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.

PESACH WITH THE CHILDREN as appeared in Binah Magazine

Last year, when my son and daughter-in-law first suggested that rather than hosting several of my children with their families for Pesach, we pack a couple of suitcase and spend the entire holiday as their guests, I really didn’t know what to think.

On one hand, I love preparing for the holiday. There’s  a real sense of accomplishment from sorting through our belongings, cleaning every nook and cranny, and I feel deep pleasure and pride as my home takes on that special kosher l’Pesach glow. But although I find the final days — as the deadline closes in, and women barely have time to nod at each other in the stairwell — exhilarating, they are also physically and mentally exhausting. Can a mountain climber standing on the crest of Mt. Everest ever begin to fathom the sense of accomplishment  a Jewish woman feels at 2am as she eats her first kosher l’Pesach, freshly fried chremselech in her gleaming Pesachdig kitchen?  But on the other hand, at this stage of my life, I can forget about climbing Mt. Everest, or staying up half the night turning my kitchen over.

And then there’s Pesach itself. With so many guests, the house in transformed into one huge bedroom, and the grandchildren are all cranky because they miss their beds and sense of routine. And to tell you the truth, although I usually manage to keep a smile pasted on my face, I also find it difficult to constantly be available for everyone, without down time for myself.

So, with heavy hearts, my husband and I decided to accept our son’s invitation for Yom Tov. It turned out to be a very wise decision, because I ended up spending the last two weeks before Pesach in the hospital with a serious infection. I arrived home the day of bedikas chametz, and unable to get out of bed, my next door neighbor hid the traditional ten pieces of bread. I’m pretty sure that there was no chametz in my house (and if there was, it was annulled) but my kitchen looked like it always does. A couple of pots and a few dishes drying in the dishrack, towels draped through the cabinet handles, and none of them were kosher l’Pesach. 

During the Seder, I was m’kayem the mitzvah of “mesubin” lying prone on the sofa, with my legs elevated, while being served like a queen. And although it wasn’t our own Seder (in other words, I wasn’t the one who did all the cleaning and cooking), my husband was given the kavod of leading it, just as he has always done. A different family of children and grandchildren stopped in for a visit each day of Chol Hamoed; by then, I was able to take short walks to the playground and fully enjoy the einiklach without having to worry about the mess. It was the pleasure of family, without the accompanying exhaustion.  

This year? Personally, I don’t see how I could possibly cope with making Pesach. Yes, of course, I’ll clean my home and get rid of the chametz, but the pressure of those last few days, as we turn over the kitchen and stock our home with all the perishables, is something that I can no longer deal with. Yes, it’s painful to admit (especially to myself) that I am not invincible, but at the same time, I am so grateful that I have children who want to be m’kabed their parents. And besides, through giving my children the opportunity to be m’kayem the mitzvah of kibbud av va’eim in such a beautiful manner,  my grandchildren are receiving a crucial lesson in how to be m’kabed their own parents.  

And isn’t that what it’s all about? Generation to generation, it is our actions, rather than our words, that form the golden links of mesorah. 

An exchange of letters re "Bubby's Prayers"

I received the following letter: 

Debbi Shapiro,

1. According to the narrative of a co survivor who escaped on the same transport as Rav Tuvia Weiss, the transport had been arranged by Rabbi Dr. Solomon Schonfeld. This kinder transport from Slovakia later merged with another transport from Vienna, which had been under the auspices of the Aguda, and then traveled further to England.

In another narrative, Rav Weiss said that he was saved by Rav Mechoel Ber Weismandl.  Rabbi Schonfeld, who had been a Talmud of Rav  Weismandl, very often worked with his mentor in his rescue work. Many of these Jewish children were taken in by generous hearted Gentiles, and Rav Shonfeld kept in touch, suggesting how to keep kashrut, and Shabbos. Rav Tuvia Weiss had his bar mitzva while he lived by English Gentiles, and in spite of that, he is now Dayan in Yerushalayim. 

2. Sir Winton was an incredible human being, who, as you mentioned, was not interested in Judaism or in the Judaism of his charges. In the documentary about him, "Nicky's Family" he stated that when the rabbis asked him to place the Jewish children in Jewish homes, he told them to save the children themselves. All of Sir Winton's refugee charges were, understandably, very grateful for his selflessness, including the child that proudly grew up to be an English priest.

Sincerely, 

XXXXXX

Here is my response: 

Dear Mrs. xxxxxx,

Thank you so much for taking the time to comment on my article. I could never express my sentiments as eloquently as Dayan Weiss, who wrote the following letter to the Winton family upon learning of Sir Nicholas' passing.

