family – Page 7

The missiles continue

Weapons seized from terrorists who infiltrated Israel through an underground tunnel to carry out a massacre in an Israeli community. This photo was taken on July 19, 2014. (photo from flickr.com/photos/idfonline)

Part 2 of a three-part series, in which the author shares his diaries from the homefront, providing a glimpse of daily life under missile threat during Operation Protective Edge in 2014. For Part 1, click here; for Part 3, click here.

July 13, 2014

Day six. Woke up at 4 a.m. Browsed the headlines on my smartphone. Some talk about talk about considering talk about a truce. Fell back asleep. Rudely awoken at 6:11 – I angrily checked the time – by a siren. Incoming. So much for all the talk. My wife and I groggily made our way to our daughter’s room, our protective room.

Son Dor is enjoying Eilat. Returning by bus this evening. Maybe it makes more sense to take the afternoon bus. Think the skies are quieter in the daytime.

Sides still too far apart for a truce.

When Prime Minister Netanyahu talks about a long-term truce, what does he mean? With my son going into the army in two years, I don’t want another ceasefire like we had in 2008 and 2012, which allowed Hamas to rearm and wage new wars so soon after. Not acceptable. Our cabinet reconvenes today to further consider a ground offensive. What a job our prime minister has!

So much damage in Gaza. How can Hamas not cry uncle? Despite its macho threats, its salvos of rockets – more than 100 fired over the weekend – the impact to Israel is minimal. Largely due to a poor-quality arsenal. The constant pressures of our offensive. Our amazing Iron Dome. And the well-prepared and trained homefront (that’s us!).

July 15

Ceasefire to take effect at 9 a.m. Final terms to be agreed. Somewhat ass-backward. Shouldn’t terms be agreed first? What do I know? Hope it brings quiet. Peace.

Gazans needs new leadership. The classic choice of guns or butter, they need to decide if they want to continue being human shields in a war they cannot win.

My son returned from Eilat. Without incident. With a great tan and funny stories. But frustrated. Tossing the morning newspaper aside, he growled, “We’re crushing them. We need to continue until they are clearly defeated! This truce is bullshit. We’ll only face more missiles next year. You don’t stop when on the verge of victory. It allows your enemy to retrench and rebuild.” The rashness of youth has a point.

I left for work with a delicate sense of calm. Maybe I can worry less today. Alas, an hour into the ceasefire, missiles were again fired at Israel. Errant missiles? Or continued, self-defeating defiance by Hamas? Previous operations also had a number of false truces. Then there was quiet. To paraphrase from Sting, I only hope the Gazans love their children, too.

But another beat prevails. More and more missiles fired by Hamas since the ceasefire went into effect. The kids, alone at home, went scurrying to our safe room for a third time in the last hour.

From her Tel Aviv office, my wife sounds somewhat flustered. A mother’s distress. Loud booms heard overhead from the Fab in Kiryat Gat. My daughter called from the protective room. Safe. Frustrated. Not understanding what Hamas doesn’t understand about a ceasefire.

In the meantime, Israel is holding its fire. Hoping for the best. Preparing for the worst.

Anyway, I need to complete a report for work.

July 17

The war continues. The truce that wasn’t never took hold, despite Israel’s willingness. We’ve agreed to a five-hour unilateral, humanitarian ceasefire, to give Gazans a respite. Effective 10 a.m. today. We continue building our military reserve – 50,000 soldiers patiently await their orders.

We thwarted an infiltration. Thirteen terrorists heading towards a border community through an underground tunnel were stopped.

We continue rendering the Hamas war machine ineffective, while Hamas continues to subject Gaza to suffer Israel’s might. Uncertain where this leads.

Received a pretty frantic call from my wife and son. On their way to Tel Aviv, they witnessed an Iron Dome sound and light show – we shot down four missiles. They could almost feel the heat of the sky-high blasts. Scattering out of the car, they held each other as they ran for cover in a nearby shelter. Talking to me, their voices a mixture of exhilaration, excitement, fight. Then they continued their drive to work.

The true hero of this war is the Iron Dome. Probably one of the greatest military defence breakthroughs of the last hundred years. Can’t imagine the situation without it.

July 18

Fearful. Hopeful. Last night, at 10:38 p.m. (precisely), Israel embarked on a long-anticipated ground operation. For peace. I am fearful for our sons, brothers, fathers, some sisters, too. Trusting our nation will soon hammer Hamas’s swords back into plowshares (Isaiah 2:4).

We fell asleep around midnight, huddled in our den watching nonstop news. Reporting was spotty. Events happening very quickly. Full disclosure not a privilege. Lots of uncertainty – that word again – adding to fears and hopes.

Also concerned about our neighbours in Gaza, caught in the crosshairs of Hamas insanity. I like to think the majority of Gazans are innocent pawns, fiercely used by Hamas to terrorize Israel with crude and indiscriminate missile attacks. Israel makes a clear distinction: this war is with Hamas, not Gaza.

Hamas waited not a second after the humanitarian ceasefire ended to resume its barrage of missiles. They also fired a few during the ceasefire.

July 20

Updated my smartphone. Another brilliant Israeli application. Designed under extreme pressures. Called Code Red. Brilliant. Beeps with every missile attack, even advising the location. Seems everyone downloaded this app – the office can be quite noisy at times.

Went to Tel Aviv with the kids for lunch yesterday. Needed a break from our pressure-cooker existence. We hung out along Rothschild Boulevard. Lots of cool cafés and shops. With 50,000 reservists down south fighting for our security, quite a contrast.

There was a missile attack as I was leaving Rehovot this morning. I was outside the mall – running a quick errand – so sought cover in a doorway with five others. My daughter home alone. Called her. Asked if she wanted to come with me to work. “No, Dad, I’m fine. Be careful.” How quickly they mature.

My son is still going out evenings with his friends. I’d prefer he stay home, but teenagers will be teenagers, even in wartime.

July 21

Yesterday was a tragic day for Israel. Thirteen of our best, killed defending our country. Now 18 soldiers killed since the start of hostilities. A collective weeping. Each soldier someone’s child, sibling or parent. Taken from routine to defend life and country from this insanity from Gaza.

Again, Israel found Hamas terrorists attempting to infiltrate the country from their tunnels of hell. Intending to carry out a terrorist rampage in one of our border communities. Targets not soldiers, but innocent, unsuspecting families. Grandparents. Children.

Israel goes to great lengths to protect civilians in Gaza. When Israel targets terrorists hiding and firing from a civilian building, it first warns the local population by dropping leaflets, blaring the message on loud speakers, even making phone calls and sending text messages. Or, does a “knock on the door” – shoots small, precise, non-explosive ordinance at a roof to urge inhabitants to vacate before attacking. Israel aborts an attack if noncombatants are in harm’s way.

Hamas has different values. Not rational. Not humane. They urge and sometimes force Gazans into targeted areas. Hamas counters Israel’s pre-attack announcements by threatening retaliation, even execution, to those who heed the warnings. Hamas strategically locates command-and-control operations within hospitals, schools, mosques. This is their defensive shield. As our prime minister said, “They don’t give a whit about the Palestinian people.”

