Thursday, December 10, 2015

Chanukah of 1775



A difficult winter. Terrible cold. We are sitting in Valley Forge and waiting. Why? I don’t know. Perhaps for better days than these. I am the only Jew here. Perhaps there are other Jews among us, but I haven’t seen any. We hunger for bread. We have no warm clothing or shoes to protect our feet. Most of the soldiers curse George Washington for going to war against Britain.

There are those who hope for his downfall, but I believe that his cause is just. We must expel Britain from America. She wants to put her hands in everything her eyes see. Although we are suffering here terribly, I am loyal with all my heart to George Washington. More than once I see him at night, passing through the camp, between the rows of sleeping soldiers. He gazes with compassion upon the soldiers who are suffering from the cold. And sometimes he approaches one of the sleeping soldiers and covers him, as a father would cover his son.

There are times when the hunger and the freezing cold torture me to death. But I don’t curse General Washington who is fighting for the freedom of America. At moments like this I think of my father in Poland. I think about all that he suffers at the hand of the cruel "Poritz". I remember: I was a child then and I saw my father dancing before the Poritz. What an awful thing to see! My father was wearing the skin of a Polar bear - and danced like a bear before the Poritz and his guests.

What terrible pain! What great shame! My father dancing like a bear - and the "Poritzim" laughing and rejoicing at the sight. I decided then and there that I will never dance like my father before the Poritz. Afterwards, I escaped to America.

And now I am lying in Valley Forge and shivering from cold. They say that Washington is losing and that he can’t win this war. But I don’t believe all that. I lie at night and pray for him.

The first night of Chanukah arrives. On this night, years ago, I left my father’s house. My father gave us this Chanukah menorah and said to me, "My son, when you light the Chanukah candles, they will illuminate the way for you".

Since then, the Menorah has been like a charm for me. Wherever I go, I take it with me. I didn’t know what to do - to light the Chanukahcandles here, among the goyim, or not. I decided to wait until they were all asleep, and then I took out my father’s Menorah. I made the brocha and lit the first candle. I gazed at the light and remembered my parents’ home. I saw my father dancing like a bear before the Poritz and I saw my mother’s eyes filled with tears. My heart was filled with pain and I burst out crying like a small child. And I decided then in my heart, that for the sake of my father and mother, for my brothers and sisters in Poland. I must help George Washington make America a free country, a land of refuge for my parents and brothers who are subjected to the cruelty of the Poritz.

Suddenly I felt a gentle hand touching my head. I lifted my eyes and it was he - he himself was standing over me and he asked, "Why are you crying, soldier? Are you cold? ".

Pain and compassion were in his voice. I couldn’t bear to see him suffer. I jumped up, forgot that I was a soldier standing before a General, and said what came from my heart, like a son speaking to his father:

"General Washington," I said, "I am crying and praying for your victory. And I know that with the help of G-d we will win. Today they are strong, but tomorrow they will fall because justice is with us. We want to be free in this land. We want to build a home here for all those who flee from the hands of "Poritzim", for all who suffer across the ocean. The "Poritzim" will not rule over us! They will fall and you will rise!" General Washington pressed my hand.
"Thank you, soldier," he said. He sat next to me on the ground, in front of the Menorah.
"What is this candlestick?", he asked.

I told him, "I brought it from my father’s house. The Jews all over the world light candles tonight, on Chanukah, the holiday of the great miracle".

The Chanukah candles lit up Washington’s eyes, and he asked joyfully, "You are a Jew from the nation of Prophets and you say we will be victorious?!"

"Yes sir," I answered with conviction. "We will win just like the Maccabees won, for ourselves and for all those who come here after us to build a new land and new lives."

The General got up and his face was shining. He shook my hand and disappeared in the darkness.

My faith prevailed. Washington’s victory was complete. The land was quiet. My General became the first President of the United States and I was one of its citizens. I soon forgot the terrible days and nights in Valley Forge. But I kept the memory of that first night ofChanukah in my heart like a precious dream. I did not relate it to anyone because I said to myself: Who will believe me? I was certain that the General forgot it completely. But that was not the case. He didn’t forget.

The first night of Chanukah (1776) 5538.

I was sitting in my apartment in New York, on Broome Street, and the Chanukah candles were burning in my window. Suddenly, I heard a knock at my door. I opened the door and was shocked: my General, President George Washington, was standing in the doorway (there himself), in all his glory. "Behold the wonderful candle. The candle of hope of the Jewish People," he proclaimed joyously when he saw the Chanukah candles in my window.

He put his hand on my shoulder and said, "This candle and your beautiful words ignited a light in my heart that night. Soon you will receive a Medal of Honor from the United States of America, together with all of the brave men of Valley Forge. But tonight, please accept this token from me."

He hung a golden medallion on my chest and shook my hand. Tears filled my eyes and I couldn’t speak. The President shook my hand again and departed.…

I came to, as if from a wonderful dream, then I looked at the medallion and saw an etching of a beautiful Chanukah Menorah. Under it was written: "A token of gratitude for the light of your candle - George Washington".

