An interview with Rabbanit Yehudit Yosef, daughter of Rav Ovadia Yosef ztz"l appeared in the Binah

In the Corridors of Greatness

 A Glimpse Inside the Palace  

Byline: As told to Debbie Shapiro

When Rabbanit Yehudit Yosef married the youngest son of Harav Ovadiah Yosef, zt”l, she entered into a unique role, privileged to both serve and observe the beloved Gadol Hador of the Sephardic community.

 

When I was meeting my future husband, Harav Moshe Yosef, shlita, the youngest child of Harav Ovadiah Yosef, zt”l, he told me that if I were to marry him, I must understand that his parents will always come first. I asked him what that meant, and he explained that he would always make sure to help his parents with whatever they might need, and that they were his top priority.

 

My father-in-law was especially close with my husband. Prior to our marriage the Rav gave my husband a new car, but with one condition: My husband must continue accompanying the Rav to the netz minyan each morning. Starting from the week of sheva brachot, the Rav phoned my husband each morning to make sure he was up in time to go with him to the beit haknesset. After Shacharit, my husband would drive the Rav home and remain there to prepare and serve his breakfast After we were married about two years,the doctor instructed the Rav to take a nightly walk for exercise. At 11:15 every night, my husband would go directly from his chavruta to accompany his father on his nightly walk.

Some 20 years ago, the Rav suddenly developed pneumonia. His lungs were full of water and he was in terrible pain. The doctor insisted that he be hospitalized immediately, but the Rav refused, explaining that he was supposed to meet with an important person in the government the following morning, to talk about funding additional classrooms for the Shas Educational Network. That night, the Rav was in agony, but in the morning, when he met with the government official, there was no sign that he was in pain. The moment the official left, however, his suffering was obvious. When we expressed our amazement, my father-in-law replied that he had been in pain throughout the meeting, but if he had shown any signs of being ill, the official would have felt uncomfortable and left, leaving the children without classrooms. And the children were his first priority.

Soon after the government official left, we brought the Rav to the hospital. After the doctors completed their examination, they informed us that medically, there was nothing they could do for him. The Rabbanit was inconsolable; she could not stop crying. Through her tears, she told me that the Rav must continue to live, as he has so many more sefarim to write, and so much more to do to help Am Yisrael. Then she lifted her hands upward and said, “Hashem, if it is decreed that the Rav must die, then please, take me in his place.”

The Rav survived and continued learning, teaching, and writing. The Rabbanit passed away that same year. She had always been the healthy one; shortly before she died, the doctor told her that she had the heart of an eighteen-year-old! On Erev Shavuos, as we were in the kitchen preparing for the Chag, she thanked me for everything that I done for her over the years, and then asked me to please run a quick errand for her. I returned some fifteen minutes later to find her lying on the floor, still grasping her Tehillim. She was perfectly tzanuah, everything was completely covered. She had had a stroke, and passed away two months later.

IN THE RAV'S HOME

At the conclusion of the shivah for Rabbanit Margolit the children decided that every two weeks, another couple would move in to the Rav's apartment to take of his needs. But the Rav had other plans. He asked my husband, his youngest son, Harav Moshe Yosef shlita to ask me for my permission for our family to move into his house permanently. At the time, I was 24, a young married woman with small children. I felt as though I had won the lottery. What a zechut to have this opportunity to serve the gadol hador!

We had such a warm, wonderful relationship. The Rav was always concerned about our welfare. I never had to worry about my children's chinuch; when one of my boys encountered difficulties in learning to read, the Rav arranged for a private tutor to come to the house and learn with him, without even telling me. When that same child brought home excellent grades, the Rav celebrated it like a chag! When my children brought home report cards, they first ran to show their grandfather, and only later to show my husband and me. My father-in-law would read the report cards carefully, always looking first at the marks in derech eretz, and only later at the academic marks. He often told us that derech eretz kadmah l'Torah; it's impossible to attain Torah without derech eretz.  

After each new baby was born to us, the Rav would constantly remind me to rest, and search for ways to help me. Once, when the baby was sleeping in our bedroom, I left my father-in-law eating at the kitchen table and ran downstairs to buy something in the small grocery store almost underneath the apartment. I returned home a few minutes later to an empty kitchen. Through the intercom, I heard the Rav gently cooing to the baby, telling her not to cry.

Whenever there was an infant in the house, the Rav made a point of holding the baby while reciting Birkat Hamazon, explaining that it's a segulah for yirat Shamayim.

Before my twins were born, the Rav told me that I should not worry about how I would take care of them at night. He would take care of one while I would take care of the other.

When one of my children was about two years old, he started waking up at night and walking into the Rav's study. The Rav would allow him stay for a few minutes, and then put him back to bed and continue learning. One night, however, the youngster refused to go back to bed. That night, the Rav went to bed early, together with his grandson. In the morning, we found the two of them sound asleep in Sabba's bed.

The Rav once heard me yelling at my children. He gently told me that divrei chachamim b'nachat nishma'im; people hear words that are spoken quietly. I was so embarrassed; since that day, I try to speak quietly to my children.

My father-in-law was careful to never speak to his children if he was angry. He would wait until he was no longer upset, and only then would he discuss what happened with the child, and give a punishment if necessary.

The Rav was always effusive in expressing his gratitude. Once, after I served him a meal, he told me that although he's so grateful for everything I do for him, he's afraid that someday he'll be so accustomed to it that he'll forget to thank me. But that never happened. He always thanked us for every little thing.

My father-in-law spoke to his talmidim about the importance of gratitude. Around three years ago, on Simchat Torah, the Rav told several Rabbanim, including my husband, that he wants to tell them a story and that the story has an important lesson.

Although I was busy in the kitchen and missed the story, I did hear the lesson. The Rav pointed to the food that was on the table and asked, “Did you ever think about how hard your wife works to prepare all of this delicious food? Please, right after Yom Tov, buy her a piece of jewelry as a token of your gratitude.” 

A week later, the Rav asked me if my husband had bought me jewelry. 

The world knew the Rav as the Gadol Hador, but for us, he was a warm, loving grandfather, who took a personal interest in each of his grandchildren, and in my husband and me, until the last day of his life. The children were in awe of their sabba. As one of them once explained, Sabba learns, and learns, and then learns some more! Torah was his life, nothing else.

The following story exemplifies the Rav's love of Torah: My grandmother passed away just before the Rav turned 80. The Rav traveled to Ramleh to pay a shivah call to my mother. I decided not to tell him about the memorial service that was to take place a month later, so as not to disturb his Torah learning. But on the day that the service was to take place, someone came in to speak with the Rav, and upon leaving said, “B'ezrat Hashem, I'll see you again at the memorial service tonight.”

After the man left, the Rav came into the kitchen. “Yehudit,” he said, “it's normal for a person to live to be 80 years old, but afterwards, every day of life is a miracle. Now that I am 80, and I know that my remaining time on earth is limited, I need to pack in much more learning than I did before. I still have so much more to learn, and so many more sefarim to write. For that reason, I prefer to remain at home to learn, and to dedicate my learning l'iluy nishmat your savta.”

