harvest-haasif 2010

Harvest-Ha’Asif- Temple Emanu-El-Beth Sholom’s Literary Anthology Fifth Edition 2 0 10–5 7 70

Fifth Edition

Harvest-Ha’Asif

✡ Temple Emanu-El-Beth Sholomʼs Literary Anthology

Harvest-Ha’Asif

CONTENTS5th EDITION5770--2010

a Word from the editors 1

dina reichental MEMoirs of freidka 2

eli yaPHe legacy 3

Don Charness Chapters in the History of Temple Emanu-El 1882-1911 (excerpt) 4

zav levinson the return 7

harry rajchgot if israel had been a seafaring people 10

vivianne silver long distance grandmother 11

esther dagan the hidden shrine 12

wendy reichenthal what eats at me 13

David Abramson What I Did On My Summer Vacation: Searching For Closure 14

anna serapins the “sandwich Generation” 17

Marcia Goldberg Very Unquiet, Except 18

Ernest Peter Guter MY SIX MIRACLES (excerpt) 19

Michael Abramson Does god live in Ivano-Frankivsk? 21

harry rajchgot moses in the desert 22

S E Q U O I A C L U B

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Harvest-Ha’Asif ✡ Temple Emanu-El-Beth Sholom’s Literary Anthology 5770- 2010

Dear Reader,

Harves t -Ha’As i f , Temple’s literary journal by and for Temple members on Jewish themes (broadly defined), is back with a jolt. Your stalwart editors have kept the Ha’Asif flame alive overcoming their persistent tendency to put off until tomorrow what can be done today, to prefer the nine to the stitch in time and have somehow burned the midnight oil for eight days and delivered the 5th Harvest-Ha’Asif into your eager, hungry hands. Inside its covers you will find new writers beside familiar names, memoir sharing the page with poetry, something serious alongside something not. Harvest is nothing if not eclectic. And know too as you graze contentedly in the deep grass of Issue #5, that the gates of Harvest are never closed to the plucky poets and prolific purveyors of prose and all the other inveterate optimists and brave folk who put pen to paper (or finger to keyboard). Yes, your persistent editors, heroically battling relentless competing claims on their precious time are already turning their tireless hearts and minds to #6. So

take note, Dear Reader, you too must shrug off the mundane distractions of the drab everyday world and dress yourself in the cloak of greatness and gallantry, of mystery and drama and arm yourself with the fountain pen (or keyboard) of des t iny and g ive expression to the muse of your imagination, and let f low your manuscripts short and long, jokes, tall tales and old-wives tales, urban legends and outright lies (attributed, of course) which you then commit to digital format (or on paper- that’s okay too) and make Harvest #6 the best yet. (See the last page for submission instructions.) We wish you good reading (and good writing too, should the spirit move you). Happy Harvest!

Your (merely human) editors,

Dr. Harry RajchgotZav Levinson

O God Enthroned

O God enthroned by Israel’s praise, O God my hope, for You alone my soul waits in silence, by day Your steadfast love, by night I sing to You, a prayer to the God of my life. Blessed is the Lord who day by day upholds me, the God who is my help.

Gates of Prayer, p. 172

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Memoirs of Freidka

by Dina Reichental

You don't need a teacher or a rabbi or a doctor if Freidl is your friend. She could replace them all. Freidka was our Rabbi Aronson's granddaughter. Her parents were divorced and they found it more convenient to let her grandfather, Rabbi Aronson, raise her.

I was very happy to be her best friend. Her grandfather was a very dignified, well-loved person. He used to know every congregant by their first name and he greeted them with a very warm gesture.

My friend Freidl loved re-telling to us, her circle of girlfriends, all the teachings of the Chumesh (Bible), Talmud and Gemura. Since our Rabbi didn't have a son, he used to teach her all the Torah laws and commandments starting from Genesis up until the present time by the way adding his personal explanation including the way he used to "paskene a shale".

For example if a chicken liver if the liver

had dark 'pimples' it is not kosher, but if the 'pimples' are white, it is kosher. Or if a man wanted a "get" (divorce) from their spouse it must be a reason to justify or he is spending too much time “stuvim”, or he doesn't like her “punim”. And so the story goes on.

Now, I am going to describe my friendship with Freidl. We were both one of the few Jewish students in the Polish "Gimnazium" a school for higher education and professional careers, Freidka went to the town of Krakow, to study at the "Hebreiski Seminarium" to become a teacher. I went to Warsaw, to study Polish history and there was a lot to learn in its 1,000 year existence starting from the Mieshko Pierwszy dynasty, and

ending with Marcharek Smiyty Ridz.

Freidka and I both used to like analyzing history and religion or the beginning of the world's creation- was it the scientific explosion theory, or God, the creator. Until today, we are lost on this subject but going back to the story, during our studies, Fraidka and I were briefly

separated for a few years. We met again in 1942, in the Warsaw Ghetto under very dark skies.

It was during the Nazis’ Liquidation of the Ghetto, that I remember how the Gestapo ordered us to form two separate lines, one for the younger people and the other for the older ones who were condemned to the ovens. Friedka asked me, "Danka, where are you going?”, but I was too stricken with shock to answer. Freidka continued, "I am not letting my Zaide and Bubi go alone!" and she ran to the line to be with them together. I wasn't as brave.

My dear friend Freidl, I survive with a pain in my heart and the haunting images of my dear, innocent Jewish parents. I remember how hungry my parents were in the ghetto and I still feel like crying.

✡

Diane Reichenthal is a Temple member who enjoys painting, and has taken art classes at Concordia and McGill's Institute for Learning in Retirement. She was born in Poland and came to Canada after the War.

Harvest-Ha’Asif- Temple Emanu-El-Beth Sholom’s Literary Anthology Fifth Edition 2 0 10– 5 7 70

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Legacy

Eli Yaphe

Life grants us but an audience with time

No endless eons for the work ahead.

Now is the time to pause and write the words,

those which we feel, but never did express.

Great words which sing a melody to life,

a wondrous time, despite its share of stress.

Then, though we leave no fortune when we pass,

no name emblazoned on a tower’s face,

the words and melodies which we now write

will one day be to those we love and leave

a legacy of pride and love.

The late Eli Yaphe (1906-2005) was a member in good standing of Temple for 70 years. He was the father of Andrea Fieldman, also a member for her entire 70 years of life.

Harvest-Ha’Asif- Temple Emanu-El-Beth Sholom’s Literary Anthology Fifth Edition 2 0 10–5770

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Excerpted from Chapters in the History

of Temple Emanu-El 1882-1911

by Don Charness

Introduction

The history of Temple Emanu-El amongst all organizations in Montreal is unique without comparison. Its career has been characterized throughout by a typical Jewish obstinacy for a great cause. Its history is the dramatic story of a handful of men who fought, strived and struggled to ensure the permanency of a Reform movement in Montreal. The records of the congregation tell a graphic tale of the opposition it has been forced to encounter in a city so thoroughly orthodox as Montreal.