This is a true story. (http://www.neveh.org/chanukah/chanwash.html)

Friday, November 13, 2015

Baruch Cohen, Esq., attended yeshiva from preschool to high school and spent six years studying in post high school yeshiva, before entering law school on Los Angeles. Prior to his law school graduation, in the late 1980s, the dean called him with interesting news. An extremely prestigious law firm had contacted him with an invitation for Baruch to interview.

This was an amazing development. First of all, Baruch had not even sent a resume to that firm. Secondly, even if he had, the chances of landing an interview were almost nil. This prominent Wall Street firm, which recently expanded into L.A., was one of the top in the nation and one of the most selective.  Normally one would have to be a graduate of Harvard or Yale to even be considered by this firm. Baruch was a good student from a good law school, but the school’s ranking was not Ivy League high. In fact the dean told him that none of his graduates had ever been invited for an interview by this firm.

“Baruch, I know you always wore that religious skullcap all through law school, and you still wear it now that you are clerking in bankruptcy court, and I respect that,” the dean said, “But now you have an opportunity to get in to an elite firm. The skullcap could turn them off and cost you the job.”

Baruch was now torn. He had worn the yarmulke (ritual skullcap, also known as a kippah) all his life. As a kid he was beaten up by neighborhood boys for wearing it, but, he would rather have a bloody nose than no yarmulke on his head.

Before he entered law school he worried that pursuing a career in law could force him to remove his precious yarmulke. Indeed, to this point in his brief career he had always worn his yarmulke. But now he had an opportunity of a lifetime. The experience and prestige of being associated with this firm, as well as the six figure starting salary was a dream come true. He was starting a family. He had a wife and young daughter to support.

He did his due diligence and asked other religiously observant Jewish lawyers. They all told him that wearing a yarmulke at work was just not done. He even spoke with a prominent Rabbi who told him that it is permissible to go without a yarmulke to pursue a parnassa (livelihood). Yes, he could remove his yarmulke he thought – but did that mean he should?

After much soul searching, he finally decided that this was too big an opportunity to jeopardize, so he went to his interview bare headed. He still felt ill at ease, but at the same time he felt confident in that he had sought advice from the experts and that no matter how wrong it felt to him, he was doing what he was told to do. He went into the big fancy building and found his way to the interviewers office. He was seated in the reception area. Finally the secretary told him that he could go in to the interviewers office. He entered the room. Nothing could have prepared him for the shock that awaited him. There in front of him was the interviewer, sitting at his desk, clad in a yarmulke. The interviewer looked at him and his uncovered head with equal shock and said, “Where is your yarmulke?”

Baruch was frozen. He was numb. He couldn’t even feel his hands to find which pocket his yarmulke was in. The interviewer continued, “Do you know why you got this interview?  I happened to be in bankruptcy court and saw you clerking for the judge. It intrigued me that someone in Los Angeles would have the conviction to proudly wear a yarmulke whiling working in a court. I researched you. I found that you spent six years studying Talmud, in a prominent yeshiva before entering law school. That is an outstanding combination.

“Now you show up to this interview without a yarmulke?!
 “I also know that you come from a long line of Rabbis. You studied in the finest Yeshivos. I checked all that out before contacting your dean. Now when the opportunity presents itself, look at you. You're a sellout. I am so deeply disappointed in you. You’ll never make it in this firm – this is a firm of leaders, not followers. This interview is over.”
Baruch was sent home reeling. He felt lower than he had ever felt before. He then shed tears, not because of the job, not because of the harshness of the rebuke; but because deep down he felt the interviewer was right.

He resolved from that point to only do the right thing, and never accept the argument from others that 'this is the way things are done.' From that point on he never removed his yarmulke for fear of what an employer, client or jury might think. Let them think what they will. He was determined to do the right thing and people would just have to recognize that. Today Baruch Cohen is a successful trial attorney in Los Angeles, who has inspired many with the profound perspective that he acquired the hard way. 

[The foregoing true story was told to me by Baruch Cohen, Esq.] (©2015. Printed with permission from Rabbi Baruch Lederman, author of Shulweek www.kehillastorah.org.) 

Wednesday, October 28, 2015

The Power of Words


The whole of Jerusalem was in an uproar!
 
A well-known man, a member of the Belzer Chasidic sect, and his wife had just given birth to their first child - a boy - after being childless for twenty-eight years! The party in honor of a baby boy held the Friday night before the circumcision that Friday night was the event of the year. Well over a thousand people came by to congratulate the proud and exhausted father. The food supply ran out in short order as did the drinks, but no one seemed to mind. At the height of the celebration, the crowd quieted down as the father indicated that he would like to say a few words.

He began in a loud voice, "Thank you all for coming and sharing in the joyous celebration. Although I have no more food to offer, let me at least tell over a story which I'm sure you'll appreciate."

