T H E L I T E R A R Y J O U R N A L

O F T E M P L E S I N A I

V O L U M E 3

J U N E 2 0 1 2 / S I V A N 5 7 7 2

b"ast |uyo

Kol Ha-NeshamaVoice of the Spirit

Remembrance and Spirituality

Editor’s Note 3Ben Wecht

An Etrog Box 4David Hirsch

Autumn Memories 5 Diane Karp Rudov

Modim 6 Mimi Botkin

A Day 7Sarah M. Bett

Untitled Photograph 8 Suzi Neft

Remember…We Were There 9 Harold Marcus

Coming Out, Coming Home 10 Susan Blackman

In My Childhood Home 13Walter Boninger

Normandy, France 14John Schiller

The Pursuit of Memory 15Carol Congedo

Tribute to a Beloved Teacher 16Ruth C. Reidbord

Remembering Nate 18Valerie Bacharach

Memories from the Family Archive of Barbara Gibson 20

Say 22Mimi Botkin

Cousin Esther and Pop 23Ruth Weinberger

White-haired Ladies in Their Beds 26Ruth Stock Zober

For the Sin of Thoughtlessness 28Monica Cellio

Umarked No More 30Michele F.

Zichranot 31Ben Wecht

Cover: Rick Landesberg’s

great-grandfather, Jacob

Landesberg, in front of

his business and home.

Eva, his wife, peeks

through the window.

Philadelphia, c. 1920.

t h e l i t e r a r y j o u r n a l

o f t e m p l e s i n a i

V o l u m e 3

j u n e 2 0 1 2 / s i V a n 5 7 7 2

b"ast |uyo

Kol Ha-NeshamaVoice of the Spirit

Remembrance and Spirituality

kol ha-neshama

g / 3

Editor’s NoteBen Wec h t

As I write elsewhere in this, the third issue of Kol Ha-Neshama,

memory is identity, and without it we are nothing.

If you’re not quite sure of this, peer into the eyes of someone

losing their memories to Alzheimer’s disease or senile dementia.

There you will find bewilderment, confusion, fear. Conversely, watch

an infant as he struggles to make sense of the world around him.

Though his attitude may be joyful and his prospects infinite, his lack

of mastery perplexes him; lacking all manner of personal bench-

marks, what does any of it mean?

Of course, memory can be painful as well. For the Holocaust

survivor, the victim of childhood abuse, the widow or widower, what

pleasure is there in remembering? Or, to turn the question around,

why not forget that which brings pain? In the 2004 romantic sci-fi

thriller Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, Joel, a hapless young man

played by Jim Carrey, goes so far as to submit himself to a radical,

memory-erasing procedure in an effort to free his mind from the

bereavement that has dogged his every waking hour since his break-up

with the vivacious Clementine, played by Kate Winslet. At the risk of

spoiling the film for those who haven’t yet seen it, may I report here

that said procedure doesn’t quite work? And that it doesn’t work

because memory is so interwoven into the very fabric of who we are

that removing it is roughly analogous to extricating chewing gum

from hair?

But if memory is identity, it is also something more. It is the

essence of spirituality, of belief in an unseen reality that transcends

our daily lives and connects us to one another, to the ancient past, to

eternity. And as the essays and poems and photographs in this publi-

cation all attest, to remember is not only human; it is, in the best

and truest sense of the word, divine.

d / 4

An Etrog BoxDavid hirsch

Da

vid

hir

sc

h

A box.

Lustrous multihued wood.

Red felt interior, soft and warm.

Six sides, Zion carved and Hebrew inscribed.

My grandfather’s etrog box.

Grandpa.

Born in America.

Back to the old country for a proper education.

A hard man through hard times.

A Judaism of reward and punishment in this life.

Barely passed to his four children.

Dementia and davening left for me.

Me.

Swaying back and forth in a Reform shul.

Blessed are you, Adonai our God, God of our fathers and mothers.

God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob.

God as well now of Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel and Leah.

God of Grandpa and me.

kol ha-neshama

h / 5

I struggle each November remembering my parents’ autumn deaths

years ago. If I believed in God, would my grief be tempered? The

sadness is triggered when I rake crunchy leaves, scratching open old

wounds. The sweeping motion, the musky smell, the endeavor itself

pulls me backward in time.

