Harvest-HaAsif 2011

HArvest-HAasif!! Temple Emanu-El-Beth Sholomʼs Literary Anthology

writing:

Michael Abramson

Beverly Akerman

Marcel Braitstein

Irving Epstein

Marsha Goldberg

Margie Golick

Zav Levinson

David Mizrahi

Harry Rajchgot Wendy Reichental

Vivianne M. Silver

Taya Winitsky

Sophia Wolkowicz

photos and art:

Jean-Louis Filion

Niamh Leonard

Harry Rajchgot

Sophia Wolkowicz

SIXTH EDITION 5772-2011

HArvest-HAasif

CONTENTS Sixth EDITION5772--2011

Words from the editors! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 1

Margie golick! ! ! ! eighty! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 2

Beverly akerman! ! ! tumbalalaika! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 3

zav levinson! ! ! ! Halflife! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 10

irving epstein! ! ! ! israel! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 11

Sophia wolkowicz! ! ! montreal (First impression)! ! ! ! ! ! ! 14

vivianne m. silver ! ! ! bach and mrs. berko!! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 15

Sophia wolkowicz! ! ! spiritual renewal (montreal exodus)! ! ! ! ! 16

marcel braitstein! ! ! the immutable soul of stones! ! ! ! ! ! ! 17

david mizrahi! ! ! ! le cadeau de nasser (un excerpt)! ! ! ! ! ! 18

michael abramson ! ! ! the sombre trees! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 22

WENDY REICHENTHAL! ! ! YIDDISHE MAMA AND LANDRY EXPOSED!! ! ! ! ! 23

michael abramson ! ! ! god grips dice, grid on the heavens ! ! ! ! ! ! 24

taya winitsky! ! ! ! our roots!! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 25

Marcia Goldberg! ! ! reordering trains! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 30

Harry Rajchgot! ! ! Dreams! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 31

Harvest-HaAsif! ! Temple Emanu-El-Beth Sholomʼs Literary Anthology! Sixth Edition! ! Succoth 5772-2011

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Dear readers,

In planning this edition of Harvest-HaAsif, we decided it was time to reach out to individual writers in the greater Jewish community. As a first step along this path, participation was solicited from two synagogues, chosen arbitrarily – Shaare Zedek and Dorshei Emet. The first fruits of this effort were not long in coming. We are delighted to present, in the current edition, a story by Beverly Akerman of Dorshei Emet congregation, entitled Timbalalaika. This story is from her recently published book of short stories The Meaning of Children, which has drawn a strong favourable response in media across the country. It is the goal of HaAsif to stimulate writing by offering a vehicle in which writers and readers may meet. We hope that you will feel as we do that by reaching out to sister congregations around the city and perhaps beyond, we can enrich the reading and writing experience the anthology supports.

We are very pleased to welcome other first time contributors to our fold. We have a charmingly amusing poem by Margie Golick, written on the occasion of her eightieth birthday. We have three thoughtful poems by Michael Abramson who, at 19 years of age, is perhaps the youngest contributor we have yet had the good fortune to publish. For the first time, we are also including a memoir in French by David Mizrahi, originally published in this anthology in English in 2006.

We hope soon to be able to have Harvest-HaAsif available online and accessible via a link on the Temple website. This will perhaps broaden its audience and increase the number and quality of work offered in this publication. This edition, we believe, meets (and perhaps surpasses, but that is for you to judge) the bar we have set with the five earlier editions. In these pages you will find an eclectic mix of memoir, poetry and fiction covering a wide range of subjects. We hope, as always, that there is something that pleases, and perhaps even inspires you. If that be so then the effort that has gone into bringing this anthology to you will have been worthwhile.

Somehow images, literal or photographic, of staircases and ladders, have seeded themselves throughout this issue. It is hard to explain their origin, and yet, they symbolize something important in the Jewish story, ascent, aliyah. May it be so! Amen!

So turn the page and enjoy!

Zav LevinsonHarry RajchgotEditors


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I always thought when I turned eight-ohI’d find myself as wise as PlatoI’d rank myself among the sagesAnd spout the wisdom of the agesA light bulb of a thousand wattsWould light up from my lofty thoughts80 - a time for introspectionWould show that I had reached perfection

I’d follow Buddha on his pathKnow calculus and higher mathI’d be fit, not soft or flabbyOf genial spirits, never crabbyMy swing at golf would be a menaceI’d kill at bridge, excel at tennisAnd though I’d bloomed a little lateI’d snowboard, kayak, ski and skate

I’d shine in the domestic artsLike sewing seams and baking tartsThey’d line up for my homemade cakesAnd burgers barbecued, and steaks.And I would make a lukshen koogelAs good as you could find on Google.

I’d cook Asian and ItalianAnd know a shallot from a scallionDress salads with a fine balsamicTo eat at leisure in my hammock

I’d at last be organized and neatI’d have learned to fold a contour sheetAnd mop a floor and press a shirtAnd make things shine and vanquish dirt

I’d know my art from Arp to DadaAnd fashion mavens – Dior and PradaAnd languages intensely taughtI’d end up as a polyglotHebrew, Yiddish, French and GreekAre just a few that I would speak

Exotic gardens filled with cactusAnd music? Practice practice practiceUntil the day I got the callTo debut in Carnegie HallThose djembe players would want me with’emAnd never say, “You got no rhythm!”

At 80 (I thought) there’d be no apologyFor my short fall in technologyComputer, cell phone, MP3Would be as easy as ABCNor would I be inviting stressIf I got TIVO, and GPS

But here I am – I’ve reached four scoreNo wishful thinking anymoreI never was and never willBe competent and cool like JillWhat I see is what I amAnd frankly, (my dears), I don’t give a damn

I’m no jock, I suck at bridgeNo home made goodies in my fridgeI hardly ever use my ovenI hate to garden, still can’t dovenI’ll never learn to light a fireAnd sure as heck, can’t change a tire

.My failings are certainly not geneticSo my kids are not too sympatheticIf I need them to reset the clockThey tell me “Mother, Read the Doc”Danny, an expert like no otherWhen asked for help says, “ask my brother”

My computer, MP3 and cellMake Jody’s life a living hellAnd when our schedules fail to meshI’m forced to contact Bangladesh

They think that I’m some kind of crackpotThank god for grandkids – I hit the jackpotFor everything that I’m inept atThey’re amazingly adept atThey’re more than just some pretty facesTheir awesome skills have made them aces Computers, cameras, kayaks - wow!These guys have got the goods and how!They sing, they dance, they act they paintThey are all the things I ain’t

That’s why today we celebrate My DNA is doing great!

!

Eighty ! by Margie Golick!


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! If I’m sleeping when the arguing starts, their voices will get louder and louder till they break into my dreams. It happened again last night. I woke up and lay there, listening in the dark. Maybe I should have been afraid but I wasn’t. For one thing, they never yelled at us kids, and for another, it happened so often that I’d grown used to it. Besides, I learned a lot when they fought. My sister Lisa was awake too, standing in her crib, fingers in her mouth, eyes shiny and round as marbles. I got out of bed and walked down the hallway to see what was going on this time.! They were standing in the small dining area, spitting distance apart, leaning toward each other, their faces angry and pink. They made a shape almost like a heart, broken at the bottom and lopsided because my mother was about a foot shorter than my dad. She was pretty, green-eyed with freckles and dark curly hair she said had turned to straw since she had children. She wore black slacks and a royal blue cashmere sweater, her favourite, bought before she quit working to have us kids. Those were the days, she would say, when she spent a hundred dollars on a pair of shoes without batting an eyelash. She was slowly ruining that sweater in the washing machine; she couldn’t afford to dry clean it.! My dad raised his hairy fist to his chin. He’d been on the YMHA boxing team before they were married.

TumbalalaikaBy Beverly Akerman

! “Keep it up, Andrea,” he said, shaking his fist at her, “just you keep it up.”! “What are you going to do, hit me?” my mother shouted back. She pointed a finger in my direction. “Karen’s standing right there.”! My dad turned his head and locked eyes with me, then hauled off and smashed his fist through the white wall beside them. There was a loud crash and then a very round, dark hole. I ran and jumped back into bed, telling Lisa she better lie down, too.! What shocked me most was that a wall could be so thin. I always imagined they were rock-hard. Solid brick, all the way through.! So today, when he said we were going to Chomedey to see our new house and my mother said no, we would just go to look at the flat and they’d make their decision later, I was pretty sure no matter what she said, we’d be moving into that house or flat, whatever that was. My dad was much bigger and louder, with black hair, not just on his head but all over, even on the backs of his hands. He had brown eyes and reddish sideburns. He let me stack his coins at the poker games he played on Saturday afternoons.! My mother was desperate to leave Montreal for the suburbs, where she said kids had the space to run around and make noise. She made it sound like so much fun, as though we’d be yelling and roaring and banging on pots with wooden spoons all the time, like in Where the Wild Things Are.


