Harvest-HaAsif 2013

Harvest-HaAsif! ! Temple Emanu-El-Beth Sholomʼs Literary Anthology! Eighth Edition! Succoth 5774-2013

✡ Temple Emanu-El-Beth Sholomʼs Literary Anthology

EIGHTH EDITION 5774-2013

HArvest-HAasif

Writing:

Sheldon Cwinn

Vincent Dumont-Mackay

Marcia Goldberg

Carol Katz

Ilona Martonfi

Gail Marlene Schwartz

Sivan Slapak

Sophia Wolkowicz

Sharon Zajdman


Exhibit on loan from Israel, Museum of Religion, Amsterdam (2010)


HArvest-HAasif

CONTENTS

EIGHTH EDITION5774--2013 Words from the editors 1

Sharon Zajdman Nana 2

ILONA MARTONFI KIEV 4

VINCENT DUMONT-MACKAY WHAT IS ICE CREAM WORTH 5

MARCIA GOLDBERG MR. COHEN IN HIS YOUTH 8

SIVAN SLAPAK FAULT LINES 9

ILONA MARTONFI THE DISAPPEARED 13

SHELDON CWINN THE POWER OF SHABBATH CANDLES- A TRUE MIRACLE 14

ILONA MARTONFI KOSSUTH SQUARE GHETTO 16

GAIL MARLENE SCHWARTZ FALLING 17

ILONA MARTONFI UNEARTHING THE SECRET MIKVAH 18

CAROL KATZ FERDELE 19

MARCIA GOLDBERG conversion 20

SOPHIA WOLKOWICZ CONTEMPORARY MIGRATION 21

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES THE AUTHORS IN THEIR OWN WORDS 22

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS 23


Dear Readers,

With this edition, we are, to some extent, casting off and sailing into the unknown, to explore the passage, not to India, but to the world beyond Temple Emanu-El-Beth Sholom. Last year was the first where the current edition and all previous editions were placed on the web, and b e c a m e a c c e s s i b l e t o a n y o n e anywhere who had access to a computer. This year we have actively tried to acquire writing from sources other than Temple, and even non-Jewish writers who use a theme with a Jewish connection, and we have been successful, as you will see as you turn the pages of this new edition, our eighth since the advent of this publication in 2003. As with all manner of printed material lately, funds are becoming more difficult to access, and in keeping with the spread of paperless magazines and books, the old-fashioned publication we have come to love and even revere, whether a paperback book, a newspaper, or a

magazine, is having a difficult time making its way. “On the other hand,” as Tevye loved to say to himself (and God), we’re saving trees, and reducing the need for recycling paper in a world where natural resources become scarcer by the day. The new online format will also free us from the tyranny (or the embrace) of the calendar. Up until now, all our editions came out once a year, partly because of what we consider our mandate, to publish in conjunction with, as much as possible, the harvest festival of Succoth (hence our name.) In future, we may be more able to closely link published content to recent submissions, and provide a more ongoing publication, albeit smaller and perhaps less regular. And deadlines may become somewhat irrelevant (although still an incentive for many of us.) So, our ship is sailing out of its quiet home port into what may be a sometimes turbulent, sometimes inspiring, and sometimes exotic ocean, entertaining and informative, and which, we hope, will open our eyes (and yours) to new literary

treasure. Perhaps JONAH might be a more apt title for our transformed publication. Enjoy! In this moment of transition, w e w i s h t o a c k n o w l e d g e t h e unstinting support of, first, Rabbi Leigh Lerner, who immediately offered his support when this anthology was first proposed, and to David Abramson, whose generosity, lo these many years, has given us the time to find our way and to grow beyond our initial boundaries. Leigh and David, we thank you sincerely.

Zav LevinsonHarry Rajchgot

The Editors✡

Note from the editors:The current and past issues may be found on the web by entering the following URL: https://sites.google.com/a/gravitationalfields.com/harvest-haasif/ or http://issuu.com/harvest-haasif and as a link from the Temple website.

1

https://sites.google.com/a/gravitationalfields.com/harvest-haasif/




http://issuu.com/harvest-haasif



“You’re too young to read that. You

can read it when you’re eighteen.”

Matter-of-factly the hollow-eyed

youngster replied,

“I won’t live to be eighteen.”

Surprising herself, the Jewish girl

with the name meaning ‘reborn,” survived. In

time she married, and then became a mother.

Mine. When I was a little girl, my mother

encouraged and guided my reading, gladly

feeding my appetite for books. All my

English teachers envisaged my becoming a

writer—indeed; there was one who insisted

on it. It was with great solemnity that, one

frosty afternoon after school, my mother

presented me with Anne of Green Gables.

2

Nana

Sharon Zajdman

In the nightmare world of the Warsaw Ghetto

there was a half-starved orphan so in love with

literature that when the German occupiers banned the

act of reading, she became a courier in a clandestine

network calling itself a walking library. Risking her

life, Renata would deliver books to readers.