Predictions were made, by lay and religious leaders of the Montreal Jewish community, of the movement's speedy failure and extinction. It was these predictions that compelled Temple leadership to persevere in order that it might preserve its existence. It has

taken all these struggles within and without the Jewish community to establish Temple Emanuel upon a strong and solid foundation. Within recent years, it has not only given lie to the dismal prognostication of utter downfall, but has given its members and clergy an assurance of a great and noble future.

Chapter 1 - From Humble Beginnings

Temple Emanuel has a unique place in Canadian history. It was the first "Liberal" or "Reform" synagogue in Canada. On August 23, 1882, there was a founding meeting for a new Reform congregation later to be known as Temple Emanuel. Attending this meeting was a group of people most of whom were leading trustees of the English, German and Polish Congregation (also known as the St. Constant Street synagogue now known as the Shaar Hashomayim synagogue) and also of the Portuguese Congregation - Shearith Israel (now known as Spanish and Portuguese Congregation). Both congregations were the only ones in Montreal at the time and were Orthodox. There was friction owing to a desire to modify ritual procedures. An 1884 issue of Hamelitz, a Russian newspaper printed in Hebrew, carried a lengthy article on events leading up to the breakaway of members who would create Temple Emanuel. “The third and newest congregation...is a congregation of reformers. All the members of this congregation separated from the German congregation (Shaar Hashomayim) a year and a half ago. Until that time, they were also considered to be Orthodox and they participated in all their customs in the synagogue with the other members even though the customs had already become foreign to them. In all the time when they began to try them and to reveal their intentions in the community to remove from the society a custom which according to their opinion was unsuited and

undesirable. The believers arose and made an outcry against their opinion and did not allow them to touch any of the laws and customs of the group even in the smallest possible manner. Thus they suffered the scorn of their opponents as they were unable to build or rent a house for themselves and to establish a new society in accordance with the spirit of the younger generation. They could only wait impatiently for the day on which they could throw off the yolk of the Orthodox and all their customs from themselves, and they would be able to do what was good and right in their opinions with no one to prevent them. One year and a half ago, Dr. Marx, a graduate of a German Academy came to Montreal. He wanted to be chosen as chazzan and preacher in the German congregation. On the first Sabbath when he rose on the podium...his first subject was the necessity to abolish all ancient customs in the synagogue, to change the prayer book and to improve on all laws and regulations of the community.

It is easy to understand that his words captured the hearts of the men who were going forward according to the spirit of the time and that he also carried with his smooth lips many of the believers who joined the reformers….Now a good hope appeared to them to create something new in the land.

However the Orthodox were very angry at the preacher and his words which, in their opinion, contained heresy, and that he had come to take them away from the religion inherited from their fathers, to destroy all the laws of their faith and their holy customs and to establish in their place the laws of the nation and the deeds of the gentiles. They ordered him to shut his mouth.

As a result, there was an upheaval and confusion in the building and the men strove with one another until the congregation was divided in two parts: the believers, on whose side

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the bu i ld ing and separated f r om th i s congregation. The latter rented a house which they called Temple Emanuel and they established a reform congregation with the help of Dr. Marx who they appointed as their cantor and preacher.”

Founding a Reform congregation at that time in Montreal was an act of great courage. The Jews were already a part of the English-speaking minority that was generally traditional in religion and conservative in politics. It was not a community that generally favoured novelty or pioneering. In spite of this, Temple Emanuel was founded at a meeting that was held on August 24, 1882. Rabbi Samuel Marks came from the United States bringing with him the “new ideas of Reform”. When Rabbi Marks came to Montreal, he was the Rabbi at the English, German and Polish Congregation. A strong element wanted the Congregation to become Reform. The Jewish Messenger, a Reform paper quoted Rabbi Marks. “He preached on the abrogation of the eighth day service, Pesach and, on general principles, overhauled Orthodox and medieval rituals, tenets and injunctions that had created a backlash from some members who went to the press.”

The opening ceremony and the dedication of the new synagogue took place on September 13, 1882, the eve of Rosh Hashanah.

The Montreal Star of September 14, 1882 describes the opening ceremony. “The service commenced by the Reverend Mr. Marks knocking three times at the door of the church then entering followed by the officers bearing the Scroll. Mr. Marks, now bearing the Scroll, and his officers walked three times around the altar, the curtains of the ark were drawn aside and the Scroll was deposited in it.”

The founding of Temple Emanuel set off an intense polemic between Orthodox and Reform Jews that would continue for many decades.

The Montreal Star and the Montreal Daily Witness quoted the orthodox Rabbi, Rev.

Mendes who said, “If suffering gives first rank then the Jews were the aristocrats of the world.” The papers went on to report “he discoursed at some length on the enemies which beset Judaism namely infidelity and jealousy and of the causes which operated to produce the former with Jews. Some thirty or forty years ago a movement had been started called reform. No one doubted the honesty of purpose of those who took the initial steps, but the results had been alarming. One might judge of its value by the new generation, which had sprung up under it. Fathers and brothers and sons now go to business on the Sabbath in numbers which every year show an alarming increase. Mothers and sisters have forgotten how to pray. Sabbath rest has taken leave of their homes; many were on the brink of atheism and defections from the ranks of Judaism were becoming more numerous. Such was the confession of an acknowledged reform minister (unidentified by Rev. Mendes). Thoughtful men should pause and ask themselves whether they should countenance this movement which brought with it a decay in Jewish homes and a straying from Jewish sympathies and Jewish principles.”

These words spoken by Rev. Mendes became the foundation for an attitude of negativity towards the Montreal Reform Jewish Community. Unfortunately, attitudes take a long time to change if at all.

Sherbrooke St W - Built 1911

Chapter 3 - Central Conference of American Rabbis Montreal Convention

The Eighth Annual Convention of the Central Conference of American Rabbis took place in 1897 in Montreal at Temple Emanuel.

Perhaps one of the most controversial issues to be discussed at the Conference and indeed for many years to follow was that of the stand of Reform Judaism towards Zionism and the establishment of the Jewish State.

Rabbi Wise referred to, “political projects engaging now a considerable portion of our co-religionists. I refer to the so called ‘Friends of Zion’ who revive among certain classes of people the political national sentiment of older times, and turn the mission of Israel from the province of religion and humanity to the narrow political and national field where Judaism loses its universal and sanctified ground and its historical signification. At last politicians seized the situation, and one of them called Dr. Herzl proposed to establish and constitute at once the Jewish State in Palestine, worked the scheme, and placed it so eloquently before the Jewish communities that the utopian idea of a Jewish State took hold of many minds, and a Congress of all Friends of Zion was convoked ..... all this agitation on the other side of the ocean concerned


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us very little ..... we want freedom, equality, justice and equity to reign and govern the community in which we live. This we possess that no State whatever can improve on it.”

Dr. Wise's statement was further reinforced by the Committee to whom was referred that part of Dr. Wise's message relating to Zionism. The Committee made the following resolution, which was then adopted by the Conference. "Resolved that we totally disapprove of any attempt for the establishment of a Jewish State. Such attempts show a misunderstanding of Israel's mission, which from the narrow political and rational field has been expanded to the promotion among the whole human race of the broad and universalistic religion first proclaimed by the Jewish Prophets. Such attempts do not benefit, but infinitely harm our Jewish brethren where they are still persecuted, by confirming the assertion of their enemies that the Jews are foreigners in the country in which they are at home, and of which they are everywhere the most loyal and patriotic citizens. We reaffirm that the

object of Judaism is not political nor national, but spiritual."

