A Hanukkah 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. (©2014. Printed with permission from Rabbi Baruch Lederman, author of Shulweek www.kehillastorah.org.)

A Blessing from India

On November 26, 2008 Rabbi Gabi and Rivky Holzberg were murdered in a terror attack in Mumbai, India. This tragedy was horrific. After the murder of the family, many people shared stories of how Holzbergs lived their lives helping people around them. Yet, there is one very special story that was shared by their brother-in-law Morchechai Kaler that was absolutely life changing.

The Kalers married in March of 2005. Right after the wedding they hoped and prayed to start a family. However, it soon became apparent that their path to parenthood was not going as smooth as they had imagined. After more than a year, they were diagnosed with “unexplained infertility”. To a young couple in their early twenties this diagnosis was absolutely devastating. They traveled from doctor to doctor, yet these visits did not bring the desired result. A few years passed and the pain of being childless became deeper and stronger. They tried fertility treatments but were unsuccessful. They were drained emotionally, physically and financially. Slowly, they were giving up hope to ever become parents.

Throughout this entire process, Gabi and Rivky Holzberg were the couple’s strongest supports. They offered encouragement in every possible way. On the 18^th day of the Jewish month of Elul on September 18, 2008, Kalers called Gabi to inform him that they are giving up on the dream to ever have a child. Gabi would not hear of it and he relentlessly tried to convince the couple to continue with the fertility treatments. He suggested that they contact an organization that could provide financial support. After a long conversation, the Kalers felt that they have what it takes to continue to fight for their dream. Before Gabi ended the call, he blessed the couple to have a child during the coming year.

As Gabi suggested, the Kalers contacted an organization that helped them set up an appointment with a great doctor and they immediately began treatment again. As time went on, the doctor recommended a more invasive approach. The Kalers were hesitant to continue, but yet again, the Holzbergs cheered them on, advising the couple not to give up.

The first of the invasive treatments was scheduled for November 26^th, 2008. As they were driving to the appointment that afternoon, they received a call from a family member. They were told that “something happened in Mumbai and no one can get in touch with Gabi or Rivky”. The couple debated whether to continue to the appointment or immediately turn around and head back, but after much consideration for what Gabi and Rivky would have wanted them to do, they decided to go to the appointment. It was not long after they left the doctor’s office when they heard of the terror attack in Mumbai….

The turmoil and sadness was beyond words. Yet, as a legacy to Gabi and Rivky, they agreed to complete the cycle of new treatments. It took every ounce of their faith and determination to go to these appointments and after the treatment was completed, they received a call of their lifetime. “Congratulations! Your test came back positive! You are expecting!”

It was a dream come true when nine and a half months later, on the 18th day of the Jewish month of Elul in 2009, exactly one year from the day that Gabi Holzberg had blessed them, their precious baby girl has entered this world. 

A Message from a Mother

Miriam Perlstein was one of eight siblings who survived Auschwitz.  It was so unusual for a family of eight—seven sisters and one brother – to emerge intact from the notorious death camp that when they landed on Ellis Island after the War, they became a media sensation.  Repeatedly photographed and interviewed, they were besieged by reporters who wanted to know : How was this possible?  What made you so unique?  Practically everyone else’s family was decimated.  Most of the survivors who limped into “The New World” had lost parents, children, spouses, siblings.  But for an entire family of eight to have survived and found each other!  How could it happen?

                “Miracles,” the siblings answered patiently to everyone who asked.

                And it was true.  Miracles had abounded in all of their lives during their incarceration at Auschwtiz, but Miriam’s, they agreed, was vastly different from those experienced by Esther, Faigy, Sima, Yitu, Monci, Binyamin,  and Leishu.  While their miracles fell under the realm of what could be called the rational, Miriam’s belonged to a different category altogether.

                Several weeks after her arrival at Auschwitz—after having survived several “selections” and having kept death at bay—sixteen-year-old Miriam was suddenly pulled out of the row of prisoners lining up for “roll call” one morning, and transported to a separate section of the camp  where a different procession was in place.  Perhaps something about Miriam’s demeanor that day had displeased the Nazi soldier whose gaze had settled upon her, or perhaps there was simply a quota to fill.  For whatever random reason that no one could ever explain (and was there an explanation, after all, for the Nazis’ haphazard and merciless decrees?) Miriam had been directed to join the column of prisoners marching slowly towards the crematorium that would turn them into ash.

                At first, Miriam thought that she might have been sent on a new work detail.  But the women in front of her and the women behind disabused her of that notion.   “Isn’t there anything we can do?” she begged them.  “Look around you,” they whispered.  “Nazi soldiers with guns everywhere. How can we possibly escape?”