Sometimes she would receive a tip in the form of a

piece of bread, but her payment was that she had

access to the books. Literature, always loved, became

her weapon against despair. Eerily, hiding in the

ghetto, Renata read Franz Werfel’s Forty Days of

Musa Dagh, his account of the Armenian genocide.

Crouched in a corner of the room she shared with a

myriad of relatives, Renata began to read Emile Zola’s

Nana—a story about a French prostitute, who is the

ruin of every man who pursues her. Her older brother

pulled the novel out of her hands.


3

“When I was your age, I read this book in translation.

This book introduced me to Canada. When I was your age

my vision of Canada was of a faraway, peaceful land filled

with snow. I could never have dreamed that one day my very

own daughter would be Canadian-born and I would be giving

her this book in the original English.”

The entire Anne series had been on my mother’s

walking library list. Anne of Green Gables was her gift to

both of us.

My brother’s eldest daughter surmounted a learning

disability, and became a passionate reader. She would prop

up her novels at the lunch table, read by flashlight in bed,

hide with her books in corners of a large family home, and

evade visitors in order to escape into the pages of her latest

literary voyage.

The evening after my mother turned eighty, we

attended my (now) eighteen-year-old niece’s high school

commencement. Sitting in a gymnasium, witnessing the

celebration of carefree teenagers in the serene land of Anne-

with-an-E, tears streamed down the cheeks of my niece’s

“Nana.”

Familiar with the interior of my mother’s apartment,

the concierge of the building in which she lives has dubbed

her “The Lady Who Loves Books.” The cancer my mother

lives with has slowed her down, so she doesn’t get to the

libraries as often as she would like. My mother holds a

membership card in not one, but two libraries. At the

beginning of winter I registered her in a program run by the

library in her neighborhood. A team of volunteers deliver

material to the members who are shut in. My mother

cheerfully peruses the catalogues and contentedly creates

lists of the books she wants to read, which are filled by

couriers who brave the ice and the snow to bring them to her.

Yet The Lady Who Loves Books refuses to read to

the end of Emile Zola’s Nana. She’s afraid that if she does,

her life will arrive at its end, too.

✡


An old toothless female wolf keensmarshes, peat meadows and bogbarbed wire fence bordersthe stone road in a dead zoneof Chernobyl rosehip, red currant, nettlepoisoned with caesium and strontiumpear trees

village superstitionsilence of the woods

without warningazure painted izba,peasant house, windows low to the ground

in a day of evacuation —

folktales of Baba

rural harvest festival:wearing embroidered white blouse,purple-red linen skirt and aprondancing in the fieldsalways homesickfor cold blueberry soupthe circus coming to town

Rachael in the leukemia ward —

her mother collects birch tree juicein the forest around Kiev

✡

4

Kiev

Ilona Martonfi


5

What Ice Cream Is Worth

Vincent Dumont-Mackay

The street outside was empty despite the summer heat. Jakob sighed and flipped the window sign. As he propped the door open, a dry wind blew some lost five million deutschmark bill across the doorstep. He picked it up as if it was worth something and put it in the till. Maybe it would bring him luck. He erased yesterday's prices from the blackboard behind the counter and wrote the new ones in colorful chalk. Every day, flavor names became smaller so he could fit the extra zeroes. He tried to make himself laugh by thinking that the sale of one single cone would make him a multimillionaire, but mirth was even more expensive than ice cream these days. And nobody ever really laughs by themselves anyhow. He arranged his waffles and bechers into neat stacks and checked the brand new freezer he'd bought in Munich last year, an expensive rarity he'd planned to pay off in five years. But then 1923 had come around and the world of commerce, Jakob's world, had lost its mind. Politicians said things would get better, or at least they did last time Jakob had been able to afford the newspaper, which was about the same time he'd stopped believing anything politicians said. A platoon of French soldiers marched past. They’d moved in a few months earlier, after the French government had decided Germany still hadn't paid enough for the great war. They weren't bad, the soldiers, even bought ice cream sometimes. But their presence made everything tense. People

were screaming in basements now, calling for scary, angry things. The door chimes startled him out of his grim reverie. A man in a faded brown suit and hat walked in, awkwardly pulling a wheelbarrow through the door. "Hello there," the man said in a cheery voice. "Hello and welcome," Jakob answered. The man carried a heavy wooden box over his shoulder, and it took him a good minute just to get in, grunting and sweating. When he made it to the counter, Jakob saw that the wheelbarrow was filled to the brim with banknotes. "We have the best ice cream in town. What can I get you?" The man pointed at the blackboard. "Wait a minute, my friend, let me look at your flavors." He put his case on the counter with great care and tipped his hat. "I'm Ernst. Are these prices current?" They shook hands. "Jakob. Depends if you pay before or after you eat." Ernst laughed. "Fair enough. I'll have chocolate, raspberry and hazelnut. And pay now." He gestured at the mountain of cash: “Do you have somewhere to put this?”


