Meet Rabbi Karol Sidon Hamodia 2010

Meet Rabbi Karol Sidon

Chief Rabbi of Czechoslovakia and Prague

By Debbie Shapiro

LEAD

My husband and I literally flew out of the Prague Airport's international terminal and jumped into a waiting taxi. We had just arrived from Israel less than twenty minutes ago and were on our way to Josefov, the old Jewish quarter of Prague, where we were to meet with Rabbi Karol Sidon, Czechoslovakia's Chief Rabbi. END LEAD

Throughout the twenty minute ride from the airport to the city, I stared out the window in fascination at the pristine beauty of this snow-covered wonderland. This was so different from Eretz Yisrael! As we approached the city, we passed rows of tall, narrow, very European-looking pastel colored buildings that were interspersed with huge identical gray apartment buildings, obviously products of the Communist era. As we drove down the curvy road leading into the old city, I noticed an imposing ancient structure to our left. The driver explained that it was the famous Prague Castle, one of the biggest castles in the world, which today houses several museums.

As we drove into Josefov, I felt as if we were entering a veritable fairytale land of quaint cobblestone streets, sloping red tiled roofs, pale green metal fences, and tall pastel colored buildings crowded on top of each other. The driver let us off in front of the Jewish Kehillah building, where two guards checked our passports and politely informed us that we were not allowed to enter. "But I'm from Hamodia," I explained. "And Rav Sidon, the Chief Rabbi of Czechoslovakia, is expecting us." After a few minutes of quiet consultation, the guards opened the heavy front door and led us into a small vestibule where the receptionist grilled us as to our reason for wanting to speak with the Rabbi. After a flurry of telephone calls and hushed consultations, we were informed that the rabbi will be available in another forty-five minutes. We decided to take advantage of the time to begin exploring the area around the Kehillah building.  

Twenty-five minutes later, an elderly man, out of breath from exertion, rushed over to where we were standing taking pictures of sign above a synagogue door, and introduced himself as Rabbiner Sidon. Back in the Kehillah building, he led us up the wide, elegant staircase to his office on the second floor. The architecture was stunning. We later learned that this building was constructed in the late sixteenth century, and that it was in use during the times of the Maharal.

Rabbi Sidon was far from being pretentious. Despite the grandeur of his surroundings, he succeeded in making me feel completely at home.

Hamodia: Rabbi Sidon, I understand that in 1991 the Czechoslovakia Jewish Community appointed you as Chief Rabbi. This was just four years after the fall of the Iron Curtain, when the region's political climate was far from stable. What was the community like then, and how has it changed?

Rabbi Sidon: When I came here, there were, at most, 800 Jews in all of Czechoslovakia, and most of them were quite elderly – the average age was over eighty. Today there are 1800 Jews, with an average age of fifty. Although the Jews of Czechoslovakia are, for the most part, far from being religious, they are deeply connected to their Jewish roots, which means that this is a community that has tremendous potential for spiritual growth.

That's why I'm here – to give these Jewish neshamos the opportunity to return to their roots through creating a functioning, vibrant Kehillah. My focus is on the younger generation; they are our future. Baruch Hashem, we've established a Jewish elementary school and a Jewish Secondary school. Although the schools are not yet completely Orthodox, they strengthen Jewish identity, which is the first step to returning to a life of Torah and mitzvos.

Hamodia: What about a religious infrastructure?

Rabbi Sidon: Although we don't have our own bais din, every so often a group of rabbanim comes from Eretz Yisrael to convene one for conversion and divorce. As far as kosher food is concerned, until recently we had our own shechitah, but now we've encountered a lot of problems – the last time we slaughtered locally, only three out of ten cows were kosher – so we've begun importing our meat from Poland. Kosher food is available; we even have our own little kosher shop here in the Kehillah building. They stock almost everything, from crackers to chalav Yisrael cheese.

Hamodia: With one thousand Jews and an existing infrastructure, there's definitely an opportunity for growth. But is there an existing Orthodox community?

Rabbi Sidon: Here in Prague we have a small nucleus of about eighty young people, most of them in their early thirties, who are shomrei Torah and mitzvos. Baruch Hashem, many of them are married with young families; if you were to visit our shul on a Yom Tov, you'd find at least a hundred people davening there. For me, this is a source of tremendous joy; it's the reason I entered the rabbinate.

When we opened our school fifteen years ago, we had just six children. The old-timers told me that I was crazy, that there are no more Jewish children left. But we proved them wrong; the nursery school is so big that it has two classes, and one hundred children are enrolled in our school.

When we first moved here, there was not a single mikveh teharah in the entire country.  Later, when the Vaad HaKehillah built one, we were the only family to take advantage of it. But today, baruch Hashem, things are different and many young families use the mikveh on a regular basis.

Any community facility – for example a mikveh or a Jewish day school – has to exist before anyone can use it. I compare it to a faucet; one can only open a faucet to get water if the faucet exists.  The faucet, however, is only a channel to access the brachah. Our school is similar to a faucet; it's a channel to reach these children. 

Hamodia: It sounds as if the school is your pride and joy.

Rabbi Sidon: Yes it is. It's very precious to me — my diamond – the future of my city. But at the same time, most of Prague's Jews are elderly Holocaust survivors. Since a large percentage of them are destitute, it's become the Kehillah's responsibility to take care of them. We provide them with medical care, subsidized meals and assistance in the home. Every day approximately one hundred Jews come to the Kehillah's building, right here where you are interviewing me, for a hot lunch at our subsidized kosher restaurant, which, by the way, is on an international standard and frequented by tourists -- but of course they pay the full rate.