Our war is not against the people of Gaza, but against the terror organization ruling and subjugating Gaza – Hamas.

A mother was quoted today: “Knowing my son is entering this strip of land governed by such demons is frightening enough. Aware that he is doing so with a weapon in one hand and a law book in the other – representing the Israeli approach to asymmetrical warfare – is beyond my capacity as a mother to bear. Israeli parents, famous for over-protectiveness at the playground, must make their peace with such parental cognitive dissonance. It is a feat I wish on my enemies. Only then will there be hope of genuine coexistence.”

Bruce Brown, a Canadian-Israeli, made aliyah 25 years ago. He works in high-tech and is happily married, with two kids. He is the winner of a 2019 American Jewish Press Association Simon Rockower Award for excellence in Jewish writing.

Protective Edge retrospective

Drivers take refuge from rockets in Tel Aviv, July 9, 2014. (photo from flickr.com/photos/idfonline)

Part 1 of a three-part series, in which the author shares his diaries from the homefront, providing a glimpse of daily life under missile threat during Operation Protective Edge in 2014. For Part 2, click here; for Part 3, click here.

July 8

Operation Cast Lead, 2008. Operation Pillar of Defence, 2012. Now, Operation Protective Edge, 2014.

Naïvely, I disassociate the unraveling events from the grisly murders of teenagers Gilad Sha’er, Eyal Yifrach, Naftali Fraenkel. Then the murder of teen Muhammad Abu Khdeir. Gripping the country in horror, fear and dismay. I hope a sense of normalcy will prevail.

It doesn’t. Last evening was disrupted by 15 rockets fired over Rehovot, my little shtetl. Our Iron Dome intercepted several of them. The rest missed their targets, falling into open land. Two hundred missiles fired at Israel over the past week.

The attack took us by surprise. Pizza ordered, my son just finished his shower, my daughter hanging in her room, which doubles as our reinforced shelter. The siren sounded. Together with our dog, we ran to join my daughter in her room. A bit invasive to a teen. But she forgave us.

I took a few extra seconds. I had 30, after all. Grabbed a large bottle of water, some chocolate, a few asthma inhalers. “Dad! Get your ass in here!” my son shouted as I was scouring the kitchen for more goodies.

Then. All clear. We left my daughter’s room. I mean, the protective room. The doorbell rang. Pizzas here.

Amazed the delivery boy was still doing his rounds. I admonished him for not seeking shelter. He says he waited out the attack in our stairwell (also a reinforced area). Quite impressed with his delivery skills, gave him a large tip. The pizza arrived in less than 30 minutes, as advertised. Great job.

Went to bed a few hours later. My daughter had a difficult night. Couldn’t fall asleep and came into our room a couple times. Did our best to comfort her. But what can we say? We were attacked with missiles.

We promised our daughter she wouldn’t have to stay home alone, that she could join me at work. Not sure this was a wise promise. My office is located more south. My big worry – the drive to work. Driving there, I imagine myself in an episode of Wagon Train.

Looks like we are moving into a major ground offensive. A pending call of up to 40,000 reservists. Imagine the impact this will have on our economy, on our society. Fortunately, my son’s army duty is two years away. Somewhat reassuring, but not much, as these operations tend to repeat themselves every couple of years.

July 9

Visited our safe room twice last night. Hamas fired missiles as far north as Tel Aviv. Even targeted our capital. Didn’t expect such a quick escalation. We responded. Pounded 150 targets inside Gaza. I pity the poor Gazans suffering the slings and arrows of their leaders.

Heard another siren while walking my dog this morning. Poncho and I ran to the nearest shelter, the stairwell of a neighbouring building. Waited the mandatory 10 minutes with a mother and her child. Adding to an already complicated situation the child had cynophobia – started panicking at the site of my dog. Poncho and I chivalrously moved one floor up.

Poncho also feels the stress. Waiting in the stairwell, amid the booms and sirens, he started crying, pawing me.

I think about my son and his friends, who have a trip to Eilat planned for tomorrow. They are debating whether to go. Tough call. My wife and I also are struggling with this. That dang security factor! But there is also the heroic, stoic pizza delivery guy message. Life in Israel.

July 10

Operation Cast Lead cost $50 million a day; total cost, one billion bucks. Pillar of Defence cost $2 billion. Where is this money coming from?

We’ve destroyed more targets in the last 36 hours than in all of Operation Pillar of Defence.

More than 90 missiles were fired at Israel yesterday. Thirty were struck down by the Iron Dome. Rehovot was pretty quiet, with only one evening siren. I was home alone while my wife and kids were at the mall, which they said was totally empty. So, why were they there? Great question. One I ask every time they’re at the mall. Missiles or not.

Yesterday, we received an automated call from our mayor. Rehovot, along with other southern municipalities, has declared a state of emergency. Not sure what this means. Think we need to stay within 90 seconds of a protected space. Try factoring that into your busy day!

Morning papers filled with instructions on how to stay safe. Definitely a well-prepared country with this sort of thing. Facts speak for themselves. No casualties, despite more than 300 missiles fired at us since hostilities broke out.

My gym routine at work was disrupted by a double siren (one after the other). While waiting in the protected area, I positioned myself for a dash to the bench press once the all clear was sounded. Priorities!

The situation was becoming routine. How quickly we adapt. Calling home, I asked the standard questions. What’s up? What are you doing? What’s for lunch? Any missiles? Reading your book? A totally ordinary conversation.

My son and his friends went to Eilat, which is outside the battle zone. So, in the meantime, just the regular parental worries for a vacationing teen.

On a patriotic note, I hung a flag on our balcony today. Nothing like a good war to bring out the blue and white in me.

That night, the 1970s comic strip Love Is came to mind. Discovered a new one – love is … being alone with your wife in a bomb shelter.

July 11

A siren went off this morning while I was driving to the supermarket. Always dreaded being in a car during a siren. Seems the least safe place. There I was at an intersection, a little jittery, looking for a place to pull over and exit the car – then run for fortified cover … or lie down with my hands over my head. Spotted a place just down the road. Reminded myself I had 90 seconds to get to relative safety.

The red light took forever to change. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Green! A car zoomed out from behind. Cut me off. Took my coveted spot. Dang! Most drivers stopped on the spot, like when the sirens sound on Remembrance Day, so I did the same. Then bolted from my car. Crouched down. Put my hands over my head and hoped for the best.

Crouching next to me was the guy who cut me off. He also didn’t get to “the spot” in time. He apologized. We exchanged pleasantries about the unpleasant situation. And then, moved on.

What’s with the covering our heads with our hands stuff? Will that protect us from burning debris falling from the sky? I told my daughter I’m going to start driving around with her bike helmet. Though not a bad idea, it was quickly nixed. If I did that, she warned, she’d never drive with me again. Too embarrassed I guess. Teens. Even during war. Go figure.

