Appreciating Beauty In Our Lives

On a cold winter morning at a subway station in Washington, a man began to play his violin.  During the next 45 minutes he played six musical pieces.  It was during a rush hour and over a thousand people walked past the musician. Out of all the pedestrians, only 6 people stopped and listened.

People did not know that this violinist was Joshua Bell - one of the best musicians in the world. He played one of the most intricate pieces ever written with his Stradivarius violin, worth over $ 3.5 million dollars.  

Two days before the subway performance, his concert sold out in Boston at an average of $100 per ticket. 

This was a ‘social experiment’ prearranged by the Washington Post Newspaper. The goal of Joshua Bell’s incognito recital at a subway station was to observe how people respond to 'beautiful things' in their everyday lives.

The outcome was absolutely shocking. Only .006% of people stopped to appreciate the beauty of the music and the incredible talent of the violinist.

The other 99.994% of people did not find time to stop and listen to the best music ever written, performed by one of the best musicians in the world.

The pace of our culture is so overwhelming and intense that we developed blindness to the world we live in. We no longer hear or see people around us. We lost our ability to recognize Divine Intervention and to appreciate blessings in our lives. 

Perhaps, this is the time to open our eyes and to see the magnificent world around us. After all, recognizing and appreciating our existence is a completely transformational experience. 

Last Message from a 'Little Girl'

I loved my grandfather Semyon (Shimon) very much.  He and my beloved grandmother Anna helped to raise me and were a huge part of my daily life.  I was the eagerly awaited first born of their only child.  After my father was born, they did not have any more children and they treated me like their own child rather than a grandchild.  My parents worked a lot and my grandparents were my primary caregivers from the time I was one.  

My grandfather was born around the time of the Russian Revolution in Belarus and he and his 6 brothers and sisters were all secular Jews, having been robbed of the ability to study and practice their religion by the Communists.  He grew up during a time when religious observance was an offence punishable by death and/or many years of slave labor in a Siberian labor camp.

Regardless of these facts, my grandfather was responsible for my introduction to Judaism.  As a child, I had been afraid of the dark and he was the only one in my family with patience enough to sit next me at bedtime, hold my hand, and tell me bedtime stories until I fell asleep.  Luckily for me, the stories he told me were ones that he remembered from his early childhood and consisted of Torah stories about Adam and Eve, Moses, Joseph, etc…

Approximately after we had been in living the US for 10 years, when I was 17, my grandfather was diagnosed with lung cancer.  The doctors recommended radiation and told us that he should have at least several more years left as the cancer was caught pretty early and had a tendency to progress slowly at his age.  My grandfather was in his late seventies at this time, but healthy in all other ways.  Cognitively, he was doing very well, taking care of himself, and remembered everything.  He took the cancer diagnosis better than I had expected and repeatedly assured me (rather than the other way around) that he would be fine.  He would say that people should worry less about what doctors tell them as they tend to be pessimistic and present the worst case scenarios. Still, he willingly went along with his doctors’ treatment plans and had to be admitted to Cabrini Medical Center in NYC for several days every couple of weeks for treatment.

My parents and great-uncle (my grandfather’s younger brother) had been spending a lot of time with my grandfather, taking him to various doctors’ appointments and spending a lot of time with him to keep him from being lonely (my grandmother had passed away less than a year ago).  Therefore, when my grandfather was admitted to the hospital for treatment and I assured them that I would visit him there, they decided to go away for two days. 

The morning after my parents and great-uncle left for upstate NY, my grandfather called me from the hospital.  He asked me to bring him several things that he had forgotten to take with him to hospital.  That day, I had plans to go to Action Park (a water park in NJ) with my boyfriend and friends.  However, I could not say no to my grandfather.  I asked my friends to drive me to the hospital so that I could quickly run up and give my grandfather his things before we went to the water park.  When I got to the hospital, my grandfather looked distressed.  I asked him if he was feeling OK, and he said yes, but that he had been visited by a little girl who told him that this was his last day and that he would not make it to tomorrow.  I was stunned since this was totally unlike my grandfather and he had never said such things before.  Not even close!  He was not dramatic or attention seeking by nature.  Still, I figured that he must be stressed about his health and having bad dreams.  I did my best to reassure my grandfather that the little girl had not been real, that it was just a bad dream and that the doctors believed that he had quite a bit of time left. He vehemently disagreed with me and said that she had definitely been real, as he had seen her and spoken to her.  He was totally convinced that it was his last day.  My grandfather asked me to stay with him, but I told him that I couldn’t because my boyfriend and friends were all waiting for me downstairs (something I’ve regretted deeply ever since).  Instead, I did my best to calm him down and promised to come back and visit him the next morning.

Unfortunately, very early the next morning I got a phone call from the hospital and was told that my grandfather had indeed passed away.  I spent a long time grieving for him and wishing that I could go back in time and stay with him when he had asked me to.  I also tried to figure out how he knew that he was about to die when he was not in any acute medical distress.  I did not understand what the significance of the “little girl” was.  No matter how I tried, I wasn’t able to rationalize it.  Then, last year, a friend told me something interesting that shed some light on this.  He’s a nurse who has worked with many hospice patients and watched them die.  He said that the overwhelming majority of them saw and spoke to departed loved ones near the time of death.  In fact, he had often heard his patients name names before they died.  When he mentioned these names to their children and grandchildren, it turned out that these were the names of his patients’ deceased relatives.  If fact, this man, who came from the secular background of the Soviet Union, was so moved by what he saw over the years, that he could no longer deny G-d’s existence and has become increasingly religiously observant.