✡

Sherbrooke St W - TodayDon Charness is a long-time active Temple member and is now its Honorary Treasurer. The full article Chapters in the History of Temple Emanu-El 1882-1911 can be found on the Temple’s website at >www.templemontreal.ca<

Tree of Life fabric mural in the Temple’s Sanctuary

http://www.templemontreal.ca



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The Return

Zav Levinson

Joe Greenberg slowly stripped off his army uniform, carefully folding each item, and stacking it in a pile on his bed. He then took from its bag the secondhand suit he had bought at the Thrift shop, and methodically dressed himself. The material felt soft and lightweight, a welcome contrast to the rough, heavy cloth of his uniform. Joe stood quietly for a moment in his new

clothes and felt comfortable, and even a little protected by the anonymity they provided. Returning to the task at hand Joe gathered up the uniform and placed it in the now empty bag, found his room key and wallet and headed out the door to the winding, tree-lined boulevard that lead down to the river.

At water’s edge he found a large stone which he placed inside the bag and taking the rope he had saved for this moment he bound the package tightly. He walked out to the end of the causeway where the water was deeper and dropped the bag into the frigid, muddy water of the basin. Joe laughed out loud at the absurdity of what he was doing, but loved the senseless gesture for the defiance he felt as he watched his uniform disappear. Joe served his country and returned to civilian life, not broken, but frozen in time. He knows he is one of the fortunate ones, to have come back and to have come back whole. But he has not felt fortunate. He feels bound to a past that won’t leave him and which has thrown a shadow over his life. He views the world from within a shroud of memory, memory that warms him with its proximity to his fallen comrades while dulling the sense of loss and displacement he feels in a world that does not reflect his world of loss.

Joe turned away from the basin and started back up the steep climb to the hostel where he has lived since his discharge. He registers his surroundings but takes little interest in their sights and sounds. A sharp, cold gust of wind makes him shiver and he pulls his jacket tighter around himself and quickens his pace. He looks at the people on the boulevard but recognizes no one and no-one looks his way. As he reaches the end

of the climb he pauses to sit on a ledge that looks out over a wooded hillside and the basin that stretches away in the distance. He appreciates the rest and no longer minds the cold. After a few minutes reverie he resumes his slow pace back to the hostel.

Sally leaned back with her head tilted towards the window so she could watch the changing landscape. This was her favourite part of the morning commute. With the train now at the top of its climb she had an unobstructed view of the surrounding countryside, the ice-crystals on the trees, the frozen lake, the neatly defined farmers fields hibernating under blankets of snow, and the sky, today overcast, lent a dull light to the silent winter scene. To Sally it was enchanting and ethereal and the hint of mystery resonated with the sense of adventure she felt travelling to work by train. Sally was from a poor family, her father was a shoemaker who scratched out a living repairing shoes and Sally’s mother took in washing and sewing to augment the family income. After high school Sally apprenticed as a cutter in the garment trade. When the war came she wanted to enlist as a nurse-assistant but her parents wouldn’t hear of it, they wanted their only child close to home. Instead she volunteered packing boxes with clothing and food items to be sent to the soldiers at the front. At war’s end she was offered paid work in one of the hostels that were being set up by the government for the returning soldiers. Her posting was in a nearby town, a half-hour by train. This was the farthest afield she had ever been and the train and the world it revealed delighted her and her imagination could roam as it never had.


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Joe was startled as he entered the crowded food bank dining hall that evening. Behind the serving counter was a young woman he recognized though he had not seen her in more than five years, when they were both in their final year of high school. He had admired her all through the school year. She had seemed so attractive to him, the faintly olive tint of her skin and the way she held herself when she walked – so straight and with great deliberation, like she knew just where she was going and perhaps, too, that others would notice her when she walked. But, timid, he had kept his distance and admired her from afar. It was only at the end of the school year, when many of them were about to move on to new schools, and would never see each other again, that he was able to screw up his courage, rise to the milestone occasion, and approach Sally and ask her to be his date for the dance at the end of the school year. And she had said yes!

He remembered the joy he had felt at her acceptance and how much fun they had had that evening, dancing and talking. How proud he had felt to be with her. His habitual reticence had slipped away and they had talked freely. But he had never seen her again. That he now recognized her so readily surprised him. He was unsure whether to approach her. Would she look down on him in his second hand clothes, getting his meals from a food bank and sleeping in a hostel? By what route had she come to this place? She looked good, and he could still see the fine girl he remembered. He hung back in the line and watched her for a while and was tempted to turn away and leave the dining hall. But he was drawn to her, and was curious that their paths should cross in this odd way. He allowed himself to move forward with the line and was soon standing in front of her. “Sally”

he said, in a whisper, “it’s Joe”. She looked at him without recognition, but then searched his face and recognition began to spread over her features and she smiled warmly. Joe’s hands shook as he received his tray from her and they exchanged a few words amidst the surrounding din.

Sally did not know the man who had spoken to her. She assumed he was older than her but he said he knew her from school. She had to study his face before recognition came to her – it was the shy boy who had asked her to the school dance at the end of their final year. She remembered the dance, she had enjoyed herself and was surprised by how lively and talkative he had been. She had hardly noticed him during the school year and could not remember him ever speaking or much less laughing. But they had had fun that night, and then had gone there different ways. She had never seen him again. The cafeteria was busy and they hardly spoke but Sally had fond memories of their evening together and she felt excitement at his proximity.

Joe was restless as he sat in his room later that evening. Meeting Sally had upset his routine. He felt his loneliness. She seemed part of a world to which he was only a spectator and he could not imagine how he might bridge the gap that separated them. But she had smiled so warmly and he remembered how well they had got along. When the bell rang signaling the closing of the dining hall Joe rejected the inertia of his fears and bounded down the stairs to find his friend.

Sally was walking to the door out of the hall. She had her coat on. Joe was speechless at the sight of her. Sally raised a hand in greeting and

moved towards the door leading outside. Joe fell in beside her and Sally said she had a few minutes before her train arrived at the station, so they decided to walk together awhile. The night air was cold and the winter sky dramatic, as they stepped from the doorway Sally moved closer to Joe and without forethought took his arm. Joe, if startled, gave no sign of noticing anything irregular in her gesture, his mind was still in thrall to the unexpected turn in his fortunes, and he had all he could do to control his bounding emotions. Arms linked they walked in synchronized step with no fixed destination.

Later Joe could hardly remember what they talked about – something about high school and their lives since school. But the silences were comfortable and the motion of their bodies rocked them gently. Then it was time for Sally to take her leave. When they reached the station she released her grip on Joe’s arm and turned to face him, “I’m glad we’ve met, Joe” she said and then, without warning, leaned forward and kissed Joe on the lips and quickly ran into the station.