Yesterday afternoon, the Iron Dome intercepted several missiles over Rehovot. Parts of the Weizmann Institute of Science were covered with bomb fragments. Especially by the pool. The lifeguard had ensured the kids were out of the water and ushered to safety. A miracle no one was hurt. One panicked child ran back to reclaim his sandals. The lifeguard ran after him. Unable to drag him back in time, he covered the child with his body. Bomb fragments littered the ground around them. Another Israeli hero. Like the pizza delivery guy.

A missile was fired towards the Upper Galilee from Lebanon this morning. We fired back. Hope our Lebanese friends are deterred. Certainly prefer not to open another front.

The Israel Defence Forces also has struck 1,100 Hamas targets in Gaza: 210 targets over the last day, including 81 underground rocket launchers, 21 command and control centres, 15 attack tunnels, 10 training centres, seven administrative buildings. And a partridge in a pear tree.

July 12

Woke up this morning to find my daughter watching the news. Instead of her usual Saturday morning teen programs, she was actually watching the news. One of the first tragedies of war is innocence. On the positive side, we finally got our daughter interested in the news.

Another casualty of war? Certainty. We are no longer certain about so many things. Things that affect today, things that affect tomorrow, things that affect next year. Small things, large things. Lots of things. Not certain.

Two missile attacks on Rehovot today. Surreal. Scary.

Trying to keep a normal routine. Went to a matinée today. Still planning our summer vacation. Busy with work. Busy at home. Baking chocolate chip cookies. Watching Friends reruns. Doing everything with this horrendous situation in the background. Or the foreground.

A bit despondent today. Want this to end. But what’s the end? What about the economic fallout of a $2 billion bill? What about the political and diplomatic fallout? Waiting for some good news.

Meaningful family trip to Kyiv

Left to right: Lucien, Grisha, Carole, Leanne and Svetlana at the airport in Kyiv, Ukraine. (photo from Carole Lieberman)

My husband Lucien, our daughter Leanne and I recently traveled to Kyiv, Ukraine, to meet Lucien’s first cousin and his family for the first time.

History has an interesting way of unfolding. Lucien’s father was one of 10 children born in Russia. The oldest daughter Sophie immigrated to Canada in 1912, to marry a farmer living in Rumsey, Alta. In 1923, Lucien’s grandparents, along with four of their children, including Lucien’s father Leo, made the cross-Atlantic journey from Russia to Alberta. Sadly, in 1927, their daughter Lucy, for whom Lucien was named, ended her life there at age 25 and, in another tragedy, their daughter Sophie, mother of five young children, was widowed.

Shortly after these tragedies, their daughter Manya chose to return to Russia on her own. And, in 1928, the grandparents were determined to return to Russia. And so, in November of that year, two brothers – Leo Lieberman, 33, and Sam Lieberman, 29 – embraced at the Calgary CPR station. Sam was escorting their parents back to Russia. Since their parents were in their 60s and were considered elderly, they could not manage the trip on their own. Sam expected to return to Canada once their parents were settled in Kharkov, but he never did. The brothers’ last words were about Leo’s new winter coat. “Leo, I like your coat. Where I am going you can’t find such a coat.” So, the brothers exchanged garments. They did not meet again until 1966, when Leo and his wife Clara went to the Soviet Union to try and find family.

photo - Cousins Grisha, left, and Lucien — Cousins Grisha, left, and Lucien. *(photo from Carole Lieberman)*

Lucien grew up in Calgary aware that his parents had both left large families in the Soviet Union and that the Second World War had devastated those families. Sam’s story was tragic. He worked in Moscow in the 1930s as a translator. When the war came, he was taken into the army and survived four years in combat roles. He was wounded and, in 1946, he was arrested, charged and tried for the offence of being “anti-social to the regime” and sent to the Gulag, where he laboured for 10 years in a camp beyond the Arctic Circle. After Stalin’s death, Sam was discharged and allowed to return to his city of last residence, Chernivtsi in the Ukraine. There, at the age of 57, Sam married a younger woman and fathered a son, Gregory (Grisha).

The next generation of family in Canada always knew about Uncle Sam and Cousin Grisha. We had heard that Grisha lived in Madagan, which is closer to Anchorage than to Moscow. Decades passed without any contact but finally, in 2016, we learned that Grisha, his wife Svetlana and their two children were living in Kyiv, the capital of Ukraine. We met our new cousins on Skype in 2017 and began to catch up on decades of this lost connection.

Grisha and Svetlana’s son, Stanislaus Lieberman, is married to Natasha, has a 2-year-old daughter and is a lawyer in Kyiv. Their daughter,

photo - Tatiana Lieberman is known throughout Ukraine as Tina Karol — Tatiana Lieberman is known throughout Ukraine as Tina Karol. *(photo from Carole Lieberman)*

Tatiana Lieberman, affectionately called Tinotchka, is known throughout Ukraine as Tina Karol (tinakarol.com). Tina is a renowned singer who represented Ukraine in the 2006 Eurovision competition at age 21. She is the “face of Ukraine,” with billboard ads throughout Kyiv for Huawei and many cosmetic companies, and has the largest fan club in all of Ukraine. Her 10-year-old son Veniamin attends school in England and returns to Kyiv frequently. Tragically, Tina’s husband, Eugeny Ogir, who was her manager, died in 2013 at the age of 33, shortly after being diagnosed with an aggressive form of cancer.

Grisha speaks a reasonable amount of English and, thanks to Google Translate, we communicated well. We came to feel very close to our cousins after many Skype visits and plans were made to visit. There was no discussion – they insisted that we stay with them in their apartment so we would really get to know one another. It certainly was not our custom to stay with people we had never met in their two-bedroom, 1.5-bathroom apartment for eight nights but the visit was incredibly memorable and very special. Days before our arrival, Svetlana wrote that “they were trembling with anticipation.” We felt the same.

Our daughter Leanne, a teacher and a published author, met us at the airport in Kyiv. We were welcomed at the airport with a “Lieberman” sign and the warmest hugs and happiest tears. Throughout the visit and several times every day, Grisha would grab Lucien, hug and kiss him, saying, “You are my dear cousin.” Despite the 18-year age difference, there was a very strong cousin connection between the two men, cemented further by the traditional home-cooked Ukrainian food that we were so generously fed each day. We awoke to the smell of kreplach, borscht, haluptsi, cheese latkes and potato pancakes prepared by Svetlana and we enjoyed eating delicacies such as forshmuk, a chopped white fish salad. It was food that was so reminiscent of what Lucien’s mother had prepared for him when he was growing up in Calgary. We all laughed together when we were offered barbecued “kitchen.”

Our entire week was planned in advance and included not only family visits and meals, but a visit to a wonderful Ukrainian folk dance show at a huge auditorium where we were seated in the president’s box, welcomed with a champagne reception and presented with traditional Ukrainian outfits for Vishivanka, all arranged by Tina. Tina’s driver took us to a 26-acre monastery for a private tour and we were taught how to make varenikes in a private master class at lunch.

We gained a good sense of Tina’s personal life when we visited her stunning home and gardens, complete with a 24-hour armed security guard. Tina’s fans adore her and swarm her when they see her out in public.