Hamodia: Who supports the Kehillah's activities?

Rabbi Sidon: In most kehillos, the members of the community support the Kehillah. Prague, however, is different. Under the Communists, the Kehillah was supported by the government. After the fall of the Iron Curtain, the value of the Kehillah buildings rose tremendously and they became worth a small fortune. They consist of prime real estate of infinite historical value in Josefov, Prague's Jewish quarter. Prague's Jewish museum rents out several of our buildings, and the revenue supports our activities.

Hamodia: It must be very difficult to live so far from an Orthodox Jewish center. How do you recharge your own spiritual batteries?

Rabbi Sidon: Once a year I spend a week in Eretz Yisrael. It gives me chizuk to see other frum people. (Rabbi Sidon laughs ruefully) Even a rav needs chizuk. Although at times I would like to leave Prague and move to a normal Jewish community, I can't. If I leave, everything would disintegrate.  I am, however, getting older and am looking for a younger person to take over my position.  Each person has his own capabilities. I did what I could, but there is so much more to be done. The community needs someone younger, someone with more energy.

Hamodia: You mentioned that there is a community of about eighty young baalei teshuvah and geirim living here. Where did they learn about Yiddishkeit?

Rabbi Sidon: We have a Midrasha with shiurim in the evening. Every night, you'll find a minyan or so of young people there, exploring their heritage. There's a wide variety of classes; I teach a class on the foundations of halachah. It's because I understand where these young people came from that I am able to relate to them. 

Hamodia: Could you expand on that?

Rabbi Sidon: I converted to Judaism in 1978, when I was thirty-six years old. Although I grew up believing that I was Jewish, my mother was a gentile, which meant, of course, that I wasn't.

I grew up in Czechoslovakia. In 1944, when I was just two years old, my father was deported to Thereisenstadt, where he died. Two years later, in 1946, my mother remarried. Her second husband was also Jewish — although he knew absolutely nothing about Yiddishkeit.

So although I did not grow up religious, I grew up with a strong sense of Jewish identity.  As a child, I would often think about my late father, and in a way, I almost idolized him. In my imagination he become bigger than life, a mythical figure who symbolized pure goodness. I understood that there is something greater than myself, and eventually I realized that that "something" is Hashem.

Before becoming religious, I was a very successful journalist and playwright. I wrote for the official Czech paper, mainly against the Soviet regime. I was exiled from Czechoslovakia in 1968, when the Soviets overran the country and squelched all democratic leanings. I could either follow my conscience – live according to emes – and suffer physically, or live a lie and be comfortable. My father's example – he was a Jew who died for his beliefs – compelled me do what was right, which meant being exiled from my country. It was far from easy.

As a result of that experience, I came to understand that a person is not just a guf, a body, but that each of us has within ourselves a neshamah, a spark of the divine, which craves emes. It was that neshamah that gave me the courage to go against the tide and fight for what is right. Later on, it opened the door to my becoming religious.

In 1978, I was finally allowed to return to Prague and began attending the small Orthodox minyan in the historical Alteneu Shul. In those days, attending shul was an act of mesirus nefesh; one might be called in for an interrogation, and one's children would be denied access to a higher education. For this reason, the Yidden tended to distance themselves from the Kehillah, and for many, this mindset still exists today.

It was during these difficult times that I began studying Torah. My main teacher was a tremendous talmid chacham from Satmar, Hungary; another teacher was from Slovakia. They had studied in the great pre-war yeshivos. After the war, they ended up stranded in Prague. Although it was extremely dangerous for them to teach me, they did. Eventually, they convened a bais din and converted me.

In 1983, I traveled to West Germany to attend Heidelberg's College of Jewish Studies. After six years I graduated with a teacher's degree. Although the classes were on a high academic level, it was far below that of a yeshivah bachur whose entire life is devoted to Torah. I continued my studies at Machon Ariel in Jerusalem. Three years later, I was an ordained rabbi and felt sufficiently knowledgeable to return to Prague to serve the Jews of my hometown.

During our phone calls prior to our meeting, Rabbi Sidon was adamant that the interview focus on the community, rather than on his personal spiritual journey. But as I listened to him speak, I realized that the two are intertwined. It was thanks to his personal odyssey that he has the unique ability to understand the challenges facing his community.

At the conclusion of this interview, Rabbi Sidon took us on a tour of the Kehillah building. He showed us the magnificent synagogue, which dates back to the seventeenth century, Prague's kosher market and the community lunchroom, where dozens of elderly residents eat a delicious, subsidized kosher lunch.

The same guard who had seemed so severe and stern when we first entered the Kehillah building now smiled warmly as he opened the door for us to leave. Outside, we were greeted by a sharp, cold blast of wind that that almost took our breath away. But after hearing of all the Kehillah's many chessed projects, the cold didn't bother us that much. 

Post Cards from THERE Hamodia 2010

POSTCARDS FROM THERE

By Debbie Shapiro

I was sitting opposite Raizel Lipka, listening in amazement as she began talking: “The story, at least for me, began ten years ago, when my mother, Suri Minzer, was sick with her final illness. I had come to America to spend some time with her. We had so much to speak about, so many loose ends to take care of. She knew that our time was limited and she valued each moment that we had together.  One afternoon as we were talking, she suddenly stood up and disappeared into the other room. A few minutes later, she returned, carrying an old, yellowed envelope. 'This is my yerusha to you,' she said. 'It's very precious. It contains our heritage. I want you to keep it and to take care of it.'"

