storytelling – Page 3

Magnifying emotions

Gila Green will talk about her two latest books at the Jewish Book Festival on Feb. 9. (photo from JCC Jewish Book Festival)

From the first page, White Zion reads like a memoir. Through 16 short stories, we get to know Miriam and her family, from her great-grandparents to her own children, as well as the places they are from, including Yemen, Israel at various points in its history and Canada. It is easy to wonder how much of Miriam is her creator, Israeli-based writer Gila Green, who will be at the Cherie Smith JCC Jewish Book Festival Feb. 9.

“The stories in White Zion are all about emotional truths,” Green told the Jewish Independent. “So, if that’s what’s coming across, that is some measure of success. I did not say this but Alice Munro did – I recall reading an interview with her in which she said: ‘If your audience thinks all you did was wake up and write down everything that happened to you yesterday, then you’ve succeeded.’ I would love to hear about how readers relate to these emotional truths, how they connect.”

Green will also bring her young adult novel No Entry to the festival, for which she will talk at both the Jewish Community Centre of Greater Vancouver (12:30 p.m.) and the White Rock/South Surrey Jewish Community Centre (4 p.m.) that Sunday.

The heroine of No Entry is Yael Amar, a teenager from Ottawa, which was where Green was born and has lived. Yael has traveled to South Africa to intern for a spell at a private bush camp near Kruger National Park. (Green’s husband is South African, and Green has lived in the country.) There with the intent of helping protect elephants from poachers, Yael ends up in danger herself.

Despite the connections her books may, or may not, have with her own family, Green prefers to write fiction. She described nonfiction as “limiting” for her.

“As soon as someone tells me to write a true story, I’m suffocating,” she said. “I have to start questioning what is fact, what is memory, what lacks context, what is something I’ve just convinced myself is true and on and on. I spent four years at Carleton [University in Ottawa] studying for a journalism degree, so all of that kicks in. In the end, the short story is a wrung-out sock, more like a dozen tangled wrung-out socks. No one wants to read a sock. There is no connecting with it.”

Fiction allows for the expression of emotional truths that would be impossible to express otherwise, she said.

“Writing fiction allows me to hone in on a feeling – something I want my audience to feel, which is how I start every story I write. I ask myself, ‘How do I want this story to make the reader feel?’ and I start from there – and I can hold that emotion under a magnifying glass. I can distort it, blow it sky high, cut interference to ant height or delete. I can take one characteristic of one person on a single day about a single event and I can magnify it, so that the rest of the human being is rendered invisible. These were some of my goals with White Zion. The characters are all gross distortions of one human trait or another.”

But that doesn’t mean that facts don’t enter her work.

“I tried to be as faithful as possible to the historical period,” she said, referring to the stories in White Zion, “and I spent months researching everything, from what vegetables they could have been selling in the Jerusalem market post-1948 to how they could possibly have been heating their homes. I also used the same biographical details for two of the characters, Miriam and her father. It was important for me that Jewish fiction expand to include Yemenite voices, religious voices, gay voices, the more voices the better.”

Green also did much research for No Entry and, in addition to crafting an entertaining, at-times tense, thriller-like novel, she educates readers on the nature of elephants and the very real threat of their extinction.

“Yael is a Jewish eco-heroine,” said Green, who noted that the character’s boyfriend, David, is also Jewish. “She’s not religious but both of her parents are Jewish – she mentions in No Entry how the South African traditional dish she tastes for the first time reminds her of her mother’s chulnt on the Sabbath and, in No Fly Zone, she has an Israeli-themed dinner with her parents. None of the other characters are Jewish…. I do like exploring different kinds of Jews though. If readers want a more obvious Jewish heroine in the sequel[s], please write to me.”

Green has finished writing No Fly Zone, the next book in what might become a series. In it, she said, “Yael Amar is back with her best friend Nadine Kelly, this time protecting Kruger National Park from the skies. But she is about to learn a big lesson when it comes to moral relativity and friendship.”

Green added, “I set out to thread the senseless loss of human life with the equally nonsensical destruction of animals in No Entry and I continue this in the sequel. I did this not because I’m trying to make a point about the connection or status between humans and animals – that’s the wrong way to understand my motivation. Rather, I’m trying to weave together the criminals who commit these inhuman acts: they’re connected.

“Often,” she said, “the same people willing to sell illegal blood ivory are involved in terrorism, human slavery and other acts that bring nothing but grief to the planet. I wish to emphasize this linkage, to shout it from the rooftops. But, in real life, I figured an exciting, adventurous, teen novel was a more effective way to go.