                Miriam looked at where the women pointed.  Unlike them, however, she didn’t see the menacing guards with their drawn guns, nor the German shepherds who helped herd the pitiful tatters to their inevitable fate.  What she saw instead…several yards from where she stood…was the thoroughly unexpected but utterly beloved visage of her mother, Chinka Chaya Baba, who had been transported with her daughters to Auschwitz and then transferred to a different barracks somewhere else.  All these weeks, the daughters hadn’t had any contact with their mother, and couldn’t find her.   What was she doing here of all places, Miriam wondered, right near the crematorium, and why were the soldiers oblivious to her presence?  It was an incongruous emotion to be sure, but even as she trudged towards certain death, Miriam’s heart exploded with joy to see her mother again.   But why was her head not shaved like everybody else?

                As Miriam studied her mother in shock and bewilderment, her mother raised a scrawny arm, motioning that she should join her. Miriam glanced meaningfully at the guards nearby.  I can’t, she signaled with her eyes.  Her mother nodded her head encouragingly and beckoned her again.  How could her mother think that she could escape?   Miriam waved her hand at the soldiers who flanked her.  It’s impossible, her movements said.  But suddenly, there was a commotion in the back of the procession, and several guards dropped behind to investigate.  NOW! her mother gesticulated wildly.  It made no sense, it was doomed to fail, but Miriam obeyed her mother’s command.  She broke from the line and ran for her life, back to her barracks, back to where her sisters tensely waited and plied her with kisses and extra crusts of day-old bread.

                “What happened to you?” they demanded.  “Where did they take you?  Where did you go?”

                She told them everything: how her mother had astonishingly appeared at the precise place where she and the others had been rounded up, how the Nazis had been  oddly unaware of her mother’s presence, how she had  insistently pantomimed  that Miriam should run.  “And I was so overjoyed to see Mamma again!” she babbled almost incoherently, still dazed by her experience.  “She looked exactly as she always looked, they didn’t even shave her head!”

                The other sisters looked at one another wordlessly.  They too were shaken by Miriam’s recital: Her near-brush with death made them shudder in fear, but it was their mother’s intercession that made them tremble in awe. 

                “Miriam,” one of them said gently, tenderly caressing her cheek to soften the blow.“We didn’t want to tell you before, because you’re the most sensitive among us.  But we received reliable reports from several different prisoners working at the crematorium.  Mamma was killed the first day she arrived, weeks ago.”

                “But I saw her clearly,” Miriam wept.  “If she hadn’t signaled me to escape, I never would have tried.”

     As recounted by Hindy Rozenberg, Miriam’s daughter to Yitta Halberstam

 

The story is excerpted from "Small Miracles From Beyond:  Dreams, Visions and Signs that Link Us to the Other Side" and you can include the amazon.com  link if you wish, which currently offers 40% off the price.

The Power of Words

The whole of Jerusalem was in an uproar! A leader of Chasidic movement and his wife had just given birth to their first child - a boy - after being childless for twenty-eight years! Well over a thousand people came by to congratulate the proud parents. It was then that the father indicated that he would like to say a few words.

He began in a loud voice, "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 school and devoted her life to upkeeping 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 yeshiva. 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 school.

"I agreed to talk to her and I brazenly walked up to her and told her that her kids were disturbing everyone in yeshiva 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!" 

(©2014. Printed with permission from Rabbi Baruch Lederman, author of Shulweek www.kehillastorah.org.)

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Lost Wallet

This incidence happened to me personally and I am glad it did, because it would be hard to believe that such story can really happen.

My girlfriends and I planned to go to New York City for a day of cultural fun. We live in Philadelphia and decided to take a train from Trenton to New York. It made sense to drive to Trenton together in three cars, instead of each one of us driving separately. We arrived in the morning at Trenton Train Station and parked at the garage. We then took the train to NY and went with our daily plan of visiting museums and spending time together.  All of the tickets were pre-bought and I never once needed to get my wallet. On the way back home, after exiting the train I realized that my wallet was missing. I was pretty certain that I dropped it on the train. As I was running back to the train, I was going over all the things that I just lost; credit cards, driver’s license, car insurance, ids, money… The wallet was not under my seat. I was devastated. My friends tried to calm me down but I just wanted to be alone. I dragged behind them , overwhelmed  by the enormous amount of work of restoring lost documents.  As I followed behind, I did not realize that we were walking around the garage in circles, looking for our car.