It was only then that I understood something that had perplexed both me and my husband. After my father-in-law had turned eighty, he suddenly seemed younger; although he had previously been learning day and night, now it seemed as though he had somehow doubled his hours of learning!

A RAV FOR ALL OF KLAL YISRAEL

The Rav was available to answer questions every morning and evening – until age 92! Most of the people who came to him were simple, hardworking Jews. They would pour out their troubles, and he would return home with eyes that were red from crying. He felt all of Am Yisrael's pain. If there was a war, or - more recently - with the decrees against the yeshivot, he cried as he recited Tehillim throughout the night. A few years ago, when an entire family was killed in a horrific accident, our home was plunged into mourning. It was as if he had lost a family member.

Because he took such a close, personal interest in so many different types of Jews, I was not surprised by the huge number of people who came to pay their final respects at his funeral. During the Rav's final illness, thousands of people who were not shomer Shabbat took upon themselves to keep one Shabbat as a zechut for the Rav's recovery. Someone told us of two brothers who reconciled after 20 years of not speaking with each other, as a zechut for the Rav. Another person told us that in the discothèque across the street from his apartment, a few days before the Rav passed away, the music came to a sudden stop and the MC announced that the Rav's situation was extremely serious. He requested that everyone join him in reciting Tehillim. Everyone in the discothèque started to cry as they began reciting Tehillim together, begging Hashem to have mercy on the Gadol Hador. There were many more similar stories.

SUNSET

During the last few months of the Rav's life, he was in constant, excruciating pain. Shabbat was especially difficult. With true mesirut nefesh, he would recite Kiddush, and force himself to eat a kezayit of challah before retiring to his room.

But on Shabbat Chol Hamoed Sukkot, the last Shabbat before his final hospitalization, the terrible pain disappeared. That Shabbat we returned to our previous, happy life. The Rav made Kiddush, sang zemirot, told stories, and spoke divrei Torah at the table. Although we understood that the lack of pain was a sign that the Rav's kidneys were failing, it was still a very wonderful Shabbat. At the conclusion of the seudot, he held my three-year-old twins on his lap and encouraged them to respond to the mezuman, and even gave them his traditional loving slap on the cheek! He was in such a great mood!

Shabbat afternoon, the Rav thanked me for all my years of help. He asked mechilah for making me work so hard, and then blessed me.

On Motzoei Shabbat, the Rav blessed my sixteen-year-old son, Avraham. I explained to Avraham that his sabba was saying goodbye, and we both cried. 

We were undecided if the Rav should be hospitalized, and asked the nurse who had been helping us for the last 23 years to come to the house to do a blood test. When she arrived, the Rav thanked her profusely for all her help over the years. Through her tears she responded, “K’vod Harav, I will continue coming here to help you.” She drew some blood for a blood test; the results were not good and she told us that he needed to be hospitalized.

As they wheeled the Rav into the ambulance, he told us that there was nothing more that the doctors could do for him. He was crying; he knew that he would never return home.

Two days later, on Monday, my husband asked the Rav for mechilah. The Rav responded, “You are asking me for mechilah? I am the one who must ask you for mechilah. Throughout the years, you were always there for me. You always did whatever you could to help me.” Then the Rav did something that was very unusual for him: he pulled my husband close to him and kissed his face over and over again.

Within the hour, the Rav's lungs had collapsed and he was given medication to put him into a medically induced coma. A week and a half later, he had sufficiently recovered for the doctors to stop the medication. When the Rav woke up from the coma and saw the medical staff standing around his bed, he somehow found the strength to thank the doctors for everything that they had done for him, and then proceeded to bless them.

But now that he was awake again, he was in agonizing pain. When I came to see him that Motzoei Shabbat, he could not stop crying. Yet, even in his pain, he kept thanking me over and over again. But when he tried to lift up his arms to bless me, he began to cry that the pain was unbearable and begged us to have mercy on him.

Sunday night, the doctors told my husband that they were going to put the Rav into a medically induced coma again, and that this time, he would remain unconscious until his petirah. My husband kissed his father's hand. The Rav was too weak to move. He kissed the air.

Monday, shortly before the petirah, the entire family was called in to recite Kriyat Shema with the Rav. As one, we screamed Shema Yisrael, but then the situation suddenly stabilized! The doctors told us that it could take minutes, hours, or even days. No one wanted to leave, so we all remained and were there for the petirah.  

My daughter's wedding was scheduled to take place a few days later. As we watched the Gadol Hador slowly take leave of this world, I gently told my daughter that her wedding will take place during shivah. She said that it would be impossible for her to get married then; she had grown up with her sabba, and was very close to him. How could she rejoice while the entire family was in mourning? Then she said, “Let's ask Sabba what he thinks.” I sadly pointed to the Rav. She took one look at his unconscious figure, attached to multiple machines, and burst into tears. I think that's when she really grasped what was happening. After the petirah, we asked Harav Wosner, shlita, what to do about the wedding. He told us to postpone it until after the shloshim.

Now that the shivah is over, our entire life has changed. Before, everything revolved around the Rav, and the house was bustling with people. Now that the Rav is gone, I'm alone with my family. The first Shabbat that we were alone, my husband tried to make Kiddush, but instead, he broke down crying and our son-in-law had to make it for us. People say that I should appreciate my privacy, something that we never had before. But I can't. I miss the Rav too much.

***  

At the conclusion of the interview, I packed up my equipment and ran downstairs to catch the taxi that I had ordered. When the driver, who was not wearing a kippah and appeared completely irreligious, realized that I was coming from the Rav's house, he started telling me about the Rav's greatness and told me that he went to the Rav with all his questions. "He was my posek. I used to pray in his synagogue every day. I went to him for everything."

That was the Rav's greatness. To the talmid chacham, he was pure, unadulterated Torah. To the simple, unlearned Jew, he was a father. All looked up to him and appreciated him, because he loved and appreciated every single Jew.

 

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THREE SPECIAL MITZVOT

The Rav often spoke about the importance of women waiting 72 minutes after sunset on Motzoei Shabbat (shittas Rabbeinu Tam) before beginning melachot. Like every other woman, I have lots of work to do after Shabbat, and I like to start as soon as possible. But the Rav told me that I would have a huge zechut if I refrain from performing melachot until 72 minutes after sunset, so that's what I do.

The Rav also held that women should cover their hair with a scarf or hat, rather than with a wig, and that the hair be completely covered. The day after our wedding, my father-in-law was so happy to see that none of my hair was showing, that he hugged my husband and told him how happy he was that I am such a tzanuah!

The Rav was very particular about eating the fourth seudah, on Motzoei Shabbat. Even when he was in excruciating pain, he would force himself to eat a kezayit of challah dipped in hot tea. Following his last Shabbat at home, I prepared a special meat delicacy for the fourth meal. With every mouthful he thanked me, saying "Salamedeiki," which in Arabic means, "May the hands of the one who prepared this be blessed."

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TEXT BOX

The following letter, written in 5734 (1974), was found among the Rav's sefarim. Although it is in the Rav's handwriting, the signatures are his children’s. In this letter, the children sign that they will listen to their parents, help their mother with the housework - especially with the preparations for Pesach - and behave with derech eretz and kavod to both parents, as is commanded by the Torah.

