that, for the life of me,  I could not understand but that concluded with a long, drawn amen.  The lady sitting to my right smiled as she noticed my confusion and pointed to the correct place in the machzor (for the umpteenth time). Then she began rapidly flipping the pages while recited something under her breath. I took off my glasses, closed one eye, and held the machzor so close to my face that it almost touched my nose. There were at least five (five!) pages of tiny letters, all of which, in the yeshivishe shuls where I had always davened, we would just skip over (oh, how I loved skipping over pages in the mazhzor, and seeing the end getting that much closer – and now that I mention it, that is one of the reasons I am writing this under a pseudonym). I didn't even try to catch up. 

Every time the tzibbur exuberantly sang (or perhaps it would be more accurate to say, kvetched) a niggun between reciting the words of the piyutim in total disharmony, I would, quietly, under my breath (feeling like a spy from a different camp) sing the words to the familiar tunes that I loved.

But then a funny thing happened: I started to cry. Tears were flowing freely down my face. Me, the girl who never expressed her emotions, and who was always careful to show a pleasant, matter-of-fact mask to the world (and to myself) was sobbing – yes, sobbing - as I begged Hashem to grant me a kaparah. Slach lanu, kapar lanu, machal lanu… The loud, discordant cacophony of the tzibbur crying to Hashem unleashed a dormant emotion within me, and I became one with it.

The following year, there were no questions. A week before Rosh Hashanah, I was already urging my husband to finalize his plans to travel to Meiron. And as soon as travel to Uman became a reality, he was among the first to go. When people asked me about our plans for Yom Tov, I was proud to respond that my husband was traveling to Meiron, and later on, to Uman, because Rosh Hashana is about davening, and that's where he can daven best.  

Today, if anyone asks me if we're litvish or chassidish, I respond that we're chassidim, and not just any chassidim, but Breslov chassidim. And people who know me well are always surprised when they discover that I once considered myself to be a modern American yeshivishe-litvishe girl.

I guess you could say that I've come home. 

Yom Kippur, 1973 as appeared in the Binah

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Yom Kippur of 1973 was my third Yom Kippur in Eretz Yisrael. Dizzy from fasting, I had returned home to take a short nap, when I was abruptly awakened by the sound of a plane flying low over the buildings, shaking the furniture with repeated sonic booms. It seemed strange; only military planes are allowed to fly over Yerushalayim. Why would a military plane be flying on Yom Kippur?

Ten minutes later, I was startled out of my bed by the shrill wail of an air-raid siren. I rushed upstairs to ask my more experienced Israeli neighbor what was going on. Trying to be heard over the siren, I attempted to sound as nonchalant as possible as I said, "Excuse me for bothering you, but do you hear some strange noise outside?"

My elderly neighbor nodded.  I could sense the beginnings of a smile.

"Um, wh…what is it?" I knew the answer, but I needed to hear it from someone older and wiser than myself.

"It's an air-raid siren. It means we're at war."

"Wh…what are we supposed to do?"

"We're supposed to go down to a bomb shelter, but they're all locked up. So just stay home until it stops."

Which is exactly what I did.

Fifteen minutes later, as I was racing along the streets of Bayit Vegan (sticking close to the building to protect myself from the falling bombs, just like in all the World War Two novels) to return to Kol Torah Yeshivah, the sirens went off again. I dashed into the nearest building, a beit hachlamah, (a mother-and-baby convalescent home) and found refuge in the basement together with a few dozen mothers and their newborns. The mothers held their babies tight as we recited Tehillim together and tried to contain our fear.

When the siren stopped, I left the building and continued running toward the yeshivah. Although more than  40 years have passed since that day, I still find myself crying at the memory of the scene in the street: dozens of men, still wearing their kittels, were dashing toward waiting army trucks. Some were eating sandwiches as they ran. Sheitel-bedecked women, bearing thermoses of hot, sugar-laden coffee and freshly made sandwiches, rushed toward the trucks to make sure their husbands had nourishment before being sent directly to the front. (Since this was a case of pikuach nefesh, the rabbanim paskened that the wives of the soldiers should return home and prepare food for their husbands, and that the men must eat before going out to combat.)

As the trucks pulled away, the women returned home with tear-streaked faces, now carrying hats and kittels. My elderly neighbor owned one of the few cars in Jerusalem. He was called up to transport goods to the front, less than 45 minutes away.  Many of the men who left that day never returned.

I slipped into my seat at the yeshivah. Kaddish was being recited, there was a bang on the bimah, and we all took three steps to begin the Shemoneh Esrei. I was surrounded by the soft sound of weeping.

It was Yom Kippur. Our fate was being sealed. Who will live and who will die? Who by water and who by fire? Who by sword and who by wild beast? Who by gunfire and who by mines? Who by hand grenade and who by a tank shell? Our lives, and the lives of our young men, were hanging in the balance. Only teshuvah, tefillah, and tzedakah could change the evil decree.

And then the siren went off, again. Rav Shlomo Zalman Auerbach signaled to the gabai to continue. Another bang on the bimah, and then utter silence. No one moved.* The sirens wailed, shaking us out of our lethargy and prodding us to daven with the awesome intensity of one who actually feels the hard, cold metal of the sword's blade pressing against his neck. Slach lanu, machal lanu, kaper lanu…. Hashem was determining our fate. And it was up to each one of us to do our utmost to tip the scale in Am Yisrael's favor.

It is beyond the scope of this short piece to expand on the miracles of the Yom Kippur War. But on the first couple of days of the war, there was nothing, absolutely nothing, stopping the Syrian Army from overrunning Haifa, and the Egyptian army, Beer Sheva. Nothing, except the power of Am Yisrael's tefillos.

Teshuvah, tefillah, u’tzedakah ma’avirin es ro’ah hagezeirah.  

*Disclaimer: This p’sak was a one-time horaas sha’ah, as per Harav Shlomo Zalman Aurbach, zt”l, and readers should not extrapolate from this incident a general p’sak to not go to the miklat during an air-raid siren.