Joe stood and watched Sally’s parting figure. His elation was mixed with a curious awareness that the lovely woman he had just walked with and who felt like an old friend was nothing like the childhood companion of his memories.


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That night Joe slept deeply. He dreamed of his parents as they had been when he was still a child. They expressed their concern for him and wondered where he had been and hoped he would come home. He remembered the family home, the large dining room window looking out over a low hedge and onto the neighbour’s house not far away. He remembered the steep stairway to the basement and the soft sofas in the living room, and the little balcony off the kitchen leading, a few steps down, to their small back yard that was fenced off f rom the la rge schoolyard playground that spread out in back of the homes along his street and where he and his friends had played through their childhood. Then these distant peaceful images receded and the gaunt and shocked faces of his comrades took their place. As they hung in his agitated mind he noticed one that had not been there before. His own boyish face, half-child, half-man, stared up at him, like the others, without recognition. A great moan escaped him and anger and despair washed over him and in his dream he wept in sorrow.Joe woke early the next morning. The dawn was cold and raw and snow was falling gently through a windless, half-lit sky. Joe’s room, small and clean, had a window in one wall large enough to make the room feel comfortable and not closeted. As he dressed, Joe recalled his dream of the night before and wondered, with a slight shudder, at the

great forces roiling inside him that had called forth such vivid images. He recalled the strange events of the day before, burying the uniform that had become a second skin and meeting Sally so unexpectedly and he knew that the little cloistered world he had lately inhabited was irretrievably burst apart.

Leaving his room, his monthly cheque in hand, Joe decided to eat breakfast at a little bakery he liked about a mile away. The light snow of early morning had now grown heavy but it was with a new found gladness that he greeted the snowy day.

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Zav Levinson is a sometime scoundrel and general ne’er-do-well. He is co-editor of Harvest-Ha’Asif. He works at Concordia University in the Fine Arts Department.


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If Israel Had Been a Seafaring People

Harry Rajchgot

If Israel had been a seafaring people, Wandering the seas instead of the landWould their legend now be scornedLike that of Ishmael and of EsauOr forgotten completely In the storms of time?

Had they left Egypt In their fleet of boatsSkirted the coast, put into port For water and for foodFor their bowl of pottageNo Sabbath challah, no Sabbath wine

Would there still have been The pillars to guide themOf smoke and of fireBy day and by night?

Would there be no Mount SinaiNo trek through the desertNo booths to sojourn inNo Amalekites?

Having made port in Eilat Would they have had the desire To enter the Negev? Would they have dared enterThe Promised Land?

Or rather gone on To other lands so much farther, To India and the New World Europe and Persia China and Samarkand?

Would their Diaspora have startedOn that day when they didn’tWalk through the split watersOf the great Sea of Reeds?

And where would theyHave received the many LawsThose mighty CommandmentsBecome the People of the CovenantThe People of the Book?

Would they have become like Jonah, Attempting to evade G-d’s invocation Sojourning in the bellies of great fish?

Without SinaiWithout JerichoNo entry to JerusalemWould we now be reading about themAbout their other great storiesAbout their meetings with G-d?

And their birthright squandered.

✡

Harry Rajchgot writes poetry, fiction, and the occasional song from time to time, about “all sorts of nonsense” as his mother would say. He is, in his spare time, a dentist.


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Long Distance Grandmother

Vivianne Silver

I came out of the post office, took a deep breath and thought “This is it, my new rite of passage, I am now a long distance grand-mother”. The previous day, I had spent over an hour browsing the shelves of a toy store looking for every possible treat that might please my grandson. I tried to imagine what his day might be like. Though separated by many miles, I was hoping to somehow be part of it.

Almost two months had gone by since my son and his family left Montreal, looking for better business opportunities, and for my daughter-in-law to be closer to her family. It had not been an easy time. The joy of my first grand-child’s birth was soon clouded by the knowledge of their impending departure. Two months had barely been enough time to truly bond with Matthew. I developed a heightened awareness of every moment spent with him. Many a tear flowed silently in the privacy of my car, bath, bed, in my heart. Still, I certainly did not wish for my own pain to mar their thoughts of new beginnings. With my close friend, I shared my deep sadness and expressed the regret that “I will be a stranger to my grand-son”. She was q u i c k t o r e a s s u r e m e w i t h t h e s e comforting words “Don’t worry, Matthew WILL know you”. These first reflections on the many challenges of being a long distance grandparent were written twelve years ago. It has not been an easy journey trying to shorten the miles that separate us. It has taken numerous telephone calls, emails, letters, postcards, many a visit to the post office, much effort in the re-arranging of schedules.

Next winter, Brahms and I will be celebrating our grandson Matthew’s Bar Mitzvah. Yes, we will be travelling once again to be with him. Each of the miles we have journeyed over the years will surely dissipate as we relish the gift of the joyful moment we will be sharing. Even as his long-distance grandparents.

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Vivianne Silver is the author of the book 42 Keys to the Second Exodus. She is chairperson of the Book Lovers’ Forum.


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Jerusalem-Tower of David (1934)

The Hidden Shrine

Esther Dagan

Hidden within my soul, a shrine.Folded in, memories of spirits.My compass, the torch to the light of my north

The spirits of Abraham, Isaac and JacobThe spirits of kings, judges and prophets The spirits of warriors, heroes, poets and sinnersAnd my ancestors weeping on the shores of BabylonSome still weeping at the Wailing Wall.

Hidden within my soul, a shrineFolded in, memories of families and loved onesMy compass, the torch to my future passed

The spirits of many I loved and long have gone The spirits of my parents, a grandfather who named me queenThe spirit of my daughter Halit. A dream hunter, a butterfly above a volcano And my first love Nahem, a trumpet player in an army band.On his grave “Sacrificed his life to free Jerusalem 1930-1948.”

Hidden within my soul, a shrine.Folded in, memories of enchanting foreign deities.The spirits of Telem, Njoku, Mamiwata, Eshu and Kalunga

Periodically, in full regalia their masked images reappearOn Jewish holidays, on national and memorial daysAnd deeply engraved in my being, they also appear in African rituals. Inspiring! Uplifting and elevating my spirit to the sublime,My compass, the torch leading to my daughter’s grave

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Esther Dagan has contributed several works to Harvest-Ha’Asif. A former Israeli, she is a long-time Temple member and a serious collector of African art.


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What Eats at Me!