Suddenly, while going up the steps for the third time I heard someone call my name. I looked up from my misery and saw an older couple. The lady was holding up my driver’s license, looking intensely at the picture while comparing my face to the one on the picture. I was speechless. She held my wallet in the other hand and asked if I was indeed the rightful owner of the lost article. I was so shocked that I could barely speak.  Apparently, I lost my wallet in the morning when I was getting out of the car. It fell under the couple’s car and they arrived on the train that came a few minutes after our train. When they pulled out of the parking space, they saw a wallet under their car. Being the honest people that they were, they decided to walk around the parking lot looking for the owner. What were the chances of finding me after 12 hour day at the parking garage? The only reason we ‘bumped’ into each other was because we couldn’t find the car. If we remembered the parking space, we would have left 15 minutes before.

All of us were in complete shock. The couple insisted that it was G-d providence that we mat on the garage staircase. It was hard to deny that fact. I offered money but they refused. I promised to make a donation on their behalf and they agreed to a great cause of 'Cancer Research'.

Time went by but the lesson stayed with me. When we feel aggravated by being stuck in traffic, looking for a lost item, waiting for someone, being delayed or redirected by Divine Providence, remember that you are exactly where you are meant to be! This too is for the best. Relax and enjoy the Journey!

Lesson from the World Famous Performer

Though born in the Jewish state, Omri's childhood was devoid of any Judaism. Omri Vartash grew up in Kibbutz Ruchama - an affiliate of the communist Shomer HaTzair Movement.

A product of secular Israel, it didn't occur to anyone, apparently, to mark his bar mitzvah - not even with a symbolic celebration. He'd never set foot in a synagogue, or wanted to. "I knew that religious people didn't eat bread on Passover, but that was the extent of my information on that holiday."

His parents enrolled him in the School of the Arts in Mitzpeh Rimon, to develop his artistic talents. When, in time, Omri received a tempting invitation: to travel to Italy, the home of theater, to study acting, he jumped at it. The Theater Lab was headed by the world-renowned Jerzy Grotowski, who even after his death is held in such high esteem that some theater fans stand up respectfully at the very mention of his name.

"My parents were elated to hear that I would be studying with the great Grotowski," Omri recalled. "They stood tall, bursting with pride, and told anyone who was willing to listen!"

Occasionally, Grotowski would invite one of his students for a private meeting. His students hailed from all over the world. "Every one of us hoped for a chance for such intimacy with our mentor, a relaxed conversation in his home or in some secluded place. We learned so much from him then; it was a mini-lesson on the 'tricks of the trade' of theater life, a truly eye-opening talk.”

And then one day, it was Omri's turn. He was beside himself with excitement. What would Grotowski say to him? What questions should he ask "the master"?

Grotowski invited Omri to dinner in an Italian restaurant. There, in the midst of devouring an enormous plate of spaghetti, he asked the young Israeli a very pointed question: "What do you know about the Baal Shem Tov?" He even pronounced the Baal Shem Tov's name correctly

"Baal what?" Omri asked, thoroughly confused and at a loss. "What Shem?" The words sounded like Hebrew, but what was Grotowski talking about?

Now it was the great director's turn to be shocked. "You are a Jew, are you not?! Do you mean to tell me that you've never heard of the Baal Shem Tov?! Who educated you?! Where did you grow up?! Why, he was one of the greatest men of your nation!"

Grotowski, the Polish gentile, looked long and hard at his student. Then, patiently, he proceeded to tell him about the Chassidic movement, which began in the Ukraine and spread across Grotowski's native Poland. But mostly, he described the holy Baal Shem Tov, and the miracles he performed.

Omri Vartash, kibbutz-born secular Israeli, sat in an Italian restaurant in the heart of Rome, and listened breathlessly. He'd never heard anything remotely like it.

"It was the most meaningful discussion of my life. I started to think: 'How could this knowledge have been hidden from me for all these years? I'm completely disconnected from the history of my own people! How is it that a Polish gentile knows more than I do?"

Omri never imagined what would happen next. The next morning, Grotowski phoned to set up another meeting with his Jewish student. And he gave him a book, an English translation of Shivchei HaBesht (Praises of the Baal Shem Tov). "Read this! It will greatly enrich you," his "teacher” told him. Omri took the book, and so began his journey into Judaism. He read the book from start to finish, and the more he read, the more he wanted to know. Meanwhile, Grotowski was keeping tabs on his student, to see what he would do with his newfound knowledge.

"I'm simply astonished!" Omri told him. "But what should I do next?"

"Continue your search!" Grotowski told Omri. "You came here on a spiritual quest but all the spirituality you could ever need is right there before you, in your own ancient religion! I know that there are special books that explain the laws and customs to Jews who are searching for the truth."

