GOOD NIGHT, MY SOMEONE, GOOD NIGHT

I run an internet based writer's workshop, and was inspired to write this after one of the women described how her father is slowly slipping away from her. 

 “Excuse me,” I said to the tall Hispanic man. He stared at his cellphone. “I’m looking for Rose Levine.”

He  pointed to a small, frail woman sitting in the corner. I quietly walked over to where she was sitting and stared at a stranger. Finally, I recognized her.

“Hi, Mom,” I began.

No reaction. Her hairy chin remained resting in the hollow of her chest. Her bony arms (Mommy, you were always dieting. Was this the goal?) hung lifelessly on her lap.

“Mommy, it’s me. Debbie.”

Nothing. Her eyes were barren, the color of an algae polluted pond.

I sat on the empty chair next to her and gently grasped her hand. “Mommy,” I smiled, stifling my tears. “It’s Debbie. Your daughter. I came to visit you. From Israel. Mommy, I love you.”

Not a ripple of recognition.

Then I felt her hand grasp mine. “Mommy,” she said. “Mommy, mommy.”  She lifted my hand to her lips and gave it a kiss. Her saliva dripped HerHHdown my forearm. I didn’t wipe it away.

Mommy loved music. She had a voice like a nightingale, and she was always singing; as she washed the dishes, made the beds, did the laundry.  Whenever I’d come to visit her at the Home, I’d take her to some secluded corner and begin to sing. She always joined me. Even after she forgot the names of her children, and who she was, and almost everything she said sounded like gibberish, she was able to sing all the lyrics to her favorite songs. And sing them she did, with an intensity that could only be described as deveikus.  When we sang together, our souls communicated; and we soared.

So now I sat close to Mommy and quietly began to sing, “Climb every mountain…”

Silence.

“How much is that Doggy in the window?”

Nothing.

“K..k..k Katy, my beautiful Katy…”

No reaction. None whatsoever.

An immaculately dressed woman, her hair pulled tightly into a bun pushed a man in a wheelchair up to the  table behind us and sat in the empty chair next to him.  There was  too much rouge on her cheeks and her lipstick was  a shade too bright.

“Sam,” she began. “It’s me, Elaine.”

Nothing.

“Sam, do you remember when we were seventeen? We were so much in love.”  

I moved my chair away to give her privacy. I could hear her sniffling.

“We were so young then, but I’m still in love with you. Don’t you know me? It’s me Elaine. Your wife. Your sweetheart.”

Silence.

I stroked my mother’s hand. My tears flowed. I didn’t bother to wipe them away.

The Music Man was playing on the large video screen opposite us (every time I came to the Home, it was the same video. Always the Music Man). The song “Sweet Dreams, My Someone,” filled the oppressive silence.

“Sweet dreams be yours, dear,
If dreams there be
Sweet dreams to carry you close to me.

I wish they may and I wish they might
Now goodnight, my someone, goodnight”

Later that night I tucked my mother into bed and kissed her goodnight. I returned to Israel the following morning. My family needed me.

Three weeks later I was back again. This time, for my mother’s funeral. 

A Spiritual Revolt

Mesirus nefesh. It’s a concept that is difficult to understand in our generation of instant gratification. I believe that today’s flourishing Torah communities are a direct outgrowth of the previous generation’s mesirus nefesh for Yiddishkeit. Today, the choices are far more subtle, yet they, too, will have a profound influence on future generations.

When Surie Minzer was wrenched away from her beloved family in Yowosna and taken to the Hannesdorf Slave Labor Camp in Czechoslovakia, she found herself on a different planet. In one cruel moment, she was torn away from everything dear to her and turned into a nameless slave, working for the good of the German war effort.

She was lucky, however -- the Germans allowed her to bring along a few belongings: a siddur, a diary, some clothes. She also knew that she still had a family, and that they loved her dearly. Most important of all, she had inherited a strong and solid belief in Hashem. She knew that even in that hell on earth, He was with her, and that no matter what happened, He would never leave her. That knowledge gave her the strength to survive.

Surie was the youngest of a large Chassidishe family. Some of her brothers and sisters were already married, and she adored them as they adored her. Now, however, she could only dream of seeing them, and express her dreams twice a month in a carefully worded postcard.