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She was sneaky that way. Until she said that about the noise, I felt pretty awful about moving. We’d lived in the apartment on Cote Saint Catherine Road since before I was born. Of course I thought it was perfect: it was the only home I’d ever known. Across the street was a big park, its swings set in the trees, like the middle of a forest, so you could swing in the cool shade instead of baking in the sun all the time. If you wanted to bake, there was the sandbox. The playground also had a twisting line of cement tubes, the ones at either end decorated with red wood like an engine and a caboose, so together the whole thing looked like a train, and a wading pool. My mother didn’t like the pool. She said she was afraid of water because she never learned to swim. I think maybe she was also afraid of germs from all the other kids, but she didn’t like us to know it.! On the corner of our block was an apartment building with two cement lions on either side of the front steps. Whenever we rode on them, my mother always stood right next to my sister, in case she fell off. Lisa was a daredevil climber, part monkey, my mother would say. Once we found her on top of a book shelf as tall as my dad. Lisa was too young to be afraid but my mother said it was fear that makes you careful, so it was her job to be afraid for Lisa.

! I also liked living around the corner from my grandparents. I visited them almost every day. My Bubby always had ginger ale in her fridge and bright coloured hard candies in a heavy crystal dish on the coffee table in the living room. My Zaida would pick me up and hug me. “Mamashayne,” he would say – little mother – and then he’d kiss one spot on my cheek three times – “muh, muh, muh!” Their street had just had a name change, from Maplewood to Edouard Montpetit. My mother said the new name was part of a plot to erase all the English from Montreal. My dad said, “Andrea,” in that way he had – as though her name was really much longer – whenever she said something he didn’t like.! My mother said we had to move because the apartment was getting too small; sometimes she’d joke that we were getting too big. But I really thought we were moving to get away from my grandparents. My mother was always saying they were too close. I thought that was funny, because they were her parents.! Sometimes my parents argued about this, too. “She’s so domineering. It’s not enough that we come to her for Shabbos dinner every Friday, but when we can’t, she makes me send you over to pick up the food,” my mother complained. My dad would tell her Bubby was just trying to do something

nice for her, so my mother would have less work, not having to make supper on Fridays – usually chicken soup, roast chicken, store-bought varenikas and canned wax beans, with canned pears or home-made fruit cake for dessert – but my mother would shake her head and say, “You don’t know her. All my life she’s been telling me what to do. You don’t know what it costs me, every time I have to take anything from her.”! Our car was a new black Pontiac Stratochief with red seats and a shiny black steering wheel. There was a chrome Indian in a big headdress stuck on the door to the glove compartment. It was only May, just starting to get hot, though the car was steaming inside from sitting on the street in the sun, all closed up. I rolled down my window and looked through the hot breeze, searching for rare license plates from other provinces. Our license plates used to say la belle province which means “the beautiful province” in French. Now they read Je me souviens. That means “I remember.” “I remember what?” my mother asked, first time she saw them. Then she answered her own question: “I remember how great it was here before the English came.” I don’t know why she was always so mad about it; we weren’t even English. We were Jewish.


5

When my sister fell asleep in her car seat right away, instead of bugging me the whole time the way she usually did, I thought the ride there wouldn’t be too bad. We drove down Decarie to Laurentian Boulevard, past Canadair (a factory that made planes), and a field that made me think of the Emerald City from The Wizard of Oz. On this field, black men in the whitest short-sleeved shirts, long pants and shoes I ever saw played a game called cricket. My dad said it was like baseball. I thought it was a babyish name for a game played by adults. Then there was about fifteen minutes of stopping and going, because they were fixing the bridge. Chomedey was so far away, it was on a different island. To get there, we had to go over the back river. I wanted to know if there were any beaches we could go to on the back river. My dad said the water was too dirty to swim in. He pressed on the horn and said, “In this province, there are only two seasons: winter and road work.” Then he started singing his favourite song, a Yiddish love song, “Tumbala, tumbala, tumbalalaika … ”! By the time we got over the bridge, I was nauseous. I took after my dad that way. Before every long trip, like to the mountains we called ‘up north,’ to the drive-in at Plattsburgh, or going camping at Lake George, he would tell us that whenever he went on a drive as a kid, he brought along

two empty apple juice cans – one for the way there, the other for the way back. He’s better now, but maybe only because he’s the driver. Of course, I was too young to drive. I had no choice but to feel sick, but only sometimes. He used to get sick every time. But he’d always bring an empty apple juice can along for me. Just in case.! After almost an hour’s drive, we finally arrived. I opened the door, hopped out, and threw myself down on the ground. This lawn didn’t look anything like the cricket field. This Chomedey lawn was full of thick, sharp blades of grass, yellow dandelions, and cracked brown bald spaces. The sky was blue, edged with white. There was a very young tree, just planted, still tied to a wooden stick that my mother told me later was there to make sure it grew up straight. “Sort of like a parent,” I said. She laughed. “Like a parent, except that stick didn’t make the tree. A seed did.”! She said this kind of house was called a duplex, two houses stuck together, one on top of the other.“Which part’s for us?” I asked.“The upstairs,” my dad said.“Maybe,” said my mother.“Andrea,” my dad said, making her name sound very long.


6

! I used my arm to shield my eyes from the sun, waiting for my stomach to figure out we’d stopped moving. Sometimes that took a while. Meantime my parents rang the bell of the bottom half of the duplex and the landlord came out. His name was Benny Laxer. He was a dentist and a friend of my uncle the accountant, the youngest of my dad’s seven brothers and sisters and the only one who went to university. My mother’s favourite sister had also gone to university but after two years my grandparents told her they wouldn’t pay for it any more so she had to go to teachers’ college instead. She was still mad at them. So was my mother, and not just for that. My dad never even got to high school. He quit school to help his parents make ends meet when he was twelve years old.! Benny Laxer was almost as tall as my dad but looked more like a basketball player than a boxer. He had light brown hair and thick glasses and a son, my uncle told us, who needed regular operations to remove skin that grew between his fingers like webbing. I wondered: if they stopped cutting it off, would it make him a better swimmer?! Benny Laxer shook my dad’s hand and said hi to my mother; she was holding Lisa on her hip. Sleepy Lisa had

her fingers in her mouth and her head on our mother’s shoulder. After a few more minutes, I got up, took my dad’s hand and made him bend over so I could whisper in his ear I felt better.“These girls been to the dentist recently?” Benny Laxer asked my mother.“No,” she said.“You should bring them to my office sometime for a check up. The little one go to sleep with a bottle?”“No, never,” my mother said.“Do you live here?” I asked.! He bent over and put his hands on his knees to talk to me. “No, honey, I don’t live here. I have my own house about a mile away. I’m just here to show you the flat.”“What’s so flat about it?”“Hmm?”“Karen, stop bothering Dr. Laxer,” my dad ordered.! They left me with that puzzle of a word. I knew better than to ask my mother about it right then; the grownups didn’t want to bother with us kids any more than they had to while they were trying to figure things out. My parents were trying to decide whether they should really rent this place because there were nicer suburbs closer to my dad’s work. Chomedey was the cheapest but it was also the furthest. I learned this from

their arguments. Benny Laxer was maybe trying to decide if we would be good to rent to. A couple without children might be better: no dropping things down the toilet to see what would happen, no crayoning the walls, or swinging on the doors for fun, say. But who would move out here, to the middle of nowhere, as my mother put it, unless it was for the good of the children? Benny Laxer knew our family. Because of this, he probably thought we’d be sure to pay the rent on time, that we wouldn’t duck out in the middle of the night leaving the place a mess. That was why we were supposed to be getting a good deal on the rent. My mother wasn’t so sure.! I knew where she’d rather be: New York City, where her favourite sister lived. Sometimes, she told her sister on the phone, she couldn’t understand how she ended up stuck in Montreal, married to this gorilla and with two little girls. “Shall I draw you a diagram?” my aunt would say. One night when my aunt was visiting Montreal, they sat with a bottle of wine on the table and said that expression again and again – “Shall I draw you a diagram?” or “Shall I paint you a picture?” Then they laughed and laughed.


7

We all went up the grey stairs and Benny Laxer unlocked the turquoise door – most of the duplexes on the street had their doors and balconies painted white or brown or turquoise – and led us inside. The staircase was steep and dark, but once we were up there it was very bright. The rooms looked large and airy, with windows filling a wall in every one of them. The walls were white. Benny Laxer said he just had them plastered and painted. I put my hands on them. They felt very cool and smooth. My mother saw this and hissed at me to keep my hands to myself. So then I touched them only when she wasn’t looking.! There wasn’t a curtain or a stick of furniture in the place. This made it look larger; maybe when we got all our furniture in, it would be too crowded, my mother said. I looked at her. We weren’t supposed to lie but I wasn’t sure she really meant this. Did she say it just to make Benny Laxer think she didn’t like the place? Was she trying to let my dad know “who’s the boss?” This was another thing they fought about. Sometimes they called it “who wears the pants in this family.” To me, this was a bit of a mystery. Because they both wore pants.! The bathroom was my favourite of the six rooms (our apartment only had four). It had square white tiles framed by

black rectangular ones, a white toilet and tub, and a large thick light fixture like a giant throat lozenge on the wall with the sink, just above the mirror. What made it my favourite though was the colour on the walls, a deep, almost violent pink. All the rooms in our apartment were white. This was the most beautiful, vibrant room I had ever seen. When I saw that bathroom, I secretly switched allegiance to my dad’s point of view.! A door in the kitchen opened onto a curvy black metal staircase that led down to the backyard. It was the kind of staircase that might take you to the dungeon of a fairy-tale castle. The stairs were made of metal slats with gaps between them. When I looked down, I saw the grass through the gaps, far, far below. I grabbed for the railing. It was the first time I realized I was afraid of heights.! Benny Laxer led the way, and we clanged all the way down. My mother let Lisa onto the grass. Lisa immediately started climbing along the steps on the outside of the railing.! “You can use the yard anytime,” Benny Laxer said. “I just planted a clematis by the fence and a lilac bush on the side there.” He walked over to point it out.