In the second paragraph, the children obligate themselves to go to sleep no later than midnight, and to wake up by 7:30 in the morning.

TEXT BOX

SIDEBAR  My Window Faces Harav Ovadia Yosef's Grave

My back window is almost directly across from Harav Ovadia Yosef’s, zt"l, grave. At any time of the day or night, I can see dozens - sometimes even hundreds - of people praying there. It's a strange feeling – Jews are standing almost below me, praying with an intensity that I can only envy, while I make the beds, fold the laundry, and continue with my normal routine. Yet despite the seeming regularity of my outward motions, my life really has changed. Every once in a while, I glance out my window, and those petty peeves lose their sharpness; for that moment, I remember there a reason for it all.

Although during the Rav's lifetime I was aware of his greatness as a gadol b'Torah and leader of the Sefardic community, it was only after his passing - when I witnessed the variety of people who mourned him as a father - that I began to comprehend his greatness as an ohev Yisrael.

Most of my neighbors are Sefardic. Some are traditional, some charedi, and a few, not yet shomer mitzvot. Yet when the Rav's situation became critical, the same young men with earrings and punk hairdos who congregate in front of my building were now sitting on our front steps and crying – yes, crying! – over their sifrei Tehillim as they begged Hashem to save their Rav.

For my Sefardic neighbors, Rav Ovadia Yosef, or as he is commonly referred to, Maran, was the ultimate religious authority. He was their father, and with his passing, they were orphaned.

Although I was overwhelmed at the sheer enormity of the levayah - close to one million people! - it was the small, intimate scenes that moved me to tears; the group of seemingly irreligious soldiers reciting Tehillim at the grave, the spontaneous minyanim in my parking lot, where an incongruous mixture of talmidei chachamim and "amcha" – the outwardly non-observant vegetable vendor and taxi driver - join each other in prayer.

I called my sister, who is not religious, and explained, "It's as if the Lincoln Memorial has been moved to my front lawn." Only it's not the Lincoln Memorial, it's the kever of a tzaddik. It will take time until I discover the full impact of living in such proximity to one of today's kivrei tzaddikim.

 

 

 

 

Debbie Shapiro lives in Jerusalem with her husband, children, and grandchildren. She works in marketing development and teaches at Levavi Seminary.

 

 

Thirteen Glimpses into Love

This appeared a few years ago in the OU's Shabbat Shalom. Forgot about it... Enjoy.

Here are thirteen glimpses at Israel, glimmers of what I love about living in the only place I will ever feel truly at home-- Israel.

1. As I take my morning walk, I love watching the men rush to shul, their tallis and teffilin held securely under their arm. One morning, I stopped at the corner to let the garbage truck by. That's when I noticed the driver wearing his tallis and tefillin. It reminded me of the famous story about Rabbi Levi Yitchak of Berditchev. He once saw a baal agala, a wagon driver, changing the wagon's wheel while davening, and wearing, of course, his tallis and tefillin. "Oh, how beautiful are the Jewish people!" Rabbi Levi Yitzchak he proclaimed. "Even in the midst of their work, their thoughts are with You!"

2. I love walking through the different neighborhoods. They are each so different –a true ethnic experience. The Bucharian neighborhood is just minutes from my apartment. As I cut through Bucharim to visit my daughter in Batei Varsha, I hear the haunting sound of the Bucharian Jews chanting Mincha in unison. Passing the synagogue complex I see elderly women, some with white embroidered pants peeping out from under their voluminous flower-printed dresses, standing outside, waiting for the opportunity to answer "Amen." Tiny tables, piled with anything from seforim to audio discs to toys to kitchenware, are set up along the side of the street outside the shul, making walking along the narrow, cobblestone street almost impossible.

I continue up the street and rush past the tiny "Aish Tanura" (an Arabic flat bread) bakery, a tiny hole in the wall, just big enough to hold a large, sturdy wooden table and an ancient stone oven. The circular flat breads are baked on the sides of the oven, just as described in the Mishna. The bakery hasn't changed since I arrived in Jerusalem close to 37 years ago. The smell is tantalizing, and I hasten my step to avoid temptation. But the owner stops me. "Rebbetzin," he calls out [here in Jerusalem, almost everyone's a 'Rebbetzin'] "I have a mitzvah for you. Please take challa for me." I make a bracha, separate the challa and throw it into the furnace underneath the oven, and yes, I also buy a half-dozen aishtanuras. How could I resist?

I continue up through the Bucharim shuk (marketplace), a miniature of the famous Macheneh Yehuda shuk, boasting anything from exotic spices, to bakery goods, to tablecloths, to fresh meat, to fish, to vegetables, and anything in between. I step into the spice store to buy Chilba seeds for my pungent Yemenite Chilba salad. The heady smell and combination of colors and textures transports me to the Orient. For less than twenty five cents, I have the makings of a phenomenal side dish for Shabbat lunch.

From the Bucharian shuk, I climb the steep mountain of Yoel Street. Within minutes I am plunged from the Orient to a modern-day shtetel. The sidewalks are so narrow that I end up walking in the middle of the street, sidestepping the cars that (chutzpah!) actually try to drive there. Instead of lilting Sefardi chanting, I hear the most beautiful sound of the world – that of men learning Torah -- coming from the tall arched windows of the nearby yeshiva. From the next building, I hear small children repeating pasukim of Chumash after their teacher, and then reciting the Yiddish teitch, the Yiddish translation. Mah tovu oheleicha Yaakov, Oh! How beautiful are your tents, Jacob!

From Yoel Street, I climb the narrow steps leading to the alleyway behind Meah Shearim Street. I navigate my way along the crowded alley until I arrive at my daughter's house. Her three older children are outside playing jump rope. The minute they see me they stop their game and come running to give me a hug – and that's the most beautiful thing of all!

3. I feel so privileged to live in this beautiful, holy city. I am writing this on erev Yom Kippur. From outside our living room window I hear someone speaking into a loudspeaker. "Tzedaka, tzedaka tatzil m'maves," he says. "Tzedaka saves from death. Give to the family in need…." I hear apartment doors opening and children rushing down the stairwell, their sweaty hands clutching the money that their parents gave them to deliver to the poor family. What a blessing to be able to give, and to have the opportunity to give brought to my own front yard.

4. I love the people of Israel. Even the simple people, despite lacking the outward trapping of religion, are holy (well, actually, aren't all Jews holy?). Rosh Hashana afternoon the upstairs neighbor knocked at our door. Dressed in nothing but a pair of shorts and flip flops, he shoved a candle in my hand and said, "Chag Sameyach. Our candle went out. Can we use your fire to light it?"

5. I love how everything in Israel is so – well – just so Jewish. I love walking to shul to hear Kol Nidrei on Yom Kippur night. The streets are crowded with hundreds – yes, hundreds! – of men wearing white kittels, women in their Yom Tov best, children, babies, teenagers, rushing to shul. In the short four blocks from our apartment to the shul where our family davens, I passed close to a dozen synagogues, some housed in large, impressive buildings, others housed in apartments or even bomb shelters. Each one unique and different, yet, on the deepest level of all, they are one, united in serving the Holy One.