Dear the Winton Family,

I was saddened to learn of the passing of Sir Nicholas Winton, the person who risked his own life, selflessly working and succeeding to save me and a large number of others. I want to share my condolences with you. May Sir Winton rest in peace, and may his noble, courageous, selfless memory stay with us forever and be of comfort to you.

At a time of darkness and bloodshed, very few had the strength to overcome the fear, threats and violence, to stand up for humanity. Your father is of that tiny league, of a handful of people who had the strong moral conviction and determination to save hundreds and thousands from being slaughtered. I’m in awe of his noble character. Not only did he risk everything to save lives, but he didn’t even expect any credit for it. For decades, I didn’t know who my rescuer was due to his unbelievable humbleness, until the secret was revealed by others.

I – and my entire family of children, grandchildren, and great- grandchildren, who are alive – would not be here, if not for your great father. While he’s no longer physically with us, his memory lives on with all of those who are among the living thanks to him.

May the merit of his brave and selfless acts elevate the soul of Sir Nicholas Winton, and may it brighten the lives of his surviving family. His great deeds are not forgotten and will eternally remain inscribed with golden letters as one of the most heroic acts to ever happen. May his legacy be an example for others to emulate.

With condolences and blessings of Yerushalayim, from the depths of my heart,

The 19th of Tammuz, 5775

Rabbi Yitzchok Tuvia Weiss,

Chief Rabbi, Edah Haredit Jerusalem

p.s. I regret that I didn’t have a chance to personally express my gratitude to Sir Winton, as I desired. I was hoping to see him last winter, during a planned trip to England, which unfortunately had to be canceled. Should a family member ever visit Israel and would like to visit me, please don’t hesitate to contact my secretary. It would be a privilege to at least express my gratitude to a scion of my rescuer.

To see a copy of the original (which was printed in the Eidah newspaper here in Jerusalem:http://matzav.com/letter-rav-yitzchok-tuvia-weiss-gaavad-of-the-eidah-hachareidus-pays-tribute-to-sir-nicholas-winton/

According to Wikipedia, Winton's parents, Rudolph Wertheim and Barbara (née Wertheimer) were German Jews who moved to London in 1907, two years before Nicholas' birth, and converted to Christianity. So although Winton considered himself a gentile, he was, in fact, a Jew.

Sincerely,

Debbie Shapiro 

A Bubby's Prayers -- as appeared in the Bina

Have any of you heard of Sir Nicholas Winton? A British businessman, during the Holocaust he succeeded in saving the lives of over 650 Jewish children by bringing them to England under the very noses of the Nazis, in what is commonly known as the Kindertransport. An unassuming individual, his noble deed most probably would have remained unknown except that one day, some sixty years after the war, his wife decided to clean out the junk in the attic. She discovered an old-looking box containing lists of names with their personal details. When she asked her husband about it, he responded that they were just names. But she was persistent, until finally he told her that the list contained the names of all the children he had saved during the war, but that it was nothing extraordinary; anyone would have done the same.

Mrs. Winton arranged a surprise evening to honor her husband’s heroism. The majority of people invited were “Winton’s children,” that she had somehow (and it was not an easy feat) managed to track down, men and women who owed their lives to his heroism. It was an emotional reunion, and Mr. Winton was awestruck as he looked around the room at the children, now adults and heads of families, that he had saved and realized the momentous impact of his actions. One of the people whose life he saved is Harav Yitzchak Tuvia Weiss, shlita, Gaavad of the Eidah Hacharedis in Yerushalayim, a true amud of Torah and yiras Shamayim. I am sure there are many other Torah scholars and ehrlicher Yidden who owe their lives to Winton’s heroism. 

After hearing this story, I decided to do a bit of research, to learn what would compel a wealthy businessman to risk his career, and even more so, his very life, to save innocent Jewish children. What zechus did he have to play a part in bringing about the revival of Torah from the ashes? I discovered that although the world viewed Nicholas as a gentile, and even he considered himself a gentile, he was, in fact, a Jew. His parents had converted to Catholicisam at the turn of the century, when they emigrated from Germany to London. To remove all traces of their Jewish roots, they Anglicized their name and raised their son as a gentile.

But despite his very non-Jewish upbringing and name, Nicholas, was, in fact a Jew, a precious Yiddishe neshamah forcefully severed from his people. And like every Jewish child, he most probably had a Jewish bubby, and bubbies are known to daven for their grandchildren.