Kyiv is a stunning city, with the Dneiper River running from north to south. The climate is warm in spring and the air is often beautifully fragrant with the scent of acacia trees, stronger in the morning and in the evening when we all strolled along the river. It has beautiful kashtana (chestnut) and lilac trees and a number of impressive bridges and lookouts. There are many parks, huge squares and an excellent subway system, accessed with the longest imaginable escalators. Like so many cities, it has far too much traffic (propka).

Tina arranged a private guided tour of Babi Yar for us with an English-speaking local woman. Babi Yar is now a beautiful treed park approximately a kilometre square in the northwest outskirts of Kyiv. On Sept. 29, 1941, Nazi troops rounded up Kyiv’s 34,000 strong Jewish community and massacred them all within 48 hours. Victims were shot and buried in the ravine. The Nazis then rounded up the local Romany people and residents of mental hospitals and extended the killing. During the two-year Nazi occupation, more than 100,000 bodies were dumped into the Babi Yar ravine. When the Red Army recaptured the city in 1943, there were only 80,000 people in Kyiv, one-tenth of its former population.

photo - Lucien, left, and Grisha at Babi Yar — Lucien, left, and Grisha at Babi Yar. *(photo from Carole Lieberman)*

Today, there is little evidence of a deep ravine, only undulating terrain. There are numerous monuments, some remembering the many children killed, several with Hebrew inscriptions, and a beautiful bronze wagon, which depicts a typical Roma caravan. After the dissolution of the Soviet Union, the Ukrainian government invited the state of Israel to erect a monument, which was done in the form of a large menorah. Babi Yar is possibly the most prominent site representing the Holocaust in the former Soviet Union.

During the week that we were in Kyiv, a new president was sworn in. With Svetlana, we watched the televised inauguration of President Volodymyr Zelenskiy, a 41-year-old former comedian and the first Ukrainian president with a Jewish background, and we loved seeing Svetlana proudly sing the national anthem, in tears.

We visited Maidan, the central square of the city, saw the parliament buildings and surrounding Marinsky Park. We toured a fascinating military museum, visited an old synagogue and were taken to the famous opera house, where we thoroughly enjoyed seeing the ballet.

Every day was full of memorable moments. We spent several evenings sharing family photos – it was fascinating to see photos of us from the 1970s and ’80s, which were mailed to them by my in-laws and other relatives before we lost contact. We laughed, hugged, cried and shared stories, always with “Grishinke” grabbing and kissing “Lucienke” and proudly saying, “you are my cousin.” Together Grisha and Lucien enjoyed shemiskes, aka sunflower seeds, that only people who were raised by siblings would enjoy the same way.

We celebrated our last night together at a beautiful restaurant overlooking the river and marveled that the restaurant, like many other quality restaurants, had an excellent playroom where Stanislaus’s daughter Vesta played while we dined.

When we finally hugged everyone goodbye and thanked them for a visit that exceeded every expectation, Grisha responded, “I am the son of Sam.”

In 1951, after spending five years in the Gulag, a fellow prisoner was released and Sam asked him to please send a letter to his brother Leo informing him that he was still alive, giving him the address – Leo Lieberman, Calgary, Alberta, Canada. When the man was able to mail the letter, he omitted “Calgary” and the letter ended up in the Edmonton post office. The letter was sent to a Mr. Lieberman in Edmonton by a caring employee and was subsequently forwarded to Leo Lieberman in Calgary.

Carole Lieberman, a longtime Vancouver resident, is originally from Montreal. She is a mother of three, grandmother of four, and has enjoyed selling Vancouver real estate for almost 30 years.

Holidays as a child

A Klein family portrait. (photo from Libby Simon)

As I get older, I look forward to my childhood memories of the High Holidays with my original family. This year, Rosh Hashanah begins before sundown on Sept. 29 and ends on nightfall Oct. 1, Yom Kippur.

My parents, four older brothers and I had moved to several rental houses after our arrival in Winnipeg’s legendary North End, but the one on Robinson Street is the earliest in my awareness as a preschooler. The neighbourhood was refuge for a host of other immigrant Jewish families who came from the same geographical area and shared the same culture, language and religion. This bond and kinship brought these landsleit together and they congregated around the Talmud Torah Hebrew Free School, where my father taught the children, and the Chevra Mishnayes Synagogue, directly across from our house, giving us the opportunity to attend services in a building that also acted as an unofficial community centre.

Papa attended all Shabbat services at the shul, which was the centre of many family weddings, bar mitzvahs and funerals. Since we observed the Orthodox Jewish religion, women and men did not sit together, so, while the men were seated on the main floor, the women were sequestered in an upstairs oval-shaped balcony overlooking the activity below. Not particularly interested in the liturgy, they tended to talk to one another about their children, their homes and other areas of interest, especially cooking on the High Holidays. This “noise” often interfered with the men as they recited the prayers. At some point, the shamas (the person running the service) would look upward, pound on the podium and shout “Schveig, viber!” (“Quiet, women!”) as if we were all one big family. Things subdued for awhile until the chatter swelled again, requiring intermittent reminders with more pounding, and a commanding, “SHHAA!”

Our old, wood-framed house had a screened veranda where I played and sometimes slept on warm summer nights. Once I was old enough, on Saturday mornings, I was allowed to cross the street to join Papa after a bar mitzvah celebration. There were always treats after the service, and he would prepare a small plate of schmaltz herring and chickpeas for me, and a piece of honey cake for dessert. I loved schmaltz herring and would devour it quickly while Papa looked on with a broad, proud smile.

But clouds of the Great Depression hung heavy over this North End community and there was widespread poverty. Most women did not work outside the home and, like many other men, my father lost his teaching job for a period during the Depression.

When I accompanied Mama to the grocery store or the kosher butcher shop, I didn’t understand why her face flushed and her eyes looked away as she stammered out in Yiddish, “I need food for the children. Can you put this on credit? We will pay you as soon as we can.” Her embarrassment and humiliation collided with my father’s shame, and resulted in many heated arguments between them over money.

The stress was particularly hard on Mama because she wasn’t well and had a large family to care for. She developed a “milk leg” while pregnant with my youngest older brother, Matty. It created a painful swelling of the leg after giving birth, which caused inflammation and clotting in the veins and affects some postpartum women. I vividly recall the too-numerous times when an ambulance came tearing down Robinson Street to our house with wailing warnings. Big men dressed in white would rush in, lift Mama onto a stretcher and take her away amid the shrieking sirens that were now competing with the high-pitched howls of her two frightened preschoolers, Matty and me.

Back then, children were not allowed to visit in hospitals, for fear of transmitting disease, so we could not see our mother for intermittent periods. On one such occasion, my father had enough money to take us to the ice cream store a few blocks away. Holding Papa’s hand on one side, with Matty on the other, I felt safe as we all walked together. And the tears subsided.

Canada declared war on Germany in September 1939 after Hitler invaded Poland, and, although my parents’ family was safe in Canada, their hearts and minds were with the loved ones they had left behind. Yet, our home was filled with joy and laughter.