As Pesach drew near, Surie wondered how she could survive eight days without her daily slice of bread. In carefully couched terms, she wrote to her father, who was interned in the Sasnowitz ghetto, asking for his advice in how to obtain food that was not chametz.

Surie’s father wrote that her mitzvah was to survive, and if that meant that she would have to eat chametz, then it was a mitzvah to eat the chametz. In the present circumstances there was no other choice; she must do everything in her power to remain alive.

Surie, however, felt that she must do whatever she could to refrain from consuming chametz on Pesach. So everyday she smuggled a few turnips under her armpits into the factory where she worked and surreptitiously stuffed them into the hollowed-out bottoms of sewing machines – to be retrieved later, on Pesach.

Surie was secretly thrilled. Although outwardly she remained humble and subservient, she was a rebel, in the midst of a spiritual revolt. No matter what the Nazis would do to tear her away from her heritage, she would defy them and remain a Yid, proud of her royal lineage. She would never surrender her internal dignity. 

After several days of stuffing turnips into the machines, Surie arrived at the factory and immediately realized that something was wrong. The commandant was standing outside, holding a turnip in his hand. He was furious.

“Attention!” he screamed.

The girls jumped to attention, awaiting further orders.

“One of you stuffed turnips into the machines and ruined them. Who is trying to sabotage the German war effort?”

No one moved.

“You will remain at attention until the culprit admits her deed,” the commandant barked.

Still, no one moved.

One –- two -– three -- four hours passed. The girls, with only rags to protect them from the elements, were shivering. Many were leaning on their friends for support.

Surie couldn’t take it any longer. She couldn’t watch her friends suffer because of her desire to keep a mitzvah. She wondered when the commandant would begin shooting innocent girls for her act of defiance.

She was just about to admit her deed when she heard another woman call out, “I did it. I stuffed the turnips into the machines.”

“Name?” the commandant barked.

“Laikie March*,” the woman calmly answered. She knew what to expect, and she was prepared.

“Barrack number?” the commandant continued.

“Seven hundred and forty-three.”

“Dismissed. Return to your barracks.”

The girls marched back to the camp. There would be no work that day. The machines were unusable. They assumed there would be an execution that evening.

Surie sidled up to Laikie. “Why did you admit to something you didn’t do?” she asked.

“But I did do it,” Laikie responded.

Unknown to each other, both girls had stuffed turnips into the sewing machines. Both girls had risked their lives for the sake of a mitzvah.

That night, the girls nervously awaited the expected announcement. They had no doubt that the Nazis would torture Laikie and kill her for her act of sabotage. They drank their muddy coffee and lay on their hard wooden boards, tensely waiting for the moment they would be forced out of bed and made to stand at attention in the appelplatz to watch their friend’s death.

But they slept through the night. The following morning, they drank another cup of muddy coffee and were marched back to the sewing factory. The machines had been repaired, and they were able to work again.

It was as if nothing had happened.

***

Both Surie and Laikie survived the war.

Surie later married her cousin and raised a beautiful Torah family. She has hundreds of descendents, who inherited their mother’s, grandmother’s and great-grandmother’s devotion to Yiddishkeit.

Laike March also survived the war and raised a beautiful Torah family. Her daughter married a prominent Chassidic Rebbe.

They rebelled -- and won.

* a pseudonym

This story is an excerpt Bridging the Golden Gate by Debbie Shapiro, published by Israel Book Shop.

Full Circle as appeared in Bridging the Golden Gate Bridge

Full Circle

Only rarely do we get a glimpse of the full story. The following story is one such glimpse. All names and identifying details have been changed for the sake of privacy.

About eight years ago, Rabbi Shmuel Davis, a Chassid living in Yerushalayim, decided that the time had finally come for him to realize his childhood dream and visit the kivrei tzaddikim in the Ukraine. He spent months researching different tours, until he found one that seemed just perfect -- and cost several hundred dollars less than the competition.