Wendy Reichental

When I married my husband I knew that our families were, shall we say, unique, but no where did this seem more apparent than at our mutual family dinners. My parents being from Eastern Europe have the unfortunate ingrained mentality that food equals survival. The opposite can be said of my husband and his family who are born and bred Canadians. While my husband's family is still like mine, Jewish, the food thing manages to be a sore spot, or rather, an indigestible problem between us. You see, eating with my family is something you do with appetite, gusto and relish. Over at his family, you're lucky to witness any relish, on the table or otherwise! Condiments are rare, and rarer still is the messy kind of down home eating where guards are down, and I'm not just talking napkins here, but where you can truly be your authentic self. At his family functions, dinner is where you sit up straight, position a cloth napkin promptly on your lap, mind your Ps and Qs, and navigate your way through an abundance of excessive cutlery made unnecessary really because there's nothing to eat! A typical dinner with my husband's side of the family begins with the announcement that no ingredients went into the food we are about to not eat and enjoy! Ok, I'm being slightly unfair but accurate, in any case, I sit at the table and start slowly counting; mute mode in my head FOUR...THREE...TWO...ONE...and BINGO! On cue, someone declares what new food groups they are currently pooh poohing and completely avoiding. Wishing I could avoid dinner, but unable to, I am

instead seen pilfering for whatever food I can find and wolfing it down like a ravenous lunatic. While I search for a dish, the others are busy dishing about what exorbitant non-meal they recently non-ate at some f a b u l o u s new restaurant! This entails a most animated description of something sparse, or raw, adorned with a single sprig of chive, presented on an oversized square white plate, served no doubt with an air of arrogance on the side. Meanwhile, my stomach continues to gurgle and I feel empty. In contrast dinner with my family involves someone welcoming us at the door with a food stained apron, and the house exploding with mouthwatering aromas. As soon as we seated my mother begins her usual badgering battle with my husband about why he won't sample the appetizers, have any chicken soup (her sworn cure-all) or at least have seconds of everything! Also heard are the sounds of gulping, "greptsin" Yiddish for belching, burping slurping, and all performed at once and with relative ease and theatrics. It's my family's version of "Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon" only here we call it "Kvetching Together, Harmful Digestion". When dessert is offered my husband can be heard once again staunchly refusing my mother's invitation for homemade warm compote and a cup of her hot tea (another remedy that cures all ills). It's at this point when I feel completely full! Full of awareness about how different my husband and I are in relation to our upbringing with food and how these experiences have shaped our personalities and who we are today. For instance I tend to be more accommodating and overly eager to make our guests feel at home and doing so with food is what I do best. My husband on the other

hand believes that if someone is thirsty they can mosey along to our fridge and help themselves to a drink. In my parent's home that would be unheard of, a sacrilege! Back at my mother's, she is already following us to the door holding out a package of the comfort food leftovers she insists we take home, sparing me from cooking for a good few days. Feeling quite "verklempt" and with my heart and belly heavy, I hug and kiss my mom good-bye. The thing is food has a natural binding effect that goes way beyond ingredients; it should bring all people together in a genuine and relaxed atmosphere. I strongly believe it should be a pleasing unpretentious experience leaving you with no bitter aftertaste or craving something with more substance and less froth afterwards. Ess gezunterhait! May you eat in good health!

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With permission from the editors of The Jewish Magazine www.jewishmag.com, where it was previously published.

Wendy Reichental works at McGill University, she is a “life/humorist” writer, whose short stories have been featured in JewishMagazine.com, as well as numerous women’s on-line magazines. She has a love of telling stories and enjoys making her mother laugh.

http://www.jewishmag.com/

http://www.jewishmag.com/


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Ivano-Frankivsk Synangoguephoto courtesy David Abramson (2009)

What I Did On My Summer Vacation: Searching For Closure

David Abramson

During the Holocaust, my mother Stephanie (b. 1935) was a hidden child in Stanislawow, Poland, which became part of the Ukraine in 1941 and took on the name Ivano-Frankivsk (I-F) in 1962. Although Stephanie never spoke about her experience when my three brothers and I grew up in Windsor, Ontario, we all came to terms with it long ago. She penned a life story for

her family in the mid-80s, then did an interview with the Spielberg Shoah Foundation Institute, and that was that. My mom left Poland/Ukraine in 1945 at the age of 10, was adopted by a British couple in Manchester and, with no surviving family, never looked back. She moved to North America in 1959, got married in 1960 and has lived in Windsor ever since. It was all water under the bridge, until very recently when she felt a need to return to where she grew up. A long-planned family Baltic cruise provided a window to spend a few days in western Ukraine beforehand.In all honesty, we didn’t expect much. My wife spent at least 100 hours on the Internet researching the past. But we had almost nothing to go on. We even talked about getting a bodyguard in this ropey part of the world, especially after last year’s financial meltdown. Nine people (3 generations) arrived in L’viv Airport on July 29, huddled together for safety and wearing money belts. The reality was anticlimactic: a cheap, safe city with friendly people, plenty of varenikes, cheap beer and fresh baked goods. We got a 3-person suite, including breakfast, at the nicest hotel in this city of 735,000 people for 107 euros/night. The walking tour of “Jewish L’viv” arranged by a Ukrainian travel agent was top-notch. Plenty of information on Simon Wiesenthal and Sholom Aleichem. Resurfaced storefronts in 3 languages: Yiddish, German and Polish. A haunting Holocaust memorial with dedications and gravestones. One had been defaced with a Swastika, but the graffiti was thoroughly scrubbed off. The next day, we hopped aboard a pre-booked minibus to I-F, about a 3-hour ride, with no preconceived notion of what to expect. Sure, we had a 1942 map of the ghetto. But the Nazis had

killed everyone and razed the ghetto by the time they retreated from the advancing Soviets in 1944. There was the apartment where my mom lived until the ghetto was constructed, but she could only remember a street corner with a theatre, park and synagogue. Finally, there was the apartment where their former Christian maid, Marysia, hid Stephanie after the ghetto was liquidated. At the end of the day, it would be visual cues that would determine whether we travelled all this way in vain. Today, I-F is a bustling town of 250,000, not much more than in 1941 when the Nazis invaded. The difference is that, back then, augmented by Jews that fled the Nazi invasion of Poland, the population was about 70% Jewish. After lunch, we overlaid the 1942 map with a current one. The streets were almost the same and we were able to pinpoint the ghetto walls, the entrance gate, mass burial site and the epidemic hospital. In stifling 30 degree heat and a cloudless sky, we “found” all the major sites. Today, though, there is no trace: no remnants, no plaque, no memorial, not even any bricks acknowledging that more than 100,000 Jews had been systematically slaughtered between 1942 and 1944. Instead, there were a few large residential building projects and a number of Communist-era apartment blocks. We returned to our hotel grasping at straws to redefine our scorching walk through the nonexistent ghetto as a success that justified all the planning and expense. This was made tougher by the fact that our 10-year old Sammy threw up three times owing to sunstroke. We asked our friendly twenty-something hotel clerk if there were any tours or reference guides dealing with the Jewish aspects or Nazi crimes of WWII. She replied, “People come here with stories like yours, but I have nothing to tell them.”