My mother played happy, lively Russian, Yiddish and Hebrew songs at the black upright piano that held a place of honour among the flowery wallpaper and sagging couches of our living room. The eldest of the five children would lead us in a conga line with me at the other end, and we would dance from room to room, up and down the stairs, and all around the house. Sometimes, he would pick me up, throw me over his shoulder and call out “A zekele zaltz!” like a peddler. “A sack of salt, I have a sack of salt for sale! Who wants to buy my little sack of salt?” Or sometimes I was “potatoes.” Whether salt or potatoes, he would haggle with whichever of my other brothers offered to “buy” me.

Although I was still a preschooler, I knew that Papa was listening to “the news on the radio.” The worry was in his eyes, his face, his body, and his words expressed his extreme concern for our families back in the homeland. But the true catastrophic human saga that was unfolding, even as he listened, would not emerge until the war ended. We would learn much later that most of the relatives left behind, including my maternal grandfather, died in the Holocaust.

Even Papa’s fears could not have fathomed such destruction. The radio had become so much a central focus and source of news that, when the war ended in 1945, I recall asking, “Papa, now that the war is over, will they close the radio?”

“Why do you think they will close the radio?” he asked with a puzzled look.

“Because what else would they have to talk about?”

Libby Simon, MSW, worked in child welfare services prior to joining the Child Guidance Clinic in Winnipeg as a school social worker and parent educator for 20 years. Also a freelance writer, her writing has appeared in Canada, the United States, and internationally, in such outlets as Canadian Living, CBC, Winnipeg Free Press, PsychCentral and Cardus, a Canadian research and educational public policy think tank.

Apple-picking and tzedakah

My family helped pick a neighbour’s apple tree on Labour Day weekend. It was heavy with fruit. I love this activity, as it connects us viscerally with the changing season. It also connects with the beginning of the Torah portion Ki Tavo (Deuteronomy 26:1-29:8). This portion instructs the Israelites to give some of their first fruits to the priests for the divine altar and, also, to give 10% of their harvest as a tithe, for those who are less fortunate.

Even though we make applesauce, apple chips, apple crisp and eat lots of fresh apples, we always pick more than we can use. It gives us a chance to interact with our neighbours and to help elders who need help cleaning up their yards. It also gives us a way to make a physical donation to those who might need it more than we do.

Each year, we choose places to donate the apples. This year, we made a visit to Chabad and dropped off apples. We know the Torah Tots preschoolers might like apple slices or applesauce. (My kids were once those preschoolers and remember snack very well!)

We also dropped off apples and visited a friend of ours. He works at the Welcome Home, a Ukrainian Catholic mission house in the North End of Winnipeg. Welcome Home works in part as a food pantry, offering weekly hampers and meals to the hungry. It also provides places for kids to play, people to gather and worship, and access other supports. It’s housed in a big old building that used to be a duplex. It was originally built as a rooming house for the new immigrants. The house was quiet on a weekday, only receiving occasional donations when we visited. However, you could almost hear the bustle of a weeknight dinner for the community, or the single immigrants or whole families who lived in these small rooms long ago when they first arrived in Canada.

I’m not mentioning this to boast of our tzedakah (charity) activities. I’m suggesting that, for many working families, donating 10% of their salaries doesn’t seem like a financially realistic goal. What about donating actual produce? That was something we could do. A few hours of apple picking and sorting seems like fun for my household, but the food is also meaningful. If we don’t pick it, in many yards, it’s left to fall and rot on the ground.

Community involvement is a way for us to show our gratitude when we feel blessed and lucky to be alive, but the involvement doesn’t have to be formal. We don’t all have to serve on a committee or make large, tax-deductible donations. It can be simpler than that. This past summer, my kids took swimming lessons at a lake and we often stopped for ice cream on the way home. The place where we bought ice cream had a tin on the counter. They collected change to support the food bank. So, each kid was handed change to donate. You get ice cream after a swimming class and you’re grateful. Give back.

This lesson can be extended further though. Part of the apple-picking exercise, the awkward part, might be knocking on your neighbour’s door. Yet, this is when you might learn your neighbour just had hand surgery, or was now too physically fragile to be able to pick up the fallen apples. It’s a chance to make informal and meaningful connections with others.

No matter how functional (or dysfunctional) our infrastructure is, government financial supports or provincial services don’t always manage to meet essential needs. This is when we can do more by reaching out to others who live nearby.

Rosh Hashanah, our new year, is an opportunity. We think about how we can do better and start anew. In many ways, this yearly “check-in” is our chance to reflect on how we can make more of a difference. Sometimes, if you’re lucky enough to have more than you need, it’s easy and very important to donate money. Perhaps you can sponsor a Jewish activity, a needed renovation in the Jewish community or support a project to increase the capacity of organizations that offer services to those in need.

For many of us, though, our commitment to helping others happens in a more modest way. It might be a dime dropped into the pushke (collection tin) or finding a way to feed others. It might be picking apples or donating an extra can of tuna to the food bank. It could be volunteering to help a new mom so she can take a shower while you watch the baby. It’s offering another working parent a play date so that he or she doesn’t have to pay for child care.

We can all invest more in helping others. Let’s be grateful for what we have by trying to give a bit more of ourselves and our labours to others who might need it this year. It’s the right thing to do.

My family and I wish you a very sweet new year, full of good health and lots of apples and honey.

Joanne Seiff has written regularly for CBC Manitoba and various Jewish publications. She is the author of three books, including From the Outside In: Jewish Post Columns 2015-2016, a collection of essays available for digital download or as a paperback from Amazon. See more about her at joanneseiff.blogspot.com.

Intergenerational connection

Grandparents and grandchildren discover their roots in Jerusalem with the G2: Global Intergenerational Initiative. (photo by David Salem / Zoog Productions)

The G2: Global Intergenerational Initiative is a new yearlong program being offered by the Jewish Agency. It helps bring grandparents and grandchildren closer with activities and conversations. It is spearheaded by Jay Weinstein, a rabbi from New Jersey who now lives in Israel.

“I work in the partnership unit, trying to build relationships between Jews around the world and Israelis,” Weinstein told the Independent. “I bring my connections from North America and also am exposed to Israeli communities here … trying to build bridges with Israel and overseas.”

The project stems from findings gleaned from meetings that the Jewish Agency held in a few prominent Jewish communities, which pointed to a lack of programming provided to older adults and a lack of an Israel connection among the young.

“We went to our partners on the ground, saying, ‘Let’s come up with something together’ … versus coming up with the idea ourselves and then trying to sell it or take it somewhere,” said Weinstein. “We wanted to do it in collaboration.

“Much of what we do in the Jewish community is for the younger generation,” he continued, “but, here, you have … people who spent their lives building up the federations, schools and synagogues. They’re usually the ones volunteering and donating, [yet] we’re failing to have something to really offer to them.”

Certainly, grandparents can be a positive influence in creating a Jewish identity in their grandchildren.