After the conversation with my friend, what my grandfather told me on his last day of life finally made sense. As did the fact that a little girl came to talk to him.  After all, my grandparents had had a daughter who died of dysentery during World War II.  My aunt was just over a year old when she died and my grandparents had spent the rest of their lives missing her.  Who else but a beloved daughter, would it have made sense for G-d to send to guide her father into the next world?  After all, if she hadn’t told my grandfather exactly when he would die, how would he have been able to predict it with such accuracy? No other explanation is plausible given the fact that his state of health should have led him to believe that he had the potential to live for a while yet.

As I child, I often felt terrible about the fact that my grandparents had to live through the death of their daughter and experience such unspeakable sorrow.  I often wondered why G-d even bothered to give them a child whose very brief life would cause them so much pain.  When I got older, I had heard religious people talk about the fact that there is a purpose to every single person’s life even if we don’t see it clearly at the time.  I heard it said that according to Jewish thought, even during a mundane task or seemingly meaningless life, we have the potential to influence people and events in some unknown way. 

Recently, I’ve come to the realization that a possible “purpose” of my aunt’s very brief life might have been to reaffirm for me and my family something that people are all consciously or subconsciously seeking – a sign of the fact that something beyond this physical world does exist.  To those that watched my aunt die and felt the pain of her too short life, such future events could not have been foreseen.  Nobody could have possibly known then, that many years after her death, her niece would see her brief life and subsequent appearance to her grandfather as a sign of G-d’s very existence.  Thus, having lived for only one year, my aunt has achieved what most Rabbis could not in several decades, bringing her niece closer to G-d and answering her prayers for a “sign.”  I hope that her Kiddush Hashem (suffering and death due to being a Jew/sanctification of G-d’s name) will encourage my entire family and our future generations to lead meaningful and spiritual Jewish lives. 

Kaddish for Deceased Father

A Rabbi in Long Island was once approached by a young man to have kaddish recited for his recently departed father (Kaddish is a memorial prayer that brings merit to a departed soul. It recited every day for a year after a persons death, usually by a family member). The young man made it clear that he would not be saying the kaddish himself but would pay for the Rabbi to arrange for someone else to say the kaddish on his deceased father's behalf.
 

Some time passed and the young man suddenly began showing up in synagogue and reciting kaddish himself. The Rabbi asked the young fellow what had changed and he told him the following:
 

When I was growing up, my father never showed any warmth or affection. He was always cold and uninvolved. One incident that always epitomized this for me was when I was in 5th grade. We had a paper airplane contest in school. I worked real hard to make a great airplane. When it was finished I wrote DAD on it with a bold blue marker. The plane won 1st Prize. When I came home I was so excited, I ran over to my dad, gave him the plane and told him I won. He showed no reaction. He didn't say a thing, he just took the plane and shoved it away somewhere. Not one kind word or even a smile. That incident told me that my father didn't care a bit about me. I knew he didn't love me.
 

When he passed away, I realized my kaddish obligation, but I just could not say kaddish for such a man. I came to you to arrange for the kaddish to be said by someone else. This way my obligation would be dispensed but I wouldn't have to physically say it.

      
Yesterday I went downtown to his office to clean out his desk. His secretary let me into the room and I got to work. When I went through his top drawer I found the paper airplane that I made in fifth grade. I picked it up and held it. I stared at it. When I eyed the word DAD written in blue, a lump formed in my throat. At that moment, his secretary walked into the room and said to me, "Your father used to stare intently at that plane with the exact same misty eyed look you have now. I always wondered what was so special about that plane." I wanted to answer her but I couldn't speak.
 

I realized that my dad cared about me all along. He just wasn't a man of many words. He didn't show his emotions and I didn't know how to see them but now I understand that they were always there. He did love me. Today I came to say kaddish for that wonderful man - my staunchest admirer, my hero, my dad. (©2013. Printed with permission from Rabbi Baruch Lederman, author of Shulweek www.kehillastorah.org.)

The Menorah

Private Stephen Winneger was on patrol one night during WWII when he saw a figure running through a field. He shouted, "Halt or I'll shoot." The figure ducked behind a tree and started to dig. Stephen again shouted, "Halt or I'll shoot!"  He didn't halt. Stephen caught up with him and tackled him to the ground. To his surprise, he found he had captured a young boy. An ornate Menorah had fallen from the boy's hands in the scuffle and Stephen picked it up. The boy tried desparately to grab it back shouting in Yiddish, "Give it to me! It's mine!" Stephen assured the boy that he was among friends, and that, furthermore, he himself was Jewish.
 

        The boy had just survived several long, tortuous years of the Holocaust in a concentration camp and was naturally mistrustful of all men in uniforms. He had come back to retrieve the menorah he had hidden there. It was all he had left in the world. He had been forced to watch the shooting of his father, and had no idea what had become of his mother.

        Stephen took the boy, whose name was David, under his wing. As they became closer and closer, Stephen's heart went out to the boy. He offered David the opportunity to come back to New York City with him. He accepted and underwent official adoption procedures.