6. And Sukkot, oh, how I love Sukkot! I literally bump into a Sukkah wherever I turn. In addition to building them on any available open porch, people construct them on the sidewalks and in the parking lots. Someone actually built their Sukkah in the middle of the neighborhood playground, right next to the swings. I guess that's one way to take care of unruly children during the meal…

7. I love sitting in my Sukkah on Yom Tov night. From all sides, I hear people reciting Kiddush. Chassidim, yeshivishe, Yemenite, the words are the same, but they each sound so different. That's the beauty of Am Yisrael – a symphony of differences that, when properly synchronized, create a unique oneness that is our strength.

8. Here in Eretz Yisrael, Chanuka has no competitors. The radio plays the traditional Chanuka melodies, and every house sports at least one menorah in its window. No tinsel, no strings of lights (that's saved for the Sukkah. And yes, many Israeli use those decorations in their Sukkah, without ever realizing their source!), just simplicity and purity, without any alien influence. One year someone in the neighborhood made a toy sale a few days before Chanuka, and I went to see if I could find some bargains. A group of very orthodox young women were oooing and ahhing over a little train with a bearded man dressed in a red suit and hat sitting on top, singing "We wish you a merry…" No one had any idea that this was definitely NOT a Jewish toy --- until I enlightened them!

9. Believe it or not, I love erev Pesach in Eretz Yisrael! Everything sparkles with cleanliness. The bottoms of my shoes become wet from the rivers of "sponja water" spilling out from under the front doors and flowing down the sidewalk, into the gutter. Laundry is hanging everywhere and mattresses are balancing on porch railings. I pass an elderly man scrubbing a step ladder, a teenage girl scouring the front door. Amidst all this commotion, little girls are playing jump rope while keeping half an eye on younger siblings so their mother can ready the house for the holiday. The anticipation is tangible. Everyone's waiting for something great to happen!

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10. I love taking a walk after the Seder. Although it's two or, perhaps, three o'clock in the morning, the streets are vibrant with life! I hear the last strains of "Chad Gadya" wafting out from an open window. From another window, I hear the sharp scraping sounds of tables being cleared and dishes being washed. A child is playing with some Lego on the porch while singing (not so quietly!) songs from the Seder. He probably fell asleep right Kiddush, and woke up again when everyone started singing "L'shana haba b'Yerushalayim, "Next year in Jerusalem."

11. Although sitting on crowded buses has never been, and will never be, one of my favorite pastimes, I love how, when someone gets on a crowded bus through the back door, it is common courtesy for the other people on the bus to pass that person's fare up to the driver, and then return the change. The money passes through perhaps a dozen peoples' hand, yet no one would consider pocketing it! Could you imagine trying that on a crowded New York subway?

12. I love how everything in this country is so uniquely Jewish. Recently, the air conditioning technician called to explain why he would be late. "I'm stuck in a haknassat Torah (A Torah inauguration)," he began. "I went into a store to buy something to drink, and when I came out, my truck was surrounded. Right now they're auctioning off the honors, so it looks like I'll be here for a while." I knew he was telling the truth; I could hear the strains of canned "haknassat Torah" music over the phone.

13. Waiting in line in the local health clinic, I started speaking to the woman sitting next to me. She told me that this summer she had taken her eleven year old son, Shlomo, "the type who loves rollerblading and lives for his skateboard" to visit relatives in the United States. She made sure to give Shlomo the time of his life – amusement parks, ice skating, boating, you name it, if it was something an eleven year old kid would go for, they did it!

On the plane back to Israel, Shlomo was a bit pensive. "Boy, mom," he said. "I'm really, really happy that we're going back to Israel."

His mother was a bit surprised. "You didn't like America?" she asked.

"No, no," he replied. "It's just that I'm not frightened in Israel, like I was in the United States."

Now Shlomo's mother was even more confused. "Frightened?" she asked. "Why were you frightened in America?"

"Because I didn't feel Hashem with me, constantly, the way I do in Israel," he replied.

And that story, more than anything else, explains why I love living in Eretz Yisrael. With every step that I take on this holy soil, I am fulfilling a mitzvah. I am privileged to observe Hashem's holy Torah in the holy land that Hashem bestowed to our nation. May we all be able to keep all of Hashem's mitzvoth in Hashem's rebuilt Holy Land, speedily, and in our days. Amen.

Motzaei Rosh Hashana -- I spent Yom Tov with my daughter, Faigie, and her seven very gorgeous children. Davening, eating, reading, playing with the kids, it was a very special time for all of us. As I was leaving, something happened that really brought home the meaning of the days.

 
My daughter's neighbor has a little girl who is the same age as my eight year old granddaughter. She has cancer that has spread to the brain. To put it very bluntly, this sweet child, who spends hours on the stairwell trading stickers with her friends, or outside on the sidewalk, jumping rope, is, according to the doctors, dying of cancer.

 

Motzaei Rosh Hashana, as I was running to catch the bus (that never came!) a van stopped in front of my daughter's apartment building, and some fifteen yeshiva bachurim, all dressed in black suits and white shirts, jumped out. From the back of the van they started pulling out music equipment – a keyboard, a set of drums, a set of amplifiers, and a large suitcase filled with clown costumes, puppets, and anything that would make a sweet little girl, dying of cancer, laugh.

 

My daughter told me that they've come many times in the last few months. "Each time they come," she says, "the entire building comes down to dance with them."

 
How beautiful, yet how sad

Practice Runs

It was one of those exhausting humdrum days –a quick shower, a quicker davening, breakfast on the run, and a race to catch the eight o'clock bus to Bnei Brak. After sitting for nine hours opposite the computer, I somehow managed to drag myself to the bus stop and wait for the 402 to Jerusalem. The bus was fairly empty, so with two seats to myself, I slept like a log until we arrived at the entrance to the city. I remained in a semi-conscious state as the bus slowly snaked its way through the neighborhoods, until, with a start, I realized that everyone had left, and it was just me and the driver. I rang the bell for my stop.

 That's when I heard it! A shofar, the throbbing leaves-you-quivering-in-your-shoes sound of a shofar blowing --  very very, loudly! There was no mistaking it, this was the real thing. I looked outside, with a sense of awe and excitement that perhaps, maybe, this was what we have been waiting for and praying for and hoping for, for so many years. But sadly, there was no angelic looking man sitting on a white donkey, tooting his horn. We'll have to wait longer.

I had become somewhat a pro at judging shofar sounds. I am working on a promotional video that concludes with a 4 second shofar blowing. In our search for the perfect ending that pulls at the heart without sounding tinny or perfectly unreal, I devoted a good chunk of my time to listening to recorded shofar sounds. Now, the sound of the shofar vibrating through the bus, shook me to my very core. I couldn't help but wonder if my work had affected my sanity.

But then again, I live in Israel. I remembered the time I took my early morning walk and saw the garbage truck driver crowned in his Tefillin, quietly praying as he waited for the garbage truck men to finish loading the garbage (an interesting twist on the Berditcher Rebbe's story about the wagon driver in Tefillin)! And then there was the time that I found a shofar next to the sandbox. I had placed notices throughout the neighborhood, announcing my find. Much to my surprise, four people called to see if had found their shofar before the owner finally appeared. So why should I find the sound of the blowing shofar on a bus unusual?