! My dad turned to my mother, put a hand on her back and in a quiet voice said, “You love lilacs.” She looked at the tiny bush, shadowed by the staircase. It was no more than a few twigs and leaves, really. “Probably years before there’ll be any flowers. Not enough sun,” she said. Then she walked away from him and plucked Lisa off the stairs, saying, “Come back here, you.”! As we were leaving, Benny Laxer said, “Better let me know soon if you’re interested. There’s a couple more families coming over this afternoon to take a look.”“We’re going to see some other places, too. We’ll think about it and let you know,” my mother said. My dad opened his mouth like he wanted to add something, but then he thought better of it.! I looked carefully the whole time but I never figured out what was so flat about the duplex. Only the walls and floors, far as I could see. But these were flat in our apartment, too.! The arguing started as soon as the car doors were shut and the car had left the curb. “We have to let him know today,” my dad said. “We should have told him we’d take it right then and there, left him a deposit before one of those other families does.”


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! “Don’t you fall for his malarkey. He’s just trying to put the pressure on,” my mother said. It kept going from there: Chomedey was too far, Saint Laurent almost as bad, Cote Saint Luc too expensive, and we couldn’t stay in Cote des Neiges because my mother had to get away from her mother. My dad kept insisting this flat was perfect. ! “Why don’t we see what the kids think,” he said. “Karen?”! “I liked it.”! “Lisa?”! “She’s three years old. Surely you’re not going to let a three-year-old make this decision?” my mother said. “And what about the neighbours downstairs, you forgot to ask about them,” she added. “What if they hate children, or have a big dog? Maybe they’re the type that plays loud music all night long.”! “Why didn’t you ask, then? Why is everything always my fault?”! “Who said that? I never said that.”! “You never say it but you blame me for everything.”! “That’s because you wear the pants in this family,” my mother said. My dad reached forward to snap on the radio and they didn’t say another word to each other the rest of the way home.

! That night, I dreamt the walls in our apartment were covered with holes. Green and brown snakes poured out, wriggling their way down and along the floor toward my bedroom. My only escape was out the window and onto a twisty black metal staircase. I was afraid of going but more afraid to stay so I stepped through the window and began running down the stairs. Suddenly, the staircase started rocking from side to side and changing shape, shooting up to the sky one minute, then rushing back down to the ground the next. I held tight to the railing with both hands and screamed and screamed.! For once, it was my screaming that woke my parents up. My mother came to see what was wrong and took me back to their bed. I lay there between them for a long time before I calmed down enough to go back to my own bed.Next morning, as usual, my dad had left for work by the time I got up. My mother was pouring Frosted Flakes in a bowl when she announced we were moving to Chomedey after all.! “To Benny Laxer’s flat?” I asked.! She said, “Uh-huh.” “What about the park?”! “There’s a nice park named after John F. Kennedy we can walk to,” she said.


9

! “Does it have a pool?”! “We’ll get our own pool, set it up in the back yard, maybe share it with the neighbours.” She poured on the milk and put the bowl and a spoon on the table in front of me. “Eat your cereal before it gets soggy.”! “What about the neighbours? Do they have a big dog?”! “They have two daughters and a son, no dog. Dr. Laxer says they’re very nice.”! “Don’t you fall for his malarkey,” I said. Quick as snake bite, she slapped my face, once on each side.! “You don’t talk to me like that, young lady,” she said.! I tried my hardest not to cry. My cheeks stung; I imagined her red handprints burned into them. I picked up a spoonful of cereal and put it in my mouth. It tasted like sand.! I looked over at the spot in the hallway where the hole had been. The super had come by to plaster it over, but that just covered it up. I knew it was still there, and now I knew what lay behind it.

!


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In my dream

I stand at the front door of my parents’ house

My house for 15 childhood years

15 years that passed unnoticed by me until they were gone.

HALFLIFE by Zav Levinson

The old house still beckons to me and I respond

There is the short hallway into the kitchen

You can see our back yard through the kitchen window

And out over our fence to the playground beyond, my second home.

Ah yes, here is the vestibule mirror

It is a striking piece of decorative wrought iron, with a mirror and a glass shelf set into the ironwork

The hallway, straight ahead, opens onto the living room on the right

And onto a small stairway opposite, that leads half a flight up to the bedrooms

I never noticed before how light from the living room

Casts long, arching shadows over the hallway ceiling that slant down the walls

And bend out along the carpeted floor to the foot of the stairway.

Strange feelings argue inside me

Dread lurks on the edge of my consciousness but a sense of expectation fills me with excitement

This house is as familiar to me as my skin

I have always been greeted with joy and pleasure at this door

Warmth and comfort will enfold me like a magic shroud and shut out the ephemeral world.

I strain to catch any errant sound

Will I hear my mother’s voice

Will she wave from the kitchen

Or is she asleep upstairs in her bedroom

Lately she often sleeps during the day

She has been ill

I am frozen at the door

I dare not step inside

The silence chills me.

Foolish boy, why do you forget?

There is no one here anymore.


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ISRAEL

Irving Epstein

I had the great honor and privilege of traveling to Israel with the March of the Living group of 2004. We went to Israel after a week in Poland, a week filled with seeing, for ourselves, what we had learned in our studies about the Holocaust. The sun was not up yet when we were on our final approach to land at Tel Aviv Airport. I said the Shehehiyanu as we landed. I felt such pride. Before this trip, I had looked on Israel as a place somewhere over there. After all, I was born in Montreal, after the birth of the State of Israel, Eretz Yisrael. Yet I felt I was home. When we got off the plane, there was much dancing and a happy feeling. I don’t know if the joy was more due to being in Israel, or out of Poland. It had been an emotionally hard week for all of us. It was time to get on the buses and drive to Jerusalem. After the unappealing Polish breakfasts, we were all looking forward to a tasty morning meal in Israel. In Jerusalem, we went straight to the Haas Promenade. Our guide asked us to place our right hand on the shoulder of the person in front of us and close our eyes, then we were led in and told to open our eyes. We were thrilled that there in front of us stood the great wall which we had seen in so many pictures. It was time to pray the morning service. As it turned out, it was both the new month of Iyar, and also the yahrzeit for my mother, Bella Weinberg, of blessed memory.

It was very special to be able to recite the kaddish at the wall in memory of my mother. At the breakfast at Ramat Rachel, we saw cheese for the first time in a week, as we got no cheese in Poland. Then we visited Vad Yashem, but not long enough to see all that we wanted, as we were shortly off to Massada, where we took the cable car to the top. Massada was great to see but the history of the place left a bad taste in my mouth. King Herod built the fortress. Here, in 73 C.E., Jewish defenders killed themselves, rather than submitting to Roman rule. I see it as the wrong choice for them to make. We, as Jews, are taught to choose life. At one time I.D.F. would have their service men and women take their oath there, but I am happy that they no longer do it there. After the visit, we walked down to the buses. It was more than a walk but less than a climb. We drove to the Bedouin Tent in Kfar Nokdim, where we would bed down for the night. It was an enjoyable afternoon with camel rides in the desert. We were invited into the tent for the best tea I ever had. I could go on and on in praise of that tea. I can still taste it now. For dinner, there was plate after plate of tasty things to eat. We ate Bedouin style, sitting on the floor of the tent. Our hosts played drums to entertain us. At this point, though, after a flight from Poland and a full day in Israel, what I was looking for was a nice shower and a place to rest my head.


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The second day in Israel was on Friday. We left the desert and hiked at Ein Avdat. Everyone came down the hill in one piece, then visited the graves of David and Paula Ben Gurion. We then went to the shopping center in Beersheva. Each entrance had a guard checking people who walked in. Cars were checked, trunks was opened and searched. As we arrived in buses, we walked in from the street. Many took the opportunity to eat at Burger King, as in Israel it is kosher. We came upon two McDonald restaurants at either side of a mall. Why the two? One is open on Shabbat and the other is not. So the one open on Shabbat, although the food is the same in both, is not deemed kosher. On the bus again, we headed to our hotel in Jerusalem. In Poland, every bus ride would take us three hours to get to where we were going. Here in Israel, our trips took half an hour. Once checked in we got ready for Shabbat. Then off to the Southern wall and Tefila at the Kotel. We enjoyed the beautiful night on a nice walk back to our hotel. It was time for bed and we appreciated our rest. Shabbat morning services were held at the hotel and after breakfast we had free time. A couple of friends who had moved to Israel visited me at the hotel, as for security reasons we were not allowed to venture out on our own. It gave us a chance to get caught up on what was going on since they left Montreal for Israel. Another friend, from Haifa, had his congregation to take care of and was unable to get to Jerusalem. I plan to go back and visit him. In the afternoon, we toured the Jewish Quarter. Despite a fine mist and some rain, nothing could keep us down. We had Sueda Shlisheet and then Havdalah in the

Jewish Quarter, then off to Kibbutz Ramat Rachel for dinner, a bazaar, and a party. There were so many people there. We got to meet and talk to many from other groups and to get to know some of our own group better. Sunday was upon us. We drove north on Highway 6. We were given an overview of the security fence. On our bus, there were many opinions on its validity and importance. After a picnic lunch and a hike on Mount Arbel, we went to separate beaches to swim and relax on the Kinneret. We spent the night at Kibbutz Ein Gev. That evening was Erev Yom HaZikaron (Remembrance Day Eve) and we had Tekes and stopped for the siren. We then continued with the program. It was hard to listen to the stories and we shared tears. Monday was another full day. It was Yom HaZikaron-Leila Yom HaAtzmaut. Another great breakfast. The bus took us to the Golan Heights, where from atop Mount Bental we could almost touch Syria. When the traditional Yom Hazikaron sirens sounded, our driver stopped the bus along with all the other vehicles on the highway. All disembarked and stood silently on the side of the road until the sirens ended. In Levi Forest each of us was given a tree sapling to plant. When I went to UTT we would buy leaves and stick them on a picture of a tree. The money we gave for the leaves became money to plant trees in Israel. It gave me great pleasure to plant a tree with my own hands here in Israel. We drove south to Latrun for the Leila Yom HaAtzmaut ceremony. Israel was going through hard times and the mood was that of sorrow. It is hard to lose a loved one and when it is in time of war, the loss of life is mourned by all.