“You can push more leaves into that bag,” my father would say.

But only after he encouraged my sister and me to romp in them and

then create a colorful haystack.

“Never forget that wet leaves can be slick as ice,” my mother

would caution. But only after she helped track down the prettiest

oranges and reds for my Brownie scrapbook.

Today I, a secular Jew, hear and feel my parents within my heart.

I energetically rake and bag. But only after I build a gigantic mound

of nature’s cast-off palette. I help my husband discover the most

gorgeous ones to mail to his daughter in dry Texas, and I am more

careful than usual walking to temple on rainy days.

Now I realize that they, agnostics to the core, were teaching me

to be industrious, to dance in the moment, to protect against danger,

to recognize the truly beautiful.

“We don’t believe in God,” they would say, living their entire

lives as though they did. I practice their life lessons but crave to

cushion their losses with a belief in God.

Autumn MemoriesDiane K a r p r udov

u / 6

Modimmi mi Botki n

After “Mama” and “DaDa,” I’m fairly certain that the next phrases I

was taught were “please” and “thank you.” This is the way of the

ordered world: gratitude is important; it recognizes that someone

outside ourselves cares about us.

Visits to my grandparents’ apartment on McKee Place taught me

another lesson about gratitude. My grandmother had an unerring eye

for picking exactly the dress I would absolutely never pick for myself

and in the wrong size, wrapping it in lovely paper and ribbons and

handing it to me with a loving smile. Good manners demanded that I

open my gift in the presence of my grandparents so I could deliver an

immediate thank-you and the requisite kiss. The older I got, the more

difficult this charade of thankfulness became, but I knew I had to

keep up the pretense. This is certainly not the gift I would have chosen;

I had visions of the ridicule that would follow if I wore it in public.

But I had to offer my thank-you because it was a gift.

The prayers I learned for the Shabbat services extended this

gratitude from those I knew and could see to God. There are count-

less gifts from God that make their way into the Modim, whether it’s

translated directly from the Hebrew or expanded in modern trans-

lation as it is in our Mishkan Tefilah. Our prayers thank God for

creation, our fragile planet Earth, high hopes and noble causes, for

all who have suffered for a fairer world, who have lived so that

others might live. I’ve read and written about these particular verses

several times and am always struck by how many speak of the

betzelem elohim, our being created in God’s image and living up to

what’s best in us. “We pray that we may live not by our fears but by

our hopes.” God never promises us that life will be easy; in fact, the

Torah lays out specific game plans for those times life does not go as

we had hoped or planned.

kol ha-neshama

z / 7

These are the times I find myself asking if a modim is truly in

order. Am I to be thankful that so many live in hunger and suffering,

that disease and disaster kill those I love? At these times I talk with

my beloved friend who’s been struggling against all odds to live with

and through her cancer. Hers is a modim that blesses God for every

breath and every new morning. She often says that this turn in her

life has given her a mindfulness she never could’ve gained any other

way. She certainly didn’t choose this path, any more than I chose the

dresses my grandmother gave me. The strength to believe in thank-

ing God for both the beneficent and the challenging I silently ask for

each time I pray the Modim.

A Daysarah m. Bett

A day of loss,

A day of pain,

A day of tears.

But that is what we see when the glass is half empty.

A day of remembrance,

A day of hope,

A day of thankfulness.

That is what we see when the glass is half full.

c / 8

It was a chilly autumn day. I told my 4-year-old son he needed to put on a jacket before we went out to play in the yard. Our yard was a grove of black walnut trees, catalpas, white maple, apple trees and more. Leaves of all shapes and sizes fell everywhere. He had his first realization that there were brown, yellow and

red leaves on the ground. He asked where they came from. I told him to look up at the trees in the yard. He was shocked and scared. My son, being a very curious boy with a large vocabulary for such a tiny tyke, asked a flood of questions. Why? Will they come back? Can we put them back? Prior to this day we had already had discussions about G-d. Now I told him G-d

created a cycle of life for trees so they could grow. Every year in autumn G-d makes the leaves fall so we can play in them, the trees bud in the spring, and by summer all the leaves return. The cycle goes on every year. This satisfied his curiosity. Then I showed him how to play in the leaves.

suzi neft

kol ha-neshama

j / 9

Remember … We Were There

harold m a rc us

When Abraham smashed the idols,

Of one G-d he was aware.