Jakob looked at the man's worn clothing and scuffed shoes. "Can you... I mean, can you really afford this?" he said. Money was becoming so abstract lately that it was hard to know who could afford what. Ernst shrugged. "It doesn't matter. I'm leaving town today, this is a farewell treat. I'm spending my whole fortune on it. "Really? Your whole fortune on one ice cream cone?" "Well, and this here," Ernst said, tapping the wooden case. "What is it?" Ernst swelled with pride. "A portable belinograph." "A what?" "A belinograph. A machine that allows you to send text and pictures over phone lines. Incredible, isn't it?" Jakob rolled a waffle into a cone and scooped the three flavors onto it. "Here's your ice cream. Just dump your money here behind the register." "Some French guy came up with it. Those damn French have to

be good for something, right? Anyway, I'm going to Munich to a meeting. A very important meeting. And I’m going to be sending pictures of it to all the papers as we take back our country from incompetent politicians.” Ernst's eyes were ablaze now, and he was eating his ice cream in big gulps. "We’re going to erase the shame of that damn Versailles treaty. At last." Jakob knew what Ernst was talking about. His smile slipped. "You mean that party that wants to topple the government. With this guy, the one with the little moustache who screams a lot." "Yes. I’m going to join them."

“You agree with them?”Ernst finished his ice cream and

wiped his hands on a pocket handkerchief. "I'm not sure what I agree with anymore."

He pushed the wheelbarrow behind the counter and upended it.

6


Jakob put the spoon carefully down in the sink and stared at the pile of money being vomited onto his floor. Then he looked up at Ernst. "You shouldn’t go to that meeting.” “Why the hell not?” Jakob shook his head. "These people, they..." He searched for the right words, “They have nothing to offer.” Ernst looked at the blackboard with the crazy prices on it. “And how do we get out of the mess our country is in? Hm? What do you have to offer, ice cream man?” Jakob picked up one of the banknotes. It bore the face of some king he should have known about. The money was more unreal everyday, just like life. He didn’t know how to answer. Arguments weren’t his thing. Then, without really thinking, he rolled the note into a cone and started filling it with chocolate ice cream. He kept piling it on until it dripped down the paper and then handed it to Ernst. “This is what I have to offer.” Ersnt looked at him like you would an idiot. “Ice cream?”“The best in town,” Jakob said grimly.Ernst just stood there. “Take it,” Jakob insisted, “Take it and eat it and miss your train to Munich.” "Ice cream won't save our country," Ernst said. "Just take it.” Ernst shook his head. “You’re crazy, ice cream man.”

He picked up his case, looked one last time at the ice cream in the money cone and walked out without a word. Jakob watched him disappear down the empty street and ate the ice cream himself.

✡

7


Take the highest priest, an orphan, almost,

And leave him go. He’ll know

As Layton said a white mouse would,

The way. Our sons like pipers

Need Liberty and find their spurning Nicos

In their time, the emerald-shouldered ones,

Their right arms leading them across a room.

So let the women step out cautiously

To brave the paths they traverse

With the scroll and veil of ancient days

That the mass of them don’t know.

We have so far to go! Who can count the babes

Still suckling at the breast

Who next will learn to crawl

And then to toddle ‘cross the floor?

Put the man who will assist indoors

To tread very very carefully around the bowls

Set on the kitchen floor. Feet shod,

Let him focus on the order of the day.

In Hydra there were sun and beach,

Amphetamines, hallucinating agents.

Could such gifts enable sacred work

And how? No, marriage to the wife of someone else

(or even to the bride he holds) cannot exactly fit

After sixty years of poisoned living, races

To the brink on high hills in someone else’s cottage.

✡

8

Mr. Cohen in His Youth

Marcia Goldberg


Fault Lines Sivan Slapak

“Excuse me , do you speak

English?” I ask in hesitant French, pulled

out from the depths of rusty Canadian

childhood memory. The grey-haired

Belgian man sitting across from me on the

train to Bruges responds crisply: “Non.” I’m

not surprised by his prickly adamance on

this point— I grew up in Montreal, after

all-- but I sense he’s more put off by being

spoken to by a stranger than by the

language choice. I live in Jerusalem now,

where fellow travelers don’t just speak on

buses, but squabble like siblings and hold

each other’s babies while they take turns

shuffling up to pay the driver.