Omri didn't sit idle; he went looking for more. And he began committing himself to observing certain practices. "I started by maintaining a separation between milk and meat, despite the fact that I didn't yet eat kosher food. And, with Grotowski's encouragement, I began going to synagogue for the first time in my life. I tried to take part in the prayers.”

"The deeper I went in my research of Judaism, the deeper my relationship became with Grotowski. My non-Jewish friends noticed that the two of us had developed a special kinship. He would question me in great detail about my visits to the synagogue, and about my experiences during prayer.”

"You have no further need to remain here," he told Omri, one day. "You must return home, and continue there to search for your roots."

And Omri, forever loyal and obedient to his master's words, packed up his bags and returned to Israel.

When he got home, he told his baffled parents just what he had learned from the famous director Grotowski: that he needed to become religious.

"My parents were speechless. Totally. They'd sent me to him so that I'd return as an accomplished actor. Instead, I was now going to become a religious Jew!"

In Jerusalem, he continued along the path to Judaism. Omri accepted upon himself, completely and absolutely, the yoke of religious observance, and totally became a part of the Torah world.

On the advice of a Torah sage, Omri decided that he needed to make use of his acting skills and of everything he had learned in Italy, in order to increase awareness of Torah. He and an actor friend, who was also returning to his roots, began to write skits that would teach children about their heritage.

"What we try to do is to use our acting skills to serve the greater public. We are tools to assist people in rediscovering their beliefs,” explains Omri.

The duo began their work with no equipment, no scenery, and no props. They traveled, as they were, from school to school, and performed for children. Today, three years later, there's no sector of society before whom the duo haven't performed - Yeshiva schools, Chassidic cheders, even some secular high schools. A highlight of their career was being awarded a National Prize, in recognition of a play they wrote, and performed all over the country, about guarding one's speech.

There is one performance that to Omri will never forget. The school principal warned that none of his students could sit still for more than five minutes. Throughout the play, the children sat unmoving, their eyes glued to the stage. Afterwards, one of the students, complete with a dyed blond, moussed, "mushroom-style'' hairdo, approached. There were tears in his eyes. He had a tough appearance, but his heart was soft. "You spoke about prayer," he explained. "Never in my life did I cry as much as I cried just now."

Says Omri: "Keep in mind that we're talking about a teenager whose entire life is entwined in the Western culture, with all its ugliness. Yet the Torah message succeeded in penetrating his soul, and awakening his faith. That is what is most moving for us." (The foregoing was researched by Aharon Granot.) (©2014. Printed with permission from Rabbi Baruch Lederman, author of Shulweek www.kehillastorah.org.)

'The Israeli flag is our Iron Dome'

Convenience store owner, whose store suffered damage from a nearby mortar hit, was amazed to find the only thing that remained undamage was the Israeli flag.

Ilana Curiel

Published: 08.11.14, 12:16 / Israel News

When Silviya Orshchovsky arrived at her convenience store in kibbutz Ein HaShlosha on the Gaza border on Monday morning, she was shocked to discover the great damage caused to the structure from a mortar rocket that landed nearby.

It what was even more shocking was that while the entire front wall of the structure was peppered with shrapnel holes, the Israeli flag hung over the front door remained completely undamaged.

"The flag stayed hanging," one of the residents of the kibbutz said.

 "The bomb fell on the road in front of the store. It hit the walls; it's all holes in the door and everywhere else, just not on the flag. It remained untouched," Orshchovsky said.

The store, located in a kibbutz in the Eshkol Regional Council that is right on the Gaza border, remained closed on Monday morning. "We have no communications or water, so we didn't open," Orshchovsky said.

'The flag is our Iron Dome' (Photo: Silviya Orshchovsky)

Orshchovsky spoke of the complicated situation in which the kibbutz residents found themselves - living in-between ceasefires.

"The situation here is unpleasant. It's very scary that we don't know where we stand. It's sad to see the kibbutz empty like this, without children," she said.

"I left only for a week, and came back because I wanted to be with my husband Sergio. It was harder for me to be far away up north than to be in the kibbutz," she added.

Our flag was still there (Photo: George Ginsburg)

Orshchovsky went on to say the residents of Ein HaShlosha weren't feeling safe.

"We have no security here, we're not safe. We don't know what could happen today or the day after tomorrow. The ceasefire is neither here nor there. Our children don't go outside because they can't. They returned to the kibbutz but remain inside the house. What kind of a routine is that for them? We want to live like in Tel Aviv, like in the north. I hope they don't start shooting again."