A detailed itinerary arrived in the mail just a few days before departure. Late Tuesday night the tour members were to fly directly to Bucharest, Romania. From there they would travel to the Ukraine via an eighteen-hour bus ride through Romania and across the Russian border. The highlight of the trip would be the Shabbos they would spend in Mezibuzh, home of the holy Baal Shem Tov.

"It sounded just wonderful," recalled Reb Shmuel. "Everything was set. All I had to do was pack and go."

On Tuesday night Reb Shmuel arrived at the airport and was given his plane ticket and all the appropriate papers. But for some reason, eight members of the tour -- including Reb Shmuel -- did not receive Russian visas. The travel agent explained that there had been some technical difficulties, and the visas were waiting for them in Bucharest.

"When we got to Bucharest," said Reb Shmuel, "the guide told us that the visas had already been sent to the Russian border."

The visas, however, were not at the Romanian side of the border. The  eight Chassidim were told not to the worry -- the visas were waiting  for them on the Russian side. But there, too, the visas were nowhere to be found.

"The guide took our luggage off the bus and told us that he would continue with the rest of the group," said Reb Shmuel. "He also informed us that one of the buses would remain to take us to the hotel in Mezibuzh where we would rejoin our tour -- when we finally had our visas. We weren't pleased, to say the least, but there was little we could do.

"Everyone was exhausted," continued Reb Shmuel. "It was already close to midnight, and we were hoping that we could soon continue on our way."

Instead, the officer in charge informed the eight Chassidim that in a few minutes the border would be closed for the night and that they must return to Romania. That was when Reb Shmuel discovered that all the buses were gone.

"We were suddenly surrounded by Russian soldiers carrying bayonets," said Reb Shmuel. "They told us to take our luggage and return to Romania -- over half a mile away. Every time I tried to catch my breath, I saw the bayonets pointed at me and I forced myself to run even faster."

The Romanians, however, refused to allow the Chassidim to enter the country because their transit visas had already expired. So the eight Chassidim spent what remained of the night surrounded by armed guards at the deserted border station. Some tried to bed down on the icy cold floor. Reb Shmuel didn't even bother.

By the next morning, the exhausted group decided to abandon the tour and return to Eretz Yisrael. But first, they had to find their way back to Bucharest.

"When a customs officer arrived," said Reb Shmuel, "I asked him if he could contact the Israeli ambassador for us. He refused. When I asked him if he could help us find a way back to Bucharest, again he refused. 'This is your problem, not mine,' he said."

But the customs officer did issue new transit visas to the stranded Chassidim. At least now they could enter Romania.

A short while later, another officer arrived, and he was slightly more helpful. He knew of a plane that was leaving to Bucharest in five minutes, from a nearby airport. "The officer asked us if we wanted to try walking the two miles to the airport in five minutes," Reb Shmuel laughed.

Eventually another officer came into the office and was willing to arrange transportation to Bucharest in a private car.

"We spent over ten hours squashed in a tiny Russian car," said Reb Shmuel. "To make matters even worse, the officer had bought an enormous peacock feather for his wife and it tickled the back of my neck throughout the entire trip."

At one of the rest stops, the driver, who knew both Romanian and English, called information and asked for the number of the Israeli embassy. But when Reb Shmuel dialed the number, he discovered that it had been changed -- almost fifty years earlier.

During their journey, the driver stopped to visit an acquaintance who lived in a tiny village. When the Chassidim got out of the car, they were approached by an old man who asked if they understood Yiddish.

"We were so happy to see another Jew that we started hugging him," said Reb Shmuel. "He was very helpful, and through him we were able to obtain the embassy's number. Now, at least, we knew that there would be someone waiting for us in Bucharest."

Although the embassy was closed, the ambassador had arranged lodgings for the group in a deserted building owned by the Jewish Agency. "Once again we slept on the cold floor, under armed guard," said Reb Shmuel. "But at least now we knew that we were among friends."

Reb Shmuel returned to Eretz Yisrael the following morning, just in time for Shabbos. "We were exhausted," said Reb Shmuel, "but grateful to be home."

It took a few days before Reb Shmuel had recovered enough to contact the travel agency and ask for a refund, which they gladly gave him.