But here on this early morning

commuter train cutting across Belgium,

speaking, or even looking at each other,

does seem highly irregular. It’s 6 am and

I’ve flown all night to visit my friend Jen

again, an American woman who was based

in Jerusalem for the last few years. Both of

us were drawn into a close community of

young Anglos—ingathered exiles of the

Jewish Diaspora -- all digging for our

shared heritage and building spiritual

homes, if not physical ones, in our various

ways. In the midst of Torah study and peace

work, it was unexpected, to say the least,

that Jen, searching and receptive though she

is, would fall in love with a Catholic

Flemish folk musician she met on a trip to

the states. And that after a few months of

flurried weekends full of frisson in random

European meeting points (Hungary,

Slovenia) she upped and relocated to his

tiny, quiet village. (“What’s that now?” we

started. “His name is what?” “You’re

moving where?”)

Back to New York or Boston,

married to an ironic educator named Josh,

or maybe even an earnest human rights

lawyer who strums guitar to unwind—that

would have been a predicted outcome. But,

as forty approached and the nice-Jewish-

boy trajectory didn’t make good on its

promise, the border between likely and

unthinkable became porous, and quirky

wonders managed to squeeze in. So instead,

Jen is married to Johan, who can trace his

family’s roots in West Vlaanderen back to

the Vikings, and tunes the hurdy-gurdy to

relax. And they live just outside of Bruges,

a dreamy medieval town with preserved

streets and canals that fairly obviate the

words “quaint” and “picturesque.”

9


Adjusted to the robed allure of

Jerusalem’s ancient debris and modern

grime, I can barely take the perfect scenery

seriously. (Passing through Bruges’

cobblestone pathways and parks on my

first visit, I covered my eyes, peeking at a

gathering of swans through the narrow

spaces between my fingers. “Jesus Christ,

Jen. What next, a unicorn?”) Flanders, all

fresh flatlands and healthy old people on

high bicycles, is much farther than the four

hour flight from Jerusalem. That’s my city:

demanding and urgent, loud and difficult,

and heartbreakingly irresistible to me. I do

love it, but thank God I have friends who

can offer us all tranquil hospice care after

the sweaty acuteness of life in the Middle

East. I’m looking forward to another week

of temperate strolls with Jen to thousand-

year-old village castles, then back for

indulgent lunches of waffles and beer.

On our last visit, Johan came back

from morning church service with favors

for us: oval candies in the shape of the

Virgin Mother. “Marshmallow Mary!”

Though enchanted, I had a moment of

hesitation before biting off her beatific

head, wondering if my act of cannibalism,

along with the candy, was kosher. I am

charmed by being far from home,

sloughing off the stress of being my

fervent, fretful self to have tea in someone

else’s courtyard. In a way, so are we all,

including Johan. We, Jen’s visiting

girlfriends, all curly-haired, busty and

bustling, hover over the pristine stove,

preparing a Friday night meal.

“Johan,” I ask the gentle

bespectacled man over my shoulder with a

wink, “did you ever imagine that your

kitchen would be taken over by three

Jewesses making Shabbes?” Incongruous

as it seems-- as does Jen’s presence in this

subdued place, and their whole shared life

-- perhaps he did, ultimately. We are all

characters who thrive on the tense fault

lines of identity, playful as church treats,

devastating as lost homelands and

histories. Jen and Johan embrace at this

buzzing intersection; I hover over them,

both basking and worrying, then retreat

back to the uneasy comfort of my own life

straddling the seams between familiar and

other.

10


I’ve flown into Liege, an hour from

Brussels and two from Bruges, and I want

to tell Jen when I’ll be getting in this

morning, but have no phone. The other

passengers are stiffly encased in their suits

and silence, Flemish and French-language

newspapers shielding closed faces. That’s

why I’ve whispered haltingly to the rather

aseptic grey-haired man sitting across from

me, asking if I could use his cell phone to

send a text message. He warily pulls it out

from his blazer pocket and allows me to

write a brief line, his face free of affect

while I struggle with the little keys, and

even when I return his phone with

enthusiastic thanks I receive only the

slightest nod. We withdraw into the

apparently natural state of ignoring each

other again, and in a few stops he’s left.

I am queasy with exhaustion from

my all-night flight. Using my backpack as a

pillow, I lie down on two seats with the

hope of sleeping the rest of the way,

imagining waking to the welcome kitsch of

ducklings gliding in a moat.

But just past Leuven I am jolted

awake, disoriented by a crashing, though

musical, clamour. In the four-seater directly

across from me is a young man, brown and

slight, holding a beer, wearing enormous

headphones and stomping wildly and

precariously close to my reclined head. He

is accompanying himself by singing a

diverse and ear-splitting playlist in

numerous unidentifiable languages. I lift

my heavy head and try to catch the eye of

another traveler.

Nothing, not even a raised brow—

there’s been a total lockdown on reactions

on this train. I find myself wondering if

pretending to be invisible is a survival

tactic of the region. I put my head down

again, despite the impinging performance.

