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.)