The ecstatic new father composed himself and continued. "When I was still an unmarried student learning in the Rabbinical School, there was a cleaning lady who would come by every day to tidy up and scrub the study hall and adjoining rooms. She was a fixture in the school and devoted her life to maintaining the building. She was, however, not a wealthy person by any stretch and as her own family grew she was at a loss of options as far as taking care of her children. She decided to bring her kids with her to work, and as she cleaned and mopped in one area of the building, the young children would run amuck, screaming, crying and generally causing quite a commotion, in the rest of the school. At first, we put up with it; we even thought it was cute for a time. But after a while, the kids really began to disrupt us in our learning. Try as we might to control them, they wouldn't listen and continued on in their childish games and noise. A number of younger students asked me, as one of the oldest in the group to ask her not to bring her children anymore to the school.


I agreed to talk to her and I brazenly walked up to her and told her that her kids were disturbing everyone and she should find some sort of alternative method of child-care for them. I'll never forget how she looked at me with tired eyes and said, 'Young man , you should never have the pain and anguish that one goes through when raising children. The crowd gasped.

"As many of you know," continued the father, "my wife and I have been to countless doctors who've recommended every sort of treatment. We moved abroad for awhile to be near an 'expert' which proved to be fruitless. One last, extreme treatment was offered and after trying that, it too, turned out to be just a fantasy; we felt doomed to a life without the pleasure of raising a family.

"After that last attempt, as we walked back into the apartment that we lived in for the past twenty-eight years, our entire sad situation hit us full force, like a ton of bricks. Together, we broke down crying, trying to figure out why G-d was testing us this way.

"All of a sudden, I remembered the episode with the cleaning lady and the "blessing" she had given me. It occurred to me to try and reach her and ask for forgiveness. But after all these years, who knows where she would be?

"I spent hours on the phone until I came up with an address, which I ran over to immediately. She did not recognize me obviously, but when I told her over the story, a spark flickered in her eyes. I tearfully apologized for my harsh words and she graciously forgave me with her whole heart." 


Beaming from ear to ear, the father announced, “That took place exactly nine months ago!"

 (©2015. Printed with permission from Rabbi Baruch Lederman, author of Shulweek www.kehillastorah.org.) 

Wednesday, October 21, 2015

The Holocaust and Tefillin: A Story

This is the story of Rabbi Eliezer Silver and congregant.
Rabbi Silver convened an emergency meeting in November 1939 in New York City, where the Vaad Hatzalah (Rescue Committee), was formed, with Rabbi Silver as president. Rabbi Silver spearheaded its efforts in rescuing as many European Torah scholars as possible from Nazi Europe. During World War II, a Vaad representative in Switzerland even negotiated with the SS, offering to ransom concentration camp prisoners for cash and tractors – talks that freed hundreds from Bergen-Belsen and other death camps.
In October 1943, as the scale of Nazi atrocities was becoming clearer, Rabbi Silver helped organize and lead a mass rally of more than 400 rabbis in Washington, D.C. to press for more decisive action by the US government to save European Jews.

Monday, July 6, 2015

Performance of a Lifetime

My name is Mildred Hondorf. I am a music teacher from Des Moines, Iowa. I've given piano lessons for over 30 years. I've never had the pleasure of having a protege though I have taught some talented students. However I've also had my share of what I call "musically challenged" pupils. One such student was Robby. Robby was 11 years old when his mother (a single Mom) dropped him off for his first piano lesson. I prefer that students begin at an earlier age, which I explained to Robby. But Robby said that it had always been his mother's dream to hear him play the piano. So I took him as a student. Well, Robby began with his piano lessons and from the beginning I thought it was a hopeless endeavor. As much as Robby tried, he lacked the sense of tone and basic rhythm needed to excel. But he dutifully reviewed his scales and some elementary pieces that I require all my students to learn. Over the months he tried and tried while I listened and cringed and tried to encourage him. At the end of each weekly lesson he'd always say, "My mom's going to hear me play someday." But it seemed hopeless. He just did not have any inborn ability. I only knew his mother from a distance as she dropped Robby off or waited in her aged car to pick him up. She always waved and smiled but never stopped in. Then one day Robby stopped coming to our lessons. I thought about calling him but assumed, because of his lack of ability, that he had decided to pursue something else. I also was glad that he stopped coming. He was a bad advertisement for my teaching! Several weeks later I mailed to the student's homes a flyer on the upcoming recital. To my surprise Robby (who received a flyer) asked me if he could be in the recital. I told him that the recital was for current pupils and because he had dropped out he really did not qualify. He said that his Mom had been sick and unable to take him to piano lessons but he was still practicing. "Miss Hondorf...I've just got to play!" he insisted. I don't know what led me to allow him to play in the recital. Maybe it was his persistence or maybe it was something inside of me saying that it would be all right. The night for the recital came. The high school gymnasium was packed with parents, friends and relatives. I put Robby up last in the program before I was to come up and thank all the students and play a finishing piece. I thought that any damage he would do would come at the end of the program and I could always salvage his poor performance through my "curtain closer." Well, the recital went off without a hitch. The students had been practicing and it showed. Then Robby came up on stage. His clothes were wrinkled and his hair looked like he'd run an eggbeater through it. "Why didn't he dress up like the other students?" I thought. "Why didn't his mother at least make him comb his hair for this special night?" Robby pulled out the piano bench and he began. I was surprised when he announced that he had chosen Mozart's Concerto #21 in C Major. I was not prepared for what I heard next. His fingers were light on the keys, they even danced nimbly on the ivories. He went from pianissimo to fortissimo...from allegro to virtuoso. His suspended chords that Mozart demands were magnificent! Never had I heard Mozart played so well by people his age After six and a half minutes he ended in a grand crescendo and everyone was on their feet in wild applause. Overcome and in tears I ran up on stage and put my arms around Robby in joy. "I've never heard you play like that Robby! How'd you do it?" Through the microphone Robby explained: "Well Miss Hondorf...remember I told you my Mom was sick? Well, actually she had cancer and passed away this morning. And well....she was born deaf so tonight was the first time she ever heard me play. I wanted to make it special." There wasn't a dry eye in the house that evening. As the people from Social Services led Robby from the stage to be placed into foster care, I noticed that even their eyes were red and puffy and I thought to myself how much richer my life had been for taking Robby as my pupil. I shutter at the thought that I almost didn't let him play that evening. No, I've never had a protégé but that night I became a protégé...of Robby's. He was the teacher and I was the pupil. For it is he that taught me the meaning of perseverance and love and believing in yourself and maybe even taking a chance in someone and you don't know why. (©2015. Printed with permission from Rabbi Baruch Lederman, author of Shulweek www.kehillastorah.org.)