The dancer flails large but is remarkably

graceful, and though I’m not fearful of

being swung at, it feels too close to

comfortably keep resting. I think about

migrating to the other side of the car, yet

some awkward sense of compassion (I

don’t want to hurt his feelings) and

courtesy (I don’t want to cause a scene)

keeps me in my seat. And, despite my

tiredness, I am somehow piqued by a show

of life in this frozen passenger car as we

roll through the bucolic Belgian

countryside.

11


Yes, we are here-- an invasion of

indecorous ethnics-- bienvenue, I think. For

all my enjoyment of ingrained civility, so

strict and private, it also agitates me,

making me too aware that only the thinnest

membrane of decorum keeps my own wild

rumble contained. Stomp-clap-stomp-sing-

wail-sing-stomp. Between the man’s

thrashing wiry limbs and under my drowsy

lids, I gaze longingly at muted fields,

drizzly and bovine, through the train’s

window. I came for the sedative peace of the

lowlands, and instead Jerusalem’s high-

frequency crazy has followed me; I’m a

magnet, I know.

Eventually, the cadenced racket and

passing landscape lulls me to stare sleepily

into the distance.

“She likes Indian Jews, that one!”

I am jerked out of my torpor as the

man’s indistinct lyrics suddenly crystallize,

sharply intelligible. A line from a Woody

Allen film comes to me, where he recounts

a moment of paranoia to his friend: “I

distinctly heard him say ‘Jew eat’? Not ‘did

you’ but, ‘Jew.’” So I shake it off: no, just

like Woody, it’s just what I heard, not what

was said. He said Indian juice. Or maybe,

indigenous. My mind is cobwebby with

fatigue and the train ride has already

launched me into the self-consciousness of a

fumbling foreigner; I dismiss it. As I brush

my mistake aside with a chuckle, with a

dancer’s flawless timing the young man

gleefully reorganizes his syntax, booming,

“That one likes Jewish Indians!”

I’m quite sure there’s only one Jew

in this placid car. Unless there are two: one

who’s Indian, and one who loves them?

Whether a chance lyric or some wave of

bizarre recognition, his mysterious words

cut the air between us like a friendly blade. I

turn to him and our dark-eyed gazes fasten.

He is a trickster, mischievous and complicit,

as he extends his skinny hand to shake.

“Non?” he asks with a grin. I fit my hand in

his, now unsure whether he’s said “No” or,

in fact, the Yiddish-inflected query, “nu?”

“Isn’t it a bit early to be making this

much noise?” I ask, bewildered and amused.

He smiles, shakes his head no and turns his

back to resume his roaring concert all the

way to Bruges.

✡

12


White sand dunescarried your ashes to a pond

valley-lilies, pit viper, the turtles in peat bog,

they ask how and why?Lice crawled on everything.Straw-covered bunks.: Broken pane of glass.Wooden clogs,

removing weeds, digging out,

planting potatoes and beetroot. The women prisoners gathered herbs,

dug drainage ditches,

made brooms from reed,harvested stinging nettle.

Barbed wire cast shadows,

cattle wagons —

to go from one cellar to another,what thoughts passed through your mind?Walking across the black stones —

The disappeared.

✡

13

The Disappeared

Ilona Martonfi


14

I have a good family friend who has a daughter Sarah. Soon after she was born, Sarah’s life changed. Her parents’ marriage fell apart, and her biological father wound up in prison.

About 5 years later, her mom remarried a Jewish man who hated Judaism. Although most of her family and friends were in Montreal, Sarah’s family moved to Toronto.

When Sarah approached 12 years old my heart became restless. I had watched Sarah grow up and for whatever reason I wanted Sarah to have a Bat Mitzvah. Since almost all of Sarah’s extended family and friends lived in Montreal, I decided to make Sarah a Bat Mitzvah. The problem? Her step father!

I flew to Toronto and took Sarah and her family out to dinner. I told them what I wanted to do and in the middle of desert they stormed out of the restaurant. How dare I impose my values on them? I understood their point.

I do not know why to this day, but I continued to make plans for Sarah’s Bat Mitzvah. Sarah’s grandmother provided me with a guest list. She was very supportive of my efforts. The date was booked. The caterer hired. The days flew by. Sarah’s family was invited to Sarah’s Bat Mitzvah just like any other guest. The Shabbos of Sarah’s Bat Mitzvah arrived. The synagogue was full. Where was Sarah?

Finally with about an hour left in the service in walked Sarah and her family. The Bat Mitzvah turned out to be a great success and Sarah’s step-father who had never been in synagogue as an adult even thanked me. I was proud and happy for doing a good deed for a very nice young lady.

After all the guests had left, Sarah came over to give me a hug. “What can I do to show you my thanks?” she asked. “Sarah I have a present for you,” I replied. I handed her two silver candle sticks and a Jewish calendar showing the designated candle lighting times.

With tears in her eyes Sarah explained, “My dad will never let me light Sabbath candles. He will throw me out of the house!” “You have a room don’t you?” I asked. “Yes,” Sarah replied. “It’s your personal space. Just go in quietly and light these candles. They are a symbol of your connection to a God who loves you. That would be the greatest gift that you could ever give me. Will you try?” “Yes.” She replied.