He did not do it for himself,

Remember, we were there.

And when the Jews were slaves in Egypt,

Pharaoh’s wish was our command.

We felt the pain because we, too,

Were strangers in that land.

When Moses climbed Mt. Sinai

To receive The Law in stone,

We heard the words of Adonai,

Moses did not climb alone.

Does everyone remember,

On May 14th of ’48,

How we rejoiced together

For the newfound Jewish state?

When Abraham smashed the idols,

We knew deep down in our heart,

Shema Yisroel, Adonai is One,

And we knew it from the start.

My father is such a gentle man. When I invited him join me for a talk

in my brother’s guest room during a family gathering some years

ago, he followed me, obediently, looking very serious.

“I don’t know what’s going to happen next,” I said, “but I have

figured out that I probably shouldn’t have married a man. I guess

Matt and I will be splitting up, though we still love each other. The

kids understand what’s happening, and they’re doing pretty well.”

He furrowed his brows a bit and looked up at me. “OK. I just

need to know one thing. Was it something your mother or I did?”

“No, Daddy,” I laughed. “It’s hard-wired. It took me a long time

to figure it out, but I get it now. I just thought I was open-minded.”

He grinned, very slightly, and nodded his head in agreement.

“Well, that’s OK then. Everything will be fine.”

I grew up in the country in central Maryland, just south of the

Pennsylvania border, about an hour and a half from the house in

Baltimore where Uncle Sam and Aunt Ann lived. We went there at

least once a month for Sunday dinner, and when Daddy and his

brother were together, you could hear Brooklyn in their voices as

they told stories and laughed.

Back in my elementary school classroom, I was one of only two

Jews. There were no synagogues anywhere nearby. I went to Sunday

school in Baltimore for a time, but all I can remember was learning

Hebrew letters and that I needed to sell pencils for Israel.

Just the same, I felt Jewish. There was always music in the house

and everybody read. Although we didn’t have much money, Daddy

y / 10

Coming Out, Coming Home

susa n Bla c kma n

kol ha-neshama

Ey / 11

brought home books all the time. We had a full set of Encyclopædia

Britannica and an unabridged dictionary, and we had incredible

conver sations many nights after dinner that often sent us to one

reference book or another.

I watched Leonard Bernstein every Saturday morning. (I had a

crush on him; he reminded me of my father with his wavy dark hair

and proud nose.) I even convinced my parents that I wanted to trade

in my pony for a piano. Mother had grown up in West Virginia and

had loved her horses. What kind of little girl didn’t want a pony? But

it was dirty and it smelled bad, and I knew that, first, you didn’t have

to feed a piano and second, you could play it in the winter. So Daddy

got me a piano.

Although we went to Uncle Sam’s and Aunt Ann’s each year for

Passover, the highest of High Holidays, we were otherwise Jewish in

spirit but not in practice. These were the days when we recited “The

Lord’s Prayer” in public school, though, and I liked being an outsider.

But I also knew I wasn’t really Jewish. Daddy was raised in an

Orthodox home, with Latvian immigrant parents and six siblings. He

was the youngest boy and his mother died when he was 12. His

father remarried quickly and the kids (the oldest of whom was 22)

moved out and raised each other. Ultimately, he was the only one in

his family to marry outside the faith, so even though we checked the

“Jewish box” on the school forms, I understood that wasn’t enough.

In high school, I took voice lessons from the director of the town’s

Methodist church choir and in my yearbook I referred to myself as

“Methodist Jew.” I moved to Sewickley after graduate school and

took voice lessons from the director of the Episcopal church choir in

exchange for singing on Sundays. I held on to my outsider status and

viewed my participation there more as theatre than spirituality —

while I believed none of the narrative, I sang the music of Bach and

Handel with deep passion and joy. Later, I earned money by singing

with the Catholic Diocesan choir, a Presbyterian quartet, and a

Byzantine choir.

by / 12

In the meantime, I looked for a spiritual home. Since the 6-year-

old in my head knew I couldn’t go to temple, I tried the Unitarian

Church, where I wasn’t faced with the cognitive dissonance I had

experienced everywhere else. I met and fell in love with Matt there,

had three kids, and felt genuinely supported when, years later, I

came out as a lesbian. After he moved out, Matt and I often met and

sat together at church and took the kids to lunch after their church

school.