        Back home, a curator of the Jewish Museum in Manhattan, saw the menorah and told David it was a very valuable, historic, European Menorah and that it should be shared with the entire Jewish Community. He offered David $2,500 for the menorah—a staggering sum of money in the late 1940’s!  But David refused the incredible offer, emphatically stating that the menorah had been in his family for over 200 years and that no amount of money could ever make him sell it. He would not part with a family mitzvah tradition.

        When Hanukkah came, David and Stephen lit the menorah in the window of their home in New York City. An hour later there was a knock on the door. When Stephen went to answer he found a woman with a strong German accent who said that she was walking down the street when she saw the menorah in the window. She said that she had once had one just like it in her family and had never seen any other like it. Could she possibly come inside and take a closer look?

        Winneger invited her in and said that the menorah belonged to his son, David, who could perhaps tell her more about it. He went upstairs and called David down to talk to the woman. And that is how David was reunited with his mother. (©2013. Printed with permission from Rabbi Baruch Lederman, author of Shulweek www.kehillastorah.org.)

Important Person

Gary was a boy in a Jewish elementary school in Pittsburgh who was known throughout the school as a big behavior problem. Year after year, teacher after teacher, he was found to be incorrigible. He never applied himself to his studies, his behavior was very disruptive in class. He was disobedient and disrespectful. Gary was the class clown or class terror, depending on how you wanted to look at it.

One day he was sent down to the principal’s office (for about the 50 billionth time) because of a “disciplinary infraction” on his part. Of course the principal was quite familiar with Gary, as he had been seen him in his office many many times over the years for such “occasions”. The principal met with him, spoke to him about proper behavior, values, goals etcetera. It was pretty much the standard lecture.

The very next day, there was a noticeable change in Gary’s attitude. As the days, weeks, and months went by he excelled academically and socially. He became a model student as well as a model citizen. He was studious, courteous, and served as an asset in class because of his excellent insightful participation. He got involved in extra curricular school projects and programs.

All of his teachers, past and present were wondering the same thing. What in the world did the principal say to him at that meeting? No one had the nerve to ask.

At the final staff meeting of the school year, one of the teachers got up the nerve to ask the principal about Gary. Everyone took notice when that name was mentioned and a hush came over the room. Everyone wanted to know what it was that the principal said or did at that meeting that produced such a dramatic amazing turnaround in this boy.

The principal shrugged his shoulders and told everyone there that he didn’t know. “I gave him the same talk I would give to anyone in that situation, the same talk I had given to Gary countless times over the years. I have no idea why this time he was suddenly so remarkably affected.”

By this time, everyone’s curiosity was piqued so they decided to go straight to the horse’s mouth and ask the lad himself. Gary recounted the incident as follows:

“First I was sent to the principal’s office, which was nothing new. I stepped inside the office, sat down, and the principal started speaking and lecturing about stuff. To be honest I couldn’t really tell you what he said because I don’t remember and I wasn’t paying much attention while he was speaking.”

“Then his intercom buzzed. It was his secretary telling him there was a phone call for him. He told his secretary that he couldn’t speak now because he was meeting with someone very important.”

“He kept on going with his lecture but I have no idea what he was saying because all I could think about was that he said I was someone very important. I left his office with that one thought spinning through my head – the principal thinks I’m very important. I went on home but that’s all I could think about for the rest of the day – I am very important.”
 

“The next day, I got up, got dressed, ate breakfast, went to school – all the same things I always did, but it was all different. Now I was someone important. I went to my first class, sat down feeling great, and I guess things kind of just took off from there.”    [The foregoing true story was told by Rabbi Yitzchak Chinn, McKeesport Pennsylvania.] (©2013. Printed with permission from Rabbi Baruch Lederman, author of Shulweek www.kehillastorah.org.)

Mother's Hug

Dvir Aminolav was the first Israeli soldier killed in the 2008 Gaza War. His mother Dalya missed Dvir, terribly. One night before she went to bed, she said in a loud voice: "G-d, give me a sign, give me a hug from Dvir so that I will know that his death had some meaning."

That week her daughter asked her to accompany her to a musical performance at The International Crafts Festival in Jerusalem. Dalya, feeling quite depressed, did not want to go to the concert, but she didn't want to disappoint her daughter either, and agreed to go halfheartedly. The concert was a bit delayed. A two-year-old boy began wandering through the stands. He walked up to Dalya's seat and touched her on the shoulder. A preschool teacher, Dalya turned around, saw the boy and smiled warmly.

"What's your name?" Dalya asked.

"Eshel," the boy replied.

"That's a nice name. Do you want to be my friend, Eshel?" The boy nodded in reply and sat down next to Dalya.

Eshel's parents were sitting two rows above. Concerned their little boy was bothering Dalya, they asked him to come back up. But Dalya insisted that everything was fine.

"I have a brother named Dvir," two-year-old Eshel chimed in, as only little children can. Dalya was shocked to hear the unusual name of her beloved son, and walked up the two rows to where Eshel's parents were sitting. She saw a baby in his carriage, and apologizing, she asked, "If you don't mind me asking, how old is your baby and when was he born?"

The baby's mother replied, "He was born right after the war in Gaza."

Dalya swallowed hard. "Please tell me, why did you choose to name him Dvir?"

Baby Dvir's mother began to explain. "When I was at the end of my pregnancy, the doctors suspected the fetus may have a very serious birth defect. Since it was the end of the pregnancy, there was little the doctors could do and I just had to wait and see how things would turn out.