"I also insisted that they compensate me for the days that I missed from work," said Reb Shmuel. "The manager of the agency refused. Although I really felt that they owed me compensation, I decided not to make a fuss over it and let it go."

Little did Reb Shmuel know that the debt would eventually be repaid many times over.

A few years later, Reb Shmuel's youngest daughter was engaged to marry a promising talmid chacham. The wedding had been set for the middle of Elul. Late that summer, just weeks before the wedding,  the young chassan decided to spend bein hazemanim with his friends at a yeshivah-run camp. The highlight of the vacation was a full-day hike in the Judean Desert.

On the afternoon of the hike, Reb Shmuel's future son-in-law, Yaakov, was climbing up the side of a mountain when he realized that, somehow, he had become separated from his friends.

At first, Yaakov was not concerned and spent what was left of the afternoon wandering through the desert, trying to find his way back to the bus. The desert was quiet and full of rocks that made walking difficult. Yaakov was aware that this part of the desert was known for its deep crevices that had claimed many lives. Before every step, he tentatively tested the ground to make sure it was solid.

That same night, Reb Shmuel's daughter woke up and, for some inexplicable reason, tearfully began reciting Tehillim for her chassan's welfare. Meanwhile, Reb Shmuel and his family slept peacefully.

In another small Yerushalayim neighborhood, Yaakov's parents were roused from their sleep when the police called at 3 a.m. to inform them that their son was missing in the Judean Desert. The parents immediately ran to their next-door neighbor, a renowned tzaddik, and begged him to pray for their lost son.

Yaakov's mother, aunt and sister went straight from the neighbor to a small shul near their home. The shamash recognized them and let them in. They flung open the aron kodesh and began to beseech Hashem to send their precious chassan home.

A friend of Yaakov's family heard the news and woke up his entire family. "It's assur to sleep now," he said, while hailing a taxi to take them to the Kosel. Before dawn, Yaakov's mother, sister and aunt had joined them there.

By the time everyone returned from the Kosel, many neighbors and friends had already heard about the lost chassan. Yaakov's mother took a group of women back to the nearby shul, reopened the aron kodesh and recited more Tehillim. Outside, a group of over fifty men and children were tearing the very Heavens apart with the power of their tefillah. Even the small children were wailing. The children's cries drowned out the sobs of the women inside.

Word of the lost chassan spread throughout the city, and within a short time, hundreds of people were davening for Yaakov's safe return. But each person was warned that that they must be careful; under no circumstances should Reb Shmuel's family know anything about what had happened.

Reb Shmuel and his family remained oblivious to the drama taking place around them.  "When I went to the store that morning," said Reb Shmuel's wife, "I noticed some people pointing in my direction. But I didn't think much of it."

At ten o'clock that morning, Yaakov's mother traveled to Kever Rachel with a large group of women. Their tefillah was said with such emotion that the soldiers and guards stationed outside the kever came in to see what had happened.

What happened to Yaakov? Without realizing where he was going, Yaakov had wandered far from his friends. He walked so far off course that when the Israeli army began searching for him the next morning, they didn’t bother looking for him in the area where he was finally located. They claimed that the terrain was so rough that it would have been impossible for him to remain alive if he had gone in that direction.

But Yaakov had actually been plodding through the desert, searching desperately for something to drink. He had spent the entire night walking, and was so thirsty that he chewed on grass to extract its liquid. He also wrapped his tzitzis around his head to protect himself from the fiercely hot sun.  When he happened upon a small dirt path, he began to follow it, assuming that it must lead somewhere.

Meanwhile, a family of Chassidim decided to rent a jeep for their last day of vacation and drive through the desert. They had planned to visit a nearby river, but were put off by the lack of modesty there. When they saw another jeep turn off the highway onto a dirt road, little more than a path, they decided to follow, assuming that the road must lead somewhere.

The Chassidim followed the other car through the monotonous desert for over two-and-a-half hours! They were tired and bored and kept on telling each other that the time had come to turn around, but for some inexplicable reason they continued on.

It was already close to noon when Yaakov decided to rest at the side of the road. When he saw a car appear on the horizon, he frantically waved at it to stop. But the driver mistook him for an Arab and sped by.