Well, time past by as time always does and every year on her birthday I sent Sarah a Jewish calendar with the candle-lighting times on it. I never knew if she was lighting the Sabbath candles or not. The years crept by one by one. Sarah was now 20, her Bat Mitzvah just a faded memory, I was sure.

The Power of Shabbos Candles – A True Miracle

Sheldon Cwinn

Harvest-HaAsif! ! Temple Emanu-El-Beth Sholomʼs Literary Anthology! Eighth Edition! Succoth 5774-2013One day I got a frantic phone call from Sarah’s mother. “Thanks for saving my daughter’s life!” “How did I do that” I asked. “You gave her candle sticks,” she replied.

Sarah was desperately drowning and had made friends with the wrong crowd. She was hopelessly into drugs. Her parents couldn’t reach her.

As it turns out, one Friday night, her best friend invited her to an ecstasy party/rave. She was eager to go. Her friend said that she would pick her up at 7:00.

“I have something to do in my room at exactly 8:17,” she replied, “you go on ahead and I will meet you at the party.”

At exactly 8:17, Sarah went into the tranquility of her room. She prayed that night for God to return her to a quieter life. How did she let herself get so out of control? There in the stillness of the night she took out her lighter and she lit her Shabbos candles and felt God’s love for her. At least she had the solitude of this treasured moment.

Sarah’s friend Lisa had been doing a mixture of cocaine and marijuana. In her intoxicated state, she got on the 407 the wrong way. Her car was hit head on by a truck. The girl in the passenger seat was killed. Lisa is a quadriplegic.

Today Sarah is 27 years old. She just graduated as a drug rehabilitation counsellor and is married to a medical student who will be graduating this year. As I write this, I just got a call from Sarah telling me that she is pregnant.

One thing that she assures me is that every Shabbos evening she prepares the Shabbos candles and tears come to her eyes knowing that a kind and gentle God loves her and that one of his precepts has saved her life.

✡

This story is absolutely true. I hope it inspires all who read it.

✡

15


Kossuth square ghetto

Ilona Martonfi

Grandmother picks sóska,

sour wild sorrel

close to the railroad tracksmy childhood house

colors to purple slate across the streetfrom Liszt Ferenz utca 14

what was she thinking?

Budapest 1944 —

keep walking until Kossuth square

a woman, named Eszter, shot into the river

at the Chain Bridge, laced summer shoewhite leather stack heel

And what of the acacia treeshad they lined the Danube back then

in this city?

barbed wire

the trams✡

16


Falling

Gail Marlene Schwartz

I made my first bargain with God at age nine. My part: assemble two Phantom 54 gliders all by myself. God’s part: let me grow up to be a pilot.

On the first night of Hanukkah every year, my parents gave my little brother Josh and me new gliders. The eggshell-soft planes seldom lasted more than a few weeks and typically ended up crushed under somebody’s heel. But despite their fragility, the gliders carried an ethereal magic that always brought us outside for launching in the single-digit Montreal December evenings.

If Dad was sober, the four of us would light the candles, sing the blessings, and Josh and I would squirm and jump and fidget while Mom went upstairs to get our presents. She teased us, wrapping the wafer-thin Phantoms in hatboxes, Chutes and Ladders boxes, even one year a washer and a dryer box. She claimed she wasn’t mechanically inclined enough to assemble the planes, but she sure wrapped a mean present.

Once the boxes were open, we’d beg Dad to put the gliders together and he would tease us too. “But I don’t remember how!” he’d say, putting on his fake sad face. Josh would jump on him and pound his neck with little

fists and I’d dive for his legs, all of us laughing and tickling and shrieking and falling.

Once Dad finished assembling, we’d sit on the porch with him, watching him puff a Camel, tossing one and then the other Phantom into the crackling-blue night. Josh and I would suck in and breathe out, pretending we were smoking too, and we’d take turns running to rescue the Phantoms from the snow mounds where they landed.

The years Dad was drinking were quieter. He stayed upstairs in his study nearly all the time, leaving the three of us awkward and unbalanced, like a mobile missing one of its pieces. I noticed my mother’s cheeks were dull yellow as she recited the Shehechiyanu, unlike the glowing Barbie pink we were all used to. Maybe her face was like one of those mood rings that the girls in my class wore. But Mom insisted on joyful holidays. The years Dad stayed upstairs we got more than our usual one gift per night, provoking much jumping and squealing. One year, I got a brand new baseball mitt. I was the only girl on my block that had one, and even some of the boys eyed me with envy as I tossed the ball with Irving Levine across the green of the cul-de-sac.