Raizel Lipka handed me a small black box containing sixty nine carefully preserved postcards, separated by rice paper.  These postcards, most crammed with tiny letters enough to fill several pages, were sent to Raizel's mother, Suri Minzer, during the first thirteen months – from June, 1942 to July 1943 - of her imprisonment in the Hannsdorf concentration camp located in Sudetenland, Czechoslovakia.

I sat listening, spellbound, as Raizel told the story of these priceless documents, which, in unfolding the drama of her extended family's fate become an eternal witness to both the ultimate depravity of man and the Jewish response of emuna and bitachon. The first postcard was one that Suri, nicknamed Sala or Salusha, wrote to her family in the town of Jaworzna, while incarcerated in Sosnowiec and waiting to be transported to Hannsdorf. The postcard was never sent.

Friday, June 12, 1942

To my beloved parents,

I want to share with you that it is now five in the morning and I find myself standing on the main street in Sosnowiec. We are being transported to Hannsdorf, to a women's camp, and therefore as soon as I arrive I will write to you immediately, maybe even today. Yesterday I wrote to my brother Hertzka [Suri's oldest brother. His wife and four children were murdered. He survived and went on to build a wonderful frum family] I have nothing more to write and it should only be good. Our dear G-d should not betray us. Remain healthy, Sala [Suri's nickname]

PS I am saying again farewell to you one more time, but I hope that it will not be for long.

When Suri was taken away, the family was living in the town of Jaworzna, where the situation was still relatively good. They pitied their youngest daughter, Suri, for her bad fortune in being grabbed by the Germans and sent to a work camp.

Excerpt of a postcard written by Suri's father, Shmuel Eliyahu, from Jaworzna:

June 25, 1942

Dear Suraleh,

I hope you are fine and to hear only good. I sent you a package of half a loaf bread, a piece of butter and a small jar of jam and three packages of sugar to put in your drink, and a blouse that you can fix so you’ll have what to wear for work. The girls who remained here work in the coal mines. They load the trucks with coal; the work is extremely difficult, but without work it is impossible to survive. We took a picture of our two boys [two grandchildren, Avrumeleh and Srulik]together with their mother, Chaya Rechel [Suri's older sister, Chaya Rechel together with her husband, Wolff, and two children, were all murdered in Auschwitz] and will mail it to you. Let us know when you get them… write to me that you're eating lunch.

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Excerpt of a postcard written on July 3, 1942, about a week and a half before Bubby Raizel, Suri's mother, and Sima, Suri's sister, were deported and the remaining members of the family fled to the Sosnowiec ghetto:

… Don't think too much about us. Thank G-d we are all fine. At work I am building a sidewalk on … and Sima put in a request to work…. All the girls …, must work in the quarries where they pour the gravel onto the trucks with small chutes. For this they received 19 Reich marks, and perhaps a bit more. You should eat the meat and be healthy so that you won’t need to take medication for exhaustion. You are not home. You are in the camp, and you are not allowed to be sick... be happy and sing because your work is at least fifty percent easier than here [i.e. stay in the camp and don't try to return to the ghetto]…. We received letters from the three boys [Suri's brothers who were also in work camps] and they do not write that they are homesick. They write that someday we’ll all be together. Yesterday, I sent you a package and also [a package] for Relchen and Reizel [Suri's cousins].  We’re happy with all of the letters we receive, but not with yours, because you are not healthy and you cry the entire day, just like Yocheved [Suri's little niece who constantly whined]… Lots of kisses, and eat everything. Sunday we’ll all write separate postcards.

In the summer of 1942, the Jews of Jaworzna were deported to a separate section in the Bendin ghetto [the dulag]. From there the young people were sent to nearby work camps while the elderly, mothers of small children and youngsters were shipped to Auschwitz. Suri's sister, Sima, and Suri's mother, Bubby Raizel nee Hoffman, were deported separately from Jaworzna and reunited on Rosh Chodesh Av in Bendin. During the days that they were together, mother and daughter composed several postcards which, although infused with an underlying current of hope, made it clear that they were very aware of their situation. In these postcards, they gently broke the news that they would no longer be able to send Suri packages from home as “they were all taken away and there no longer is a home, but you have a home [the camp]” and encouraged her to do whatever is necessary to survive the war.

Excerpt of a postcard sent by Sima from the Bendin dulag:

July 21, 1942,

To my dearest sister, Suri,

…the situation doesn't look good. The people from Shanov have been brought to Bendin, and many people in Sosnowiec registered to come to Bendin to be sent to work, but meanwhile they have not yet arrived. We're here together with another 500 people from Jaworzna. We belong to the Reich, to Auschwitz… Tell your friend, Malka Fuchs, that she does not have a home anymore. Her entire family is here, with us – her mother, father and brothers…

Sima

Sima's letter was followed by a note from Bubby Raizel:

To the dearest and most loved Salusha,

Don't look for cookies. You don't have a home, so just eat whatever you can… We're all here. We left our homes behind, and all we can think about is to be together with our families again… You should try to stay happy because what is happening today is what has to be.  The poor and the rich, the great and the small, we're all in it together. Right now they are picking people to work, and we are dancing at a wedding [mir tantz off a chasunah… sarcastic expression]. Write me a card. 