In the summer of 2010, I received an invitation to my cousin Robert’s

wedding. The son of my father’s oldest sister, he and his partner,

Alan, would be going to Connecticut first to be legally married and

then come home to Miami for a ceremony at the Reform temple

where Alan is the accompanist.

I arrived in Miami on Friday morning. That evening, we all went

to the Simchat Torah service, which was almost painfully joyful for

me. I spent the rest of the weekend reconnecting with Aunt Sylvia

and meeting new cousins and their families. I heard Brooklyn again

as my aunt told me stories, sweet and sad, about the family, and how

special “Little Jackie” (my father) was to their mother.

The wedding was beautiful. There were some funny moments as

Alan switched gears from betrothed to pianist and back again, and

they each broke glasses under the chuppah. My heart was full.

I had finally come home to a place where I had never actually

lived.

Back in Pittsburgh, I had an epiphany: if I walked up the steps of

Temple Sinai, it was a good bet that nobody would ask for my

creden tials. After a year maintaining what I called “dual citizenship,”

I resigned my membership at the Unitarian Church and have

proudly come out as a Jew.

And yes, Daddy. It was something that you and Mother did.

kol ha-neshama

gy / 13

In my childhood home in Hamburg, Germany, every Jewish holiday

was important and celebrated. The High Holy Days come to mind …

On Rosh Hashanah, of course, it was apples and honey, but

most memorable are the Senf Gurken my mother made for weeks in

advance. Literally “mustard pickles,” these words don’t describe the

delicate, mild taste I remember so well. They were large, eggplant- or

watermelon-size, and when peeled were cut into long strips. They

were always new for Rosh Hashanah, but then enjoyed for several

weeks. You can still buy them today in German delis, but in small

jars with small cubed pieces, not the long slices of my childhood.

My father was a traveling salesman and so we had a car. On

Shabbos and holidays we always walked to the synagogue, even on

Yom Kippur, but at the end of Yom Kippur the car magically

appeared (my father must have brought it there beforehand) and we

drove home. Oh, how seriously I took that last moment with the

blast of the shofar, when all of God’s decrees for the coming year

were sealed. I did not fast as a child, but was in the synagogue most

of the day.

At the end of Yom Kippur, back at home, the meal always

included herring and hot tea, and then came the telephone call to

my grandparents in Nurnberg. The conversations were always the

same. Everybody had to talk. “Can you hear me? Did you have an

easy fast? Have a good year.” The phone was passed quickly from

person to person until everyone had a turn. (Long distance calls were

very expensive in the 1930s.) It is a beautiful tradition that I have

tried to keep alive with my children and grandchildren.

In My Childhood HomeBy Wa lter B oni nger

Normandy, FranceNever far from our memory … lest we forget those who died for our freedom.

ph otos by j o h n schille r

Top: A Jewish grave. Above: A bunker bearing handwritten thanks for D-Day.

kol ha-neshama

The Pursuit of MemoryCarol Cong edo

One year ago I began leading Shabbat services at Charles Morris

Nursing home on the Ellsworth unit.

I met with the rabbi for the Jewish Agency on Aging before

beginning. “Remember, your people do not know Debbie Friedman

songs,” he said. “They won’t be able to read a siddur.”

I felt that a having a siddur made it a “real“ service. What I didn’t

realize was that more than half of my original congregants were

unable to hold a siddur and turn the pages. And despite large font

print, those that could hold the siddur couldn’t see the words clearly.

Then I had a brainstorm: I rewrote my service in Power Point format,

and that made everyone able to use the siddur.

I looked up some of the older melodies for the Shabbat songs.

We were ready to go! We started the service with niggunim. Those

who couldn’t speak, hummed or tapped their feet. One of my

congregants conducted my singing with her hands. She used to

roam through the service, but once she knew that it was OK with me,

she sat still through the service conducting the melodies in perfect

time. After the Kabbalat section, we lit candles for Shabbat. Many

closed their eyes, brought in Shabbat with their hands, and sang the

prayer with me.

Some of my congregants appeared to be sleeping, but if you

looked closely, some were mouthing the words of the prayers

silently. One, who didn’t really want to come at first, even began say-

ing the words out loud one day during the Shma and the Amidah.