I can only imagine the tears his bubby shed as she beseeched the One Above that her precious grandchild somehow discover that spark of Yiddishkeit that exists within every Jew and reconnect to his heritage. And although her prayers were not answered in the way that she had hoped, perhaps, it is in the zechus of her tefillos that her grandson found the courage to save so many Yiddishe children, and in doing so, to have a share in bringing so much light of Torah to the world.

Of course, it would be presumptuous of me to try to understand Hashem’s ways, and no one can really ever know why Nicholas merited to accomplish what he did. But one thing I do know: Bubbies (and zeidies and mommies and tatties) daven for their children – and Hashem answers their tefillos, although sometimes in ways that we may never fathom.

We just have to keep on davening.

This year, on zos Chanukah, one of my einekelach turned three. Together with his parents and siblings (as well as a couple of cousins and a set of mechutanim thrown in for good measure) we made the arduous journey to Meiron for the chalakah. It was a mini Lag B’Omer, with lots of music, dancing, and of course, tearful tefillah.

I noticed a nine-year-old granddaughter observing me as I davened. When I finished, I called her over and showed her the list of family members that I keep on me (in case I have a “senior moment”). “Look,” I said, pointing to her name on the list. “Here’s your name, together with your mommy’s name. That’s because Bubby davens for you every single day, just like I daven for all my children and grandchildren.”

She didn’t seem moved. Actually, she couldn’t wait to run away from me as quickly as possible to get back to her cousins. But I felt that it was important to impress on her the fact that I daven for her. I want her to know that no matter what might happen down the line, where she ends up in her life, her bubby will always be there for her, storming the Heavenly Throne on her behalf.

My cell phone rang as we were about to board the minibus to return home. Mazel tov, my daughter had just given birth to a little girl! Amidst all the laughter, hugging and joyous commotion, that same granddaughter came up to me and asked the one question that really weighed on her mind: “Bubby, are you also going to daven for the new baby?”

“Of course I will, shefela, just like I daven for you, and your sisters, and all my precious grandchildren.”

Her entire face lit up. Then she skipped back to her cousins.

She understood.

Keeping it All Together - as appeared in Binah

This year, as every year, our annual Chanukah party was a humongous affair. Dozens of grandchildren of all ages, together with their parents, somehow managed to squeeze themselves into our tiny apartment (reminiscent of how, in the early 60s, college students would try to see how many teens could fit into a telephone booth). They filled every nook and cranny, leaving a thick trail of sufganiyot crumbs and sticky jelly- covered fingerprints.

Ah, the beauty of family. Thirty-three years ago, when my husband and I started our lives together, it was just the two of us, (plus the six small children we were bringing into this new marriage), and no extended family . My children felt disadvantaged. ll their friends were members of large, cohesive clans that got together regularly for cousins’ bar mitzvah celebrations, family melaveh malkah, weddings, and, of course, Chanukah parties and Purim seudos. At school, discussion in the school yard often centered on the details of these gatherings, and since most of the children were somehow related, there were lots of private family jokes and reminiscing.

Today, when my children talk about those years, there is an undercurrent of bitterness at having been different. Yes, of course, they understand that no one was at fault — one can’t create instant family — yet they lack those wonderful, sweet memories of cousins getting together.

This is why I try so hard to keep the family together, to find reasons to celebrate, to make sure that my einekelach have a strong attachment to our personal link in the golden chain of mesorah leading back to Har Sinai.

It’s not always easy. Our family certainly doesn’t fit into any niche. We’re a pretty eclectic bunch. Chassidim, Misnagdim, Kena’im, Chabadnikim; we have representatives in every camp. On Pesach, some of us won’t touch gebrochts or machine matzos, while for others, that’s their main staple. As for head gear, to each his own hat or shtreimel or sheitel or turban or whatever. To tell you the truth, to me, those externals are really not important, as long as it’s al pi halachah.

Then, of course, my children are extremely busy raising beautiful, large families, (MY einekelach, bli ayin hora), while at the same time working full time, making bar mitzvahs, weddings, taking kids to dentists and somehow even finding time to purchase new shoes. So scheduling a time that everyone – or at least all those “everyones” living within a two-hour drive of my house – can get together is a major challenge. 

But I do it. I make the effort because I see how important it is for my grandchildren’s sense of identity. I watch the cousins huddle in a corner, whispering together, sharing secrets, and then producing plays and choirs for the adults, and I realize that I am giving them the greatest gift – the gift of belonging to a large, cohesive family unit, feeling the tangible achdus of Klal Yisrael, of being part of something much greater than themselves.  

In addition to our grand family gatherings, I arrange times for just the siblings and their spouses, to get together for a melaveh malkah or just plain middle of the week, no special occasion meal. No special reason, that is, except that family is family. And family is important.