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It took until 11:30 pm for the tide to shift. My family and two youngest kids were in bed, and the rest of us went for a stroll, led by my brother Mark (named after my mother’s younger brother killed in the Holocaust). Mark has a good feel for location and direction. My mom said that where she lived with her younger brother and parents before the Germans established the ghetto, 6 months after invading, was near a theatre, park and synagogue. We were just walking home from a “Memorial Park” filled with monuments to anything but the Holocaust and kids drinking beer. We turned a corner and my mom said “That’s the theatre. That’s the synagogue. That’s the park where I played as a child.” We later found out that this was the only one of 54 synagogues that survived. The Germans had put the furniture in a pile and set it on fire, as they always did. But the high ceilings prevented it from burning to the ground. And this was the synagogue where my mom and her family went on major holidays (they weren’t very religious).It was late at night but we quickly looked around the synagogue and the block the theatre was on. My mom was 100% certain she had lived on the top story of a building on that block. We saw a memorial right beside the synagogue … finally a recognition that 70% of I-F residents in 1938 had gone through a premeditated slaughter in installments? Nope. It commemorated the 1947 efforts of the Ukrainian fighters against the Soviets. We walked around the block as midnight approached. However, it was impossible to distinguish the various units so late at night. I thought at the time that we had finally found the link my Mom needed for closure. With no ghetto or memorial that would have to be enough. We woke up the next morning with only 8 hours remaining in our I-F stay. There was plenty of optimism at breakfast. The food was excellent. The sky was blue. The sun

was shining. A couple on the patio was drinking brandy while eating eggs and toast. We told our driver we’d be back around 1pm and then set off to revisit the theatre/park/synagogue to search for my Mom’s residence at the time of the German invasion. The first story of the “synagogue” consisted of insurance and retail stores. As we approached the building from the back, we saw a construction area. The circular windows up high were the clearest sign of a Jewish house of worship, but the entire building looked new or renovated. So we weren’t surprised to see a back entry with some construction scaffolding. My son and our brashest brother, Joey, poked around and a Ukrainian man and woman emerged. The man, wearing a kippah, allowed us to come in, but repeatedly said “No praying!”. We thought maybe the downstairs wasn’t holy or they just wanted to stay below the radar screen. Anyhow, inside there were some Jewish artifacts, which we assume were the sole remnants of the shul. Of course, our kids and their uncles were rambunctious, noisy and irreverent. The man seemed upset and the woman, using rudimentary sign language, told us to be quiet because they were praying upstairs. We were stunned, the first of several surreal events in the hours to come. We were allowed to peek in, but my Mom refused to leave, repeatedly saying, “Stanislawow! Brita Milberg (her pre-adoption name)!” Finally, they let her in, after which we followed. All the males had to cover their heads. The scene was bizarre: a high-ceilinged, seemingly new, brightly-painted sanctuary; a wall near the back so the women couldn’t see the service unless they stood up; about 8 male congregants in all manner of clothing, including 2 reading a Cyrillic newspaper which was available near the front close to the ark. Most of the people were over 60, some old enough to have lived through the Holocaust, so our kids stood out. But

one man, perhaps 30 years old, wore a funky kippah and an earring. When it came time to read from the Torah, the Rabbi, who looked straight from a Chagall painting, smiled at us. All of us, including Sammy our 10-year-old, touched the Torah and kissed our hands. Often, the cantor, perhaps 45 years of age, would stroll to a window and pray alone. After and during prayers, all would say “0omine” instead of the Amen we were used to. During the third Aliyah, the Cantor, the only English-speaking person in the room, asked, “Who is the oldest brother?”, and there I was with the fourth Aliyah. The prayer helped me to focus at a time of intense emotion. The Cantor invited us to the Rabbi’s study to the side of the sanctuary. We all crowded in and found out that the Rabbi had a massive stack of records of Stanislawow’s Jewish population, only ¼ of which were in his study. Constraints of the Sabbath (no computer, no writing, no pictures) and language barriers notwithstanding, we covered a lot, including my Mom’s story, in about 15 minutes. We asked about the monument outside the Shul and he waved his hands, “Goyisheh!”. Two women in the congregation were “hidden”, like my mom, one in a bunker under the ground. What we didn’t realize was that the Rabbi was keeping the entire congregation waiting by not going downstairs for the Kiddush. We were invited downstairs and entered the room with women on 1 side and men on the other. A gentleman at my table, the Rabbi and 2 others were born in I-F, all after the Holocaust. Shots of vodka were de rigueur after any commentary from the Rabbi. The oddness of the moment only occurred to me later on; the feeling at the moment was the Chasidic concept of the “joy of God”. We left with an image of common bonds, joy, new friends and, for my mom, the beginnings of closure that, let’s face it, we didn’t expect.


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We left the synagogue with my mom determined to find where she lived before the ghetto, but she mainly remembered that it was on the same block as the theatre. The block appeared late 19th/early 20th century so that made sense: front doors close to the road and a big common space in the back. In her slow, methodical fashion, while the kids got more hyper by the minute, my mom estimated which 3-story unit would contain her old apartment on the upper floor. My brother Joe convinced her to enter the building, which had perhaps 10 buzzers. Someone buzzed us in. Joe again convinced my mother to knock on doors (“You’ve come 5000 miles and you’re going to leave without seeing your old house, even though you’re right here?”), even though my family had already gone back out the front door. The first door they knocked on was a woman in her thirties from, no joke, Tel Aviv. She spoke no English, but I spoke a few words in Hebrew and her friend’s young daughter spoke French. She was even more excited than we were. After a big exchange in no particular language getting across that we had to leave for L’viv immediately, she still offered us coffee and tea. We walked back to the Hotel, perhaps 10 blocks away, via the park where my Mom and Marysia (the Polish Christian maid) used to play. It dawned on us that hard work, chutzpah, pure luck and the perfect mix of personalities among the 9 of us made this journey successful. My mom was even considering coming back to learn some Ukrainian, re-learn Polish and revisit her past in a thoughtful, relaxed setting.

Final postscript: Back in L’viv, we had arranged an easy three-castle tour in the country, with a driver and guide for our final day in the Ukraine.Our 22-year-old guide, a History grad about to begin postgraduate work, knew a lot about Ukrainian history and everything about the castles.

But between the first and second castles, I asked, “How is the political situation in the Ukraine?“. She replied matter-of-factly that “300 of the 400 or so Parliamentary members are officially registered as Jewish and about 100 are Russian. That doesn’t seem fair … the so-called Orange Revolution had nothing to do with Ukrainians. It was a fight between the Jewish mafia, which controls President Viktor Yushchenko, and the Russian mafia. It appears that the Jewish mafia won.” Lee-Anne later found an article from a few years ago, subsequently banned from the Internet as hate literature, by a Ukrainian Professor at L’viv University arguing that the Jews needed to be controlled, or the “virus” would spread. The “analysis” argued that the Jews controlled the political and media spheres even though there are only 103,000 (0.3% of the population) of them in the country. My mom and Lee-Anne were stunned that any educated, young Ukrainian could: believe this “old song”; answer so specifically about Jews to such a general question; and not see that all of us, except Lee-Anne, are Jewish.What did we get from this trip? My mom got the closure she has wanted for years. She knows better who she is and her identity, thrown into a tumble dryer during childhood, is grounded. She is even talking about going back, and this time it won’t take 64 years.The second generation, her four sons including myself, got a link to the stories we began to hear as young adults after years of silence. The third generation, not generally emotional, were profoundly affected by the brief glimpse of their heritage. Our younger son wrote a story at school with the closing sentence, “Did you ever learn from a coincidence?” Our older boy wrote a poem on Yom Kippur entitled, “Does god live in Ivano-Frankivsk?”.