@ @ @

Excerpt of a letter written on Tisha B'av, July 23, 1942, by Bubby Raizel in the Bendin dulag:

Today is a fast day. People are arriving from other places, but there are already plenty of people here and we would have been fine without them [sic]. People who were in hiding were caught and beaten, and then sent here to register, and they registered on their own [sic]. There are also very old people here. I arrived on Saturday, together with the other people from our street, and an additional transport arrived on Tuesday, and then another today… May our dear G-d help that we will be accepted for work, because if you work, that's already considered good. Overnight we have all became equal. You should see the high society here; we all eat from one pot… We have already accepted [our destiny] and are already laughing because every Jew is in the same boat. They [the Nazis] have but one goal, to take everything away from us. G-d willing someday we will be together and we will rejoice together. Don't make yourself problems. Eat everything because you won't accomplish anything as we cannot send you anymore packages.

Suri's older sister, Sima was sent to Schomberg concentration camp in Silesia, Poland, where she continued to correspond with Suri, while Suri's mother, Bubby Raizel was shipped to Auschwitz. Just before boarding the train to Auschwitz, Bubby Raizel somehow managed to write a postcard to her youngest daughter and find a gentile to mail it to her.  The postcard was written in pencil and is looks as though it had been trampled on.

Excerpt from the letter Sima sent to Suri from the Schomberg concentration camp, in response to Suri's accusation that the "allowed" the mother to be sent to Auschwitz.

August 9, 1942,

Dearest Sulushkeh,

… Friday afternoon when I received your postcard, I was very excited, but then [after I read it] I cried so much that I could even eat my meal. You ask why I didn't go together with our dear mother. But you know our dear mother well, and you know that she would never allow me to accompany her since she wants me to be able to write to you and to all our dear beloved ones. I had no idea that I would be separated from our dear mother forever, but the police and soldiers entered Bendin, grabbed all the young people and rushed them out into the yard. I wasn't even able to say goodbye to our dear mother, nor could I take along my suitcases. I managed to grab one suitcase, but in the other suitcase I had a suit and warm clothing for you… There is no one left to send me things, as I don't have a home anymore, so who will send me things now? When I was at home with our dear family, we were able to send you packages. You knew what the situation was like then, but we still continued to send and to send some more, whatever we could. On the last day [before I was deported] I ran to the post office to send you a package… The day after I was deported, our dear mother arrived in Bendin… when I saw that she was also there, I fainted and the people around me had to revive me. My dear mother said to me, "Why are you so upset that I'm here? You should be happy that I came to see you." But I already understood what that meant, and that we wouldn't remain together, yet there was nothing I could do to prevent it. The dear mother was sent away with everyone… I am not to blame. She said, "We must live with hope and remain strong so that we will merit to survive this war." We should only be zocheh to be together with her, in health…

Meanwhile, the remainder of the family succeeded in escaping the deportations in Jaworzna and fled to the relative safety of the Sosnowiec ghetto, where they continued sending Suri letters.

Excerpt of a postcard written by Shmuel Eliyahu shortly after he and the remaining members of the family fled to the Sosnowiec ghetto:

July, 1942

My dear, beloved Surela,

I have all the postcards that you wrote. Yesterday I received a card from you and two cards from Simchie [Simcha --Suri's sister, who was in a different camp] …. I beg of you my dear, beloved Surela, please don’t cry. Your beloved mother also requested that we please don’t cry. It won’t take long before we’ll be able to tell each other everything b’simcha. The mother is gone, she willing [sic] fell in together with … [he lists names of relatives and friends who were deported]. I cannot write too many details, but thank G-d I am able to send you a postcard, as  Chaya [a close family friend] has no one to write to [he was telling Suri that Chaya's family was deported]… Hashem should help us that we will be able to continue. Our home is no longer a home and we just hope that G-d should help that it shouldn’t be much longer. And that you should be helped and that everything should be good, take care and be strong. Simchie wrote me that she eats everything [in the camp. In a previous letter Suri wrote that she doesn’t want to eat non-kosher food and requested that the family send her food packages.] She [Simchie] realizes that it’s impossible for us to send her a package. I will send regards from you to her, and from her to you. It’s difficult to write to you as the postal service is only once every two weeks. You should just eat everything, until Hashem is able to help.

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Excerpt of a postcard sent by Suri's father, Shmuel Eliyahu, from the Sosnowiec ghetto

August 20, 1942

… Don't be too curious. Baruch Hashem we’re all alive. We all have agmas nefesh about your dear mother [who was deported].  We must turn to Hashem and He will help. Today, people joined the mother [i.e. there was an aktzion]. We are trying to figure out how to send you and Sima a package. I also sent someone to mail you half a pound of bread. Don’t worry about us. We are praying to G-d for the mother, but don’t cry, she’s not alone… Don’t write silly things, just be healthy, and with Hashem's help you’ll return home.

Although at first the family in the ghetto somehow managed to send Suri packages, eventually the situation worsened and she, as well as her sister Sima, ended up sending their family in the ghetto both money and ration cards to keep starvation at bay.

… Yesterday, we received the 29 Reich marks that you sent us [Suri knit socks and gloves and sent the money she earned to her family in the ghetto]…  Here we receive only four Reich Marks for our work… How many times have I asked you for the name of the pills that we used to take for pain [Shmuel Eliyahu suffered from a terrible toothache and was hinting that she send him this medicine]. Maybe today or tomorrow we’ll be able to send you a package. It’s been four months since we received a letter from your brother.