Instead of exiting through the back door, I walked through the now empty bus to the front, opposite the driver. And there he was, with his long pony tail, torn jeans and, yes, very conservative blue button-up Egged uniform shirt, blowing away. Tekiah, teruah, shevarim, the sound reverberated through the stuffy Egged bus. 

"Beautiful,"  I said, trying to hide my surprise

 

"I blow the shofar in shul," he explained, "and I practice when the bus is empty, whenever I'm stuck at a red light!"

 

 "That was a gorgeous shofar blowing. You put a lot of feeling into it." I didn't bother explain how I had become a pro at shofar sounds. But it really was, and I wished that I had taken my recorder with me, because it was the perfect shofar blowing to end the video.

 

But I had left my recorder at home, so obviously, it was not. I guess I'll just have to save my emotions for the real thing.

To see the video, go http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fhuX86SGOCA
 

The Shmuel Hanavi Neighborhood in Jerusalem as published in Ami

Jewish Living In

Shikhunei Shmuel Hanavi, Yerushalayim

By Debbie Shapiro

When people hear that I live on the corner of Shmuel Hanavi and Bar Illan, in one of the long block-like buildings that were constructed in the early sixties to provide cheap housing for the large influx of immigrants from North African, their usual reaction is, "What? Real people actually live there?" That's because, until recently, the Shikhunei Shmuel Hanavi Neighborhood was notorious for its gang wars, active Black Panther organization, and (for obvious reasons) relatively low price of apartments.

About fifteen years ago, Haredi families began moving into the neighborhood, and today, the neighborhood is frum, although there are still numerous old timers, who, although not Hareidi, are definitely traditional and generally extremely respectful of their more religious neighbors. Despite their lack of outward religious trappings, for the most part they are simply lacking in knowledge and open to learning. One first-day Rosh Hashana afternoon about ten minutes before sunset, for example, my upstairs neighbor dressed to the hilt l'kavod Yom Tov in a pair of swimming trunks and thongs (and nothing else), knocked on my door bearing an unlit candle with the request that we light it for him, as theirs had gone out. I correctly surmised that his wife needed the fire to heat up the evening meal and explained that al pi halacha they should wait until after dark to start cooking for second day Yom Tov. My neighbor thanked me profusely for explaining the halacha and left without lighting the candle, only to return an hour later, after it was already dark outside, with the same request.

Although the people living in the Shikhunim are a real mixture of Chassidim, Litvaks and Sefardi, the neighborhood has a distinct Middle Eastern flavor. Last night, for example, as I was putting away the Pesach dishes and hanging loads of laundry, I could hear my Moroccan neighbors celebrating the Mimouna Holiday. The women, wearing traditional Moroccan outfits, baked chametzkdik pancake-like cakes called Muleftas to share with their neighbors. From all four building surrounding the large parking lot underneath my house  I could hear loud music accompanied by bongo drums, dancing and singing, and yes, even fireworks! Yet, if I have a desire for a Chassidic tish, I am less than 15 minutes walking distance to Toldos Aharon, Karlin, Rachmastrivka, Dushinksy, and more. On the other hand, the Mirrer Yeshiva and Ohr Sameyach is less than ten minutes away, and the Bucharian shuk is just up the street – how's that for a real cultural experience?

Actually, one of the greatest perks of living in the Shikunim, is that I am just a walk or bus ride from almost everywhere. It takes me ten minutes to walk to Meah Shearim or Geulah, 15 minutes to Rechov Yaffo, half an hour to the kosel. There are three community centers with lots of activities for both young and old within a five minute walk from my door; a large indoor pool is just three blocks away, a large library three blocks away in the opposite direction. Although my neighborhood is (meanwhile) predominantly Hebrew and Yiddish speaking, if I get lonely for my mama-lashon, the Neve Tzvi, Sanhedria, Ramat Eshkol, and Maalot Dafna neighborhoods, with their large percentage of "chutznikim and multitude English language shiurim and active "N'sheis" are all within a five minute walk from my door. The bus stop to Beit Shemesh, Bnei Brak, Elad, Ashdod, Tifrach, Beitar, Tsfas, and a multitude of other destinations, is literally around the corner from apartment. Just to give you an idea of how close that is, twice a week I have to catch the 8 o'clock bus to Bnei Brak that arrives at my stop at 8:10. To be sure that I get there on time, I rush out the door at 8:05 and, depending on the lights, I usually make it with a few minutes to spare! There is a bus stop with lines running to the Kosel and to Kever Rochel literally across the street from my apartment, with special early busses for people who want to daven there with the sunrise vasikin minyan! On a more mundane level, the shopping here is phenomenal. I can find almost type of store—from a discount grocery store to several bakeries, drink shops, paper good stores, hardware stores, socks stores, toy stores, book stores, vegetable stores, clothing stores, as well as pizza, shwarma and falafel shops within a block of my house –and if it's not, well, Geula and the center of town is just up the hill.

 

Each of the neighborhood's dozen buildings has between 6-8 entrances, with between 8-10 families per entrance, with a park or playground for every 2 to 4 buildings. Recently, young Chassidishe families with lots of children have moved into the neighborhood, so in in the afternoon the playgrounds are crowded with mothers sitting and talking while their children play. In addition, the large, grassy Maalot Dafna park and the Sanhedria Park are a very short walk away.

 

Prices of apartments in the Shikhunim are still lower than the price of comparative size apartments in other Jerusalem neighborhoods. Part of that has to do with the neighborhood's reputation, the high population density, and the small, yet, with their tattoos and pierced ears, very noticeable number of non-religious youngsters who hang out on the streets here. Despite their outer trappings, they are teyereh Yiddishe neshomos, and I can count on them helping me to shlep my groceries up the stairs. On the other hand, in the mornings, when the school busses arrive, the streets are bustling with of mothers and children waiting for the busses. In the afternoons, the parks are bursting with frum children, and there always seems to be a group of Yiddish speaking girls playing jump rope downstairs.  

 

 

Real Estate

3 1/2 bedroom apartment

Rent $1,000-$1,300 per month

Purchase between $325,000 to $459,000

Rooms are small; we converted our 3 1/2 bedroom apartment to  2 1/2 bedrooms, so that we'd have a larger living room and kitchen.

the stairs.

 

COST OF Living

Grape Juice

About $4.00 per bottle

Milk

$1.35 per liter

Tuition

Girls: about $110 per year

Boys: about $135 per month

 

Getting there

To Tel Aviv – about 45 minutes by car

New York 10 hours by plane

 

Weather

Winter is pleasant, hopefully with lots and lots of rain.

Snow days are so rare that they are almost like holidays. Summer days are hot and dry, but with very little humidity while evenings are generally pleasant. 

 

 

Finally, I Can Write

Finally, I Can Write

By Anonymous

For years, I have been unable to really, truly write, although that is my profession. It was as if there was a cork inside of me, blocking my emotions from coming to the surface, a pain so deep and all pervasive that I could not circumvent it.