Friday, June 19, 2015

Revelation at West Point

In 1974, Rabbi Asher Wade, a US Army chaplain, befriended a Jewish American officer named Stuart. Stuart did not strike him as being a religious man and so Rabbi Wade was surprised one day to see Stuart wearing a yarmulke (skullcap). Upon questioning Stuart's reasons for donning this unconventional attire, Stuart told Rabbi Wade the fascinating story behind it. As part of their first year studies, cadets were enrolled in a course called "History of Military Tactics & Field Strategies," taught be a Three Star Lieutenant General with a Ph.D. in military strategy. The course surveyed the major battles in history, including those of the Ptolemies, the Romans, the Middle Ages, and down to the latest battles of our modern era. During the final two weeks of the course, which were devoted to reviewing the material, Cadet Stuart raised his hand with a question, "Why did we not survey any of the battles fought by the Jews, either of ancient times (i.e. Roman-Jewish wars) or of modern times (i.e. Arab-Israeli wars)?" "The normally friendly general snapped back with an order for me to see him in his office after class," remembered Stuart. Upon entering the general's office, Stuart was ordered to close and lock the door. "The general then told me that he would only answer my question in the privacy of his office," said Stuart. "Do not think that the staff here at West Point has left the Jewish wars unnoticed," began the general, "We have examined and analyzed them and we do not teach them at West Point. According to military strategy and textbook tactics, the Jews should have lost them. You should have been swept into the dustbin of history long ago. But you were not. You won those wars against all odds and against all military strategies and logic." "This past year, we hired a new junior instructor. During a private staff meeting and discussion, the Arab-Israeli wars came under discussion. We puzzled at how you won those wars. Suddenly, this junior instructor chirped up and jokingly said, 'honorable gentlemen. It seems to be quite obvious how they are winning their wars: G-d is winning their wars!' Nobody laughed. The reason is, soldier, that it seems to be an unwritten rule around here at West Point that G-d is winning your wars, but G-d does not fit into military textbooks! You are dismissed," concluded the general. "I left the general's office," continued Stuart, "I had never been so humiliated in my life. I felt about two inches tall." "Wouldn't you know it," I said to myself, "that I would have to come to West Point and find our how great my G-d is from a non practicing presbyterian three star general." I went back to my dorm room," continued Stuart, and dug down in my sock drawer to find that 'flap of cloth' that I threw on my head once a year. I said to myself: This thing is going on my head, because I found, in essence, who I was and where I came from. (©2015. Printed with permission from Rabbi Baruch Lederman, author of Shulweek www.kehillastorah.org.)

Thursday, May 14, 2015

Pork that Wakes the Soul

Joe was a very successful Israeli. A son of holocaust survivors, he rose from a childhood of poverty, and by the mid 1980s, built up a huge successful hi-tech company. One day his wife called, asking him to pick up some meat on his way home from the office. He stopped at a trendy take-out place to order pork. As he stood on line, he began to feel uneasy. He began to remember a story he had heard from his parents. He always knew this story, but now it took on heightened meaning:

Joe's maternal grandfather was Rabbi Shraga Feivel of Hungary. Rabbi Shraga Feivel was captured by the Nazis about a year before the war ended, and imprisoned at a slave labor camp. After a year in hell, Rabbi Shraga Feivel was about to be free. The war was over and the allied forces were going from camp to camp, liberating the prisoners. They could already see the smoke of the allied forces marching their way. Freedom was mere hours away.

At that moment, the Head SS Officer gathered the Jewish prisoners together and announced, "The war has ended. In a few hours you will all be free." "All but you," he said, pointing to Rabbi Shraga Feivel, "You must pass one more test. You must eat this piece of pig's meat. Only then will you be allowed to go free. Refuse and I will shoot you in the head right here and now."