When I went home that night, the news reported that the first casualty in the war was a soldier named Dvir. I was so saddened by this news that I decided to make a deal with G-d. 'If you give me a healthy son,' I said in my prayer, 'I promise to name him Dvir, in memory of the soldier that was killed.'"

Dalya, the mother of Dvir, stood with her mouth open. She tried to speak but she couldn't. After a long silence, she said quietly, "I am Dvir's mother."

The young parents didn't believe her. She repeated, "Yes, it's true. I am Dvir's mother. My name is Dalya Aminalov, from Pisgat Zeev."

With a sudden inspiration, Baby Dvir's mother handed Dalya the baby and said, "Dvir wants to give you a hug."

Dalya held the little baby boy in her arms and looked into his angelic face. The emotion she felt at that moment was overwhelming. She had asked for a hug from Dvir - and she could truly feel his warm and loving embrace from the World of Truth.
(©2013. Printed with permission from Rabbi Baruch Lederman, author of Shulweek www.kehillastorah.org.)

Kindness is Eternal!

One day a teacher asked her students to list the names of the other students in the room on two sheets of paper, leaving a space between each name. Then she told them to think of the nicest thing they could say about each of their classmates and write it down. It took the remainder of the class period to finish their assignment, and as the students left the room, each one handed in the papers. 

That Saturday, the teacher wrote down the name of each student on a separate sheet of paper, and listed what everyone else had said about that individual. On Monday she gave each student his or her list. Before long, the entire class was smiling. "Really?" she heard whispered. "I never knew that I meant anything to anyone!" and, "I didn't know others liked me so much," were most of the comments.

No one ever mentioned those papers in class again. She never knew if they discussed them after class or with their parents, but it didn't matter. The exercise had accomplished its purpose. The students were happy with themselves and one another. That group of students moved on. Several years later, one of the students was killed in Viet Nam and his teacher attended the funeral of that special student. She had never seen a serviceman in a military coffin before. He looked so handsome, so mature. The church was packed with his friends. One by one those who loved him took a last walk by the coffin. The teacher was the last one to bless the coffin. As she stood there, one of the soldiers who acted as pallbearer came up to her. "Were you Mark's math teacher?" he asked. She nodded: "yes." Then he said: "Mark talked about you a lot."

After the funeral, most of Mark's former classmates went together to a luncheon. Mark's mother and father were there, obviously waiting to speak with his teacher. "We want to show you something," his father said, taking a wallet out of his pocket "They found this on Mark when he was killed. We thought you might recognize it." Opening the billfold, he carefully removed two worn pieces of notebook paper that had obviously been taped, folded and refolded many times. The teacher knew without looking that the papers were the ones on which she had listed all the good things each of Mark's classmates had said about him. "Thank you so much for doing that," Mark's mother said. "As you can see, Mark treasured it."

All of Mark's former classmates started to gather around. Charlie smiled rather sheepishly and said, "I still have my list. It's in the top drawer of my desk at home." Chuck's wife said, "Chuck asked me to put! his in our wedding album." "I have mine too," Marilyn said. "It's in my diary" Then Vicki, another classmate, reached into her pocketbook, took out her wallet and showed her worn and frazzled list to the group. "I carry this with me at all times," Vicki said and without batting an eyelash, she continued: "I think we all saved our lists" That's when the teacher finally sat down and cried. She cried for Mark and for all his friends who would never see him again. The density of people in society is so thick that we forget that life will end one day. And we don't know when that one day will be. So please, tell the people you love and care for, that they are special and important. 

The Shofar’s Eternal Call

From memories of Rebbetzin Esther Jungreis

... we suffered in Bergen-Belsen as Rosh Hashanah drew near and we had no shofar, no machzor. The rabbis held secret meetings. They tried to ascertain how they could possibly obtain a shofar and a machzor (prayer book). There was a black market in the camp and things could be acquired for the right price, especially if those “things” were Jewish ritual items. They were all in the junk pile waiting to be destroyed.

So it was through the heroic efforts of our people that 300 cigarettes were collected to buy a shofar and a machzor. But there was another problem. One shofar could be heard by multitudes but surely one machzor would not suffice. So once again our rabbis designed a plan. Everyone would learn at least one prayer to be recited from memory. But which prayer, which Psalm, whichberachah?  Surely all the supplications, all the Psalms, all the blessings in the machzor are holy.  So which one should it be? 

The decision was made: “Bochen levavos – let us pray to Him who searches and tests our hearts on that Day of Judgment.”  Yes, we invited G-d to come to Bergen-Belsen and examine our hearts in order to see for Himself that despite our pain and suffering we had not faltered one bit in our faith and love for Him.

Adjacent to our compound was a Polish camp (the Nazis often kept nationalities separate). Somehow our Polish brethren got wind of our treasure. So when Rosh Hashanah came and the piercing cry of the shofar was sounded, our Polish brethren crept close to the barbed wire fence separating us to hear the ancient call. The Nazis came running and beat them mercilessly. But even as the truncheons were falling on their heads they cried out, “Blessed is the Lord our G-d who has commanded us to listen to the sound of the shofar.” 

Many years later I was lecturing in Israel in a village in Samaria called Neve Aliza. It was late summer, just before Rosh Hashanah, and I felt a need to tell the story of the shofar of Bergen-Belsen. When I finished, a woman in the audience got up. “I know exactly what you are talking about,” she said, “because my father was the rabbi in the Polish compound.  You may not realize this, but your shofar was smuggled into our camp in the bottom of a large garbage can filled with soup and my father blew the shofar for us.”