And then, on the day before erev Yom Kippur, we experienced a ness – a true and outright miracle – and our daughter, Sara Yocheved, received her Get. Yes, a divorce, and yes, as painful as it is to see a marriage dissolve, there are times when it is a reason to rejoice. Suddenly, we were liberated from our private gehinom.

Two days later, on Yom Kippur, I faced one of the greatest challenges in my life – to grant forgiveness to the people who had so deeply hurt us, and who had almost succeeded in destroying my daughter's life. I hope, and pray, that I overcame that challenge. I certainly tried, but only with time will I see if the anger has been fully eradicated from my heart.

The first sign that something was amiss came on the Shabbos following the Sheva Brachos, when my in-laws invited the young couple, my husband and myself, to join them for Shabbos meals at their hotel.  Everyone was happy at the opportunity to spend quality time together (and as we later discovered, this would be the last Shabbos we'd have with my father in law). Then, our mechutan phoned and asked if he, together with one of his older children, could join us. Of course we were polite, and said that we'd be delighted. But we weren't.  During the Shabbos meals, the mechutan monopolized the conversation and prevented us from speaking with Aharon Dov, our new son-in-law, but we tried to overlook it and continued smiling politely.

The following Shabbos was Shabbos Hagadol, and we were very grateful that the new couple would be spending it with "the other side" (no pun intended). The plan was for them to spend Lil Haseder and Shabbos Chol Hamoed with us, and Shvi'is shel Pesach with the mechutanim. But just hours before the Seder, our mechutan phoned with a whole story about how Sara Yocheved was having difficulty adjusting to married life, and that it is important that she stay with them for the holiday. He explained that much of her problem has to do with our relationship with her and that as a veteran educator, he has a wealth of experience in dealing with such sensitive situations. We were confused, and angry, but with only a few hours before Yom Tov, we had no choice but to let it go. On Chol Hamoed, Sara Yocheved's Kalla teacher and a well-known mashgiach phoned to discuss our daughter's "problems" with me, and to warn us that mixing in would be extremely detrimental to the marriage. They also yelled at my daughter telling her that she should never discuss her shalom bayis with her parent – and years later, when they understood the real story, apologized to us.  Both my husband and I were confused. Sara Yocheved had always been so open with us, but we also understood that the beginning of all marriages are challenging. It was only years later that we realized that this plan was masterminded to keep us from spending time with our new son-in-law.

It worked. It was literally months before we had the honor of having the young couple as our guests for Shabbos, and by then, Sara Yocheved, was expecting. Aharon Dov would either sit at the table through Kiddush and hamotzi, and then promptly plop down onto the sofa and fall into a deep sleep, or if we were lucky, quote pasukim like a trained puppet, and if we were not lucky, speak utter nonsense. Whenever I tried to broach the subject of his strange behavior with Sara Yocheved, she would smile sweetly and tell me that her husband's a tzaddik, who can recite the entire Sefer Tehillim by heart and devotes his days and nights to prayer. Much later, I learned that although by this time she knew that Aharon Dov was on strong psychiatric medicines, prone to hallucinations and often out of touch with reality, her father in law had threatened to do terrible things to her if she were to let us know.

Our daughter suspected that something was amiss almost immediately after the wedding. She couldn't understand why her husband was spending almost all his waking hours at home with his parents. One time she noticed her father-in-law slip him a pill and asked him about it. His response – Vitamins. Sara Yocheved was just about to pick up the bottle from the table to examine the label when her father-in-law grabbed the bottle out from under her hand and threw it out the window, straight into the neighborhood trash bin. "You can go out there to look," he laughed.

I don't know if I will ever be able to forgive myself for refusing to see the truth. I realize now that although it should have been obvious, it was just too horrible for us to accept, so we kept on coming up with excuses for Aharon Dov's behavior – he's inexperienced, he's still getting used to married life. Even when his behavior was obviously crazy – going to shul at night and screamed Birkas Hashachar at the top of his lungs – we couldn't, or wouldn't, admit to ourselves that he was insane.

Everything came to a head several months after Sara Yocheved gave birth to her second child. Her first born was in the hospital with pneumonia while we were taking care of the baby, who was sick with bronchitis. Sara Yocheved was racing back and forth between the hospital and our house, while Aharon Dov remained oblivious to the crisis. Then, on the day that the older child returned home, the baby was rushed to the hospital with severe respiratory problems. We tried to recruit Aharon Dov's help, to get him to do anything, even something as simple as purchasing medication or bringing the older child to the pediatrician, but it was like talking to a wall. "What," he said, "the baby's in the hospital? That's terrible." We could see that he was both surprised and distressed. Then he smiled his beatific smiled, promised to pray, and raced down the stairway, leaving my husband and myself standing openmouthed in the doorway.

Once the crisis was over, I broached the subject of my Aharon Dov's behavior with my daughter. I'll never forget that conversation; we had just finished lighting the Shabbos licht. The house was quiet. Sara Yocheved's oldest was playing with clicks, while the younger one was sleeping. It was as if a dam had been broken and the revelation was shocking. I discovered the terrible burden that Sara Yocheved had been carrying around for over one and a half years. I cried, my daughter cried, the babies cried, but when my husband and son-in-law arrived from shul, we pasted on smiles and somehow made it through the meal. I waited until after havdala to share the conversation with my husband. I knew that he would be relieved – at last, we had something tangible to work with – as well as upset – how could we have been so blind as to not realize what was happening -- at what I was going to tell him.

That conversation was the beginning of a year and a half of stalling. We called the mechutan and he immediately came over. With tears in his eyes, he explained that his son was OCD -- an explanation that we later learned was far from the true diagnosis – and promised to send the boy to the best psychiatrists – a promise that was never acted upon. Meanwhile, Sara Yocheved arranged for Aharon Dov to receive full disability from the Israeli National Insurance, so now, at least, the family had enough money to live on. She also registered him at a neighborhood government subsidized psychiatric daycare clinic and arranged for her husband to see a senior psychiatrist on a biweekly basis.  We sent the young couple to marriage counseling.

We met with one of the psychiatrists who he had seen Aharon Dov law as a bachur and were shocked at we were told. "How could they have allowed him to marry?" she asked me. "He was hearing voices (that really shook me!) and out of sync with reality. His condition will probably deteriorate with time although there is a very small chance that with proper medications he can be functional. But I can't promise anything." She advised us to send him to a psychiatric day center, where he would be kept busy so that Sara Yocheved could get on with her life.

Now that our eyes were open, we kept on discovering new pieces of information that made us realize how foolish we had been. The drummer who had played at the wedding later told one of my other children that at the wedding, the mechutan had requested that he make the music especially leibidik as the boy was spaced out from drugs, and the other side -- us – was unaware of the situation. But we were not the only ones to have been fooled. Another one of my daughters is married to Aharon Dov's first cousin, which means that her mother in law is Aharon Dov's aunt, and she was one of the people who suggested the shidduch. When she found out how her brother had misled us, and her, she was so angry that she actually suggested that we hire some thugs to break the mechutan's bones!