“I purposely made the terrorist event [in No Entry] happen in Canada because I want to get the message across that fatal betrayal doesn’t just happen in Africa or the Middle East. That attitude might allow some of us to feel off the hook. It happens everywhere and we all have to make sure we are part of the solution or there won’t be one and that thought is too devastating to imagine. I refuse to go there and No Entry ends on a victorious note for a reason.”

Though the sequel has been written, its publication date will depend on what happens in Australia and the bushfires that continue to destroy the country. Green shared, “I am very sad to say that my publisher Stormbird Press was on Kangaroo Island and has burned to the ground. The staff was evacuated on Dec. 20th. We are all praying for their safety and that they fully recover but, for now, everything is at a standstill and there is terrible devastation.”

Green is already working on her next novel. In A Prayer Apart, her main character, for the first time, is male, she said. “He’s an Israeli-Jewish teenager living through the 2014 war with Hamas, knowing he’s next in line for the front line. By the same token, he’s had it with his parents and school and his rebellious behaviour lands him in lockdown, one step away from juvenile jail.”

She said she will let readers know on her website, gilagreenwrites.com, when the publication details are finalized.

An avid reader since childhood and now a prolific writer, with four books published since 2013 and two more on the way, Green said, “Mankind cannot live without stories. Period. We are our stories. When people are down, what they are really saying very often is they don’t feel connected. Stories connect us.”

For the Jewish Book Festival lineup and schedule, visit jewishbookfestival.ca.

Reinventing and renewing

Shanie Levin and Al Stein opened the JSA Empowerment series season Nov. 30. (photo from JSA)

The first Jewish Seniors Alliance Snider Foundation Empowerment Series session of the 2018/19 year was on the theme of “Renewing and Reinventing Yourself as an Older Adult.” Held on Nov. 30, it was co-sponsored by the JSA and the Sholem Aleichem Seniors of the Peretz Centre for Secular Jewish Culture.

Thirty-five “older adults” gathered to listen to stories on the “Reinventing Yourself” theme, read by Al Stein and me. Gyda Chud, JSA vice-president and SAS coordinator, introduced the session by speaking about the goals of JSA in advocacy, education, information and peer support services. She emphasized the aim of JSA’s motto, “Seniors Stronger Together,” before welcoming the readers.

I shared that it had not been easy to find Yiddish stories translated into English that corresponded to the theme, so Al and I had to look to stories written in English by Jewish writers.

Al began with a short parable from Roman times about a 100-year-old man who was still planting trees. I continued with a story by Grace Paley called Goodbye and Good Luck, which is set in New York in the 1930s – an older woman describes her colourful life to her niece.

Al’s next story was by a Canadian Jewish writer, Jack Ludwick, which was about an older woman who is constantly drawn back to the area of Montreal where she grew up and spent her early married years. The session closed with my reading a short section from Sholem Aleichem’s Menachem Mendel.

A discussion about the pleasure and the purpose of passing on stories to the next generation followed, and then Gyda thanked everyone and invited all to tea, coffee and cookies in the lounge.

The second session in the Empowerment Series will be the film A Song for Marion (Unfinished Song), on Jan. 16, 11 a.m., at the Jewish Community Centre of Greater Vancouver with the JCC Seniors. For more information, call the JSA office, 604-732-1555, or Lisa Quay Cohen at the JCC, 604-257-5111.

The Peretz Centre sponsors a program called Exploring Jewish Authors (in English) on the second and fourth Saturday mornings of each month, as well as Reading Yiddish Authors in Yiddish on the first and third Wednesdays of the month at 11 a.m. For more information, call the Peretz Centre office, 604-325-1812.

Shanie Levin is an executive board member of Jewish Seniors Alliance and on the editorial board of Senior Line magazine.

The last candle for the rabbi

(photo by Jon Sullivan)

In the village of Chelm, just before every Chanukah, the ancient debate begun by the two great rabbis Hillel and Shammai resumed. Do you start the festival by lighting one candle and counting up, or with eight and counting down?

Every year, Rabbi Kibbitz issued the same ruling – do whatever makes you happy.

This year, although the argument was heated, rumour was that Rabbi Kibbitz was bedridden. He was old. Was he sick? He was tired.

It was worrisome that his wife, Mrs. Chaipul (she kept her name, which is another story), who owned the only kosher restaurant in Chelm, hadn’t been to work in three days.

Filling in behind the restaurant’s counter, Rabbi Yohon Abrahms, the schoolteacher and mashgiach, was cooking, cleaning and taking orders.

“So, about the Chanukah candles,” Reb Cantor the merchant asked the young rabbi, who was busy refilling cups of tea, “how many on the first night and how many on the last?”

Rabbi Abrahms answered with a shrug. “Rabbi Kibbitz always says, do whatever makes you happy.”

“But you’re a rabbi, too,” Reb Cantor said. “What do you think?”