In 1981, my Dad was laid off at Thanksgiving and he stayed upstairs drinking until February. He smelled and would whomp whoever got in his way so Josh and I stayed in our alien space ship fort in the basement as much as possible. I built it with Irving and it had a control panel made of Christmas lights we’d found at a garage sale, levers from Dad’s old tools and 2 sets of broken Walkman earphones for the pilot and copilot.

On the first night of Hanukkah in 1981, I woke up and realized there would be nobody to assemble the gliders.

After lighting candles, Mom, pallid and bird-like, handed us each a large record-album shaped package. Josh and I tore into them and, despite the Abba jackets, we knowingly pulled out our Phantoms. Josh, five, looked at Mom with concern. “Can you make my plane, Mommy?” Smiling, she picked him up and suddenly began to weep. I only saw that one other time-at my Grandpa Joe’s funeral-and my hands immediately started sweating. Knocking on Dad’s door wasn’t an option. I could call Irving but I had my pride.

That’s when I thought of the bargain. God had performed all kinds of miracles, like parting the Red Sea and saving Noah and the animals. Maybe if I could help mom, just a little, just this once...

“C’mon Joshy,” I said, “I’ll do the planes.” Mom put Josh down and padded upstairs in her sheepskin slippers, closing her bedroom door behind her.

We watched her leave. Josh looked at me and there was a second where he could have started crying.

But when I took my brother’s hand, he sighed instead and I felt his body soften.

We took our freshly made gliders and I slowly led my brother into the bitter cold night.

✡

17


Cobbled with sea stones

oleander, prickly pear cactus

the door of the wind

entrance to a steep staircase

descending 36 steps

il Bagno Ebraico

carved out of bedrock

wick burning oil lamp

waters of the mikvah

Judaic ritual baths

of a mother-in-law

Giuseppa Mulè

what did your family do at a wedding,

in mourning?

brocade, damask, and silk weavers

daughter of the conversos: Crypto-Jews

settling among lemon groves

arid hills of date palms, almond trees

You descend into the chamber

in the hypogeum

trials of the Holy Inquisitions

the door of the wind

parchment dated June 1492

Jewess from Baglio di Baarìa

slopes of Mount Catalfamo

the mikvah

when the sun sets

perform your ablution rites

bride before her wedding

— after you bury your daughter

✡

18

Unearthing the secret mikvah Ilona Martonfi


FERDELE

by Carol Katz

I called my grandfather “Zaidie.” Only when I was much older did I

learn his true name. Gedalia or George was a peddler of scrap. In

the 1950’s, horse-drawn wagons still plied the streets of Montreal.

Gedalia owned a horse, which he called “Ferdele.”(Yiddish for

female horse). She had light brown sheen with a silky long black mane,

a white, furry face and pink nose. Her long white furry legs covered

her hoofs. She gazed at me with such intelligence and

understanding. Ferdele looked enormous beside Zaidie’s small

stature and thin body. However, she neighed with pleasure whenever

Gedalia stroked her or fed her. I became attached to Ferdele. The

stable was in back of his house. I loved the smell and feel of the

rough bails of hay. Zaidie would unhitch the wagon and put it and

the horse to sleep for the night.

I begged and begged my Zaidie to

let me accompany him on his selling jaunts. But his answer was

always the same: “You are too young, ‘maydele’ (Yiddish for little

girl) and you are too small to reach the reins.” I put my wish aside and

concentrated on my schoolwork. So when the call came, my heart

skipped a beat, my hands began to tremble and my legs felt weak.

Zaidie had decided that twelve was old enough to hold the reins. I ran

all the way to his house. Hand in hand, we walked towards the stable.

There was Ferdele, standing tall in all her majesty.

The wagon with its rickety wheels

stumbled along slowly. Ferdele seemed to know when to adjust her

pace. As we passed the houses, we shouted: “Bottles, Metals, Clothes.”

People would come to us, pick some items and give us a few cents.

I felt a sense of wonder at a world so different from the classroom.

I began to relax the reins. Without

warning, the wagon jerked, the wheels started grinding and the

horse began to speed up. Before I knew it, we were in the air, soaring

like a kite. I grabbed the reins and held on tight. Zaidie was laughing,

saliva streaming down his long greyish-white beard. His kipa slid

off his head and whirled downward. Ferdele began climbing higher and

higher, her black, silky mane drinking in the air. The whitish-grey

clouds enveloped us in a soft, cotton blanket. My cheeks were

flushed. I had to close my eyes to keep out the gusts of wind.

Swallows flew towards us and perched on our noses.

I heard a strange sound. I opened

my eyes. Zaidie was shouting: “Rags, Clothes, Bottles.” A woman

came out of her house and picked an old, long, flowery skirt, a nickel

in her hand.