“When they’ve done studies asking young adults why they are involved in Jewish life or Jewish programming, what came back involved Jewish grandparents,” said Weinstein. “That’s even truer in interfaith marriage, [where] the role of the Jewish grandparent passing down values to their grandchildren is of even greater importance.”

The G2 initiative brings grandparents and grandchildren together over the course of a year through activities and creative projects.

“It gives grandparents the chance to think about what is important to them, about what they want their grandchildren to know about, how their family narrative makes them unique, and special things they care about,” said Weinstein.

Participating grandkids should be in Grades 5 and 6, preteens old enough to have deeper conversations, while still under the guidance of their parents “and they aren’t yet too cool to be with Grandma and Grandpa to do the activities,” said Weinstein.

“It’s not a text-based study. It’s more experiential,” he said. “And, at the monthly meetings, we give the grandparents and grandchildren things to do on their own time without a facilitator, like a little mesima (activity) or venture to do in the community.”

Each month has a different focus, such as discussing the most important Jewish gem of a place. This particular theme gives grandparents the opportunity to take their grandchildren to one of their favourite places and explain why it is important to them. Then, the grandchildren guide the grandparents to the most important Jewish gem to them, also sharing why it is important. If the grandparents and grandchildren so choose, they can record the visits on a two-minute podcast to share with others.

“Based on the partnership platform, we have communities overseas doing it with communities in Israel,” said Weinstein. “And, over the course of the year, they’ll connect with each other digitally. Sometimes, they’ll be synchronized and do a Zoom call, sometimes unsynchronized. One of the bigger goals of the unit is to connect Jews from around the world to Israel and, on the other hand, to teach and educate Israelis about what Jewish life is like outside of Israel.”

photo - grandparents and grandchildren in Israel on a G2 trip — *(photo by David Salem / Zoog Productions)*

Many larger Jewish communities can run G2 on their own, in-house, connecting with their sister city in Israel, but most communities won’t be able to carry it out on the same scale as that of the Jewish Agency.

“We believe there is power in the global Jewish community,” said Weinstein. “To be part of a worldwide network of people is a wonderful experience. I don’t think, oftentimes, that a fifth or sixth grader in Vancouver is connected with another Jewish fifth or sixth grader in Miami and Sydney … and we believe that is a very powerful experience. We’ve been in touch with the Jewish Federation in Vancouver and they are interested in G2.”

The partnership unit needs a local organization to launch the program in a region.

“In most cases, [the partner] is the federation, as they are our national partner, but, that being said, we’ve designed this program to be brought to any organization,” said Weinstein. “So, if there’s a synagogue that wants to participate in G2 or a JCC, we can work with them.

“I’ve gotten a tremendous amount of interest from communities all around North America and the world. People understand that grandparents and grandchildren have this special and unique bond. When we can build meaningful Jewish experiences around the grandparent and grandchild relationship, it’s just very powerful.”

The yearlong program includes an eight-day visit that the grandparents and grandchildren take to Israel – traveling about the country, learning and meeting their Israeli partners. They also get the opportunity to stay in the homes of their Israeli partners for part of the trip, getting a firsthand glimpse at everyday life in Israel.

While there is a cost for the program, G2 works with the different community partners to subsidize some of that, and is also looking for philanthropic partners.

“We’d love to have a partner to help us bring this around the world and not have a barrier of prices and expenses prohibiting families from participating,” said Weinstein. “We truly believe … sometimes we use the language of Birthright … that it’s a birthright of every grandparent to have meaningful Jewish experiences with their grandchild, including traveling with them to Israel.”

For more information, visit g2family.org.

Rebeca Kuropatwa is a Winnipeg freelance writer.

Building an epic relationship

Sam Laliberte and Jared Schachter share what they’ve learned about long-distance relationships in The #LDR Activity Book. (photo by Ricky Pang / Sincerely Image)

The first quote in The #LDR Activity Book is from American writer Meghan Daum: “Distance is not for the fearful, it’s for the bold…. It’s for those knowing a good thing when they see it, even if they don’t see it enough.”

Sam Laliberte and Jared Schachter, co-writers of the activity book for people in, or contemplating, a long-distance relationship (LDR) knew a good thing when they saw it, and didn’t let Schachter’s move from Toronto to San Francisco get in the way.

“For two years,” they write in The #LDR, “we were long-distance loves, capturing our visits on Instagram and maxing out our data plans during weekly video calls. We picked up many lessons (most learned the hard way) and fun activities to keep our relationship strong AF despite living three time zones apart. It definitely took work, epic relationships don’t just happen, but we made it through and now we want to share our learnings with the world.”

In an email interview with the Independent, Laliberte and Schachter said they “always wanted the book to be interactive and fun for couples, since long, text-heavy books can be daunting and would be less conducive to creating positive interactions between couples.”

The #LDR Activity Book has eight chapters covering topics at the core of any relationship, even with yourself: understanding your personality, how you like to give and receive love, your values, what triggers you, envisioning the future, and more. Each chapter begins with an explanation of why the topic – expressing love, communication, IRL (in real life) visits, keeping the spark alive, values, trust, conflict resolution and planning – matters, followed by some “best practices”: assuming good intent, for example, giving “your partner the benefit of the doubt and operat[ing] under the impression that they’re trying their best.” Laliberte and Schachter then share a few tips of what worked best for them and, of course, there are several activities, some of which you complete on your own; others, with your partner.

Laliberte and Schachter wrote this book with Schachter’s mother, Beverley Kort, who is a registered psychologist in Vancouver, with more than 40 years’ experience counseling couples. They also interviewed dozens of other couples “who survived and thrived as long-distance lovers.”

“On top of all this,” they told the Independent, “we were also honest about the fact that our long-distance relationship didn’t work out. We too were scared of the associated stigma and didn’t have any resource to turn to, to help alleviate some of our concerns. The ability to create something for other couples [in a long-distance relationship] was really exciting for us.”

photo - pages of The #LDR Activity Book — The #LDR Activity Book takes couples through various activities.

Laliberte and Schachter are still together, though, just closer geographically.

“We’ve been in a relationship for almost three years now,” they said. “We spent one-and-a-half years in a full long-distance relationship (Toronto-San Francisco) and, now, because we have flexible jobs, we spend a majority, but definitely not all, of our time together. We were separated for two months at the end of 2018 but are now on an extended travel together in South America for four months.”

Feedback about the book – which Laliberte and Schachter encourage readers to share – has been very positive, they said, giving a couple of examples. Thessa (New York) and Anthony (Dublin) wrote about The #LDR, “Absolutely love it. The quality is great, the art and quotes in the book are gorgeous, and information in the book is spot on.” Sara (Los Angeles) and Charles (Toronto) emailed, “#LDR was a fun way to build our relationship after knowing each other for only a week! We met at a music festival and spent the next year living on different coasts and time zones, and used this book to provide a framework for exploring our new relationship.”

A longtime long-distance couple with whom the JI shared the book completed several sections, some that reinforced what they were already doing – daily rituals (regular texts and phone calls) and planning out IRL visits, for example – and some that either introduced new ideas or suggested activities they wanted to do more often, such as creating a joint vision board and talking about important moments during texts and calls, respectively.