Some did not know the prayers, perhaps never having gone to

shul. Near the end of the service, we made Kiddush and Ha-motzi.

Almost all my congregants recalled and sang the Kiddush with me. It

is amazing to participate in the service with my congregants. We tell

each other stories of Shabbats long past, of holidays long gone. But

the memories are there, if only we seek to find them.

zj / 16

My teacher died this past year. He was 101 and lively almost to the

end. His name was Jack Rubin. But to know who he was, you’ll first

need to know where he came from. So come back with me to Leech-

burg, Armstrong County, about 40 miles northeast of Pittsburgh,

where I grew up …

There were perhaps 20 Jewish families in town. Now there are

none. In 1937, led by my beloved mother of blessed memory and a

woman named Sylvia Braun, we joined with Jewish families from

Vandergrift and Apollo to form the Kiski Valley Religious School. It

was affiliated with the Southwestern Pennsylvania Jewish Religious

Schools Committee, and all the teachers were volunteers. The curric-

ulum and program were developed at Rodef Shalom with the help of

the late, great rabbi, Dr. Solomon Freehof, and were made available

to small congregations and smaller Jewish communities in the

region for a fee of one dollar per student per year!!

Many of you are familiar with Temple Sinai’s religious school,

filled with well-trained teachers and administrators and hundreds of

students. My children also attended a very good religious school,

Temple Emanuel of the South Hills. But I don’t think anyone received

an education comparable to mine. And it was mostly imparted to me

by Jack Rubin.

We had a “one-room schoolhouse.” It was the meeting room of

the B’nai B’rith men and it was located on the second floor of a used

car showroom in Vandergrift. At its peak, it had approximately 12

students. Though I had other teachers before him, beginning when I

Tribute to a Beloved Teacher

ruth C. r ei dbord

kol ha-neshama

zy / 17

was about 10 and continuing until my confirmation some six years

later, Jack taught me and one other student using the Rodef Shalom

curriculum. But while other schools in the district and other teach-

ers might “adjust” the curriculum, that wasn’t for Jack. He knew I

was eager to learn and he was a strict taskmaster. He had no formal

education beyond high school, and his Jewish education was mostly

in Hebrew, studying Torah and Talmud in a New York yeshiva. But

he was a superb teacher.

He studied the material and made sure we did our homework

(in the last three years, I had four hours of homework a week!). We

learned Jewish history, customs, current events, Bible and some

rudimentary philosophy. He questioned us closely, gave us tests and

explained difficult material. The other student in my class was some-

what indifferent, but I loved every minute of Jack’s lessons. It was

not easy growing up in a little town with no Jewish friends, but Jack

not only made it worthwhile, he instilled in me a pride in my heri-

tage and a thirst for Jewish education that has stayed with me.

So Jack, I salute you. You lived a long life full of blessing. May

your memory be for a blessing.

cy / 18

Remembering NateV a ler i e B a c h a r ach

My younger son, Nate, died on July 30, 2009. He was 26 years old and

trying desperately to change his life, to beat an addiction to drugs

that, unbeknownst to his father, older brother, and me, had begun

when he was only 18. He died of a heart attack, alone in a motel

room. We were to meet for lunch that day. I will never forget the look

in my husband’s eyes as he tried to break down the door to reach his

son. It took the police and fire departments to get the door open, but

Nate had been dead for hours.

Our family has been devastated, as we have struggled with the

litany of “if only” and “why?” Our love for one another and the

support of friends and community has helped us to survive and

continue with our lives. I want to see my son clearly, to paint a

picture of who he was, strengths and weaknesses. It is easy to see the

weaknesses, to remember the heartbreak and disappointments of

watching a bright, talented young man falling apart. It has been

more difficult to remember the strengths. After nearly three years, I

am beginning to see them.

Nate had a kind, generous, loving heart. He would routinely tip a

server 50 percent, saying he knew how hard that person worked. He

was a flirt with the older women who frequented the hair salon

where he worked for several months, always ready with a smile, a

twinkle in his eye, a hug, a way to let them know they were truly

beautiful. One of my friends remembered talking to him in a restau-

rant one evening. She told me Nate had a way of making you feel he

had been waiting all night just to talk to you. He gave you the gift of

his undivided attention.

kol ha-neshama

jy / 19

He talked often of his desire to have children, making sure we

had saved all of his Dr. Seuss books. I will keep them forever, a sad

but lovely reminder of what he could have had.