✡

19


CONVERSION

Marcia Goldberg

In two days the crab-tree blossoms turn from ruby rose

against the blue to pinked-grays. A storm approaches as I

in my seventieth year lie on a garden chaise viewing

tree blossoms turning white as a pillow slip

across white feather pillows and sky filled clouds

imagining

cumulus and blooming apple clusters one and a piece

with my pillowed old gray head. It isnʼt long till

I sense it may disintegrate. As if there were any doubt,

a blur of rain sheets flash and that quick and I know it.

✡

20


I found a country where

I could seek my identity

I found my identity where

I could seek my community

I found my community where

I could seek my role

I found my role where

I could seek meaning

I found meaning where

I could seek love

I found love where

I could seek growth

I found growth where

I could seek truth

I found truth where

I could seek beyond borders

I found freedom in

uncharted spaces

And now,

I am stateless

✡

CONTEMPORARY MIGRATION Sophia Wolkowicz

21


This issueʼs writers, in their own words:

Sheldon Cwinn: Having lived as a frum Jew for many years, and now embracing reform, mywriting reflects the stories and the miracles that I have witnessed and the joy of love for God and people of all walks of life.

Vincent Dumont-Mackay: He is a father, ER doctor, writer, and bender of the space-time continuum. He is also founding editor of Here Be Monsters, a speculative fiction anthology and blogsite. http://herebemonstersanthology.blogspot.ca/

Marcia Goldberg is a retired professor of English and spirited wordsmith who gives readings at The Yellow Door, Cafe BBAM!, Burritoville and the Visual Arts Center in Westmount on occasions, She is working on her sixth chapbook, The Chadwick Cycle, and a volume of collected poems. Her poetry has been featured in previous editions of Harvest-HaAsif.

Carol Katz has been writing poetry and short stories for the past 15 years. Her publications include stories, poems, essays in various anthologies, and her first children’s book: Zaidie and Ferdele: Memories of My Childhood. (Deux Voiliers Publishing, 2012.) Her inspiration comes on buses. She calls it “Writing in Motion.” She is also an art enthusiast, guitarist and retired archivist. She lives in Montreal, Quebec, is married to Sol Katz and has two children.

Ilona Martonfi: Author biography: Ilona Martonfi Author of two poetry books, Blue Poppy, (Coracle Press, 2009.) Black Grass, (Broken Rules Press, 2012). Published in Vallum, Accenti, The Fiddlehead, Serai. Founder/producer of The Yellow Door and Visual Arts Centre Readings, co-founder of Lovers and Others. QWF 2010 Community Award.

Gail Marlene Schwartz holds a juris doctor degree, BA and MFA degrees. Founder/ director of Third Story Window and ensemble member of Promito Playback Theatre and Montreal Playback Theatre, she is a writer for Parents Canada magazine and the anthologies Hidden Histories (Brindle and Glass) and How To Expect What You’re Not Expecting (TouchWood Editions), and of multiple plays and web content. She has edited, and has taught writing at Northwestern University, the University of Vermont, the Community College of Vermont, and the Association Emmanuel.

Sivan Slapak, a former Montrealer, has been living in Israel for close to 20 years and completed her MA in English Literature at Hebrew University in Jerusalem this year. She is an art therapist, educator, and medical clown. She edits and writes, and until recently, worked for The Adam Institute for Democracy and Peace in Jerusalem, which attempts to bridge the gulf between Israelis and Palestinians. She is presently on tour in Canada.

Sophia Wolkowicz is an art teacher, mom, wife, sister, guitar-granny, friend who hopes she is worthy of all the people who have inspired her and are her touchstones. Hence the poetry. Her poetry has appeared in previous issues of the Harvest-HaAsif Anthology.

S. Nadja Zajdman is an essayist and short story writer. Her work has been featured in newspapers, magazines, anthologies and literary journals internationally, as far afield as New Zealand. She has performed her material on radio and in public readings. In 2012 Nadja published a collection of her stories entitled BENT BRANCHES. She lives in Montreal, Quebec.

22

http://herebemonstersanthology.blogspot.ca

http://herebemonstersanthology.blogspot.ca


In appreciation of the past and present generous supporters of Harvest-Ha’Asif

David Abramson Rabbi Leigh LernerZav LevinsonBarbara Morningstar and David Mizrachi

Harry Rajchgot

Vivianne Schinasi-Silver

Illustrations and photographs: ! p.6. Belinograph illustration http://

www.radiofrance.fr/sites/default/files/pages-galeries-

photos/belimographe_1925.jpg ! p. 21. Sophia Wolkowicz

! all other illustrations Harry Rajchgot!All copyrights remain the property of their authors and illustrators.

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]

The current and all past issues of Harvest-HaAsif may be found on the web at the following URL:


or


and by a direct link from the Temple website.

✡

23

http://www.radiofrance.fr/sites/default/files/pages-galeries-photos/belimographe_1925.jpg






mailto:[email protected]

mailto:[email protected]







Harvest-HaAsif 2013

Documents

Transcript of Harvest-HaAsif 2013