“Do you want food or a theological dissertation?” Rabbi Abrahms shot back. “Because I can’t do both at the same time!”

The room fell quiet.

“Food, of course!”

In Chelm, food was always more important than discussion – until it was gone, then discussion.

* * *

“Channah, you should go to your restaurant,” Rabbi Kibbitz said. His voice was soft.

“No, my love,” Mrs. Chaipul said. “I’ve left it in good hands. I will stay here with you.”

“It’s OK,” he said. “I’m not going to die until after Chanukah.”

“Don’t say such things.” She made the sign against the evil eye.

“Will you cry when I go?”

“For you? Probably.” She was barely holding back the tears. “But enough. We have years ahead.”

“No.” He sighed. “We’ve had years. Good years. Many, but not enough. Never enough. Now we have only days.”

He began coughing, and she fed him spoonfuls of warm chicken soup.

“Channah?”

“I’m here.”

Do you know what the problem with sitting shivah is?”

“Too much noodle pudding?”

“True.” The rabbi laughed, then he coughed. “Shivah is meant to comfort the living, but I’ve noticed that most bereaved are very uncomfortable. Mourning is overrated. For a week, everyone visits and talks about the recently deceased. And the family has to sit and listen, no matter how tired or sad…. All they really want is their loved one back.”

“Shaa, shaa,” his wife said. “Your shivah is a long way off.”

“No. But I have a request.”

“What is it?”

“During Chanukah,” the old rabbi said, “let me sit shivah with you, before I’m dead. Then you won’t be so alone.”

She covered her mouth to stifle a sob. What a foolish request!

Then she nodded. “Yes. Yes. Of course.”

* * *

It caused quite a stir in the village.

“If he’s not dead, how is it shivah?”

“We’re going to talk about him while he’s lying there in the house?”

“After he dies for real, are we going to have to do another shivah?”

“And what if he doesn’t die?”

This last question was interesting, because no one really believed that Rabbi Kibbitz would ever die. He was a bear of a man, who had been old forever. How could one such as that pass on?

Still, Chelm was a village that embraced the unconventional.

A schedule was made and, on each night of Chanukah, a different group trudged through the snow to light the candles and sit shivah.

The two-room house was small. The table was moved to the side of the kitchen, and extra chairs brought in for visitors. The rabbi’s bed was set in the doorway of the bedroom, so he could sit up or lie down as needed. Mrs. Chaipul’s sewing chair was next to the doorway, so she could sit beside him.

This living shivah turned out to be quite a success, mostly because the rabbi kept his mouth shut and said nothing. Everyone forgot that he was there.

Each night, blessings were sung and candles were lit. Most of the villagers were counting up with Hillel, but some were counting down with Shammai. No matter how many or how few, the light was warm and bright.

Yes, there was noodle kugel, but there were also latkes, so many different kinds, including potato, sweet potato and even zucchini.

Every villager stopped by and shared stories of how Rabbi Kibbitz had listen, talked, helped, advised or officiated. There had been weddings and brises, funerals and so many sermons.

Mrs. Chaipul listened to all the praise, and the occasional complaint. She accepted comfort and hugs, and wondered at the frequent comment, “What will we do now that he is gone?”

Strangely, hearing these words while her husband was still breathing didn’t leave her as sad as she’d expected. She found herself reliving their life together.

“He never had children with his first wife,” she told everyone. “And we, of course, were too old. But he always told me that he didn’t need any kinder because the whole village was his family.”

At last, on the eighth night of Chanukah, by some silent agreement, only the younger villagers came to visit. They all had chosen, with Shammai, to light just one candle.

There was wine and laughter and spirited discussion about the many texts that they had read with the rabbi.

Rachel Cohen said that she was proud to have been the rabbi’s first female student.

Her husband, Doodle, agreed that, without Rabbi Kibbitz, none of his many questions about life and death would have been answered so well.

A hush fell over the room as Doodle mentioned death.

The last few Chanukah candles sputtered and one by one extinguished.

All eyes turned to Mrs. Chaipul, who began to cry softly.

Except for the coals from the stove, the room was black.

“Is he?” someone whispered.

“We should go,” whispered another.

“Why is it so dark and quiet?” came a booming voice. “Am I dead?”

“He’s very noisy if he is dead,” said Doodle.

Rachel Cohen quickly snatched up a spare candle and lit it from the stove.

In the dim light, everyone looked and saw Rabbi Kibbitz was sitting up in his bed.

“Hello,” he said. His eyes glinted brightly. “I’m sorry to interrupt. You all said such nice things about me. Thank you. But I don’t think I’m done yet. I’m feeling much better. Channah, maybe you and I could leave Chelm together and do some traveling?”