As the fog of grief is clearing a bit, I remember more and more

of his life — for example, his complaint, when he was only 6, of never

having flown in an airplane. My husband arranged for Nate, his

older brother, Jacob, and himself to take a ride in a small plane.

Nate fell asleep after about five minutes. I remember him building

amazing structures with Legos, dancing with me around our kitchen,

cooking all of us Eggs Benedict as a surprise one morning. I remember

his plans and dreams of opening a restaurant with his brother. They

had even picked out a name, Les Freres — the brothers. I remember

driving him to numerous soccer games, traveling with him and our

family to Paris, San Francisco, New York. I remember, I remember, I

remember … memories that are bittersweet, the perfect word to

describe our lives.

Our lives have been divided into before and after. It has taken us

a long time to begin to talk about Nate, not just the pain and sad-

ness, but the happiness and love. I will always remember my son,

with grief, with sadness, with regret, but more, with love.

k / 20

Memories from the Family Archive of Barbara Gibson

From left to right: Barbara Gibson’s parents, Ben and Betty Schilmeister; her maternal grandparents, Abe and Jenny Braunstein; and her aunt and uncle, Toby and Stanley Kuhr.

kol ha-neshama

ek / 21

Top: Miriam and David Schilmeister, Barbara Gibson’s paternal grandmother and uncle, in the family grocery store. Above: Miriam Schilmeister and Jenny Braunstein, Barbara Gibson’s grandmothers.

bk / 22

Saymi mi Botki n

My father sleeps now, wrapped in his wedding tallit,

traditional silver and blue, covered in the

shroud of his Orthodox roots.

His last breath, almost imperceptible in its shallow

wisps of air, slept him away.

Say that he lived 93 years and 7 months,

that he was not Willy Loman.

Say that he died the death of

a father, not a salesman.

Say that he served in the Navy in World War II,

A C.B.* in the Solomon Islands, seldom

talked about it with his children except

to show us pictures of bare-breasted island women.

Say that he left behind love, family,

work ethic, pride of accomplishment

and a wicked

sense of humor.

Say that he was proud of

flying all the way to Australia for

Rosh Hashanah services to declare his Jewishness

in a non-Jewish place.

Say that he was a Jew.

Say that he was my father.

*Construction Brigade

kol ha-neshama

gk / 23

I remember sitting in the backseat of our dark green Mercury sedan

with my brother, Paul, on one of our frequent trips to Rankin to visit

my cousin Esther and her husband, Pop. My parents were in the

front seat as my father once again nose-dived the car down one of

the steepest hills that I’d ever seen, then turned right at the light and

turned right, again, into the alley behind Cousin Esther’s house. The

house was a modest, three-story, red brick with a pointed roof closely

flanked by two similar houses.

We opened the back gate and walked through the vegetable

garden that formed the entirety of their backyard. I never saw a weed

in the garden, only green leafy vegetable plants and fine black earth.

I knew their yard was different from the other grassy and flowered

backyards in their neighborhood, but I accepted my mother’s

explanation that “Pop likes to garden.”

We stepped through the back door of their house into their

bright, clean, white, orderly, slightly worn kitchen. I hugged and

kissed my plump, gray-haired Cousin Esther, who always wore a

cotton dress and apron, well-ironed. Then I kissed Pop, a very large

man with a very large waistline and a scratchy, gray mustache. He

had twinkling blue eyes and always said something to make me

laugh. My mother did not know why Cousin Adolph was called

“Pop,” but she thought it was because he had five children and many

grandchildren.

After the hugs and kisses and “hellos,” Cousin Esther opened

the cupboard door under the kitchen sink and took out a small

plastic car that she gave to my brother and a small plastic frog that

Cousin Esther and Popruth W ei nberger

dk / 24

she gave to me. We said our “thank-you’s” for the gifts, then played

with our new toys on the kitchen table until Cousin Esther asked if

we would like some cookies. She brought us a plate of her home-

made jelly cookies — spoonfuls of sweet, bright red jelly wrapped in

squares of flaky, white cookie dough. We ate our cookies, drank

some milk and then walked through their dining room gazing at the

massive pieces of dark wood furniture on a dark red rug. Pop sat at

the dining room table, his half-smoked cigar burning in an ashtray

while he talked with my parents. The bits of conversation that we

overheard were quite uninteresting to me and my brother.