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That evening we changed the mood and went to Mini Israel for a festive dinner and a party. We got everyone up early the next morning for breakfast at the hotel. They sure put out a g r e a t - l o o k i n g , t a s t y breakfast. With my limited Hebrew, I tried to explain to a puzzled waitress who we all were and what we were doing there. The Mount Herzl Military Cemetery was our next stop. In 1949 it was decided to place a cemetery there for national figures and fallen IDF solders. Police officers and other security force personnel are now buried there too. Next stop was a IDF Army Base where we got to visit with the soldiers stationed there, young men and women who guard and fight for Israel. Many, I should say most, of the girls enjoyed the attention they were getting from these 19-year-old young men. We all climbed on a huge tank and had our picture taken. The plan called for us to have our program summary on t h e b e a c h o n t h e Mediterranean, but we had spent too long at the army base, so we had it there.

For our last event in Israel we went to Chavat R o n i t f o r d i n n e r a n d shopping. In a huge room, we met March of the Living people from around the world who, like us, had just finishing their stay in Israel. Then we said our goodbyes and headed for the airport. After a very long check-in and security check we were set free to shop at the airport shops. I was off to add to my growing collection of coffee mugs from around the world. I found only one sitting by itself on a shelf, and when I picked it up, I saw that it had a chip in it. I didn’t buy it. This gave me another reason to return to Israel. Just after midnight, our plane took off. Stopping only to refuel at Rome airport, we flew on to Montreal. It was nice to be back home. I had the experience of a lifetime on this trip. As an educator, through the eyes of these great young people, I was also able to get a different angle on the events we saw and the history we were able to be witness.

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14

Wet autumn leaves hid the signon the panel truckSt.Viateur’s window overlookedrats flitting across gravel rooftops and sale flyersswirling in the lane below.Across the street, a blue light flickeredfrom the television in the Chinese laundry.It wasn’t what I imagined.The first of the month meant moving, in Montreal.The corner stores displayed the contentsof our suitcase and no baked treats had English names. Staccato rumbling of foreign tongues wafted through walls grayed from acrid smoke.It wasn’t what I imagined:This city has steep outdoor stairwellswith additional flights upfrom behind those doorsIn Montreal, moving meanstrudging up those steps withmismatched chairs and enamel coated roasting pans.November morning, crows flock on barren branchesBy spring, debris turns into a nesting home.It wasn’t what I imaginedThose vertical moving seasons-Those first streets where my parentsheld hands in hope, careful not to stumble on new words and phrases.Each step, a decade, dwarfing them until their journey could fit intoone sidewalk section.Jackhammers and scaffoldsSurround the facades of transient placesbut leave intact that first impressionThe first of the month means moving, in Montreal andit’s never what you imagine.

!

Montreal (First Impression) Sophia Wolkowicz


15

BACH and MRS. BERKO

Vivianne M. Silver

As I walked by the Music Room, the sound of my favorite Bach Prelude, called out to me. I gingerly open the door so as not to disturb the piano player. It turned out to be an elderly woman. A bit portly, dressed in loose-fitting clothes and comfortable slippers. Her long, salt and pepper hair was pinned high on top of her head. Huge reading glasses were perched on her nose. It was however her hands moving swiftly and nimbly across the piano board that captivated my attention. She stopped playing when she saw me and called out: “Come in, come in –I’m almost finished for the day.” A lover of piano music, I could not resist the invitation. So, I sat down andlistened to Mrs. Berko play Bach. That was the moment that sealed our five year relationship. Ever since the onset of my gradual retirement from a forty plus years of a teaching career, I had begun to prepare myself for the day when I would no longer return to the classroom. Going back to studying the piano, after more than a four score and ten interlude, was part of my Plan B. So, for last the few years, I had the opportunity to be in an adult retirement setting during the winter season. Not wanting to lose whatever I had learned, I would reserve the Music Room a couple of times a week in order to practice. That is how Mrs. Berko came into my life. Her practice sessions usually preceded mine. That is how I would have the opportunity to sit and to hear her play Bach and only Bach. All of his preludes, his fugues, his concertos, etc…Not one of his compositions escaped her faithful interpretation. Looking at her aged, gnarled fingers, one would never guess that such beautiful music could still be played that way.

It was a manifestation of pure passion. Mrs. Berko would often say to me that Bach wasthe reason she got up in the morning. She said that she couldn’t wait to dress and to shuffle her way to the Music Room in order to spend a couple of hours with the presentLove of her life. For me, it was inspirational! Mrs. Berko was ninety years old when I first met her.

I so admired her discipline, her tenacity, her determination to learn and to play every single piece of music the great composer had ever written. My music friend also began to take interest in my own playing. She always inquired about what new piece I had learned and she would invariably ask me to play it for her. Be it of Beethoven, Mozart, or Chopin, I appreciated her commentaries. They were most accurate and helpful to me, even her dismissive comment: “Pfff, you’re a hopeless romantic. You should attempt to learn and to play Bach –you’ll never go back to the others.” So, in about the third year of our friendship, I responded to the challenge and I learned one of Bach’s Preludes –and loved it! I couldn’t wait to return to our music haven and to play it for her. When I did, she listened attentively and then pronounced: “Yes, there’s hope for you. Bach sounds good at your fingers. But be forewarned, it will be a long journey.” This past year, when I once again returned and opened the door to the Music Room to announce my arrival to Mrs. Berko; I was shocked to see how much she had changed. I noticed that there were no music sheets in front of her. Her glasses seemed quite foggy, her appearance more in disarray than usual. I gently called out: “Hello Mrs. Berko, it’s me, Viviane from Montreal.” She replied, “Oh, hello dear. I’m glad you’re back.” I then cheerfully inquired “How is your Bach doing?” She lamented:” Not so good these days. I am rapidly losing my sight and I can no longer read the notes. All I can do now is play by memory. All of the music I have stored in my head.” I softly responded: “I’m so sorry to hear about your sight. I noticed however that your fingers haven’t lost their magical touch. Would you play something for me? I have missed listening to you play Bach.” She did. It was a fugue, one that she played with so much passion, so much love.I felt my tears gently rolling down my cheeks. That was the last time I heard Mrs. Berko play Bach. When I noticed her absence after days of not seeing her in the Music Room, I called her home. Her son answered. My heart sank for I knew that she lived alone and the news would not be good. It wasn’t. Mrs. Berko had suffered a massive stroke. She could no longer speak nor move.

After expressing my deepest regrets, I gently reminded her son of Mrs. Berko’slove of Bach. He responded: “We know, we have his tapes playing for her all the time. It seems to be the only thing that makes her smile.” After I said my good byes, in my heart I prayed that the sounds that had kept Mrs. Berko alive and vibrant for so long, would now gently lead her into the night of her life.

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Spiritual Renewal (Montreal Exodus)Sophia Wolkowicz

On April 3rd, 2010, the snow parted andthe insufferable winter released the peoplefrom the clutches of its frost.The vacuum of the previous months thrust out its debrisonto leaden pavement pitted with industrial sand.March, the month before, was the seasonal equivalent of three o’clock in the morning.It is easy to imagine then the elation of dwellers liberated to wander through a summer weather April day.The sun worshippers poured forth to outdoor terraces wherethey gorged on the golden light and basked in sentimentof their younger selves. When wheels spin on ice,the car needs to rock gently,shifting from second gear to reverse before the vehicle can lurch forward. So a day or so later, when the cold rains ushered outany notions of wild abandon andretreated the crowds back toresuming their unfinished tasks,spring waited in the wingsto resume its glory.