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photo courtesy David Abramson (2009)

David Abramson is former Vice-President of the Temple Board of Governors and father of two sons. He travels a lot.


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The “Sandwich Generation”

Anna Serapins

When one has to take on the role and duty to honour and care for an aged family member it is often sudden and unexpected. The relationship that you had with your loved one has changed. It may be that you face an additional leadership, legal or advocate role. As adult members of a community we are dealing with multiple obligations. A sudden change in a family’s needs may be an additional stress as one adapts to and learns the person’s new needs. In addition to dealing with the daily stressors, this new role may make you feel squeezed in, like a sandwich. Hence the label of the “sandwich generation”. All the adult children who are members of a “sandwich generation” deserve a 15-minute standing ovation. Bravo! Bravo! Bravo!

These adults have been grown up for a long time. They may have families and lives of their own and they try to honour their family member as best as they can. These committed people, to whom much respect is due, can feel guilty. They may face conflicts between their many responsibilities and the new role reversal towards their mature family member. Do not despair. I am sure that there have been many joyous exchanges and times with sweet and priceless memories. Hold them dear. Life however is no utopia; it has its share of unhappy periods. When in an unhappy moment being present for the elder is important. In such instances one can learn to listen, to love, to forgive and forget. Being part of the “sandwich generation” is not as easy as eating chicken soup. It is all right to get emotional sometimes. Forgive yourself, treat yourself and take care of your health. If you are providing your best effort, then that will have to do. A family needs strength and love. The support of family, even one person, is worth more than a bag full of shekels and is more powerful than all the mustangs in the world.


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Very Unquiet, Except

Marcia Goldberg

Cold May sabbath approaches and Who thaws the meal for Whom, now, peaceful hours returningwith a small song outside the urban window?That old quartz clock still rocks the rear roomand all the seder plates and cutlery, shelvedin the antique sideboard for another yearwait except the Cos Miriam I made.

That painted cup starts a chain of thoughtsof day's delights, one "shabbat shalom"linking to another, the "still small voice"returns to my inner ear, overrides or slings straighttoday's voice messaging: "All the best! Stay closewith those you call your friends."

Good thing we know this last day of Nisan'sfor the deeper links to Yom Kippur, a timeto think atonement and a time to counton spring and summer plansyou want to follow like an outlineno one gets to mark but Onewith Patience. Baruch shem. The clock snaps,bounces strokes from wall to plastic rim (I cannot see it);Maxmillions, the newest neutered stray, cozies upwhere I've turned up the heat.Upstairs in the six-plex, bared feetrummage on the floorboard where I imagine sense stands piano bench.Two more cats have curled themselvesquite near me. It is a kind of home, herewhere the ficus and the dieffenbachiabranch up bravely, confident of life, and more than thatless tangible, this home goes on with every breath.

What's very good to eat needs but a braisingsince I readied it on Wednesday; work's done,and I have had a nap. The Cos Miriam is filled up to the brim where I have set it,kept full each time I drank from itall week. By choice and by design,the scripts on air waves radioed and televisedwork on other ears than mine.

Count, count, count your blessings, as my father said.The faucet in the bathroom doesn't dripbecause the landlord came this week. There's foodenough, and if there's none to clasp in friendship nowit doesn't mean there won't be even someoneby this time this fall. For now, you know, the shelvesare overstacked with books enough for every purpose,runneth over, if you think of it, --and the soup!It needs but heating with the luscious stews and crusted bread to start the meal,will go right from the center channels out to every limb,a tree of life carried all about with you,new buds tipping every hedge outside, so robust,why shouldn't it be just the same with you? Give it time and empty, all you will, Cos Miriam.The Source will see it all refilled, especially at dusk,May 3 approaching, "pure delight of the beckoning spirit," as Heiddeger might say,even autos slowing down now for the lighting of the candlesand the crystal, ruby, fresh drawn glass of wine.

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Marcia Goldberg teaches in the English Department at Vanier College and is a longtime member of Temple. She is the owner of (or is owned by) several cats and writes poetry.


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Excerpted from the memoir

MY SIX MIRACLES By

Ernest Peter Guter

Immediately after Dunkirk, Winston Churchill personally released an order in council ordering the immediate internment of all males in Great Britain who were holding a German passport. I did not know any of this, but not for long! A friendly plain clothed detective from Scotland Yard called at my boarding house and arrested me. He permitted me to take along my one old large suitcase which held all my belongings, including all my Southampton school books. He transported and surrendered me to my first internment camp, a number of huts and tents underneath and around the grand stand of Kempton

Park, a large race track in the city of London. I guess this was the temporary end of racing there. It certainly was the end of my hard earned freedom for the next two years!

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Our camp commandant convened a meeting of all internees. He told us that Britain was seriously short of food and consumer goods, all of which were needed to keep us. He gave us the choice of three final internment destinations: be taken either to Canada or to Australia or stay in England. However, if we would opt for England, we would not only have to face shortages, but we would also be exposed to all common dangers of war like invasion and air raids. He certainly succeeded in scaring me. Without knowing much of either of the two territorial

destinations, I made my checkmark on Canada. I can honestly say here and now that this country has been good to me and that I have never regretted my choice.

✡

It did not take long. One fine morning I was woken up and given just one hour to get packed and ready. All us hopefully future Canadians were taken by tugboat to a small nearby railroad station on the mainland. Here we waited around under guard for several hours, but were at least fed coffee and sandwiches. Meanwhile I used this chance to sit down and read one of my text books. Sometime later we went by train to a completely empty shed for the night. Again we were fed just like before. There was just absolutely nothing to do than sitting or lying down on the bare floor and try to get some sleep.


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Next morning, we were woken up early. I still felt only half awake and drowsy because of the so very uncomfortable night before. We were marched to a dock side, maybe a mile. There were my two aforementioned liberty ships lying bow to stern. We were lead up the gangway of the nearest ship, the H.M.S. Arandora Star. Just as I was going to step aboard, I noticed that both my hands were empty; I had left my suitcase behind. I stopped right there, yelling at the top of my voice. I refused to budge and held up the whole line behind me. A l ieu tenant came up towards me from the ship and asked what was wrong and I told him. He beckoned a sailor and ordered: “Take this man back to the shed on the double, let him pick up his suitcase and bring him back here. Go, Go”! We did as we were ordered; I found and retrieved my case with all my books, papers and belongings. All was well.

When we returned to the dock, we found the Arandora Star was fully loaded and the remainders of my fellow internees were going up the gang plank of the second liberty ship, the H.M.S. Ettrick and I joined the line. This is how I got on the Ettrick when I should have been on the Arandora Star! The two liberty ships were supposed to enter the Atlantic Ocean together under the protection of a navy frigate or destroyer. H o w e v e r, s o m e h o w w e g o t separated from the other two ships and the Ettrick proceeded alone. Trying successfully to avoid German submarines, we cruised all the way north deep into the Arctic Ocean and then turned back and up the St. L a w r e n c e R i v e r . W e w e r e discharged to Canadian custody in the port of Québec City and for me, a new life began. H.M.S. Arandora Star was torpedoed in the North Sea on her first morning out and sank with all

hands except just one of our boys. He happened to be a champion swimmer. I heard he landed somewhere on the Scottish shore and was promptly re-interned. -- I would never have made it.