@@@

….If the redemption doesn't come immediately, we'll never see it…

@@@

Excerpt of a letter written by Suri's older sister, Rochelle, in the Sosnowiec ghetto. She and her husband, Wolff, and their children were all killed by the Nazis.

February 21, 1943

Dearest Sala,

We’re living through terrible times. You asked why I was at the police station. I can’t write everything, but thank G-d we're still here… we have no idea what will be in the end and we need a tremendous yeshua. That's why I'm writing you now. Remain calm... Hashem will not leave us. We're not alone. All the Yidden have the same tzuros. I am only worried about my children. If not for them, my husband and I would go to a work camp, but we want to go [she realized where they would be sent] together with our children. I can just hope that they will not take them away from us. Therefore, I beg you to always remember us… Be calm, we all send you our heartfelt regards. Be healthy. Our sister-in-law, Necha [she was married to Ephraim. He made a pidyon haben for his son while in the labor camp. He survived the war and went on to build a frum family. His wife and baby were murdered], gave birth to a son, and may it bring mazel to all of us.

Love, Rochelle

At the bottom of the postcard, Rochelle's husband, Wolff, added:

… every day I think that they will take me away, may Hashem help that this will be the end of our suffering… Let's hope that we will continue to be together until the yeshua. The children are wonderful Avrumala [age 3] is already a grown up boy and Yisrael Moshe is charming… Hashem should help that we can be mechanech them easily, everything is for the best…

The last postcard sent by Shmuel Eliyahu was dated July, 14, 1943.

My dearest Surela,

I am already considered healthy, thank G-d, and with G-d's help I will soon be able to leave the hospital. The doctor told me that I can have the bandages changed at the clinic, and therefore I don't need to be in the hospital. Hertzka is in Gleiwitz [a subcamp of Auschwitz. The oldest sibling, he survived and went on to remarry and raise a wonderful, frum family]. We received regards from him a few days ago, and he signed on the card. Hudji and her dear children and Chaya Rechel with her husband and dear children are all well. We need the yeshua. We hope it will be immediately. We live with in great fear, may G-d have rachmanus on us and may we be helped with everything that is good. We have not yet received the money that you sent us. What address did you send it to? Be healthy and strong. We send you lots of kisses and regards with our whole hearts. With blessings that the help will come immediately,

your father,

Shmuel Eliyahu Minzer.

PS we just received regards from Michael [an unmarried brother. He survived the war and went on to build a frum family].

"When I was growing up," Raizel said, "my parents rarely spoke about those years and whenever my mother did mention her parents, her eyes would well with tears.  Like most holocaust survivors, my parents were busy building and creating, and didn't want to dwell in the past. They hid the postcards' existence from us. The only time that I ever saw them was on an erev Yom Kippur, when I was eleven, but I didn't understand their significance. I walked into the house to find my mother sitting at the table, crying, while reading some old postcards. I asked her what had happened. She replied that it was nothing as she quickly put the envelope containing the cards away. Although I realized that she was hiding something, I had no idea what.

"I first heard of the postcards ten years ago, when my mother gave them to me as a yerusha," Raizel continued. "She was seventy five years old at the time and recovering from major surgery. I had traveled from my home in Jerusalem to New York to spend time with her. During that visit, my mother also showed me the diary that she had kept before the war and read excerpts of it to me, as well as the siddur that she had brought with her into the camp. Both the siddur and the diary remained in New York and I have no idea what happened to them. They probably got lost when my parents' moved."

CODE LANGUAGE

"After my mother passed away," Raizel continued, "my father and I began deciphering the postcards. Many of the postcards alluded to things taking place either in the ghetto or in the work camp. Since my father was also my mother's first cousin [and his brother married my mother's older sister, Sima] he knew many of the people personally. Since my mother shared her experiences with him, he knew was able to understand what the postcards were alluding to."

Suri's family had to find original ways to get delicate messages past the German censor. Suri had always been a finicky eater, so in his letters, Suri's father, Shmuel Eliyahu,  was constantly urging her to eat everything so that she would remain healthy and survive. Suri, on the other hand, continuously begged him to send her additional packages. Since Shmuel Eliyahu couldn't possibly write her the truth -- that the situation in the ghetto was desperate and the family was starving – he responded, "I'm not sending you now, but I will when I can. Baruch Hashem we have tons of food here. We're eating lukshen with chicken soup [shechita was not allowed and no meat was available, therefore it was obvious to the Suri that there was nothing to eat] and salami with butter." In a different letter, Shmuel Eliyahu writes, "Here we eat mizelach-lechem" -- mice-bread, in other words, enough bread to satiate a mouse. Elsewhere, he writes, "We consume fresh air for breakfast…"

Several postcards were in response to the Germans offer to allow the girls at the Hannsdorf work camp to pay for the privilege of visiting the ghetto. Suri begged her father to send her the money, but he was unable to do so. Meanwhile, Suri managed to get hold of some wool and started knitting gloves and hats and selling them to the other girls in the camp with the hope of eventually earning enough to money to be able to return home for a few days. But when the first group of girls arrived at the ghetto gate, the Nazis immediately murdered them. Shmuel Eliyahu was frantic; he knew how much his daughter wanted to visit the family and he had to warn her not to. So he wrote her that the girls had arrived – and he named most of them – and that they were "warmly greeted by their mothers, who came out to meet them," hoping that since Suri knew that the girls' mothers had all been killed, she would grasp what he was trying to tell her. But just to make sure that she got the hint, he continued, "We hear that the food in the camp is great, that if you want, they give you a double portion. You lead a life of luxury, so don't even think of coming home!" Since Shmuel Eliyahu could only send one postcard every two weeks, he asked other people, who had no one to whom to send a postcard, if they, too, could warn her of the danger. In the end, Suri received three different postcards, all mailed within hours of each other. Considering what it must have taken for Shmuel Eliyahu to track down people willing to give up their precious postcard – he probably had to pay for it too – we can catch a glimpse of the overriding terror he must have felt.