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Jean-Louis Filion


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The immutable soul of stonesMarcel Braitstein

stones smooth and rounded by tides and centuries

stones dressed in moss, massive and unmoved

stones wandering through space and time

stones in exile

trampled

gashed

endure

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LE CADEAU DE NASSER(Un excerpt)David Mizrahi

NOTRE DÉPART

Mon père vendit tant bien que mal son affaire et l’appartement à un ami de la famille, M Édouard, un Égyptien copte. Comme nous avions le droit de sortir avec seulement 3 livres égyptiennes en devises, mais sans limites claires en biens, mes parents s’affairèrent à acheter tout ce dont ils pensaient avoir besoin pour leur nouvelle vie en Israël. Nous avions donc des meubles, divers articles de maison de toutes sortes, des tapis persans, des sacs de riz et denrées pour suffire à nos besoins pendant un ou deux ans. Tout ceci fut entassé dans de grandes caisses, assez grandes pour contenir même des sommiers (trop grands d’ailleurs pour les demeures exiguës que nous allions occuper dorénavant) et ce monstrueux cargo fut chargé sur notre paquebot en partance pour Marseille. Nous avions aussi fait le plein de bijoux personnels en or 24 carats que mes enfants portent parfois aujourd’hui, comme nous n’avons heureusement pas eu à les vendre pour survivre. Ma mère réussit à dissimuler son diamant solitaire dans une grande boîte de confiture de raisins maison très foncée et très dense ainsi que délicieuse d’ailleurs. Au moment de l’inspection minutieuse que nos biens subirent, à l’horreur de mes parents, un inspecteur alla chercher au fond de la boîte oblongue qu’il essaya de brasser à l’aide d’un cintre mais ne trouva rien. Cette

bague de fiançailles qui est toujours avec nous servit d’ailleurs comme gage pour un prêt que ma mère dut obtenir pour nous sortir d’affaires à un moment particulièrement difficile comme nous avons pu connaître ces premières années. Le jour de notre départ fut rempli d’émotion. Nous avions quitté notre maison, nos biens qui nous étaient chers et qui avaient accompagnés mes parents durant une bonne partie de leur vie. Nos domestiques, à qui nous étions tous très attachés, étaient en pleurs et en deuil de nous voir partir. Karima et Aziza nous avaient pratiquement élevés, Henri et moi et nos parents les avaient toujours traitées avec respect et bienveillance. Nous avons donc dit adieu à nos amis égyptiens, à tout ce qui était familier et adieu à notre vie en Égypte. Notre ami M. Édouard nous accompagna au quai d’Alexandrie. Je comprenais déjà qu’il ne restait plus rien pour nous en Égypte et que nous étions devenus indésirables. Étant les derniers de notre famille à partir, il était grand temps. Autour de moi, mes camarades de classe et mes copains juifs avaient tous mystérieusement disparu de mon entourage familier sans laisser de trace. Au fil des ans, j’eu le bonheur d’en retrouver dans ma ville en Israël et un autre au régiment.LE DERNIER HOURRAH! Quand je pense maintenant à notre voyage vers Israël, en première

classe sur l’Iskenderun, munis de passeports iraniens achetés au bakchich, car nous étions apatrides comme 70% des Juifs d’Égypte, j’appelle ça le

dernier hourrah payé par la vie d’abondance en Égypte.


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Pour moi, un gamin de 10 ans, sortir d’Égypte était une aventure inespérée. Mon frère me disait qu’on allait vivre sur une ferme, avoir un chien et

des animaux. Le paradis, quoi! En attendant, on s’en allait faire escale à Marseille, berceau de Marius, de la bouillabaisse et de la Canebière, au pays de

Mes- Ancêtres- Les- Gaulois, comme on me l’avait fait répéter d’innombrables fois au Lycée Franco. Ensuite vers Naples puis Gènes, Italie, ou l’Agence Juive,

la « Sochnout »nous prit en charge et nous logea dans une modeste Pension fort agréable en compagnie d’autres familles égyptiennes aussi en route pour Israël.

Nous y passâmes 3 semaines en transit, avant d’appareiller pour Haïfa sur un paquebot d’une classe incertaine mais certainement pas première ni deuxième.

Enfin, vous voyez. Du temps du Mandat Britannique de Palestine, ma mère faisait le

voyage du Caire à Jérusalem où elle avait de la famille en train, sans détours. Comme Israël n’existait pas officiellement pour les autorités égyptiennes, ils

prétendaient nous croire quand nos papiers montraient la France ou l’Italie comme destination finale. Ils demandaient d’un air moqueur, en arabe, Fransa,

Italia walla « chez nous »? Nous arrivâmes à Haïfa le 26 septembre 1957 peu avant Rosh-Hashana.

Comme par miracle, toutes nos valises et caisses arrivèrent avec nous. Je ne sais plus comment on nous les a livrés, même les vélos Bianchi que mon père nous a

achetés à Gènes arrivèrent intacts. Je me souviens que l’Agence Juive nous a conduit en autobus à un Tsrif en asbeste dans une Ma’abara (camp de transit) très

ordonnée, 6 kilomètres à l’est de Césarée, (aujourd’hui le coin le plus désirable d’Israël après Jérusalem) qui était alors un coin perdu, le plein désert, comme

disait ma mère. J’aimais beaucoup être au niveau de la rue et goûtait le coté aventure du changement abrupt. J’aimais moins qu’on n’avait ni électricité, ni

l’eau chaude, ni de toilette ou de bain intérieur. Les rues non éclairées étaient en terre battue et gravier. Il n’y avait pas de cinéma, il pleuvait et il faisait froid. Il

fallait marcher un kilomètre à la route de Haïfa-Tel-Aviv pour prendre l’autobus.

Mes parents étaient horrifiés et effarés. Ma mère parlait et lisait l’hébreu, ce qui était déjà un atout, et elle ne tarda pas à nous quitter pour chercher du travail en

ville, à Tel-Aviv. Elle qui n’avait jamais travaillé a l’extérieur de sa vie. Ce fut dur à avaler pour mon père, venant d’une culture où ca ne se faisait simplement

pas. La famille de ma tante Hélène, la sœur aînée de mon père était arrivée

en Israël en 1949. Quand ils nous ont fait le récit de leur arrivée dans une Ma’abara de tentes, sans eau courante et dans la boue, il fallut bien accepter que

notre Tsrif était un palace en comparaison. Nous passâmes la première fête de Rosh-Hashana chez ma Tante Hélène dans sa maison à Ramleh qu’elle partageait

avec son mari et les plus jeunes de ses 9 enfants. J’étais en extase de découvrir tous ces jeunes cousins et cousines que je ne connaissais pas. L’un d’eux,

Raymond, (Yoram) devint un jour maire de Ramleh, une ville autrefois arabe, mixte aujourd’hui et qui comporte encore une forte population arabe.

LA PREMIERE ANNEE La Sochnout nous avait donné à la descente du bateau une boîte de

carton pleine de conserves, de quoi nous nourrir plus ou moins pendant une semaine, et quelques lirots, la devise d’antan. De quoi payer pour du pain pour

quelques jours. Dans mon univers d’enfant, je crus qu’on allait nous donner tout ça à toutes les semaines, mais ca s’avéra être vraiment le cadeau de bienvenue et

d’adieu. Heureusement que mes parents avaient prévu et tout le contenu des caisses s’avéra salutaire : les confitures et les nourritures sèches durèrent et

supplémentèrent notre table des années durant. Même les caisses en bois servirent plus tard à être recyclées en étagères pour le magasin général de mon

père. Cette première année en Israël fut très dure pour notre famille. Mon

frère fut placé dans un Mossad (pas le Mossad) un kibboutz pour jeunes. Ma mère passait le plus clair de son temps à Tel-Aviv ou elle travaillait

et habitait chez sa cousine Fortunée de qui elle était très proche.


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Ma mère passait le plus clair de son temps à Tel-Aviv ou elle travaillait et habitait chez sa cousine Fortunée de qui elle était très proche.

La santé de mon père commençait un déclin inexorable, victime d’une forme de sclérose en plaques. Il était à la maison, sans travail pour la première fois depuis son

adolescence. Le seul travail disponible, quand il y’en avait, était la Touriah (manœuvre agricole). Il cuisinait pour nous deux, on se promenait en bicyclette et il m’apprit à

jouer au Tri-Trac. Ce fut là que j’eu l’occasion de mieux connaître mon père et j’étais très fier d’avoir son attention à moi tout seul. Bien sûr, il me cachait son désarroi et

l’insécurité qu’occasionnait notre nouvelle condition. Il donnait l’exemple pour s’adapter à la nouvelle réalité. Il apprit à faire toutes les taches ménagères comme

nous ne l’avions jamais vu faire, et j’appris aussi à partager les taches. Quand à moi, j’affrontais ma nouvelle école israélienne. Les profs parlaient

hébreu, une langue incompréhensible qui avait certaines ressemblances avec l’arabe, quand elle ne sortait pas de la bouche d’un prof polonais.

Mes camarades de classe étaient aussi confus mais nous trouvions le moyen de communiquer dans cette vraie tour de Babel. Ils me parlaient en polonais, russe ou

hongrois et je leur répondais en français ou en arabe. Généralement nos échanges contenaient une bonne dose de références anatomiques et morales concernant les

membres du sexe opposé de nos familles, mais tout se disait avec un sourire coquin. J’étais le seul « Égyptien » de ma classe et ce fut un choc culturel de

découvrir ces coreligionnaires venant de pays de l’Europe de l’est qui étaient si différents en même temps. J’appris quand même plus de polonais et de russe que

d’hébreu dans ces premiers mois. Grâce aux incessantes pressions que ma mère exerça sur un de ses jeunes cousins,

lieutenant de Menahem Begin à ses moments perdus, nous obtenions, 4 mois après notre arrivée, un transfert à Bat-Yam, en banlieue de Tel-Aviv, toujours dans un Tsrif

d’asbeste, mais avec une salle de bain et W.C. intérieurs. L’électricité ne suivit que 2 ans plus tard.