Once or twice a year, I make a “mothers’ retreat” for my daughters and daughters-in- law, plus any nursing babies. Basically, it’s a slumber party, where no one sleeps and the “girls” end up giggling half the night! Last year, we sat in a deserted park until three in the morning, drinking ice coffees and having a blast. When we returned home, I collapsed into my bed and within minutes was sound asleep. But although “the girls” were officially safely ensconced in their blankets, the talking, and occasional shrieks of laughter or outbursts of song continued until the morning.

And then there’s the cousin camps, where girls of the same general age group come to Bubby’s house for a couple of days of fun. We close all the lights, place candles on the living room floor and have a kumsitz; we wake up in the predawn hours to catch the bus to kever Rachel; we visit chashuve Rebbetzins and gain from their insights. I let the girls prepare an entire Shabbos together, and then, when they all leave, I collapse! My husband tells me that I should stop exerting myself like this, but I explain to him that although I’m totally exhausted and feeling horrific, it is completely worth it. That’s because watching my family be together is one of my biggest sources of nachas.

 And I’m a bubby, and bubbies are supposed to have nachas!  

The H Word -- appeared in Binah

I tend not to do things very quietly, which is probably why when I chose to lose my balance and fall, it was right on the corner of Kikar Shabbos, on Erev Sukkos. That morning, I had realized that I was actually ahead of schedule and decided to run up to Geula to purchase a few presents for the einiklach. (Which was really dumb. No one in their right mind runs up to Geula on Erev Yom Tov, but bubbies have been known to do crazy things to get their grandchildren to smile! And besides, in my last column, I did point out that despite the wrinkles, we still have lots to learn.) And then, smack in the middle of the Erev Yom Tov rush, I crashed to the ground and succeeded in spraining my knee, finger, and elbow, as well as twisting a few ligaments.

It was not a pretty sight.

Two weeks after Simchos Torah, I was scheduled to travel to the United States to visit family and friends. It is a long trip, with a two-hour layover in Boston, and although I was looking forward to seeing my family, I was dreading getting there, especially the hassle at the airport. My leg still throbbed. Walking, or standing in one place, was very difficult, and  I knew that between security and customs, I'd have to do a lot of that!

My husband suggested that I request a wheelchair and disabled priority seating.

I was aghast. Me? A wheelchair? Disabled? No way!

But I listened to reason, and what can say? It was an amazing experience!

Instead of standing in multiple lines while juggling purse, hand luggage, and papers (and often resorting to using my teeth as a third hand!), not to mention removing my shoes and maneuvering my belongings onto a conveyer belt while somehow keeping my balance, I was treated like a queen. In Tel Aviv, my escort swiftly pushed me through the first class priority line, and within minutes, I was seated at the gate, awaiting my flight.

The same scene repeated itself in Boston. When my escort, a young man named Mohammed, spent over half an hour pushing me through what seemed like endless airport corridors, and across a busy street to get to the proper terminal, I realized that I could have never done it alone.

Well, actually, I probably could have, but I would have ended up exhausted and frazzled. And it would have taken me a week, if not more, to recover, and by then it would be time to return home.
It is humbling to ask for help. It means that we’re not invincible, that as we get older we are no longer that incredibly capable superwoman that we aspired to be (but really never were). But at the same time, it's even more humiliating to have the contents of your hand luggage come tumbling to the floor while trying to open it and place that tiny bottle of hand cream into the Ziploc bag that you can't possibly unzip with one hand, or trip over your shoe laces since you knew it would be impossible to balance on one foot to tie them, or watch the security officer try to hide his disgust as you remove the passport from between your teeth and hand it to him, slightly damp… Shall I go on?

I participate in a monthly telephone support group for women dealing with Parkinson's disease. In our last meeting, we talked about how difficult it can be to have to rely on other people and how we tend to push ourselves beyond our limitations, and then end up collapsing. It's easy to ask for help. We are used to being the nurturers, the quintessential Yiddishe mamas.. 

But, like most people, I still have a lot to learn, and one of them is to accept help graciously. Yes, it's true, I could have traveled around the world without assistance, but would it have been worth the price? Cleaning help, paper dishes, ready-made food (believe me, no one will ever mention in your eulogy that you actually bought most of Shabbos!); they are all there to make life easier. 

Grandchildren and friendly neighborhood teens who come to help with the shopping or tidying up are a gift in disguise, but the question is, who is the recipient? Perhaps through accepting help graciously, and with dignity, we are providing the next generation with an example to look up to and emulate.