The tension was so thick, you could cut it with a knife. Rabbi Shraga Feivel had been meticulous all through his stay at the camps, not to eat unkosher meat. He didn't even eat soup which might contain meat. Rabbi Shraga Feivel proclaimed, "I will not eat chazir fleisch (pork)."

A shot rang out, and Rabbi Shraga Feivel's soul was returned to its creator.

And now 40 years later, Rabbi Shraga Feivel's grandson stood thinking to himself, "I am waiting in line to pay money to eat that which my grandfather gave his life not to consume. All he had to do was eat that one small piece of pork, and he would be set free. He would be allowed to return to his family - yet he wouldn't do it. I have everything, I am free to live with my family and have anything I want; yet I am about to purchase this meat."

"Either my grandfather was crazy, or I am crazy - and I cannot believe that he was crazy," thought Joe as he got off the line and went to buy dinner elsewhere.

When he got home, he spoke to his wife about his feelings and the emptiness he had been experiencing. They both had to acknowledge that despite all their material prosperity, a certain spiritual emptiness gnawed at him. They were missing something but never knew exactly what. They spoke for a long time about values and what is important in life. They decided to attend an Arachim Seminar. Joe was enthralled by the seminar - it penetrated the murky mysteriousness of G-d, Torah and Judaism. It rocked his world and shook his soul.

Afterwards, Joe ran up to them and said, "Why isn't this incredible message getting out to the whole world?" They explained that though they had a terrific 'product,' they lacked the money, manpower, and marketing to do so. Joe would not hear of this. Right then and there, he became the General Director of Arachim - a title which he still proudly holds to this day.

Joe, now known as Yossi, lives a completely observant life with his wonderful family. He has estimated that since the 1980s, tens of thousands of children have been born to families that were re-JEW-venated by Arachim (
http://www.arachimusa.org/).

[The foregoing true story is documented in The Maggid Series by Rabbi Paysach Krohn.]
  (©2015. Printed with permission from Rabbi Baruch Lederman, author of Shulweek www.kehillastorah.org.) 

Saturday, May 2, 2015

Another Chance

Until a few years ago, I didn't take anything very seriously. I had graduated from jewish high school and didn't want to go to college right away. I thought I would get a job and have a good time before I settled down. My parents were not very pleased with these decisions, but at that point in my life, what my parents wanted, was not terribly important to me.

During this time I fell in with a group of friends who were not interested in connection to G-d or had any kind of focus. At first I told myself that I would not be influenced by them, but this turned out to be very far from the truth. In a very short period of time, I became exactly like them. Suddennly, Judaism meant nothing. I forgot who I was, as my life was spent in a haze which even today I have trouble remembering.

My parents were devastated. Maybe they didn't expect me to be the best of the best, but they certainly didn't expect this. As well as having destroyed my own life, I was on my way to destroying my family as well. Because of the bad influence I was having on my younger brothers, my father asked me to leave the house. When I moved out, I said some really cruel and spiteful things to my father. I can remember him standing silently at the door, with my mother crying at his side.

I realize now that what I had seen in them as a weakness was actually enormous strength. I had no contact with anyone in my family for almost a year. Deep inside I missed them very much, but I foolishly thought that I would be seen as weak, if I contacted them.

One morning, I was shocked to find my father waiting for me outside of the apartment building I lived in. He looked at me with tired worn eyes and asked if we could talk. Stubborn to the core, I only nodded and we walked to a corner coffee shop where we sat down. He told me how much everyone missed me and how I had been in their minds and hearts every second that I had been gone. He told me how my mother agonized over what had happened, blaming herself for not having been there for me. While he was talking, tears began rushing from his eyes. He told me that he wasn't here to lecture me. He just had one request. He wanted me to drive with him that afternoon to Monsey, NY, and say one chapter of Tehillim, Psalms at the grave of a righteous person. As far removed as I was from Judaism, I was still moved by his request.

I told him that I couldn't go that day, but that I would go with him any other time. In truth, I had plans to go with some friends to Atlantic City that evening, and didn't want to break them. When I told him that I couldn't go that day, he reached across the table and took my hand in his and just looked at me with his tear streaked sad face. I felt my own eyes begin to water, and rather than have him see me cry I just agreed to meet him later that day.

I made the necessary apologies to my friends, and later that day I met my father. We didn't talk much during the trip up. I remember getting out of the car with him, and walking over to one of the graves. He put some rocks on top of the grave and gave me a Tehillim. We must have looked quite strange; my father in his long black coat and me with my leather bomber jacket and jeans. We didn't stay long. Ten minutes after we had arrived, we were on our way back. The return trip was as quiet as the trip there. My father let me off in front of my apartment building. I still recall the words he said to me as I got out of the car. He
told me that no matter what may have happened between us and no matter what may happen, I was always going to be his son and that he would always love me. I was emotionally moved by his words, but I was not experiencing the spiritual inspiration he may have been hoping for. I shook my head at his words and we parted company.

The next morning I woke up to some shocking news. On the way back from Atlantic City, my friends were involved in a head on collision with a tractor trailer. There were no survivors.