My husband and I were at a loss at how to proceed. Aharon Dov is sweet and gentle, and if he wasn't sick, he'd be a wonderful husband. We also realized that the mechutanim would make it difficult, if not impossible for our daughter to leave, so we clung to the slim hope that with proper medication and treatment he would be able to lead a normal life. No, it was not what we had wanted for our daughter; it was definitely a b'di'eved situation.  Our mechutan gave his solemn promise that he would do everything in his power to help his son get better, but if that didn't work out, he would not stand in the way of a divorce. 

Meanwhile, our mechutan was painting a different picture. Yes, he explained, his son had some slight psychiatric problems and needed mild anti-depressants to function normally, but his wife (our daughter) has severe behavior problems and is barely able to function. It's obvious, he'd smile, that it's a zivug min haShemayim and that the couple just needs the right guidance to be able to lead a happy life together, and he, of course, had the experience and expertise to provide it. We received numerous phone calls from prominent members of the community, telling us to have patience and promising us that everything would work out. 

Chol Hamoed Pesach 2011, Aharon Dov, in his hallucinated state, thought that the rabbi featured on the tzedaka poster that was plastered to the side of a building was about to murder him, and decided to kill him first. He beat the picture with his fists, and then threw his body against the wall. Blood spurt from his arms and head. My grandchildren became hysterical, and my daughter made the mistake of calling the mechutan instead of an ambulance. He arrived with a taxi and brought our former son-in-law home to his mother. That was the last time his children saw him, except when he came to Meiron to participate in his son's chalaka. By then, my grandson did not recognize the stranger that had come to dance with him, and no one there –including the mechutan -- felt it was important to enlighten him. 

The following year and a half was a time of broken commitments, frustration and miracles. Yes, miracles. One of the greatest miracle was the incredible relationship that developed between Sara Yocheved and Rabbi and Rebbetzin Pressburger. Rabbi Pressburger is head of a large Yerushalami community whose shul is located just minutes away from my daughter's home.

Rebbetzin Pressburger was my daughter's favorite high school teacher. When Sara Yocheved and her family moved into the neighborhood, the rebbetzin was there even before the moving trucks had gone, bearing a hot, nourishing meal. That same evening, when Aharon Dov arrived home after spending the day at his parents' house, he immediately threw himself on the bed and fell into a deep sleep. A few hours later, Sara Yocheved called Rav Pressburger with a shailah: could she wait until the morning to hang up the mezuzahs?  Instead of answering, the Rav appeared at her door to wake Aharon Dov and help him put up the mezuzahs. But after several failed attempts, he gave up and did it himself. A few months later, when Aharon Dov attacked the picture, Rebbetzin Pressburger and I arrived at my daughter's house almost simultaneously. The Rebbetzin remained with us until way past midnight, joking, talking, planning, and helping us to cope with an impossible situation. 

Our lawyer, Pnina, was another miracle. A true tzedekes, she was a pillar of calmness and hope. There were times that she was beyond fury, yet, to us, she always conveyed hope that our nightmare would soon end. At our first meeting, she offered to arrange for the government to pay for her services, and then treated treat us as private clients. Interesting enough, she, too, at first she too was fooled by the mechutan's charisma. She later told us that when she spoke with him the first time, she was convinced that we were not behaving properly, and that he was being taken advantage of. She changed her mind very quickly.

That year and a half could only be described as torture. Just as we would think that we were almost at the finishing line, that the get was within our reach, conditions were changed and we were left gasping in shock, feeling as if we were being pulled into an endless vacuum, floating in space without solid ground, with no sense of reality or stability. Sara Yocheved was the one person who consistently remained upbeat and hopeful. Instead of retreating into a shell and closeting herself from the world, she became active in the community, and developed close friendships with many of her neighbors. The challenge honed personality, and my youngest daughter suddenly matured beyond her years, to become a person that I, as well as many others, turned to for advice and encouragement.

Eventually, Rav Pressburger and large number of men in his kehilla decided that the situation could not continue. They took it upon themselves to make sure that Sara Yocheved would receive her get – soon. Once again, agreements were made and signed, appointments were arranged at the bais din, and then, each time, at the very last moment, the mechutan would find a reason to change the rules of the game, only this time, it was an entire community that was left gasping in anger and shock.

I was not privy to much of what was going on  -- Rav Pressburger had explained, "I don't want your husband to have a heart attack" -- but the rebbetzin told me that there were times when he was so angry that he paced the floor all night. I also know that unconventional methods were used to pressure the mechutan. He regular travels abroad to collect money, so the Rav contacted several chashuva Rabbonim in the United States who called to warn him that if a get was not forthcoming he would be banned from collecting in their community.

These months were excruciating; minutes, really seconds of anticipation and disappointment, of promises made and broken, of trust and cynicism. We felt trapped in an endless maze, sucked into eternal blackness, with no way to extricate ourselves.

But even there, in the inky darkness, there were pinpoints of light, selfless acts of chessed, some by total strangers, that left me in teary eyed, filled with renewed hope for mankind. One time, for example, when we were scheduled to appear in the bais din the following morning for the get, the lawyer called to inform us that the mechutan had decided that payment could only be with an official bank check. The phone call came in the late afternoon, only minutes before the bank   closed – and we had to be at the bais din with the check by 8:30 the following morning! I called the bank and explained the situation to some anonymous clerk, who spoke to the bank manager, who, wonders of wonders, offered to open the bank after hours for us! Another time, the mechutan requested a legal document pertaining to the couple's apartment, again, the request was made the afternoon prior to an appointment in the bais din for what we hoped would be the get. When I called the lawyer's office I was informed that it would take a minimum of two weeks to procure the necessary document.  But once I explained the urgency, the secretary remained after hours to prepare it, and the lawyer, who had already gone home, returned to the office to sign! My daughter's plight touched many people's hearts, and they went out of their way to help her. Ashrei Amcha, Yisrael!

The yeshua was sudden, and unexpected, when hope had disappeared from the horizon. As had happened so many times before, the mechutan had agreed to the get and we had an appointment to come to the bais din. Although it was the day before erev Yom Kippur, when the bais din is in recess for its annual vacation, the dayan on duty to take care of urgent matters had agreed to preside over the get.

The night before the scheduled appointment, the mechutan's brother phoned Rav Pressburger from the home a very prominent and internationally influential rabbi, who just happened to head the organization where Rav Pressburger is employed. "The Rabbi would like to speak with you," he said. "I'm ordering a taxi for you. Don't worry, I'm paying." 

Rav Pressburger's response was sharp, and uncompromising: "I am very happy to come and speak with the Rav, but only AFTER the get. Before that, I don't speak with anyone."  I later learned that the prominent Rabbi appreciated Rav Pressburger's intelligent response.

Rebbetzin Pressburger later told me that upon closing the phone, her husband said that even if it means losing his position, he will do everything in his power to make sure that Sara Yocheved receives a get. After that phone call, as well as others that he received that night, he was positive that it would not happen, at least not the next day.

At shul the next morning, Rav Pressburger banged the Bima and asked everyone to remain and recite Tehillim for Sara Yocheved's yeshua. Then he showed a letter that he had prepared and said, "If the Get is not today, tonight this letter will be plastered all over the city of Jerusalem. We're going to burn the city!"