To fund the publication of The #LDR Activity Book, Laliberte and Schachter ran a Kickstarter campaign. Seeking $6,000, they received contributions of more than $10,000 from almost 200 backers, with their initial funding goal being covered in less than 24 hours. The result is a smart-looking, durable, 63-page, full-colour, hardcover (with metal corners), spiral-bound “scrapbook.” More importantly, it is a book full of good advice and beneficial activities and exercises, if you (and your partner) are willing to be open and put in the time. And the learning continues online.

“We’ve also now partnered with a sexologist to create a bonus chapter on ‘Sex from a Distance,’ after a number of readers began asking more detailed questions about this area,” Laliberte and Schachter told the Independent. “It is available for free download if you signup for our email newsletter on our website.”

The #LDR Activity Book is for sale on ldractivities.com for $35 per copy, or $60 for a set of two. Laliberte and Schachter have created a special discount code for Jewish Independent readers: use JINDEPENDENT20 to receive 20% off.

***

On Feb. 17, Sam Laliberte and Jared Schachter were interviewed on the podcast From Long Distance to Marriage. The episode can be found on audioboom.com.

An unexpected journey

The author’s maternal aunt, Sara Basson (at age 23). (photo from Libby Simon)

It was the long, cold winter nights in Winnipeg that made me do it. With my husband working late and a preschooler asleep in her room keeping me housebound, what else could I do? I finally tackled the onerous task of sorting seemingly hundreds of musty, dusty family photos that lay scattered inside battered cardboard boxes saved by my parents, their lives obviously too busy living the moments.

Who were these people in these tattered and torn brown photos? Some, I had been told, were Aunt Lorna or Cousin Sylvia. Others were total strangers. The clothing and hairstyles against an unfamiliar backdrop told of another time and place in history. Places I had never seen nor been, yet vague memories from childhood floated in my mind. Some pictures had writing on the back in a foreign language I could not read or understand. Nonetheless, I carted these decaying remnants along with all the important household belongings wherever we moved. Why had I not discarded them?

I now painstakingly placed these memories of bits and bytes under protective sheets in photo albums, one by one. Organizing them in some fashion was just too daunting a task. For the moment, preserving them was the goal – for whom I did not know. That question wouldn’t be answered until many years later, when I received a letter that launched an unexpected personal journey.

Bold, black type on unfamiliar letterhead demanded my attention – Lois Feinberg, Financial Consultant, Hollywood, Florida. I was about to toss out what I thought was spam sent by snail mail when one short sentence leaped out at me: “I’m your second cousin on your mother’s side,” it read. “My grandmother and your grandfather were siblings.”

Maybe it was more scam than spam but I had to pay attention. What did she want? Credit card numbers? Bank account numbers? Transfer a million dollars out of some remote African country? I read further with guarded skepticism.

“In the process of my genealogical research,” she wrote, “I found our mutual cousin, Sylvia, who gave me your contact information. I would like the names and birth dates of your family in order to register this information with the Yad Vashem in Israel.”

Yad Vashem. I knew it as the memorial centre for the murdered six million Jews and a symbol of the ongoing confrontation with the rupture of families engendered by the Holocaust. My doubts began to dissipate as the letter took on a flavour of authenticity. After confirming its legitimacy with Sylvia, I provided Lois with the information she requested. I did not pursue further personal contact, however, because, frankly, I have not been blessed, or cursed, with the need to search out relatives who could be more of a blemish than a blossom on my family tree.

But things were about to change.

Circumstances arose the next winter that would take my husband and me to Florida. I contacted Lois and invited her for lunch. When I greeted this pretty, dark-eyed, dark-haired lady, we hugged each other warmly. She appeared similar in age, slim, well-dressed and refined in manner. Lois had been a teacher turned financial consultant, divorced from her doctor husband, with two grown children.

“I discovered two other cousins who live in Florida whose grandparents are also siblings of our grandparents,” she said. I was stunned. Two more family members – right here!

photo - The author’s maternal grandfather, Abraham Basson (at age 60) — The author’s maternal grandfather, Abraham Basson (at age 60). *(photo from Libby Simon)*

“I’ll arrange a brunch at my home so you can meet them,” she promised with a smile. And, true to her word, the cousins all gathered at her home the following week.

A strange mix of emotions coursed through me as the past and present began to meld. Until recently, we were totally unaware of one another’s existence. Suddenly, we had a common thread tying us together – our grandparents.

Lois told me that the grandparent siblings, including my maternal grandfather, had all come to the United States in the 1930s to escape Hitler’s rise to power, but he was the only one sent back, because of a leg deformity. Not from disease, mind you, but the result of an accident. In the course of operating his paper company business, a heavy object had fallen on his leg yet he continued to run a successful business. I was told he and several other relatives were among the six million Jews murdered in the Holocaust.

Like a seismic jolt of lightning, the brown pictures flashed across my mind. For the first time, my grandfather became more than a lifeless face on a faded old photo. Sadness and anger pulsed through me. He was my mother’s father – a living, breathing person whose life had been cut short. Not by a natural disaster like a tsunami, a flood or earthquake, but by a human-made catastrophe, the Holocaust. Nature’s cataclysmic events kill randomly but humans ravaged and murdered with deliberation and purpose. While we had been spared the agony of their deaths, history had changed the lives of those who lived, splintering family shards across the globe, many of which will never be repaired.

Yet it was heart-warming to meet Marty, the supervisor IRS lawyer in south Florida; Arnie, a retired businessman; and their wives. After a four-hour brunch came to a pleasant end, plans were discussed for “The Brunch” next winter, ensuring a future for this fractured family.

These images gradually transcended time and geography and were now transplanted into my world in the 21st century. They were channeled from a dismal and distant past to live again in the present. In fact, in April 2012, I learned the names of six of my maternal relatives who were murdered in the Holocaust. My Israeli family had listed their names at Yad Vashem in Israel. I have now added them to Winnipeg’s Holocaust memorial on the grounds of the Manitoba Legislature to further ensure they will never be forgotten.

The exciting promise of a journey of discovery still lies ahead, as traces of life continue to sprout new branches on this family tree – blemish or blossom. I knew now for whom these pictures were preserved. I preserved them for me and for future generations of Jewish history. L’dor v’dor.

Libby Simon, MSW, worked in child welfare services prior to joining the Child Guidance Clinic in Winnipeg as a school social worker and parent educator for 20 years. Also a freelance writer, her writing has appeared in Canada, the United States, and internationally, in such outlets as Canadian Living, CBC, Winnipeg Free Press, PsychCentral and Cardus, a Canadian research and educational public policy think tank. She wrote this piece with International Holocaust Remembrance Day (Jan. 27) in mind.

Community milestones … new parents program and new CIJA co-chairs

Supporting new parents

The birth of a baby is a milestone and the Jewish Community Centre of Greater Vancouver acknowledges that this life-changing event requires validation and support for new parents. Judaism offers profound teachings about becoming a parent and raising a family.