Là nous pûmes retrouver beaucoup de familles égyptiennes, d’anciens amis et voisins dont le fameux M. Dayan. Ma tante Gracia et sa famille qui étaient au pays

depuis 1949 habitait aussi Bat-Yam et nous faisions souvent le vendredi soir chez eux, au retour de la petite synagogue égyptienne située à quelques pas. Mon père et

moi traversions la route à travers les dunes entre la Ma’bara de Riviera à Amidar en vélo pour rejoindre mon oncle Félix au Temple, où la prière et la musique des chants

était encore exactement comme en Égypte. Ça amusait beaucoup mon père que nous retournions chez nous en bicyclette

le Shabbat, ayant pris soin de retirer la calotte, au moins! Le chemin de quelques kilomètres était alors dans l’obscurité totale, l’électricité n’avait pas atteint ce coin au

bout de la ville. De nos jours on aurait du mal à se l’imaginer, la ville construite est ininterrompue d’un bout a l’autre.

Je n’étais plus le seul « Égyptien » en classe. Les rapports de forces étaient un peu plus favorables. Maintenant, il y avait un bloc de Sépharades et un bloc Ashkénaze

et on apprit à vivre ensemble et à découvrir la mosaïque qu’est notre nation. Dans les années 60, après la fin de la guerre d’Algérie, on vit arriver les Nord-Africains venant

d’abord de Tunisie, puis d’Algérie et enfin du Maroc. Il y avait à la Ma'abara un petit centre récréatif avec un terrain de basket et de

foot, et mes camarades et moi y passions un bon moment à tous les jours. Cinq ans après notre arrivée en Israël, nous pouvions enfin emménager dans

un vrai appartement, un chikkoune à Bat-Yam. Comme bien de mes contemporains olims (nouveaux arrivés), mon frère Henri et moi avons commencé à travailler bien

trop tôt, à 16 ans et 14 ans respectivement pour aider la famille à se relever financièrement. J’ai donc fait mes trois dernières années de secondaire a l’école du

soir, et aidait aussi mon père à son magasin tant bien que mal. La plage était à quelques minutes en vélo et je crois bien que j’y ai passé le plus clair de mon temps

libre jusqu'à mon entrée au service militaire. À part de mes amis, camarades de régiment et du reste de ma famille, c’est ce

qui m’a le plus manqué à Montréal, où je suis arrivé avec ma famille en septembre 1967, après avoir participé, du côté israélien cette fois, à la guerre des 6 jours qui

coïncida avec le terme de mon service militaire, à l’âge de 20 ans.


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Cinq ans après notre arrivée en Israël, nous pouvions enfin emménager dans un vrai appartement, un chikkoune à Bat-Yam.

Comme bien de mes contemporains olims (nouveaux arrivés), mon frère Henri et moi avons commencé à travailler bien trop tôt, à 16 ans

et 14 ans respectivement pour aider la famille à se relever financièrement. J’ai donc fait mes trois dernières années de secondaire

a l’école du soir, et aidait aussi mon père à son magasin tant bien que mal. La plage était à quelques minutes en vélo et je crois bien que j’y ai

passé le plus clair de mon temps libre jusqu'à mon entrée au service militaire.

À part de mes amis, camarades de régiment et du reste de ma famille, c’est ce qui m’a le plus manqué à Montréal, où je suis arrivé

avec ma famille en septembre 1967, après avoir participé, du côté israélien cette fois, à la guerre des 6 jours qui coïncida avec le terme de

mon service militaire, à l’âge de 20 ans.ÉPILOGUE

Je suis aujourd’hui reconnaissant au jeune pays alors fauché et à L’Agence Juive et aux incomparables dirigeants qui ont accompli

le miracle d’absorption de centaines de milliers de réfugiés démunis venant de tous les coins du monde. Il faut lire les mémoires de Golda

Meir, d’Abba Eban, de Ben Gourion et d’Ytshak Rabin pour apprécier l’effort et la conviction qu’il a fallu pour mener cette tâche à bien en

même temps que d’assurer et de financer la sécurité du pays. Ce sont eux qui on motivé et galvanisé les Juifs mieux nantis de la diaspora à

donner de l’argent et à influencer les instances de pouvoir à octroyer des garanties de prêt à un pays qui n’avait rien d’un bon risque de

crédit!

Je n’ai jamais regretté un seul instant d’avoir quitté l’Égypte, et mes parents ont aussi. tourné la page éventuellement sur la vie qu’ils ont

connu dans ce pays qui n’est plus. Nasser a donné le Canal de Suez et le barrage d’Assouan à son

peuple mais leur a ôté la présence jusqu’alors bienfaisante de la communauté juive en Égypte. Ce faisant, il a ruiné une génération de juifs

d’Égypte, mais deux ou trois générations plus tard, son pays ne s’en trouve pas mieux, j’ai le regret de constater. Sans le soutien financier

massif des E.U. et de la répression impitoyable du régime actuel, l’Égypte serait en faillite et ne tarderait pas à basculer dans le camp Intégriste.

Nasser m’a fait cadeau de mon identité de citoyen d’Israël, du Canada et du monde, d’homme libre et aguerri de par les expériences et

péripéties que j’ai traversé depuis notre départ de son pays. Je crois avoir gagné au change!

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The Sombre Trees

Michael Abramson

The somber trees soak up the silence of the world,

hiding the blurry Moon, who dangles naked and alone.

Each echoing crunch of my feet trembles the earth,

rapes the cosmic

silence.

So I stop.

As my legs tense with the dark’s dead stillness,

the cold crawls up against my skin,

tingles and pulls playfully at my hair,

whispering sexually in my ear,

then creeps out of my mouth: warm, sticky,

human.

In my civil loneliness, I realize that

I am not alone.

!

Niamh Leonard


23

Yiddishe Mama and Laundry Exposed

Wendy Reichental

You know how people say that over the years we start to resemble our pets, or our spouses? Well you can definitely add something else over that same span of time; grown daughters start to become their… mothers! “Oy Gevalt” would be an appropriate response right about now. But there’s no where to hide or run, it’s simply a fact. I didn’t want to believe it either. For years my husband would mention that I’m doing things like my mother, he would give reference to silly things, like my insistence on forcing family and friends to have something to eat, or in general to be too overly hovering and sensitive. Was it true? Was I becoming my mother? I just thought I was being a “baleboosteh” you know a good hostess. It doesn’t mean I’m my mother! We’re so different, we are worlds apart! I mean I was born here in Canada; I don’t speak her native language of Polish, or speak Yiddish. (Although I do know some key words and understand it fluently!) I have no accent like her, I can’t crochet, knit or cook “K'naidels” (dumpling-like balls used

for chicken soup) like her, I couldn’t be more different. Right? But after last night, I have to concede that I owe my husband an apology. It started innocently enough with laundry. I emptied the hamper of darks into my machine like I always do, I made sure none of the whites snuck in, all looked good, I even added some vinegar (ok like my mother likes to do) vinegar is known to help preserve color vitality. I closed the lid, and returned to watching TV feeling proud that I was multitasking. A half hour later I heard the machine stop, I opened the lid … and “oy vey”! Kleenex tissue pieces all over my laundry! It couldn’t be, I couldn’t have, and this can’t be! A zillion tiny nasty pieces of wet Kleenex adhering to all the clothes with no intention of letting go! It was a nightmare! The only good thing was my husband was asleep and would never know about this secret incident….and there as I pulled each item of clothing out… I saw it…my dark navy top with one sleeve still rolled up. It didn’t have a pocket, so like my mother used to do, when I was little, I observed she would put her Kleenex in her sleeve. Well, as I unfurled my navy top, I noticed I had done the same thing, placing that innocent Kleenex in my sleeve, resulting in this guilty “schlimazel” mess! And there you have it evidence that indeed eventually maybe we do all morph into one aspect of our mothers! It’s not really all that bad.


24

Niamh Leonard

Grid on the Heavens

Michael Abramson

It is so like us to place a grid on the

heavens—

tell me, what are God’s co-ordinates?

I have a few questions I’d like to ask…

!

God Grips Dice

Michael Abramson

Why does this seem surreal:

shade and light so evenly split?

Is it that God grips dice

in his wrinkled fist?

!


25

Our RootsTaya Winitsky

Toronto, 2006 I have just celebrated my 60th birthday! Sam (my husband) and I were contemplating where to have a party. The choices were either to go to a Russian Restaurant, as many of our people do, or to have an intimate gathering of family at home. Now, I would l ike to elaborate on what a Russian Restaurant is, for anyone who has never been to one. No one word can describe a melting pot of people who come from such a vast country, the former Soviet Union, from its European border on the west through to the Asian Continent in the east? The choice of meals served in any Russian Restaurant is just as varied as the people that frequent it. Moldavian, Ukrainian, Georgian, Armenian, Uzbeck, and Jewish dishes are savored with gusto, often with the accompaniment of live music and dancing. I have noticed that when Russian people get together, the question is often asked, like some kind of conversation starter, “Where do you come from?” But, as I said above, this is not a simple question to answer. You cannot just say- my family comes from Russia or Poland

or France, it is not enough! How do I reply to this question? It is complicated. Let me tell you a story. I must go back to the time, when I was about four, to the corner o f C h i m k e n t s k a i a a n d Samarkandskaia Street. I am sitting on a big boulder by the stream that runs along the sidewalk of my Southern City, Tashkent. I am very upset and begging my mother to take me home. We have just moved to an apartment in a large house that used to be owned by a rich merchant, before the revolution. Our large room was probably the ballroom. It has a high ceiling that is decorated with alabaster roses and petals. The room is huge and, to me, not welcoming. I want to go back to my old house, a small room in the corner o f a c o u r t y a r d , w h e r e m y grandmother lived with my mother, my father and me. This is the place to which my Grandmother Zlata came from the Ukraine, from a Shtetl , called Smela. She was escaping a pogrom and widespread starvation. It was 1931; she picked up her three youngest children (the oldest had already fled) and went on the longest journey of her life. Her destination was in distant Asia, the city of Tashkent, known as the City of Bread.