I looked at her, momentarily speechless.

“And that’s not all,” she went on to say. “I have the shofar in my house, here in Neve Aliza. When we were liberated, we blew the shofar again and my father took it with him. Today I have it here in Eretz Yisrael.”

With that, she ran home and returned a few minutes later with the shofar in her hands. We wept and embraced. Here we were, two little girls from Belgen-Belsen holding that shofar in the hills of Israel. I invite you to think about that and then to think about it again – and again. 

The entire world had declared us dead. Millions of our people had been slaughtered but the shofar, the symbol of Jewish piety, triumphed over the flames. And G-d granted me the awesome privilege of rediscovering that shofar in the ancient hills of Samaria to which our people had returned after more than two thousand years of wandering, darkness, oppression and Holocaust – the miracle of our time.

Hospital Miracle

My daughter was born with a chronic illness, which was unfortunately transmitted through me during pregnancy. As a consequence, starting from the age of 6 months old, my husband and I became frequent visitors of specialists in Columbia and Cornell New York Presbyterian Hospital. Our precious daughter had to go through numerous blood tests, sonograms and biopsies. As a mother I carried unbearable pain, feeling guilty for ‘giving’ this condition to my child. I clearly remember that in the
beginning, when we first got the horrific news of the illness, I
turned to G-d and prayed to heal my child. I cried many sleepless
nights for a miracle. 

Meanwhile, a group of prominent doctors were working on our case. As we were running out of options, the team of specialists offered a treatment option, but it was not meant for
patients of such a young age. The team of specialists was convinced that we had to start the experimental procedures as soon as possible. They proposed a treatment that consisted of two different painful shots twice a day, which caused unbearable side effects. The doctors made it very clear to us that this treatment was an experimental drug and did not hold the FDA approval.

We felt hopeless yet pressured to make a decision. As a mother, I was so desperate to help my child that I was ready to sign the waiver, but my husband felt differently. He was evaluating all the risks and benefits. It upset me tremendously that he did not rush to make the final decision to proceed with the treatment. Doctors needed both parents’ consent. My husband managed to convince me to take some time and think things through.I was hoping that soon enough the treatment would be approved by FDA
for the use on small children, while my husband’s theory was not to take the risk but to trust that G-d will do wonders. He kept saying that what we needed to do was pray harder, go for regular doctor’s appointments, and focus on doing good deeds. As we took our child for semi-annual blood tests, yearly sonograms and biopsies, we kept researching new treatments that were available.

Years went by but nothing was changing. We were still dealing with fear for our daughter's life. On January 2007, we had an appointment in NY Presbyterian. Our daughter was six years old, attending 2nd grade at a private Jewish school. Before we left home, I told my husband to take $500 in cash with us, planning to drop it off at the school later that day to pay for tuition fees. I was always carefully putting money aside, dollar by dollar. We worked extremely hard to make ends meet in order to pay for school I had to put money away on a weekly basis.

We came to the hospital and waited for our turn to see the doctor. I saw in the waiting room one religious-looking woman with her son who was sitting in a stroller. The boy was around nine years old, bold and pale. Right away, I understood that he was a cancer patient. His mother was anxiously walking back and forth; from receptionists to the waiting room, asking people for something. Finally, she came up to us and said that she needed to borrow some money. My husband seemed patient and calm as he asked her how much she needed. She said that she needed $10 to go back home to Lakewood. My husband, to my surprise, suggested that $10 would not be enough. The lady seemed to agree and said that since she does not come to the city too often, it was a good idea to use time wisely and to apply for a Birth Certificate and Social Security for her son as well, since she never got a chance to apply before.

At this point, I thought to myself, what a nerve this lady had. Not only did she ask for money but she was sharing her plans for errands to run at our expense! I felt like we were part of some dramatic play. Everyone was looking at us. The entire waiting room knew what the woman was asking because that is what she requested from them as well.She came up to every one of them to ask for money but nobody offered to help. To my shock, my husband took out a $10 bill then from the other pocket he pulled a $100 bill that was intended for school. I was beyond angry. The lady thanked us and promised that she would send us the money via mail. The entire office watched this ‘transaction’ as my
husband said to her “I am happy to help. We are Jews and we need to help each other in hard times”.

She took the money, looked into my eyes and said “I know we are all here in this pediatric department of the hospital for a reason…. it is because our children are sick. I bless you that when you go to see the doctors, you will be given wonderful news about your daughter, since you just did a great deed”. Then she sat in her chair and started knitting. Meanwhile, the receptionist called our name and we went to the examination room to speak to the team of the doctors.

We were nervous wrecks. Even though I was still furious with my
husband, when we entered the examination room, I decided not to talk about the incident and to rather focus on our child instead. Every year the blood count and sonograms were hinting the approach of the most horrific diagnoses, an early stage of cancer. When the doctors came in and saw our daughter’s recent blood test, their faces changed. They couldn't believe what was happening. It took them about 20 minutes, the longest 20 minutes of our lives to finally tell us what was going on.