✡

I lived a normal life. I tried

but could not save my parents. Seven other very close relatives of mine died in the Holocaust. We, the German Jews were the earliest exposed to Hitlerʼs “Final Solution”, yet our victims formed only a small part the six million. Never should

any of this be forgotten.

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As described in the text, the late Ernst Peter Guter, who died March 22 2009, escaped from Germany following the advent of the Nazis. He at first worked in Britain before successfully making the dangerous crossing to Canada during the War. He is survived by his wife, Ruth.


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Does god live in Ivano-Frankivsk?

Michael Abramson

Wavering voices fill the white-washed room.Mocking symbols of pride: a star, a scroll.The rickety benches lined with a handful of old men, memories stretching back to StanislavovWhen G-d walked the bustling streets, did not hide.Was he gassed and burned with the others?Or did He escape to montreal? Where today the Star is encrusted with gems, the Scroll ornate.Thousands of voices rise to the ceilingBut to who?to Who?

Michael Abramson is the son of David Abramson. He is a part-time poet and a full-time student.

City of Light by Harry Rajchgot


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After 39½ years in the desert, Moses wonders if he should have

checked Google Maps©

Moses in the Desert

Harry Rajchgot

“Moses.” Moses lowered his alert eyes away from the crests of the surrounding hills, where he expected the desert jackals to be, waiting for him to be distracted by the moaning of the heated wind. This was another one of those moments. He chose to disregard the misattributed voice. This was surely an illusion. His eyes returned to the hills and the openings of the wadis. His sheep ignored him and continued in their chewing of the scrubby plants filling this low point of land. His thoughts flowed back to Egypt and the palace. He stared down at his rough cloak and wondered where he may have gone wrong. “Moses.”

Moses lost his thoughts of past mistakes. He turned his head and saw a red flame in the midst of his flock. The sheep were milling about, becoming increasingly agitated, and he had difficulty making out the source of the fire. “Moses!” The voice was insistent. “Come closer.” “Excuse me?” “Finally, he responds! Do I have to give you a slap on the back of your hairy head to get your attention?” “Who is speaking?” “So you don’t know? Come on, I’ll give you a hint: I am that I am.” Moses stared at the bush which he now saw was the source of the flames. “I am that I am? What does that mean?” “Okay, Moses, it’s Me, G-d.” “Oy. And look how I’m dressed! Do I have time to shower, get a haircut, and change to my best cloak, at least?” “Forget it, Moses. I don’t care about that. Don’t get the tea and cookies out either. This is important.” “Huh?” “And take off those shoes. This is holy ground.” “That’s what Zipporah always tells me: Don’t come into my tent like that! Take off your shoes. What’s wrong with my shoes?” “If you haven’t figured it out by now, I’m not going to make you smarter. Just take them off.” “Look, G-d, as you can see, I’m a little busy making a living. My sheep will wander, or get eaten by foxes and wolves.”

“Moses, you’re head is so hard and your neck so stiff. What am I going to do with you? Just come here and shut up.” Moses realized that this was going to be no walk in the park. He slipped out of his sandals. A dead scorpion fell out. ‘No wonder my feet were hurting all this time,’ he thought, ‘that does feel better.’ “So what do you want from me?” “I want you to go back to Egypt and free your people.” “You’re kidding, right?” “Do I ever kid? Do I look like I have a sense of humour?” “Well, you did invent a few crazy animals. And I don’t have to remind you about the birds and the bees. Now that’s funny!” “So I’m not perfect. Sue me. Anyway, don’t change the subject. I want you to go back to Egypt.” “But I left there for a good reason.” “You killed a man.” “Yes.” “Isn’t that a sin?” “Yes. But you haven’t seen the Commandments yet. How do you know that?” “Isn’t it me who’s writing the 5 Books of Moses? It does have my name on it, you know.” “Sure, but it looks like you’re getting ahead of yourself, or me.” “So I get away with it?” “Let’s say you plea-bargained and I forgive you.” “It’s not you I’m so worried about. It’s Pharoah. He’s not such a pushover.”

Harry Rajchgot 2009


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“Look, just go. Don’t worry so much. I’ll help you. I’ll be at your side. Anyway, he forgot about that a long time ago. And soon he’ll have other things to think about.” “Oh, good. But don’t You hear my voice. I have this speech impediment, remember.” “So?” “So the Pharoah won’t understand what I say. He’ll laugh at me.” “So take your brother Aron. He’ll speak for you.” “‘So take your brother Aron.’ Easy for You to say, but You don’t know how shy he is.” “Moses, I know everything. Enough of this mishugass. Just go and do it.” So Moses got ready for his return to the palace of the Pharoah. “You don’t have a nice suit, maybe?” Zipporah asked him. “This is no way to greet the Pharoah.”

“Oy” was all Moses could answer. After arguing with G-d, he had no energy for doing the same with his wife. Zipporah could see he was determined and backed off. At least, she thought, she wasn’t going along, so she wouldn’t need to find a new outfit. “Just don’t ask the Pharoah here, Moses. I don’t want to bring the housemaidens back to clean the tent. And I have nothing to wear.” “So, okay, I won’t issue an invitation.” By this, Zipporah was mollified. She packed him a good lunch and some warm socks and he picked up his favourite staff and walked off in the direction of the pyramids. He only turned once to wave goodbye.

✡

Harry Rajchgot has been here before.Moses splitting the waters of the Red Sea- aerial view (courtesy Google Earth©)

-design by The Glue Society


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David Abramson Zav Levinson

Dr Harry Rajchgot

Rabbi Leigh Lerner’s Discretionary Fund

Editors

Zav Levinson

Harry Rajchgot

Illustrations and photographs:

David Abramson Cheryl Everett

Harry Rajchgot

Marc Da Silva Leonardo da Vinci The Glue Society, Australia

Our sincere thanks go to

Steve Birnam

Charles Schulman

for their help with design and placement of Harvest-Ha’Asif on the Temple Emanu-El-Beth Sholom web page, >www.templemontreal.ca<

and to Anita Bensabat Temple Program Director

Brian Grant Temple President

Rabbi Leigh Lerner

for their energetic support, advice, and generosity with their time.

photo courtesy Marc Da Silva

In appreciation of the supporters of Harvest-Ha’Asif

Submissions for the next edition of Harvest-Ha'Asif can be made at any time c/o Anita Bensabat at the Temple office or, preferably, by e-mail to:

[email protected]

A small number of copies of earlier editions of Harvest-Ha'Asif are still available, for those who may have missed one or more. For anyone wishing to receive a copy, please contact us at the same e-mail address and we will try to fulfil your request. The current issue, and soon, previous issues, will be found on the Temple website.



mailto:[email protected]

mailto:[email protected]

harvest-haasif 2010

Documents

gates of harvest

happy harvest

history of temple emanu

temple members

persistent editors

human editors

stalwart editors

temples literary journal