We walked into the living room furnished with a dark red

Oriental style rug, a piano, various large upholstered chairs and a

couch. We were most interested in the collection of framed photo-

graphs of various sizes that cascaded over the big end table next to

the couch. Cousin Esther sat with us on the couch and told us about

the relatives in the photos. We saw baby pictures of children who

were now 10 or 12 years old, couples in their wedding attire, snap-

shots of families at summer picnics. We wondered if Cousin Esther

would ever add a photo of us to her sprawling collection.

Cousin Esther told us a story about a young African-American

girl who helped out at the neighborhood grocery store owned by

Esther and Pop. She began, “I was marking prices on the things that

we sell in the store with my black wax pen. We had something new

in the store, frozen orange juice, and the pen would not write on it.

The young girl said ‘Wipe the white frost off the can.’ I wiped it off

with a cloth and then I could mark the price with my pen.” Cousin

Esther concluded, “You don’t have to have a lot of schooling to be

smart.”

I liked this story because I pictured the heroine to be about my

age. Also, I believed what I had learned in school about all people

being equal. I had heard adults say mean things about people based

on their race. I was glad that Cousin Esther was not one of those

people. Of course, I somehow knew that she would not be.

kol ha-neshama

hk / 25

I remember sleeping over at Cousin Esther’s and Pop’s house

when our parents went out of town for a few days. She and Pop were

more observant than my parents. My mother always lit Sabbath

candles and my father said Kiddush at the start of the Sabbath, but

they rarely performed the Havdalah service at the end of the

Sabbath. It seemed we were always busy with other things at that

time. Cousin Esther and Pop called us into their kitchen for the

Havdalah service. After the Havdalah candle was lit, Pop looked into

my eyes and explained that we look into each others’ eyes to see the

reflection of the flame and to see the soul. I tried to hide my surprise

that this large-waisted, gray-haired, cigar-smoking (and did I men-

tion card-playing?) man was talking about the soul.

I loved visits to Cousin Esther’s house. She and Pop created a

place where I always felt safe, happy and loved. I remember telling

my mother that I wished I had grandparents like my friends did.

I knew that my grandparents had lived in Europe and died before I

was born in 1946. My mother suggested, “Maybe we could ask Cousin

Esther and Pop to be your adopted grandparents.”

“Really? Do you think they would?” I asked.

“I think they would,” said my mother.

uk / 26

White-haired Ladies in Their Beds

ruth stoc k Zobe r

Age two

Lower East Side, New York City

A third floor walk up. Thin long white strands of hair spread

on the bed by her faithful daughter.

She clutches my mother’s hand and speaks Yiddish,

a language I do not understand.

“This is your bubbe. Your grandpa’s mother. She helped to

bring her family from Russia to the new world.”

Age eight

Squirrel Hill, Pittsburgh

In the back room of a family home. She lies on pristine white sheets

perfectly coiffed by her daughter-in-law.

She smiles but does not speak.

“This is Hanna, your cousin. When your grandpa’s mother died,

she helped to raise him.”

kol ha-neshama

zk / 27

Age fifty

Stanton Heights, Pittsburgh

In my living room. She lies in a hospital bed, her once curly black

hair thin and straight, carefully combed by the hospice nurse.

I hold her hand and speak to her as what she tries to say does

not make sense.

“Thank you, Ma. You really were the ‘perfect’ mother, always

supportive, always loving, always there.”

Age sixty

Squirrel Hill and Highland Park, Pittsburgh

In new cribs with pink sheets and quilts, tufts of nearly invisible hair

carefully combed by their new mothers.

Each one clutches my finger and smiles as some unknown angel

whispers in their sleeping ears.

“This is Leah. This is Isabel. They are your granddaughters.”

And the legacy continues …

For the Sin of Thoughtlessnessmoni c a Celli o

I don’t believe that God micro-manages the universe, but I also don’t

believe that God stands apart and aloof. I believe we sometimes

receive divine nudges.

When I graduated from college, I and my classmate Adam (not

his real name) went to work for the same small high-tech company.