THE POSTCARDS SURVIVE

Suri received her last postcard on July, 14, 1943. Two weeks later, on August 1, 1943, the Sosnowiec ghetto was liquidated. Since there was no need to continue pretending that life was normal, the Germans confiscated the girls' personal belongings and placed them in the attic.

Toward the end of the war, the Germans liquidated most of the camps and forced the inmates to evade liberation with the infamous death march. The lagger fehrer, the gentile woman who headed the Hannsdorf concentration camp, did not want the girls to leave and convinced the camp commander that the German Army still needed the items that they were producing. She continued delaying the death march until the Russian forces liberated the camp.

"On the morning of May 8, 1945," Raizel Lipka continued, "the girls went outside for roll call as they did every morning and discovered that all the Germans had fled. They desperately started searching the camp for food. In one of the building's attics, instead of food they discovered boxes containing all the things that they had brought when they first arrived—their clothes, letters, my mothers siddur and her diary. It was a real miracle."

Suri, her sister Sima, and her three brothers, Hertzka, Ephraim and Michael survived the war and went on to create beautiful Torah families. Suri married her first cousin, Ephraim Minzer, and her sister, Sima, married Shmuel Minzer, Ephraim Minzer's brother Suri passed away 20 Adar Bais, 2003 at the age of 78.

During the last few weeks of Suri's life, she continually told her daughter that she’d live ‘biz ah hindred.’ She died few minutes after her hundredth descendent was born. All her children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren are G-d-fearing Jews. Those many strong links in the golden chain of Klal Yisrael are her true legacy. The postcards she left behind will assure her that her descendants, and all of Klal Yisrael, never forget the mesirus nefesh, emunah and bitachon, the spiritual valor and trust in G-d, which are the foundations of our eternal people.

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Very little has been written about Poland's complex network of Nazi labor camps. Until the summer of 1943, the inmates were allowed to keep their belongings, wear their own clothes and even earn money, which they were able to send back to their families in the ghettoes. By Fall of 1943, Operation Reinhard, the code name for the Nazi plan to murder Polish Jewry came to an end and there was no one left for the inmates to send their postcards to.

Although at first people pitied those who had been grabbed by the Nazis and incarcerated the labor camps, as the situation in the ghetto degenerated and people began to realize where the trains were headed, the Jews in the ghetto vied for the privilege of being sent to a labor camp rather than forced to board the train to Auschwitz.

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Lost Chassan Hamodia November 17

Lost Chassan

As told to Debbie Shapiro

When my husband told me that a shadchen had called for our daughter Shulamis, my immediate reaction was "No way!" She was only sixteen, and although she was very mature for her age, sixteen is still sixteen. I felt that she really should wait at least another year before considering about marriage.

This wasn't the first time that someone had called to suggest a shidduch for her. The shadchanim began pestering us while we were still in the midst of her older sister's sheva brachos – and Shulamis was only twelve years old at the time. But Shulamis had a certain confidence that made her appear much older than her age. So when I's point out that the young woman they had seen helping at the sheva brachos was really still a child, they were flabbergasted. "No, no," they'd argue, "Not that one. I'm talking about her older sister." But she was that older sister.

So that afternoon, when my husband mentioned that a shadchen had just called, and that this time it sounded like something worth listening to, I just laughed at the idea.

But my husband had heard enough to be excited. "I know the boy's father. I was at his wedding, and even attended his sheva brachos—real nice, ehrlicher people. His grandfather was one of the tzaddikim of Jerusalem of yore. How could we not take such a suggestion seriously?"

Personally, I thought the idea was completely crazy, but I grudgingly agreed to ask our rav for his opinion. He also knew the family, and promised to look into the bachur for us, which wasn't difficult as both his brother and brother-in-law were maggidei shiurim in the boy's yeshiva. The information he received was excellent. "The boy is a real gem," our rav told us. "You'd be a fool to turn down such a suggestion." I was flabbergasted. I had been positive that he'd respond, "What's the rush? Let her enjoy life a bit."

My husband was thrilled; this was exactly what he always wanted. But I was devastated. As the oldest daughter at home, Shulamis literally ran my household. Her idea of relaxation was to clean the refrigerator or reorganize the linen closet. She loved sewing and thanks to her creativity we were all beautifully dressed. How would I ever manage without her?

After several more phone calls, we – well, at least my husband, Yehoshua – arrived at the same conclusion as the rav. Now, the only problem was, how do we break the news to Shulamis. She wasn’t at all interested in getting married.

Shulamis' first reaction was, "I'm still a kid. Leave me alone," but after more details, she agreed to see him – but only from a distance.

So Yehoshua phoned the shadchen to tell her that he was willing to meet the boy, and that while he would talk with him, his daughter would be watching from a distance. That's how Shulamis and I found ourselves sitting on a lone park bench late one night, waiting anxiously for my husband and said bachur to emerge from the shul for a short stroll along the meandering paths.

The shul door opened. "There they are," I almost shouted in excitement.