To our complete shock, the
doctors started congratulate us, explaining that our daughter’s blood count
went up and she was no longer sick! We were speechless as the doctors literally
applauded our family. They asked what we did between the visits. We were so confused and
shocked that we could not even speak. These were the same people who suggested the experimental treatment as the only means so save our daughter and now we were asked
from the same doctors about what we possibly did other than the original
treatment that we refused….
We walked out from the office speechless. The same lady was still
sitting in the chair. She saw us, got up, took the carriege and walked with us to the elevator. It seemed that she was waiting with us to leave. When we all arrived at the 1st floor, she looked at our happy and extremely shocked faces, smiled back and said nothing. She walked in front of us and we followed her to the exit door. Completely absorbed by our thoughts,I got out of the building just to realize that all of a sudden the
woman was nowhere in sight, as if she literary disappeared. We rushed outside looked both ways but never saw her again.

Five days later, we received a letter with the check for $110 and a 'thank you' note with the explanation of how she ended up in the city without money. This was a very sincere 3-page letter that made me feel so special for being able to help this woman. 

As I questioned if she was a stranger or a guardian angel that came save our child, I put this special letter in a safe place with all our important documents. Yet,I was faced with another surprise when after a year I couldn't find the letter. Interestingly, all the other documents were there at the exactly same place except that letter. How odd is that?

It has been four year since our daughter is ‘disease free’ with good blood results. We are still required to do the annual blood tests and sonograms, yet I know in my heart that her results will be good. The doctors still cannot understand and explain what exactly happened. They call her a ‘miracle baby’.

We Jews believe that kindness and charity are the pillars that a
change a person’s destiny. We witnessed that to be true!

I must admit that I probably would be skeptical if I read this story about someone else….but it happened to my family and my own daughter is a true example of such an awesome miracle.

by Leah Levy-Aulov

Precious Medals

Bud Marshall kept a small box in his bedroom where he kept several important & sentimental mementos including the medals he had earned for his service in WWII. These medals were very precious to him, particularly the Purple Heart and the Medal for Bravery at Okinawa. He had been exposed to grave danger there and he valiantly persevered and prevailed. The medals conferred on him by his country, meant a great deal to him.

His eight year old son Mark, used to sneak into his father's room, pry open the box, and play with the medals, even though he wasn't supposed to. After all, Mark was proud of the medals and proud of his father for courageously earning them.

One day Mark showed them to his friend Brian and they played together with the medals. A few days later Mark snuck into the room, opened the box and was horrified to discover that the medals were gone. He was baffled and afraid to tell his father.

The next day in school, he saw Brian was going around to all the kids, showing them the medals and telling them that his own father had earned those medals. Mark was furious and confounded. He went right to his father, told him the whole story, and asked him what to do, "I'm bigger than Brian, I can go beat him up and get back your medals. Should I do that?"
 
Mr. Marshall put his arm around Mark and said, "Brian lost his father when he was two years old. The reason he's doing this is because he wishes he had a father. You're lucky, you have a father. Let him keep the medals." (©2013. Printed with permission from Rabbi Baruch Lederman, author of Shulweek www.kehillastorah.org.)

Righteous Among the Nations

The story, which  spans generations, continents and religions,  starts in Sarajevo at the beginning of WWII. Mustafa and Zaneiba Hardagan were a very tolerant Muslim couple who had a lot of Jewish friends, especially the Kabilio family. When the Germans occupied Sarajevo, the Gestapo's Headquarters were situated across the street from the Hardagan's residence. The Hardagans warn their Jewish friends many times about the upcoming arrests of Jews by the SS. Mustafa begged his friend Yossef Kabilio to come and stay with them telling him "You are our brothers. This is your home."

Yossef accepted, but later had to arrange for the departure of his whole family because the situation of the Jews was becoming worse by the day. Unfortunately, the Gestapo arrested him, while his family was safe. Zeineba made a point of visiting him every day, bringing him food and clothing. But after a month, she decided that she was not doing enough and took upon herself to ask the Gestapo Head for Yossef's release. He was obviously very surprised that a Muslim would risk so much to save the life of a Jew. In the end, after generously bribing the officer, she obtained Yossef"s liberation. Yossef escaped safely to Italy in 1943.

Zeineba is not the only courageous member of her family. Her dad, Ahmed Sahdik, a Muslim originally from Salonica, Greece, hid many Jewish families during the war in his own residence. Unfortunately he was denounced and then sent to a concentration camp, where he died in 1945. Sahdik's name, albeit a Muslim one, is listed today on the Sarajevo memorial dedicated to the deported Jewish victims.

The Kabilios made it back safely to Sarajevo after the war and Zeineba gave them back the jewels they had left with her. They embarked on a ship going to Palestine, where they started a new life, but never forgot their Muslim friends during all these years.

The Kabilios decided to honor Zebeina's courage by having the Yad Vashem museum in Jerusalem include her as one of the "Righteous among the nations" for her role during the Shoah. She was then invited in 1985 to Israel to be recognized as the first Muslim ever to hold that title. She spent two wonderful months there, where she was impressed by the warmth and the welcome of the Israeli authorities.

Obviously she had no idea that a few years later, the irony of history would save her family's life. In fact in 1992, while Yugoslavia was in the midst of a bloody civil war, Zebeina's family was in mortal danger because of the numerous bombings in their neighborhood in Sarajevo.

Yossef Kabilio's children worked endlessly to save their saviors. They obtained directly from Israel Prime Minister Rabin a special authorization to bring the whole Hardagan family to Israel, along with members of the Jewish community of Sarajevo. So, in 1994, they settled in Israel: Zebeina's daughter Aida got a revelation upon entering Jerusalem. She said that she did not feel like a stranger but rather it was like coming back home. She then converted to Judaism and was renamed Sarah. She added that until her death in October 1994, her mother Zebeina was very supportive.