My husband and I, and my daughter and Rebbetzin Pressburger were at the bais din the moment it opened. One of our sons-in-law, the one who is the mechutan's nephew, was also there to sign that if in the future, Sara Yocheved or the children would sue for child support, he would the one to take financial responsibility.

Aharon Dov arrived a few minutes later, accompanied by his uncle. We were overjoyed- things were finally moving in the right direction. The Rav on duty invited Sara Yocheved, Aharon Dov, Aharon Dov's uncle and the two lawyers into his chamber. Rebbetzin Pressburger quietly followed them inside. My husband and the son-in-law who was signing for financial responsibility, were instructed to wait just outside the door. I remained in the hallway to guard the Menorah, Esrog box and Megillas Esther that we were to be given to the mechutan. 

I sat in the hallway, reciting Tehillim, and wondered what was taking so long. I asked my husband. He had no idea, but added that there was a lot of yelling and screaming going on inside the dayan's chambers.

Rebbetzin Pressburger later told me that the dayan was furious! Every time he asked Aharon Dov a question, Aharon Dov told him that he should ask Sara Yocheved, as she understands these things. Sara Yocheved responded to all the questions respectfully and to the point. When the Dayan read the agreement, he asked Aharon Dov why, with such a large disability payment from Bituach Leumi, he is will not be paying child support. Aharon Dov of course, had no idea that he was receiving money or that he would not be paying child support.

At that point, the Rav began to scream at Aharon Dov's lawyer for pressuring us into such an agreement. Then he turned to our daughter and asked her why she agreed to it. Her response, "I want a get." The Rav understood. He signed, and then invited my husband and other son-in-law into the room.

Then something happened that, whenever I even think about its possible tragic ramifications, I become teary-eyed. After trying to hold a conversation with Aharon Dov, the Rav announced, "I refuse to officiate. This man is obviously insane and I cannot take responsibility that he is halachically capable of giving a get." I don't know any of the details of that conversation, but I do know that in the course of trying to verify Aharon Dov's name for the get, the dayan asked how he's called up to the Torah. He responded, "Aharon Dov ben Shimon Maftir, although sometimes I am called Shlishi instead."

All this was taking place behind closed doors. Suddenly, Sara Yocheved came running toward me, "The rav wants to see the ksuva," she gasped. "And Ima, please, DAVEN! The Rav refuses to officiate. In his opinion, Aharon Dov is not sufficiently sane to give a get." 

It was the day before erev Yom Kippur, and my daughter – my lovely, sweet, and innocent daughter -- was standing before the true Judge, her future on the scale. Her chance for freedom was being whisked away from her.

Today, looking back at those what to me seemed like hours but was probably less than twenty minutes, I can honestly say that for the first time in my life I really FELT what I should feel each year at Ne'ilah, that I am standing at the Gates, that they are rapidly  closing, and that this is my final chance to tip the scales. Even as I prayed, I phoned one of my daughters and in a few terse words told her the situation – and requested that she alert the rest of our family. I later learned that throughout Israel, family members were sitting in their homes or places of working and literally crying as they begged Hashem to save Sara Yocheved. I called Rav Pressburger, who was in the midst of giving a shiur and asked him to daven. I later learned that the entire yeshiva started reciting Tehillim in unison for Sara Yocheved's freedom. I pledged money to tzedaka, I cried, I davened. We all did whatever we could; it was in His hands.

Then the miracle occurred. The Bais Din was on vacation, and officially, there were no dayanim available. Yet, when the clerks phoned the homes of the dayanim who preside on the Bais Din Hagadol – the rabbinical equivalent to the Supreme Court – almost every single one of them jumped into a taxi and raced to the Bais Din. Suddenly, the entire corridor was crowded with well-known dayanim and some of Jerusalem's greatest talmidei chachamim. I later found out that this was the first time – yes, the first time! – in the history of the Rabbinate that the Bais Din Hagadol had convened during the official recess.

As if in a dream, we were whisked upstairs, to the official chambers of the Bais Din Hagadol, and Aharon Dov was brought before a whole group of Jerusalem's greatest talmidei chachamim. The verdict was unanimous – yes, he was sane enough to give the Get.

While the scribe prepared the parchment, Aharon Dov sat in the adjoining room, singing at the top of his lungs. Although we sat quietly in the corridor, in truth we were also singing, in our hearts, a song of praise and thanksgiving to the One who had orchestrated this miracle. Although it sounds absurd, the atmosphere at the actual ceremony was one of tremendous joy. The room was crowded with family, as well as many of Jerusalem's greatest poskim who had come to assure that there would be no opening for anyone to question the kashrus of the get. Once it was over, Sara Yocheved, the rebbetzin, the lawyer and I joined in a huge bear hug. We were sobbing, laughing, jumping up and down; it was so spontaneous, so incongruous, and so very real! As the witnesses and dayanim filed out of the room, they wished us, and each other, a Mazel Tov!

As the room slowly emptied, I walked up to the presiding dayan.  "Thank you for saving my daughter's life," I began, not even attempting to brush away my tears.  I could not continue.

On the bus home, it was hard to contain my joy. I wanted to get up and dance, to tell everyone of the great miracle that we had experienced, to sing on the top of my lungs. I met my next door neighbor coming up the stairs to our building. "She got it!" I said, and then we rushed into each other's arms – crying, laughing. The neighbors heard the noise and rushed out to wish us mazel tov. It was an end to a nightmare, and hopefully, the beginning of a wonderful future. 

Once things quieted down, I phoned Rav Pressburger. I said thank you and started to cry. I could hear the emotion in Rav Pressburger's voice as he responded, "There are no words, there are no words." That evening, my husband returned home from maariv and said, "This is the first time in over three years that I was able to daven properly." Suddenly I understood why, for so long, I had felt a deep emptiness, a sense of spiritual disconnection and estrangement; I had been so overwhelmed with the evil in my life that I could not focus or connect with the Source of all Goodness.

That afternoon, Sara Yocheved returned home to find her apartment decorated with balloons and streamers. Neighbors arrived with cakes and drinks; everyone was laughing, and crying. In Rav Pressburger's shul that evening, all the men came over to wish the rav – and each other -- a big mazel tov!

And it was less than 24 hours to Yom Kippur.

Erev Yom Kippur, between the cooking, eating, davening and calling friends and family to share the wonderful news and bless then that they be sealed in the Book of Life, I tried to focus on the tremendous blessing that had come into our life. Our daughter was finally free, and in attaining that freedom, in facing that challenge, she had grown and developed, and I was, and still am, extremely proud to be her mother.

But still, the pain, the suffering, all that we had gone through, did I have the capacity to forgive and move on? I knew I had to, but could I?

Yom Kippur, my thoughts kept returning to those moments in the bais din, waiting for my daughter's judgment, knowing that her future – her life – was contingent on our prayers. For my teshuva to be accepted, for Hashem to forgive me for my shortcomings, it was imperative that I find it within myself to forgive others, including – yes - the mechutan. I hope I was successful; only time will tell.