"Shhhh… someone will hear you," Shulamis whispered, her face beet red.

Then, the unthinkable happened. Yehoshua and Shlomo, the bachur in question, headed directly to where we were sitting and strolled back and forth -- and back and forth, and back and forth -- right in front of us. "Poor guy," my daughter whispered when they were at the far end of the path, before turning around to walk in front of us again. "How embarrassing to be put on display like that."

It wasn't until several years later that I learned that my husband and Shlomo were so engrossed in their discussion that they didn't even realize that we were there!

Girl liked boy (at least from a distance). Father liked boy -- but we still had no idea if boy liked girl. So a meeting was set up for the following evening in my married daughter's home; well actually it wasn't just the couple. As per Yerushalmi custom, both sets of parents would also be coming.

I am not Yerushalmi. Yes, I like the Yerushalmi, and I admire their insular lifestyle, permeated with kedusha and tahara, but despite the fact that I have lived in Israel for many, many years, I am still very American. So while the couple met in the living room, I sat with Shlomo's mother in the kitchen, talking about my latest work project, our newest grandchild, anything to be sociable. Shlomo's mother was polite, and responded to my questions, but did not carry her weight of the conversation. I later learned that I had made a huge social blunder. It's customary that while the couple is meeting, the parents recite Tehillim, asking Hashem to guide the youngsters in making the right decision.

But Shulamis was not interested in seeing Shlomo again. "I don't think he's what I'm looking for," she told us the moment Shlomo and his parents left.

I was thrilled.

My husband was devastated.

Later on that evening, over a cup of hot cinnamon tea, my husband and I had what I'll call a "discussion."

"I don't understand it. How could she turn him down like that? He's exactly what we're looking for. What a gem; such middos; a real masmid; the top boy in his shiur... how could she just say no?"

"She didn't like him," I retorted (Yay!). "We can't push her to get married. She's not even seventeen.... I think she wants someone more worldly."

"Worldly? Limud Torah's everything. This guy is totally immersed in his Torah! We're not pushing her. But she could at least give him another chance. Such a gem; such middos; a real masmid…"

Eventually I came to the conclusion that my husband was so enamored with this boy that he wasn't hearing what I was saying. "Let's ask the Rav," I suggested, positive that our neighborhood rav would agree with me that we should just forget about the whole thing. After all, Shulamis was only sixteen – and she didn't even like the guy!

But the Rav's response was similar to my husbands. "Such a gem; such middos' a real masmid… (you get the idea…). Did she say actually say no," he asked me.

"Well, not exactly, she just said that she doesn't think she's interested."

"Tell her not to think so hard," he chuckled. "And tell her that I say she should meet him a second time. If, after the second time, she still thinks this way, well, what can I tell you? You can't push her into it. But such a gem; such good middos; a real masmid…"

When I told Shulamis what the rav said, her response was clear. She'd be willing to meet Shlomo a second time for the simple reason that we are her parents and she is obligated to respect us. But under no way would she ever marry the guy.

I was thrilled.

My husband was devastated.

The next afternoon Shlomo and Shulamis met a second time, again, in my married daughter's living room. This time, they spoke for close to three hours.

At the end of the three hours, when my married daughter called to let me know that Shlomo had just left, I didn't even give her a chance to say hello before asking. "How'd it go?"

I could hear the smile in her voice as she replied, "Shulamis's right here. Why don't you ask her?"

"Nu? How'd it go?" I was positive that she'd tell me that she never wanted to see him again. Instead her voice broke as she responded, "If he's interested, and Dor Yesharim says we're suitable, well, then, I want to marry him."

For once, I was speechless. "Are you sure?" I finally asked.

"Yes," she responded, sounding both buoyant and confident.

The next few minutes were what I can only describe as blissful pandemonium. Since we had gotten the okay from Dor Yesharim even before they met, I phoned the shadchen and asked her to relay Shulamis's response to the other side. Ten minutes later, she called us back to tell us that yes, Shlomo wants to marry my daughter. We made up that Shlomo and his family would come to our house at nine o'clock that evening to break the plate and make it official.

I raced to the room where my two younger daughters were busy doing homework. "I need your help quick," I yelled. Shulamis's getting engaged (gulp!). Tonight!"

While Shulamis was busy getting dressed for her engagement party, my two younger daughters cleaned our house until it shone. Meanwhile, I called all my married children to share the good news, and to tell them that they should come straight over to our house if they don't want to miss their sister's l'chayim. Cakes and drinks were bought, the table was set, and we all got took showers and put on our Shabbos best, and then sat down in our living room to wait for the honored guests arrival.

We waited and waited, and waited some more. Nine o'clock passed, and then ten o'clock, and then ten thirty. The neighborhood Rav came, wished us a hearty mazel tov, and then left. My grandchildren were getting rambunctious, the house didn't shine any more, and we were all eating and laughing to keep ourselves from stating the unmentionable. The pile of cakes was getting dangerously low.

"Do you think they changed their minds?" I whispered to my husband, after peering out the window for the umpteenth time.

He didn't answer. He was as perplexed – and worried -- as I was.

Finally, close to midnight, we heard the sound of several minibuses pulling up in front of our building. A few minutes later, the doorbell rang, and the festivities began. Of course Shlomo's family politely apologized for coming late, and we, of course, politely laughed and said it was nothing. But we were very confused.

We only learned the rest of the story close to a year later, when my by then very happily married daughter heard it from her husband.