This is what Sarah has to say about Israel:

"I do not know of a single country in the world who would have welcomed us like Israel did. We were Muslims and it is the Jewish state, which embraced us with love and affection. The entire world witnessed what happened in Sarajevo and only Israel came to our rescue. This is the true state of Israel and not what foreign TV networks show you every night. If Israel was a racist state, how come they took care of Muslims like us? Our story is a message for those who really want to live in peace in the Near East." 

(©2013. Printed with permission from Rabbi Baruch Lederman, author Of Shulweek www.kehillastorah.org.)

A Candle of My Own

Once in a very long while, you read or hear a story that fills your body and soul with warmth, that inspires you, overrides time,  that taps into our beautiful and rich heritage. This multi-layered narrative is one of those stories. And it is still evolving. It is like the flame of a candle that is lit from one person to another, from one candle to another, the flame never extinguished.

 

The key players and places in the story are Laura Fisher , Gary (Laura’s husband) Camp Emunah, Yana and Zach Weiser, Mrs. Chava Schmidt, Mrs. Esther Sternberg, a Shabbos morning at the Montreal Torah Center and Rabbi Aaron Eliezer Ceitlin.  The thread that ties all of these people and places together is the Rebbe.

 

Russia to America 1978

 

Between the years of 1978-1981 there was a large influx of Russian Jews to America.  Among those leaving was Laura (then Larisa), her mother, father, brother and grandmother, who immigrated to Edison, New Jersey from Kiev in 1979.  Yana immigrated with her family, also from Kiev, to Philadelphia a few years later in 1981.  Soon after their arrival, Laura and her family moved to Philadelphia where she met Yana.  They have been friends ever since, over thirty years.   Today their families remain very close.

 

The Beginning of Laura’s Story

 

Everyone knew the story of Laura’s life when she first came to Edison, New Jersey at eleven years old.  One day, a rabbi came to Laura’s home and asked her parents if they would like their daughter to go to a Jewish girls summer camp. Her parents were elated.  In Russia, the government had banned any outward Jewish observance and Jewish girls generally did not go to the government’s “Pioneer Camps”.  Now they would be able to give their daughter an opportunity to learn about her rich heritage.

 

Laura does not have very many memories of that summer in camp.  She does remember not knowing the language – not English and not Hebrew. She spoke only Russian.  In order to get through the summer, she drew on her survival instincts, learning how to daven (pray) and how to read Hebrew.  She remembers wearing skirts, but doesn’t know where they came from.  While in camp, Laura turned twelve and was given a siddur with a picture of the Rebbe taped on the inside cover. 

 

When she came home, she prayed three times a day and recited all the morning blessings.  Although her parents had wanted her to get some semblance of who she was as a Jewish girl, this was more than they had bargained for. They could not believe what had become of their daughter! To help them get through these trying times, Laura’s mother assured everyone that if they ignored it the phase would pass, which it did.

 

Thirty Years later…

 

Some of the families who had emigrated from Russia slowly began to make their way back to Yiddishkeit. Among those families were Laura’s (now married with two children) and Yana’s (also married with two children).  Both Laura and Yana still lived in Philadelphia.

 

In 2011, Yana and her family were spending a Shabbos at the home of their shluchim, Rabbi Menachem and Chava Schmidt. During the long Shabbos afternoon Yana’s daughter Shana was looking through the rabbi’s extensive library. She happened upon a small booklet entitled A Candle of My Own. As she was flipping through the pages, she came upon a short essay written by Laura Brovender, aged twelve. The name rang a bell and she asked her mother if Brovender was her friend Laura’s maiden name. Yana said, in fact, it was.

 

The booklet is a compilation of short essays written by young girls who attended Camp Emunah decades ago about what it meant to them to light Shabbos candles.  Laura - in Russian - wrote one of those essays while she was in Camp Emunah.  In that short piece, she vividly described what lighting Shabbos candles meant to her.

 

A Brief Bit of History

 

In 1974, the Rebbe instituted ten mitzvah campaigns.  One of them was called Neshek – to enable every Jewish girl to light a Shabbos candle. Mrs. Esther Sternberg, who lived (and still does) in Crown Heights at the time, heard about the Rebbe’s request. She thought it a wonderful idea and did whatever she could to bring his message to the world. It did not take very long for the Rebbe to find out what she was doing and very shortly he directed all messages and requests regarding this campaign to Mrs. Sternberg.

 

A few months later, the Rebbe requested that compositions and poems, to be written by girls of all ages and backgrounds, be compiled and made into a hard-cover book. The girls were to write about how they felt while lighting a ‘candle of my own.’ And to make certain that girls from different backgrounds be included, the Rebbe told Mrs. Sternberg to run a contest in many parts of the city.

 

Two years after the first book was printed, Mrs. Sternberg wrote to the Rebbe, saying that she would like to do a second contest of compositions and poems. The Rebbe concurred, the contest took place and prizes were duly awarded. Toward the end of the month of Menachem Av, the Rebbe contacted Mrs. Sternberg and asked her how the second book was coming along. He wanted it printed by Rosh Hashana. Second book? Mrs. Sternberg never thought of printing a second book. Second contest yes, but second book?