26

Her oldest daughter, who had escaped earlier with her husband, took the new arrivals into their small place until a room became available and they could have their own place. Soon a place did become available. It was just a tiny a room with one small window and a dirt floor, but this place would be their home. My mom went to school, her older brothers started working, life was improving! Then, the War! My mother’s oldest brother was in the Air Force already and two other brothers enlisted as well. My mother, only seventeen years old at that time, had to go to work in a parachute factory, to help the family s u r v i v e . T h e w o r k w a s backbreaking and the hours very long, There was not enough food, but at least there were no bombs and her older brother occasionally sent chocolate from the Army, a very special treat!. And of course they had bosom friends like Raya, Asia, Polia and Jetta to exchange some soup with for the dreadful bread made from black husk. My mom developed stomach problems from constant malnourishment, and could not digest this bread, so her friends exchanged their soup for the bread. This meager meal was served in the employee diner, and my mom could take extra soup home to my grandmother.

Even though the war was on they still went to the park on Saturday night to dance and sing with passion. The park- was a meeting place and young people congregated in the dance square. Even when I was a teenager, we all went to the same place to dance and to have ice-cream On one of those evenings a handsome dark eyed fellow invited my mother to dance. He led her with confidence, but didn’t speak much. And he was so skinny! His friend danced with Raya and invited everybody to come back again next week. The dark eyed, skinny lad apparently didn’t speak Russian, but he found out that the pretty girl he asked to dance speaks some Ukrainian and then the real conversation started. He speaks Polish, she speaks Ukrainian, no problem at all! This is how my parents met in 1943.They got married the following year. At the wedding were all my mother’s Tashkent relatives, friends, and neighbor’s, but not a single soul from my father’s family. And now, if you will permit, another little story to explain this sad fact. My Father’s family grew up in Poland, in a small town called Shedliez, not far from the Capital, Warsaw. His was a family of blacksmiths and mechanics, people good with their hands and possessed of gentle hearts.

My dad was the youngest child, and he was about seven years o ld when his mother passed away .His two older sisters helped their father to take care of the boy. Two older brothers immigrated to Palestine and worked as pioneers to build the Jewish State. My father had a normal childhood, went to Jewish school and his sisters cooked delicious meals such as beet borsht, potatoes with onions, gefilte fish and

kishke and he learned how to cook all of these as well. And there were American movies to see with good friends and dancing with girls. In 1939, just before the German army marched into their town, my father, then a young fellow of 22, was persuaded by his father to go east. His father was afraid for the young man’s fate. My father and a few friends walked to the nearest


27

With frozen toes and ears he left Siberia in 1943 and traveled south to Baku, thinking to go somehow to Palestine. Instead he ended up in Tashkent. He did not speak much Russian, but his skilful hands got him a job as a mechanic at the Champagne Producing Plant. He and two friends found a room to share on the outskirts of the city and a motherly landlady that gave them soup and bread. One summer night they went to the park to listen to the music. This is a miracle dance place! They looked for somebody to dance with. My father notices a pretty girl with thick braids around her head, like a crown. She looked like a princess to him .He invited her to dance, what can he lose? He tried to impress her, and, I guess, she was impressed! So this is how my father married my mother and not a single soul from my father’s family was present. After their wedding on April 30th, 1944, life became brighter. The small room at the end of the courtyard got a facelift with a new ceramic floor and some new furniture. May of 1945 brought the e n d o f t h e W a r a n d b i g celebrations, hope for peace, and hope for going back home. But there were no letters from the sisters and no communication with the brothers in Israel. Early in 1946 I was born. Dad starts talking about going home, to Poland. His friends are getting their papers ready. He and my mother go to the train station to say good-bye to close friends. They have to travel all the

way to Moscow and then to Poland. The journey could take a month. How can someone in their right mind take a baby on a journey like this? So they did not go. At this point my dad was obliged to take Russian citizenship, and the Iron Gate has closed! Perhaps there will be another chance.The youngest of my mother’s brothers did not come home from the war, he died defending Stalingrad. Two other brothers came back from the war with brides. The family expands. E v e r y b o d y l i v e s i n t h e neighborhood. We have a large family of aunts and uncles, cousins, and neighbors that become as close as family.

This is when I am sitting on the corner of Chimkentskaia and Samarkandsaia, crying to go home. Mom gently leads me to the new house. It is very big room, freshly painted. Alabaster roses and petals are beautiful white and room is divided by the plywood wall, so there is a small bedroom for my p a r e n t s a n d m e , a n d m y grandmother bed in the dining room. An oak wardrobe, small oak desk and étagère are installed in the bedroom. T h e r e a r e s o m e knickknacks on the étagère, but there will be books some day. Grandma cannot read, so she wants to make sure that her grandchildren know where the library is. And she takes me there across the city dutifully twice a week.

train station and managed to go to Bialystok, in the Soviet Union. His father and sisters stayed behind, hoping to manage. In Bialystok my father was drafted into the Labor Batallion of the Polish Labour Army, which was made up of Polish and other East European men. Stalin did not trust them to be sent to the war, so they were sent to cut wood. Many other people

unfortunately were sent to the labor camps as prisoners, and those camps, which were called Gulags, were brutal. My dad was fortunate enough to be free to work where he did. He was sent to Siberia. He worked 12 hours a day cutting wood, with only a thin flannel coat and a cap to protect him from the blistering cold. But he never gave up hope that one day he would go home.


28

We have an oak wardrobe, a small oak desk and an étagère installed in the bedroom. There are some knickknacks on the étagère, but there will be books someday. Grandma cannot read, so she makes sure that her grandchildren know where the library is. And she takes me there across the city dutifully twice a week. One other very important event happened in our life. When my brother was born in 1950. (What year was this?) I was only four, but I remember a big party for his circumcision. Who would think of doing this in the open? I could see a worried smile on my father’s face. (Why was he worried – was it because the police might come or just the circumcision itself?– people could lose their jobs, be accused of religious belief, or who knows what. So very few Jews in Soviet U n i o n p e r f o r m e d t h e circumcision. The fear of reprisal was pretty strong.) Letters started to come from Israel at last.(Do you know what year they started to arrive?- towards the 1958-1960) We found out that we had family there. The talks about leaving the Soviet Union started again. It would take a n o t h e r 2 0 y e a r s a n d a n earthquake, before my mother finally would say yes. (I have to explain that we lost our family

home to the 1966 earthquake in Tashkent.) I was married and had a son and another child on the way, and my brother had just graduated from University, when, at the end of 1973 my mother, my father and my brother finally left Tashkent, the city of Bread. There were tears and laughter at the station where about 300 close friends and relatives came to bid farewell. They did not know at the time that perestroika was coming soon. With the paperwork organized and some luggage and personal belongings shipped, they left on a journey that lasted about 10 days. They arrived in Montreal on Christmas day of 1973. My father finally met his brother.

Tashkent, 1974 My second son was born. I am at home, trying to figure out how we can join my parents in Canada. We are applying for a permit to leave, but have been refused twice already. My mother writes pleading letter to Brezhnev. Something worked. On November 5, 1976 we are called to OVIR and advised to get permission from Sam’s (my husband’s) parents to leave the Soviet Union. Our Exit Permit is valid until the 28th of November 1976.

And still no news about my father’s family. A friend goes to Poland on a business trip. He comes back with some news.He gives us the photo of Holocaust Memorial built in Warsaw. (Do you want to tell us what the news was? The sad news was that they perished, but I do not know, where and how. We could not find out.) My father never speaks about meeting his father and sisters again. Two brothers l ive in Palestine, perhaps one day he will see them.

And so this is the moment at which I am sitting on the corner of C h i m k e n t s k a i a a n d Samarkandsaia crying to go back home. My mother gently leads me to the new house. It is a very big room, freshly painted. Alabaster roses and petals are a beautiful white and the room is divided by a plywood wall, so there is a small bedroom for my parents and me, and my grandmother’s bed is in t h e d i n i n g r o o m .


29

Within one week we have to get an entrance visa to Canada, sell our one b e d r o o m f l a t , a l l o u r belongings, say good-bye to everyone and get on the train to Moscow. There we get one way tickets to Montreal, exchange our 360.00 rubles for Canadian dollars, pack some souvenirs, books and some personal belongings, and on November 26,1976 we are on our way to Montréal, Quebec. We are lucky, we are young, and we have our parents and my brother to meet us, and we are filled with thoughts of the many wonders of our future life in Canada.

P.S. My Grandfather and my a u n t s p e r i s h e d i n t h e Holocaust. My parents lived happily in Montreal. They were able to fulfill their dream of visiting Israel and to meet the family in Tel Aviv. Thei r l i fe- loving positive attitude earned them many friends. They are sadly missed by all those whose life they touched. My brother and I reside in Ontario, Canada. I would love to pass the knowledge and my memories of Sonichka and Monichka Vaisberg (my parents) to our children and grandchildren.

!

Photos accompanying this article were provided by the author.