As I write this letter, I am overcome with emotion. I made a bris today for my first child. My father held my son on his lap, his eyes met mine and we smiled. It was as if we had finally reached the end of a long journey.

We had never talked to each other about that trip, nor had I ever told him about the death of my friends. I just walked back into their home that evening, and was taken back with open arms and no questions asked. I don't think I will ever understand what happened that day. I just know, that sitting here late at night with my son in my arms, that I will try and be the father to him, that my father was to me.
 (©2015. Printed with permission from Rabbi Baruch Lederman, author of Shulweek www.kehillastorah.org.)

Please listen to this story in an amazig  song

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tH723CAJdY8

Sunday, April 5, 2015

The Power of Expression

"God blew into his nostrils a breath of life, and the person became a living spirit." (Genesis 2:7)  This is the point of the arrival of the first human being into the cosmos.  A creature that has the power of speech. That defines a human being, their ability to speak. We take the power of speech for granted. We don't think about the root and the significance of the power of speech. We use it, we abuse it. And we never know what it means. The power of speech is the device that reveals the tremendous potential that lies in the soul of every human being.

This theme, about the power of speech, comes up in relation to Pesach, in the famous thought that has trickled down to us from the Arizal, the great Kabbalist... He said that there is an allusion to speech in the word "Pesach," because the word can be parsed to become "peh sach," the mouth speaks. What does the mouth speaking have to do with the holiday of Pesach? A lot, says the Arizal. The depth and the sharpest point of the exile in Egypt was that the Jewish people did not speak their own language. And the high point of their redemption was that they resumed speaking their own language. It's obvious that the Arizal is not concerned about whether they were speaking Hebrew or Egyptian or any other language. That's not what he's talking about. He is making a very deep and powerful point.

Each individual human being has his own singular nature and inner core. Each nation also has its singular inner essence, which is expressed in many ways in its language, in its modes of expression, in its modes of behavior and thought. And when a nation or a people cannot express their own inner essence, but instead find themselves expressing and mouthing the thoughts of other people who do not reflect their inner selves, they are said to be in exile. That is the real meaning of exile.

The same applies to an individual. When a person has to live their whole life and do work and practice a lifestyle that does not emanate from their inner being, they are in exile.

Let's say, for example, that a person is born with an acute and preeminent talent for music. When this person is playing her instrument and making her music, she is clearly expressing the feelings of her innermost being. She is a musician, and she expresses herself through hermusic. It is the same with a person who is born with a talent for art. When he is painting or drawing or however he articulates his artistic sensibilities, he is clearly expressing the feelings of his innermost being.

Now, suppose you were to take this musician or this artist and you were to tell them, "You would make a very good electrician, so I want you to go to work as an electrician." This person may spend their whole life as an electrician. They may make a lot of money and become very rich. But in the end, when their life is over, the person will have lived out his years without giving expression to their innermost being, because this person was a musician or an artist, not an electrician.

These are very subtle things, but they are crucial to the whole psychological structure of a human being. So many people who are weak live their entire lives, talking, talking, talking, and they never really express themselves. They never really tap in to their inner selves.

During the exile in Egypt, the spiritual exile in the land of Egypt, the Jewish people were hemmed in. The name Mitzrayim, Egypt, is also understood as metzarim, boundaries. A meitzar is a narrow boundary of confinement. The Jewish people were in a situation of narrowness in which the Jewish soul could not express itself.

When the Jewish people were immersed in the Egyptian culture, they could not express themselves in their own modes of expression. Their inner beings remained unarticulated. They were forced into a situation where they found themselves speaking an alien language, literally and figuratively.

And this was their exile.

So the Almighty said, "I took you out of Egypt. I removed you from the situation of your exile. The narrow boundaries that hemmed you in and stifled the expression of your own inner selves no longer exist. You are no longer living in an alien culture and driven to express yourselves in terms and concepts that do not reflect what is in your own souls, in your own inner essence. You have been emancipated. You are free to express yourself in the way that is most natural to yourselves. Open your mouth wide, and I will fill it. Forget the narrowness and the constriction. Open your mouth wide, and I will help you find the natural expression that you seek."

The Almighty says, "open your mouth." Expand your horizons. Break out of your narrowness. Widen the range of your conversations. Talk about what's real, what's important...

What is the significance of talking? It means that you are allowing yourself to feel and to express that which was shut off. It means that you're introducing a new tributary that is flowing into the ocean of your soul. It means that you're exploring thoughts and aspirations that are important but unarticulated. You have difficulties? Talk about it. Bring it into the open. But people are afraid to talk about it. It's not because the topics are too serious. No. It's because the people themselves are so narrowed in that they cannot talk about these things. They can't add new dimensions to their lives. They're afraid to face up to their insecurities and their unhappiness. They're in exile.

(Open Your Mouth by Rabbi Shlomo Freifland)

Tuesday, March 17, 2015

PESACH 1941


Occasionally, one memory escapes from the vault that holds the terror of those years. One Passover, my three-year old grandchild looked up at me from his chair at the seder table. I don't even know what he said, because the rush of Passover 1941 blocked everything else. I was a young girl hidden in a dark cellar in central France. I was without other family - alone with four other children, all of us strangers.