 

 

Nonetheless, a directive from the Rebbe meant action. Frantic that she did not have enough essays for this book, Mrs. Sternberg contacted Camp Emunah, requesting of them to run the same contest she had run, further (maybe instead of ,further: and specifically) asking them for essays from foreign campers.  She received essays in Russian, Persian and Hebrew.

 

One of the girls who wrote a story that summer was Laura…

 

Back to the Story

 

Being a Baal Teshuva, returning to one’s roots, is a life-long journey. Some of those times are harder than others. Good friends sense each other’s struggles and such was the case with Yana and Laura. When Yana realized what her daughter had discovered, she knew that this was no mere coincidence. Hashem had made her His emissary to reach out to her friend Laura.

 

Yana and her husband Zach are people of action. They decided they wanted to present this unbelievable piece of Laura’s life to her in a very special way.

 

First they made copies of the piece, which was written in Russian and translated into English. They also wanted to give the entire book to Laura, but it was out of print. Chava Schmidt told them to contact Mrs. Sternberg.  If anyone had a copy it would be her.  

 

Yana called Mrs. Sternberg who still lives in Crown Heights (this is already mentioned parenthetically above). She explained the story and why she wanted a copy of the booklet, printed over thirty years ago.  Mrs. Sternberg replied that she would have to search for a book, which she did and finally mailed Yana the book.

 

The Gift – A Belated Birthday Present.

 

Gary (Laura’s husband) knew that Laura still had the siddur she had received in Camp Emunah. Opposite the picture of the Rebbe, one of her counselors had written the following words in Russian: “ ….let this siddur with a portrait of this real Jew be your true guide in your life…” The way it was written was very unusual, as pointed out by both Yana and Gary. The ink started out strong and then the ink began to fade, as the pen began to run out of ink, the words became lighter and lighter. The counselor then must have picked up another pen and the words became strong and dark again.  (I think there are some inaccuracies here. I am going to forward this to Laura as well. I think the above quote is Yana’s memory of it and I think that the quote written with the two pens is actually on the facing page – Laura, please make this accurate)

 

Gary pointed out that the way the writing appears in the suddur reflects Lauara’s connection to Judaism. The brightness of the flame that was ignited in the camp Emunah may have diminishes for a few years, but has returned burning brighter and stronger than ever. When she came back from Camp Emunah she felt strong in her commitment to being Jewish, later, as predicted by her mother, (her commitment) (she) waned, (yet) (and) over the past few years she is becoming strong again.  A framed copy of Laura’s letter as well as the booklet were presented to Laura on Rosh Chodesh Elul 2011. She was overcome with emotion. After (explaining) learning where the both the letter and the booklet came from, Laura asked to meet Mrs. Sternberg.  She went to New York with Yana, her daughter Simone and Yana’s daughters, Shana and Dina. They sat talking in Mrs. Sternberg’s dining room for four hours. Mrs. Sternberg gave Laura and her daughter Simone and Yana and her two daughters Shana and Dina, dollars that she had received from the Rebbe. This gift feels to them as if it came directly from the Rebbe and has further strengthened their connection to him. Later that year (They) invited Mrs. Sternberg to come and speak for the women in their shul, which she did, again holding everyone’s attention for hours with stories of other wonderful experiences of her own and others all affected by the Rebbe’s Neshek (candle lighting) initiative.

 

The Most Incredible ‘Coincidence’

 

Rosh Chodesh Elul 2012, one year later, they went back to meet with Mrs. Sternberg.  They had decided to make it a yearly visit which they realized would further develop and strengthen their connection to the Rebbe.

 

The following Shabbos, Yana and her family were visiting Montreal where they found themselves in the Montreal Torah Center (MTC) Shabbos morning. Their connection to the MTC was through Bracha and Dovid Bettoun, who had moved to Philadelphia from Montreal many years earlier and are neighbors and dear friends of the Weisers.  The Bettouns urged Yana to go with her family to the Montreal Torah Center for Shabbos, which they did.

 

That Shabbos, there was a guest rabbi and very dear friend of the MTC, Rabbi Aaron Eliezer Ceitlin.  He lives in Tsfat and had been in Montreal for a week.  Rabbi New had requested of him to deliver the sermon that Shabbos morning.

 

Rabbi Ceitlin slowly walked to the bimah and ascended up to the shtender (dais).  He began by saying that he was not supposed to have been here this Shabbos but that his plans had changed.  He should have been back in Israel, but Hashem had other plans for him and here he was, still in Montreal.  Then, he began to tell a story which he heard when he was in Antwerp a few weeks earlier. It was told to him over dinner by Mrs. Sternberg’s nephew ???

 

“There was a young girl named Laura, who thirty years ago had gone to Camp Emunah…”. Rabbi Ceitlin was telling Yana’s story about her friend Laura.

 

One cannot imagine the look on Yana and Zach’s faces when they realized that Rabbi Ceitlin was telling their story! They were incredulous!  After Rabbi Ceitlin finished speaking, Zach jumped up from his seat, ran over to Rabbi New and told him, “That’s my wife’s story!”  Both Rabbi New and Rabbi Ceitlin insisted that Zach go up to the bimah and briefly give over the story himself.

 

This story, which had begun thirty years earlier, had gone around the world and back, full circle and has brought together so many people in an ever growing circle of light – the light of the Shabbos candle reigniting the spark of Yiddishkeit in so many lives.

 

And the Rebbe’s reach? Clearly it also continues to grow, to inspire and to envelope Jews in every corner of the world.

Transcribed by Joannie Tansky as told by Yana Weiser