We’d gotten along fine as students; as coworkers, though, things were

sometimes more than a little rocky. After several years we both left

that company and went our separate ways. We did not stay in touch.

A decade later, I was working for another small company when,

shortly before what would be my first Rosh Hashanah, the director of

engineering came into my shared office holding a resume. “You and

Adam used to work together; what can you tell me about him?” I

responded immediately, not stopping to think that the Adam of a

decade ago was probably not much like the Adam of today. (I knew I

wasn’t much like the me of yore.) Later, when I realized my error, I

tried to set things right with the director of engineering. The com-

pany went on to offer him a position (which he declined for some-

thing better).

I was at the time reading the Chofetz Chayim, a book on lashon

hara (loosely defined as “evil speech”) — clearly I had not absorbed

its lessons yet! — and I asked myself whether I owed Adam an apol-

ogy. Since I had not prevented the company from offering him a job,

we had not seen each other in all that time, and he was unlikely even

to hear of my remarks, I reasoned that calling him out of the blue

and telling him what I had said would do more harm than good.

ck / 28

kol ha-neshama

God made an entry in the divine ledger.

A few days later, I was in the park with friends, and who should I

see but Adam! He approached me, we exchanged pleasantries, and

then he said “I hear you had a bad reaction to my resume.” I said

that initially I had but that I was wrong and had tried to set matters

straight. He said something like “no problem,” and then we were

both called away. I wondered if I should do more. That night, I went

to S’lichot services. The service touched me, particularly a phrase that

would be oft-repeated over the coming days: for sins against another

person, God wouldn’t forgive me until I’d made amends. Oh. Oops.

OK, God, I said, You have my attention.

The next day I called Adam to apologize and ask his forgiveness.

He brushed it off, saying he knows he can be annoying. I responded

that even if that’s true it didn’t justify my behavior; I had no way of

knowing what he’s like now. I asked again for his forgiveness and he

granted it. We talked for a while and even visited a few times before

he moved out of town. I felt much better for having had the conver-

sation, and on Yom Kippur I felt scrubbed clean — that the divine

ledger had been updated.

God doesn’t micro-manage, but I do not believe all of these

events were mere chance, either.

jk / 29

Unmarked No Moremi c h ele f .

Mama,

at last

you have your headstone,

reflecting your magnificence —

How do you like it?

I had no idea

how lovely it would be,

or how much it would matter.

We chose the granite for you

for its color,

ocean green;

we didn’t know

its polished face

would open

to Infinity —

rock mountain pathways,

endless tides —

how do you like

our last material gift

to you?

When I first saw it

it was warmed

by sun,

the front and back so smooth,

the top and sides unfinished

with their own rough beauty,

winking bits of quartz.

Study in contrasts

just like you,

just like us all,

clay lumps

both formed and shapeless

divine and human

unpolished, perfect,

all of us waiting

to turn back to dust

I hope you like it, Mama.

I’m sorry that it took so long.

Vic

to

r r

uiz

kol ha-neshama

Memory is identity. Who and where and what we come from is who

we are, and without it we are nothing. When I read the Rosh Hashanah

prayer, Zichronot, I am reminded of this simple yet profound truth

all over again.

Abraham and Isaac walking together toward the mountain …,

Jacob dreaming of a ladder to link heaven and earth …,

Moses turning aside to look at the common bush burning

with a divine flame…

These are not just lovely literary and historical images, but deeply

embedded memories from my own Hebrew and Sunday School days.

As such, they bind me tight to those who came before — my teachers,

my rabbis, my grandparents. But also, their teachers, their rabbis,

their grandparents … and on and on, up among countless generations.

The prayer speaks of “the days and years of our own lives”

constituting “a search for light in a dark and dusty time.” What

greater source of light could we ask or hope for than the knowl edge

that the faith we share has been shared since time immemorial?

ZichranotBen W ec h t

El / 31

Copyright ©2012 Temple Sinai

Published by Temple Sinai’s Neshama Center for Jewish Spirituality, Kol Ha-Neshama is an arts and literary journal created to showcase the talents and ideas of the Temple Sinai community. Writers, poets, photographers, and graphic designers with an interest in Jewish spirituality are encouraged to submit their work for consideration to the editor at RabbiGibson@templesinaipgh.org. Comments about this issue are also welcome.

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