My son-in-law, Shlomo, had agreed to the shidduch after the first meeting, but had been told that Shulamis had insisted that she meets him at least three times before making a decision. That afternoon's meeting was over before seven. Shlomo knew that if he returned home, he'd end up talking to his sisters instead of learning. On the other hand, if he returned to yeshiva, all his friends would figure out that he had skipped seder because of a shidduch. So he popped into one of the many shuls dotting Meah Shearim to pack in some learning before returning home (I said he was a masmid…).

Meanwhile, Shlomo's family was frantic. Shlomo was always either at home or at the yeshiva, but now he was in neither place. Suddenly, one of his sisters had an idea. It was just a few days before Purim, and the many of the bachurim in their kehilla were at shul, rehearsing for the annual Purim shpiel. "Maybe Shlomo went to shul to watch the rehearsals," she suggested.

Shlomo's mother immediately asked her not-yet—thirteen-year-old son, Shmueli, to run to the shul to see if Shlomo was there. Little Shmueli raced out of the house, feeling very grown up to be charged with such an important mission. Puffing and panting, he entered the shul and breathlessly asked, "Is Shlomo here? We need him, QUICK!"

The bachurim immediately sensed that something unusual was going on. "Why do you need Shlomo? Is it an emergency?" one of them slyly asked.

"Well, kind of…" Shmueli mumbled, before telling them the exciting news that his older brother was getting engaged that night.

Shmueli returned home to tell his family that Shlomo was not in shul. But meanwhile, the good news spread fast and it wasn’t long until the entire Meah Shearim knew that Shlomo was a chasan. The only person who didn't know, however, was Shlomo himself!

At eleven o'clock, Shlomo gently replaced the worn Gemara in the bookshelf. Then he donned his hat, wrapped himself up in his warm winter coat and left the shul to return home. On his way, several people stopped him to wish him a hearty mazel tov. He assumed it was because his sister had given birth that morning. Five minutes later he opened the front door and was surprised to see his entire extended family sitting there, staring at him, their faces a combination of curiosity and amusement.

"Where were you?" his father asked.

"Shlomo, hurry up, your kallah's waiting for you," interjected his mother.

Meanwhile, one sister started polishing his right shoe, while the other one grabbed his hat right off of his head and began brushing it with a vengeance. Within minutes, two minibuses pulled up in front of their house, and, less than a quarter of an hour later – and close to three hours after the agreed upon time – they knocked on our door.

During the ten month engagement period, the chasan and kalla did not see each other or speak to each other. On several occasions, however, we had what is termed a "vishita" or official state visit. While all the men gathered in the chasan's house, the women gathered in our house, and -- well -- visited. Of course we made all sorts of fancy delicacies that everyone was too polite to eat, and were quickly gobbled up by the grandchildren and their mothers the moment the company walked out the door. 

Less than a week before the wedding, I decided to try on my new outfit and matching shoes to see if they were comfortable enough for me to really dance in. After polkaing around the living room with my next door neighbor, I went to the bathroom to get a tissue, and slipped, banging my knee into the corner of wall.

I remember lying there, in agony, looking at my grossly deformed knee, and wondering why this was happening to me now, just days before my daughter's wedding. Barely able to speak from the pain, I managed to gasp, "Quickly, this is a medical emergency. Call an ambulance."

My neighbor, still in shock at the sudden turn of events, looked at me in disbelief and asked, "But Debbie, are you sure you need an ambulance?"

At that, I totally lost my cool.  "Yes," I screamed. "NOW!"

I don't remember too much after that, but the Hatzala people later told me that I was very funny and kept on cracking stupid jokes when most people would probably be screaming. The only thing I remember saying is that when one of them asked me what had happened, I replied, "My mother-in-laws plane is landing now (which it was!). I guess I just didn't want to have to deal with that…" And that is how I ended up dancing one foot for the entire wedding and actually, if I may say so myself, I was pretty good at it.

The chuppah took place in a school yard, surrounded by overcrowded apartment buildings and trash cans. There was no music. But without the theatrics and shtick, I mamash felt the seriousness of the moment. As a matter of fact, rather than spend the day having her sheitel done and waiting for the makeup artist to arrive, the mechutenester fasted and recited Tehillim for the young couple's future happiness. Both sets of parents escorted the young couple to cheder yichud, and yes, my daughter entered with her right foot, and we broke the traditional bagel over their heads as they stepped over the threshold. While I hopped on one foot with an ugly white bandage wrapped around my other leg, my daughter, the kallah, was following the Yerushalmi minhag of wearing black shoes (yes, black shoes!) under her wedding gown.  My best friend was appalled, but she later told me that she as much as she kept on looking at Shulamis's feet, she never once managed to see her shoes. 

In the middle of the wedding, a Yerushalmi rebbetzin that I am friendly with walked into the hall, and I hopped over to greet her. After wishing each other a hearty Mazel Tov, she looked at me with a curious expression on her face and asked, "So who do you know here?" 

We returned home exhausted and ecstatic – and starving! The first thing we did upon entering the house was to make a beeline to the refrigerator and prepare a quick meal of cornflakes and milk. Yes, cornflakes and milk; all of us --- the entire family! -- were milchigs. Between shaking hands and dancing, we had not managed to eat anything more than a kzayis of bread! 

And for once, I'll admit it: I was wrong, and my husband was completely right. Shlomo was, and still is, a real gem, and yes, it was, and still is, a great shidduch, replete with numerous dividends, bli ayin hora.  

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