The JCCGV’s new Shalom Baby group is a free program for parents and infants 0-18 months. The group provides a place to learn and grow, connect with other parents, share experiences and hear professional speakers address relevant subjects, such as feeding, sleeping, play, development, transition to motherhood and more. Becoming a parent can be overwhelming, and this program provides respite in a warm environment in which parents are nurtured, so they can nurture their babies, and help build strong and healthy family units in our community.

All of the meetings feature guest speakers. Speakers are community professionals, such as nurses, researchers, doulas, psychologists and speech and language specialists. And the group is always looking for accredited experts to contribute.

Shalom Baby meets twice a month on Mondays at 11:30 a.m. at the community centre in Room 102. The group is led and organized by a Shirly Berelowitz, JCCGV director of children, youth and camps, who welcomes the participants, books the speakers and sends weekly emails on upcoming programs.

The goals of the program are to strengthen emotional bonds between parents and children; inspire a shared learning experience to support growth and development during the early childhood years; provide support services and activities for families to raise healthy and happy children; and connect unaffiliated Jewish families with young children to the Jewish community through different programs.

For more information and to register, visit jccgv.com/early-childhood.

Appointments

The Centre for Israel and Jewish Affairs (CIJA) has appointed new members to its board of directors, including board co-chairs Joel Reitman and Jeffrey Rosenthal, succeeding David J. Cape.

Nominations to the CIJA board are guided by an independent nominating process, which examines the background, skills, experience and other relevant qualifications of prospective directors. A list of candidates is produced through consultations with federations and other stakeholders across the country. The independent nominations committee – comprised of federation representatives and ad personam members – consider all of the candidates and recommend a slate of directors to the CIJA membership (the “shareholders” of the organization). Special attention is given to achieving balance with respect to regional, gender and demographic attributes, as well as the qualities that candidates can leverage to advance the mission of the organization.

Reitman is the founder and president of Jillcy Capital ULC, a global investment firm, and is an active volunteer in the Jewish community and beyond, serving various organizations over the years in different capacities. Rosenthal is a managing partner of Imperial Capital Group, which he co-founded in 1989, and has a long history of volunteering and experience on boards of other organizations.

A High Holidays stew

A sudden powerful gust of wind whipping through an open window slammed the door shut…. (photo from wikiHow)

It was one of those hot and humid fall days in Montreal and my sister-in-law “Sadie” decided to make a stew. After all of her baking and cooking for the upcoming High Holidays, she put a pot of simple stew for today’s dinner on the stove to simmer while my brother, “Seymour,” and I made ourselves comfortable in the den. Sadie promptly joined us to watch Coronation Street, as she and Seymour did every day. As a visitor from Winnipeg, I was quite content to go along with their routine. Engrossed in the program, we didn’t notice a change in the weather until a sudden powerful gust of wind whipping through an open window slammed the door shut between the den and the kitchen aaaand … waaaait for it … the doorknob hit the hardwood floor with an earsplitting bang!

We stared in stunned silence at the door and the floor – then at each other in disbelief. Seymour’s expression looked more steamed than the stew in the pot. His face fumed frustration, turning a range of shades from pink to red to purple.

“That doorknob has been giving us trouble for weeks!” he shouted. “I’ve told the concierge of our apartment building umpteen times but he still hasn’t gotten around to repairing it.” Anger spewed forth like an explosion of fireworks.

Well, Sadie saw no problem.

“Just pick it up and screw it in,” she told him in a matter-of-fact manner.

Though he didn’t say anything, his eyes shot daggers in her direction. Then he turned his attention to the doorknob. Over and over, he tried. He twisted and turned it every which way, trying to thread one half with the other. But it wouldn’t work.

“What’s the big deal?” she asked.

“The big deal,” he oozed with sarcasm, “is there’s nothing for it to grab onto. It won’t screw in.”

Now I began to stew a little. We searched for something that could be used as a tool and the best we could find was a coloured pencil but it proved to be uncooperative. After numerous failed attempts, we had to face facts. We were locked in! And there was no phone in the den.

Worry grew to panic. A quick glance between Sadie and me communicated silently with the realization that, not only would the stew continue to simmer on the stove unattended, but Seymour was diabetic and would need to take his insulin shot soon. He was too focused on the doorknob to consider the ramifications of the situation and no one was going to tell him. He would become hotter than the combined temperature of the room and the stew in the pot.

Never mind that he was wearing nothing more than a pair of Fruit of the Loom boxer shorts, which had to be held up manually. The elastic waistband had stretched beyond usefulness. Seymour began to pace around the tiny room, circumventing the furniture, one hand on his shorts, with the two of us following behind like caged animals. The vision of a sitcom popped into my head, and it would have been laughable had the situation not been a reality at the time.

More than an hour passed and we were orbiting the room once again, hoping for a solution. The suffocating humidity was unbearable and Seymour was sweating profusely. This triggered the panic button for Sadie and me and we did what any trapped humans would do. We banged and kicked furiously on the wall of the adjacent apartment and screamed at the top of our lungs.

“Why is it that neighbours complain about the sound of footsteps in slippers but are deaf to purposeful, raucous noise?” I wondered out loud. I could see beads of sweat begin to gather on Sadie’s brow and I knew it was more than just the temperature.

More time slipped by. We turned our attention to the only alternative – the window. The apartment was two storeys up at the rear of the building, which offered an emergency exit on the main floor. Pedestrian traffic was rare.

“I can jump out the window,” offered 68-year-old osteoporotic Sadie in desperation. “There’s a soft cushion of grass below. I may break a few bones but it won’t kill me.”

“Are you crazy?” we shouted.

For a brief moment, I considered flinging my own osteoporotic self out the two-storey window but a quick reality check from my cohorts reminded me my situation was no different.

“Maybe our little group should start the Day of Atonement today because this is ‘the day’ we really need it?” offered Sadie.

Suddenly, from our window view, we saw a man appear at the emergency door. A frantic Seymour leaned out the window and shouted, “Help! Help!” That was our cue to raise the volume and we chimed in chorus to increase the decibels – to no avail.

“Maybe he doesn’t understand English,” suggested Sadie (as if our frantic cries needed interpretation).

“Well, what language would you like to try?” quipped Seymour.

“I don’t know. Try French.”

So, the three of us bellowed like bulls, “Aider! Aider!”

The man looked up. Great! We had his attention. Then, just as suddenly, he disappeared through the emergency door without any acknowledgement to us. Now we were all in a stew. We were doomed.

Fifteen long, tortuous minutes passed before the sound of a key jiggling in the apartment door jolted our attention. Then the wife of the concierge removed the den’s door hinges, releasing us from our prison. With joy and relief, Seymour, still holding up his shorts with one hand, body soaking sweat as if he had just come out of the shower, embraced her with a one-armed hug and planted the wettest kiss on this angel of mercy.

In the calm aftermath, Seymour took his insulin and we all sat down to relish our evening meal. We never did find out who the stranger at the emergency exit was that day so we could thank him. A visitor, we were told, just passing through.

And the stew? Well, it was just right – tender and moist. Bon appetit! And shana tova.