Five minutes later, Yaakov saw another car in the distance. This time he took no chances and lay down in the middle of the road, screaming for water. The driver slammed on his brake, and the Chassidim jumped out to give the thirsty “Arab” a drink.

With his gun trained on the "Arab," the driver cautiosly handed Yaakov a canteen of water. The moment he heard Yaakov's heartfelt brachah, however, he realized that the "Arab" was really a Jew and that the kaffiyeh perched on his head was really tzitzis.

Yaakov gulped down a gallon of water before he was able to speak. The first thing he asked for was a pair of tefillin; he had not yet davened  Shacharis.

That Friday afternoon, Yaakov was brought back to his parent's home in Yerushalayim. Hundreds of well-wishers came to celebrate his safe return. And a few days later, less than two weeks before the wedding, Reb Shmuel was invited to a seudas hoda'ah in honor of his future son-in-law's miraculous rescue.

Reb Shmuel had the shock of his life when he walked into the seudah and saw the driver of the jeep who had saved his future son-in-law's life. It was none other than the manager of the travel agency, the same manager who had sold him the ticket to the Ukraine and refused to compensate him for the loss he had incurred.

With tears in his eyes, Reb Shmuel expressed his gratitude to Yaakov's benefactor. "Well, I guess the debt has finally been paid," he said with a smile. "And I'm glad I waited for payment. Thank you."

The score was settled.

 

Roots and Sprouts as appeared in Bina

I’ve always loved learning about my family history.  Over the years I’ve collected a whole shoe box filled to the top with miscellaneous sheets of information, including interviews with elderly family members, a barely decipherable family tree hand written some thirty years ago in my mother’s shaky handwriting and snapshots of old kvarim. I’ve jotted down the stories that my paternal grandfather, Alexander Mendel Levine, a”h, told me about his father (my great-grandfather), Yehoshua Yaakov Levine, a”h, a Rav in Nezhin, located not far from the Ukrainian city of Chernikov. As a young child, Yehoshua Yaakov’s father (my great-great-grandfather), whose name I don’t know, was kidnapped and forced into the Czar’s army. Somehow, against all odds, he succeeded in holding on to his Yiddishkeit, and when he returned home, over twenty-five years later, he married my great-great grandmother and built a beautiful Jewish home. I wonder if he is the source of his descendants’ tenacity?

Over twenty years ago, while visiting my great uncle in Montreal, I spent an afternoon interviewing my grandfather’s first cousin, Max Budd, who was then in his early nineties. He had immigrated to Canada as a young child, and at first, was unable to remember even a single incident of life in the shtetl. Finally, after some gentle prodding, he related how, on his third birthday, his father had carried him proudly through the streets wrapped in a tallis toward the cheder. His eyes glistened with tears as recalled the sweet taste of the honey as he recited the alef-bais together with the rebbi. Today, when my grandsons turn three and are brought to cheder wrapped in a tallis to experience the sweetness of limmud haTorah, I tell my own children how my grandfather’s first cousin wiped away the tears as he recalled his initial introduction to Torah learning.

From my mother, I heard stories about my grandfather, Michael Meyer Margolick, a”h, who arrived in Montreal, Canada at the turn of the century, together with his widowed mother and siblings. His mother, my great-grandmother, Riva Marolick, a”h, passed away almost immediately after the family’s arrival. My grandfather went on to establish a very successful pant manufacturing company, and did so much for the fledging Montreal Jewish community that he was eventually written up in a book about prominent Canadian Jews. My mother often told me stories about her private nurse and nanny, as well as the cook and housekeeper, and the four-story mansion that she called home. To me, growing up in a small working-class suburb in California, these stories sounded like fairytales.

My mother’s mother, my grandmother, Helen (Chaya) Margolick nee Greenberg, a”h, grew up in Rochester New York. Her parents, Avraham and Rose (Salinski) Greenberg both came from large families. Every once in a while, one of these long lost cousins would send us a newsy letter or even visit our family in California. My mother would become misty eye as she’d reminisce about all the cousins (there were so many that at one point they had a cousin club with a monthly family newsletter!) she had left behind on the East Coast.