Today and in recent years, as I celebrate Passover surrounded by the comforts and luxury of our London flat and the security of more than a dozen relatives and friends, I realize that for all of their splendor, these holidays cannot compare in my heart to that unique event 62 years ago. 1941 was the most extraordinary Passover of my life. But before I describe it, let me explain how I got to that cellar.

I was born in the years preceding World War II and lived content and well loved by my family in Nurnberg. By 1933, however, my world was getting darker till, one day, Nazi storm troopers marched into Nurnberg ordering that all major buildings must fly the swastika flag by evening. In 1936, my parents took us to Paris, as my father had been appointed rabbi of the prominent Rue Cadet synagogue. Within a few years, as the political situation deteriorated, my father was conscripted into the army and had to leave us. In 1940, when the Nazis began bombing Paris, my mother fled with us - her four children - on the last train before the main onslaught. It was the eve of the Jewish holiday of Shavuot.

The mass of people on that train - a tornado of humanity - repeatedly wrenched us from one another. Months later, on another leg of our desperate journey I lost track of my family altogether and began to wander from village to village. Lone children all over were doing the same.

One night just before dawn I could go no further. I knocked on the farmhouse door of what turned out to be a kind, courageous gentile farmer. He took me to his cellar where I found another little girl. Eventually two boys and another girl joined us. None of us admitted we were Jewish for several days.

It was a dire winter. Each morning, a few rays of light would poke their way into the cellar through two windows high on the wall - our only eyes to the world outside. The farmer had lowered us into the cellar through those windows and every day through one of them he lowered a net with five morsels of food and a bucket for our natural needs. Strange as it sounds, we were very lucky. In that difficult winter, five homeless children developed values so different from those today - as well as a bond of lifelong friendship.

One day, peering from the cellar up through the windows one of us noticed a streak of sunlight in blue sky. A few days later, another saw blades of grass penetrating the frozen terrain. We had no calendar or sense of time, but we concluded that, if the weather was indeed changing with spring on its way, maybe we were nearing Passover. Each of us children came from a different range of Jewish commitment, yet we shared a strong desire to do something to celebrate what we sensed was the upcoming Passover holiday.

When the farmer appeared with our food the next morning, we asked if he would lower in tomorrow's basket a small amount of flour, a bottle of water, a newspaper and a match. Two days later we received a small bottle of water, but we had to wait several days for the flour. The entire region was drained of provisions, with everything being transported north to Germany. Our host the farmer had himself barely anything to eat.

A day later, a newspaper came through - and then a match. We waited a few more days. We saw a full day of sunshine and blue skies, and we decided that, in order to cultivate a festive spirit, we would switch clothing with one another and wear them as if new. So we changed clothes; the two boys trading and the girls exchanging dresses. Before evening we baked our matzah, though we hadn't a clue how to do so. We poured water into the flour and held the dough in our bare hands over the burning newspaper on the floor. We produced something which resembled matzah and, whatever it was provided enough for the five of us.

That night we celebrated Passover. One of us recalled by heart the kiddush - the blessing that sanctifies the Passover night. Another remembered the Four Questions - the part of the seder the young children recite. We told a few stories of the Exodus that we remembered having heard from our parents. Finally, we managed to reconstruct "One Kid, Which my Father Bought for Two Zuzim," the song which typically ends the evening.

We had a Passover to remember. With no festive food, no silver candlesticks and no wine - with only our simple desire to connect with God - we had a holiday more profound than any we have known since. I thank God for allowing me to live to be able to tell my children and grandchildren about it. Even more, I feel obligated to the younger generations of my family, who never experienced what I did, to pass on the clarity it gave me - the vivid appreciation of God's presence in my life, of His constant blessings, wonders and teachings…and of His commitment to the survival of the Jewish people.

By Lady Amelie Jacobovits
(Adapted from The Jewish Women's Journal, Summer 1993)

Women in Judaism, Copyright (c) 2002 by Mrs. Leah Kohn and Project Genesis, Inc.

Tuesday, February 10, 2015

The Black Couches

It was an exciting time for our family. We were moving out from a tiny apartment to a new home. I was pleased to think that this was the time to buy furniture, matching accessories and more fixtures for our new home. While shopping around, we were absolutely ecstatic to find a wholesale furniture company that offered magnificent discounts.

On Sunday, we set up an appointment to see the show room. We easily chose furniture for the kids' rooms, master bedroom, and the kitchen. Yet, there was nothing that we liked for our living room. Seeing our difficulty at picking from the available living room sets, the owner of the warehouse suggested that we take a set of three black couches that included an armchair, a love seat and a sofa for almost no cost. This was his last set and he wanted to give it away. While my husband found this to be a tremendous financial savings opportunity, I was not thrilled. The couches were black and did not match my ideal design of the new living room. Yet, my husband kept insisting that the set was almost free and we can make it work for the time being. I reluctantly agreed.