30

Begin to sense the coupling of reasonswe continue to raiseabout how long it would take train Aleaving Sioux Falls at a fixed rateto collide with train Bwith X the shuttle that carriesThe answer across the “equals” sign.For myself, the answer used to involvethinking of train A, how fast it goes,the wheels clicking the rail without incident, deliberateand rhythmical, speed likely calculableif the conductor has perfect pressure on the petal,never stops at the border, police never halt the train for a convict;but could we depend on train B? If train B were an older model,might it not accidentally loosen a car,have to go back for it?Or the engineer, a little tipsy, arriving in a hurry—could he not hold up motion reaching for a pocket watchburied in a vest? X was a concept difficult to get hold of,like a child in a knit cap dashing out from under hand without explanations,like batik wax blending into feathering.

Now I know why I like to say,“These problems cannot be done.”As the first four hundred contaminated passengers arrivefor contingency plans in Tokyo, Taiwan, the US,six broken stations in Daichi heft pollutants northward;copters off-the-mark drop water meant to stop the melt down.News frames nine experts heading outto measure exposed fuel lines on the one month anniversarypressed between images of blasts in Libya and Bahrainas Tepco’s losses climb to two hundred and fourteen billion dollars.Japan’s president suggests politely that we show support,“Buy our produce, fish,” and “Enjoy our foods” today. An old Inuit woman boards the train at my stationbent small with an overgrown peace lily, her turquoise raincoatand gay fushia toque, oversized Gucci shades and rubber boots(I’ve seen her before, waiting for help with hand out, I’m thinking)begging the question of how fast she’ll consume this fare?

!

REORDERING TRAINS (After Linda Pastan’s “Algebra”)

Marcia Goldberg


31

Jacob was a dreamer. He dreamt of a ladder to heaven, of

battling with God Himself all through the night. He carried the

reminder of his battle with God as a limp for the rest of his life.

How did he view his unforgiving God, who dealt him this blow

and yet opened for him and his progeny the future uncharted?

Joseph, his son, was both a dreamer and an interpreter of

dreams. He foretold his lordship over his brothers. He warned the

pharaoh to prepare for seven years of famine. And yet he never

imagined the enslavement that would come to his people. Dreams

were for the ancient Jews a window into the mind of God. Their

significance resonates even today.

Hanna too was a dreamer. She too was told of the future.

Was she any less important to God than Jacob or Joseph? The

events that swirled around her young life were perhaps more

momentous, of greater weight for the Jews and for all mankind,

than those that affected the lives of the Patriarchs.

Hanna and her brother had worked in an arms factory in

the Soviet Union during the war. The efforts needed to produce

the supplies for the war effort were enormous, involving a

beleaguered hungry population of hundreds of millions. Huge

sacrifices were needed and therefore demanded. To shirk this

burden was equated with treason.

One night, Hanna wakes up in a forest. A great mist,

drifting through the trees, obscures her vision. There is a strange

light, without source, a glow, illuminating the thick dew

congealing on the branches and leaves and the bark of the trees.

Hanna walks through this mist, listening for a voice she expects

to hear at any moment. Her night dress is dripping wet, it clings

to her skin, it slows down her movements. She sees an old man on

the other side of a low area. He is digging with a small shovel. He

looks frantic. What is he digging for?

Hanna wakes up in her bed. She hardly remembers her

dream. There is no time to think about it. She has to be at her

work in a short while. The next night, Hanna again wakes up in

the forest. The old man is in front of her. During her day of work,

he has managed to dig up his treasure. He holds it up to her.

A bottle. A small glass bottle, shining in that dull light

that comes from nowhere. What is in it? The old man starts to

speak to her, but no words are audible. She wakes up again in her

bed. This time she does remember, wonders what the dreams are

about, as she splashes cold water on her face and rushes to work.

She wonders who the old man is, and if she will dream again.

Dreams by Harry Rajchgot


32

Hanna does not dream again anything she can remember

for a month or more. But then, one night, the old man is back

again, this time with an old woman next to him. She recognises

her mother. Her father died before she was born; she does not

know his face. This man must be him. She also realizes that her

mother too must be dead, to be in the presence of her father. This

time it is her mother that holds the bottle up to her. It contains a

liquid. Her mother speaks, telling her to drink. Hanna always

listened to her mother–she obeys. Her parents dissolve in the

mists, dropping to the ground as water, to be absorbed back into

the earth in which they already lie.

Hanna wakes up in her bed, wet, covered in sweat. Her

night dress sticks to her skin. Her movements are slow. She is

feverish. She hasn't the strength to lift herself, to dress, to go to

her work. She drifts back into sleep, this time without dream.

During those hours, while she sleeps, her factory is bombed from

the air. Many of her comrades are killed. Her brother Burach

survives the attack. When she wakes up later, it is night. Her

brother is there next to her. He gives her some medicine that he

has somehow found, urging her to drink it. It tastes foul, but she

swallows all of it. It is in a small green bottle.

Hanna is arrested after the bombing of her factory, first

on charges of espionage, and then other charges of dereliction of

duty, because she had not appeared for work. She is sent north to

a prison camp, near the Russian port of Archangelsk. Burach, her

brother, goes with her, hoping to protect her. It will result in his

death.

The train trip is long and cold. They travel in a boxcar,

cramped, surrounded by sacks of materials meant for their

destination. They bring what few possessions they are able to

carry. Some others manage to bring a bit of their own food, limp

cabbage leaves, partly covered in mould, a few darkened

potatoes. Once a day the train stops to take on coal and water for

the engine. Under the eyes of the guards they are allowed to

leave the train for a few minutes to relieve themselves and

stretch their legs,. They are given their small food ration, a thin

warm soup that breaks the cold entering their bodies, and a bit of

black bread, difficult to chew, especially for those with teeth

loosened by scurvy. A thin gruelly porridge is handed out most

mornings. The train trip is long, lasting two weeks. In that time,

two prisoners die and are left in the fields next to the railroad

track, the ground frozen too hard to dig.

The prison camp is primitive. The prisoners form a work

detail. They build facilities for the transfer of war materiel. The

great Allied merchant marine armadas are crossing the wide

Atlantic from North America, hunted by the German U-boats,

and arrive decimated at this northern port.


33

When they get off the train, Hanna, Burach, and the

others are met by an army guard and brought to their quarters, a

few tents and lean-tos at the edge of the snowy forest. The first

night is the worst. The wind blows through the flimsy tent walls,

and the cold ground bites into their sleeping bones. Their limbs

are so stiff the next morning, when they are forced awake to begin

their day's work, that they have difficulty bending them to use the

outdoor latrine. Over the next few months, they build their own

winter quarters, more latrines, water wells, and a communal

kitchen. They help build the storage facilities, the distribution and

loading area for the railroad, and the defence zone around the

town. Food is minimal, with little variety. Potatoes and cabbage,

mostly cabbage, and turnips, with the occasional carrot or beet. No

meat, no eggs, no fruit. Bread rations are meagre. They are mostly

hungry, and always cold.

Dreams would come again. And here Hanna would stay

until the war's close.

Again the forest, but it is wrong, the trees are on fire,

smoke chokes her. A wind blows the smoke and glowing sparks

through the trees. Cinders cover the ground. Hanna feels herself

lifted into the air; she drifts with the smoke. She looks through

her hands – they are transparent. As she floats through the air

above these trees, below her she sees her brother Burach's

familiar face next to a tree, both his hands holding its trunk

firmly. He is smiling at her, but as she turns to face him, to

approach, he starts to melt, first his fingers and progressively his

arms and the rest of his body. Rivulets of water run down the

tree's irregular bark and into the soil, as Burach's shrinking form

collapses against the tree. The tree's foliage becomes denser,

thicker, greener, as the liquid that was her brother feeds its roots.

More smoke pours out of the trees. Their leaves are a

pulsating green, become a more defined blue and yellow cloud that

separates itself away from the tree. The forest is suddenly quiet as

thousands of butterflies fly towards and then through her. On

their blue wings, each has the design of a yellow six-pointed star.

She can hear the almost silent beatings of their delicate wings

become louder and louder, becoming a roar. This hard sound

muffles the repeated words of the Hebrew Kaddish – the prayer

for the dead – "Yisgadal veyiskadash shemei raba..." Then Hanna

is awake.

Each day is a day of hard work, it passes like a fog, the

same as yesterday and tomorrow. Days and weeks slip by, turn to

months. Burach becomes sick with typhus, and, within a few days,

is dead. His body is taken away and burnt with that of others who

have died recently of the disease. The combined ashes are dumped

into the river. There is no gravesite to visit.

Hannah feels overwhelmingly alone. Then suddenly it is

over. The war has been won. She is free. It seems impossible. With

a few others, Hanna leaves for her former home in Poland. She

imagines continuing on to Palestine.

No one tries to stop her. It is like magic.

!


34

David Abramson Zav LevinsonHarry Rajchgot

Vivianne Silver

Rabbi Leigh Lerner’s Discretionary Fund

Editors

! Zav Levinson

! Harry Rajchgot

Illustrations and photographs: ! Marc Da Silva

! Jean-Louis Filion

! Niamh Leonard

! Harry Rajchgot

! Sophia Wolkowicz

Photos also provided by

! Taya Winitsky

All copyrights remain the property of their authors and illustrators.

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 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 will soon be found as a link from the Temple website.

mailto:[email protected]

mailto:[email protected]

Harvest-HaAsif 2011

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