A box of family stories and legends, hazy memories, but nothing concrete; until I decided to join a computer-generated family tree maker. As I started putting the pieces of the puzzle together, the family tree program automatically sent me pertinent data. I spent hours poring through censuses taken at the turn of the century, and felt as though I struck gold each time the names of great-great-aunts and uncles appeared, together with their spouses, and children. I was seeing the history of American and Canadian Jewry in my own family’s story – poor immigrants, but proud Jews (in all the early censuses, when asked their race, their automatic response was “Jewish,” never American or German or Russian), who worked hard to attain the American dream, yet succeeded in instilling a fierce love of their heritage in at least some of their descendants.

I’m still in the process of putting it all together, and I’ve made some interesting discoveries (my husband’s great-grandfather and my great-grandfather davened in the same shul in Buffalo, New York!) as well as been introduced via the family tree program to some cousins that I never knew existed. Eventually, I plan to compile all the information as a small family history book, with pictures, inspirational stories, and of course, a detailed family tree. I have no doubt that it will become a treasured family heirloom.

When (and if) I finish this project, I’ll let you know. And who knows? Perhaps as I do my research, I’ll find out that you, too, are among the many relatives that I never knew existed! 

A Different Type of Thanksgiving as appeared in Binah

Every year, one of my closest friends would mark her family’s miraculous escape from a horrific car accident with an intimate family seudah. Over homemade delicacies, the children would take turns recalling their own private story of how they had walked off, unscathed, from an accident that left the car totaled, and had the police officer ask, “How many bodies?”

 I had the zechus of participating in one of these seudos, and hoped that one day, I too, would have the opportunity to thank Hakadosh Baruch Hu for a personal miracle by making my own seudas hoda’ah.

I did. But it was very different from the one I had imagined.

It happened some 33 years ago. I was lying inert on a hospital bed, attached to multiple monitors and intravenous tubes. The doctors were pessimistic about my future.  At the time, I was a single mother with three small children. Although I had no relatives in Israel, my neighbors had become my family and took turns sitting at my bedside. I was never alone.

One afternoon, a frum man carrying a violin walked into my room and started playing Chanukah songs. I was confused and surprised. Chanukah? It seemed like I had just finished putting away the sukkah boards. I asked the friend sitting at my bedside about it.

“Debbie,” she responded. “You’ve been sick a long time. It’s already Kislev. The eighth of Kislev. Chanukah is just around the corner!”

 “And by then I’ll be completely better,” I said with a smile. “Next year, mark my words, I’m going to invite all my friends to a seudas hoda’ah to celebrate my complete recovery.” With a twinkle in my eye I added, “Better write it on your calendar – ches Kislev. One year from today I’ll thank Hashem for my miraculous recovery with a seudas hoda’ah.”

Fast forward ten months. By then, I was back at work, running my home, and very happy with my life. I was grateful for the miracle that I had been granted, and often spoke to my friends of the beautiful seudas hoda’ah that I would make on the anniversary of my recovery, where I would publicly thank Hashem for restoring my health, as well as show my appreciation to all my dear friends for their constant support during those difficult times.

The phone call came at around nine thirty. The children were all sound asleep, and I was relaxing with a steaming cup of hot tea and enjoying a few rare moments of total serenity.  It was an old friend, someone who I had once been close with but had lost touch with over the years. After a few minutes of catching up on our lives, she began telling me about her husband’s close friend, a young widower, and asked if I’d be interested in meeting him.

To make a long story short, I was, and I did.

Two months later, late one night, sitting in my neighbor’s living room (like I said before, my neighbors had become my family) we decided that the puzzle pieces seemed to fit and came to the conclusion that we should get married. But since it was close to one in the morning, we decided to wait until the following day to drink a l’chaim and make it official.

The following evening, my wonderful friends prepared a stunning seudah in honor of our engagement. Amidst laughter and tears we reminisced about that difficult year, and thanked Hashem for all of his chessed.

And then I remembered. “What’s the date?” I asked one of the women.

She ran to the kitchen to check the calendar. I could hear a gasp, and when she returned to the room, there were tears in her eyes.

It was the eighth of Kislev.