The owner of the store offered to deliver our purchased furniture in his truck. While following the truck home, my mother called me to share great news. She decided to give us a new living room set. It was a set of white leather couches that I always dreamed of. Now the question was, what we were to do with the set of black couches that we agreed to take. Since we practically received them as a gift, we decided to use this opportunity and donate the set to anyone who might need the furniture. I called my friend and asked if she or anyone she knows might need a new set of couches. She told me that they recently bought new furniture, however her sister-in-law is looking for new couches. Then my friend paused and added that that family is very particular and only want furniture in black color.

We later learned that exactly one year ago, the sister-in-law of my friend lost her precious three year old daughter. She fell asleep on the couch and died in her sleep from brain aneurysm. In absolute grief and despair, the family threw away the old couches and decided not to have any living room furniture for the entire year. As time went on and the horrific year was coming to the end, the family symbolically decided to purchase a set of black living room couches. Yet, due to the overwhelming depression, the family also suffered financial difficulties and were struggling to make the ends meet. I was not aware that I called my friend just few days before the anniversary of the tragic event. We were in complete shock. It was clear that without understanding the 'plan', we were part of something bigger then we thought. Here we were, buying furniture for our new home and moments later we were at the door of the family who suffered unimaginable loss. I knew that we were at the right time in the right place.

We rang the bell and I introduced myself to my friend's sister–in-law and her husband. It was difficult to conceal my emotions but I casually mentioned that my friend suggested that the set of new black couches might find its home here. The family was surprised at our visit but agreed to accept our delivery. It was absolutely indescribable to observe their reaction as the new couches were being unloaded from the truck. They couldn’t believe their eyes. "It's a miracle", I heard the woman say. My husband and I stood in silence, as the family saw the black couches simply appear in front of their house at the time they needed it. There are no words to describe what it felt like to be a small puzzle piece of someone else's Miracle.

Saturday, January 31, 2015

Born to Save a Life

Yoav, a young IDF (Israeli Defense Force) soldier was stationed in the city of Chevron. Suddenly, he was shot by an Arab sniper and left for dead. As it was four o'clock in the morning, and no imminent attack was expected; no one was awake to hear the shot and rush to his aid. It appeared as though Yoav was doomed to bleed to death before anybody would ever find him. His short life would come to a tragic silent end. One other soldier however, did happen to hear something. Though not totally sure, he suspected it might be a rifle shot so he went to investigate. He spotted Yoav, who was lying on the ground, bleeding to death. He immediately began to stabilize Yoav's wound and arrange for emergency transport to a medical facility. It took time for help to get to the scene, so he needed to apply manual pressure and any other trick he could think of to keep Yoav alive in the interim - he was literally holding Yoav's life in his hands. Eventually, Yoav arrived at a proper medical facility where he was treated by surgeons. Yoav's parents were notified and rushed to the hospital. The doctors told them that had it not been for the immediate and appropriate actions of the other soldier, their son Yoav would definitely not have survived. It was indeed a miracle that the other soldier heard what no one else heard, and managed to locate Yoav as quickly as he did. They went to thank him, but he had already left the hospital. After Yoav was home recuperating, and everyone was settled, they called the army to find out the name of the other soldier so they could thank him personally. Unfortunately, the other soldier's name had not been recorded in the incident report, so they now had no way of ever contacting him. Yoav's parents owned a makolet (grocery store) in Kiryat Malachi, so they put up a poster in their store, describing the miracle that occurred and asking if anyone knew the identity of Yoav's savior. They figured that Israel is a small country and someone might know someone who knows something. Months passed with no response. Finally after a year, a woman entered the store and saw the sign. She was positive that her son Doron had mentioned such an account. She took out her cellphone and called Doron on the spot. Sure enough, he remembered the incident quite well - it was he who had saved Yoav's life. Soon, all the families gathered together for a joyful tearful 'reunion.' Doron's mother pulled Yoav's mother aside and told her, "There is a specific reason I came to your store today. You don't remember me, but twenty years ago, I was standing in your store feeling lost and forlorn. You and your wonderful husband noticed how sad I looked and asked me what was the matter. I explained that I was pregnant and was overwhelmed. There were so many unbearable difficulties; financially, socially and emotionally. I decided that the only way out was to have an abortion." "You both stopped everything, and calmly and lovingly sat with me. You listened to me. Then you offered so much encouragement and support. Because of you, everything began to look different and I chose to keep my baby. I no longer live around here, but I happened to be passing through and I figured it would be nice to visit your store again to thank you once again for all that you did. The name of that precious baby was Doron." "My beloved Doron, who would not have been born were it not for you, grew up to save your son Yoav's life." (©2015. Printed with permission from Rabbi Baruch Lederman, author of Shulweek www.kehillastorah.org.)

Tuesday, January 6, 2015

Paper Airplane

A  young man from Long Island once approached a Rabbi to ask that a memorial prayer, called kaddish be recited for his recently departed father. Kaddish is recited every day for a year after a person's 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 the 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. (©2014. Printed with permission from Rabbi Baruch Lederman, author of Shulweek www.kehillastorah.org.)