“You old fool!” His wife threw her arms around his neck.

Rabbi Kibbitz hugged her close, and thought about the days to come; each of them an adventure to be shared.

One by one, but all at once, the students sneaked out of the house to spread word of the miraculous recovery.

The next morning, when a delegation of elders went to the rabbi’s house, they found it empty.

A note on the kitchen table read, “No, we’re not dead. Yes, we’ve gone. Shalom.”

Mark Binder is an author and storyteller. The former editor of the Rhode Island Jewish Herald – back when there was such a thing as a for-profit Jewish newspaper – writes the “Life in Chelm” series of books and stories. The first volume, A Hanukkah Present, was the runner-up for the National Jewish Book Award for family literature. The Brothers Schlemiel was serialized for two years in the Houston Jewish Voice. Binder’s a graduate of the Trinity Rep Theatre Conservatory, studied storytelling with Spalding Gray, and has taught the course Telling Lies: How To at the Rhode Island School of Design. He’s toured the world telling stories to listeners of all ages and backgrounds with the secret mission of transmitting joy with story. Readers can listen to the audio version of “The last candle” story at transmitjoy.com/spotify.

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.

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.

Every year, a new beginning

Barring disaster, this season’s apple harvest would be bountiful. (photo from maxpixel.net)

“I don’t want to do my job any more.” That loud thought just popped into Rabbi Yohon Abrahms’ head.

It was dawn, and the birds were singing. He was lying in bed alone, staring up at the whitewashed wooden ceiling of his small house. Alone.

Summer in Chelm had been hot, with enough rain to produce a bumper crop of wheat, rye, corn, squash, barley and buckwheat. Hard work. Lots of sweat. In a small village like Chelm, when it was time for ingathering, all hands, even the rabbi, joined in the work. From daybreak to dark for nearly a month, the fields had been full of neighbours working and laughing and complaining.

The whole world thought that everyone in Chelm was always happy but, of course, there was complaining. As Rabbi Kibbitz, the wise old man, often said, “Kvetching is one of the greatest pleasures in life! It’s free and opportunities are plentiful. Anyone can kvetch! And you should!”

The harvest was hard. Back-bending, blister-raising, mind-numbingly repetitive tasks. Reach, cut, lift, wrap, tie, and a small sheaf of buckwheat stood in the field, drying under the sun. Bend, grasp, twist, pick, turn, place the cucumber in a basket. Curse the sharp thorn that poked through a hole in the worn leather glove. And repeat.

It had been bliss. For weeks on end, Rabbi Abrahms had lived in his community, outside his house, surrounded by fellows, outside his mind. All summer, he had not had a moment’s peace to think about his own problems. Instead, he’d rushed from field to field, with the occasional visit with Reb Schlum, the butcher, to perform his job as mashgiach, overseeing the ritual slaughter of chickens and cows. He barely had time to eat and, when he fell asleep at night, it was an exhausted and dreamless slumber that left him feeling eager and refreshed in the morning.

Yesterday, though, the last of the crops had been harvested. The fresh vegetables were on their way to market or into barrels for pickling. The seeds in the field weren’t dry enough to begin threshing.

“Enjoy your rest,” said Reb Cantor, the merchant, over his shoulder as he drove his cart toward Smyrna. “Rosh Hashanah is coming soon and, this year especially, Rabbi Kibbitz is going to need your help.”

The great Rabbi Kibbitz was old. He had always been old. When Rabbi Abrahms first moved to Chelm decades ago, Rabbi Kibbitz had seemed ancient. Now he was practically prehistoric, eating nothing but the healthy chicken soup made by his beloved wife, Mrs. Chaipul (she kept her name, which is another story). Rabbi Kibbitz was beginning to fail. Everyone knew it, but nobody would say it. Soon, beloved Rabbi Kibbitz was going to die.

“Chak, chak, chak.” A red-spotted bluethroat, pecked at a piece of straw outside Rabbi Abrams window. “Chak, chak.”

Rabbi Abrahms did not want to lead the Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur services by himself. For years, he had assisted, ready to take over whenever the senior rabbi got tired or needed a break. But Rabbi Kibbitz had been an indomitable bear of a man, davening his prayers from side to side in his peculiar fashion long after younger men grew weak and sat down for a rest.

Rabbi Abrahms did not want to stand on the bimah alone. Truth be told, he did not want to stand on the bimah at all. For years, he’d been picking at that scab, a sore spot in his thoughts, that perhaps being a rabbi was not for him.

It was nonsense, of course. He had studied hard to become a rabbi. He had moved to Chelm to accept the position. He had worked hard as a maschgiach and even harder to teach the stubborn children in the village’s small yeshivah. Being a rabbi had consumed his life. Of course, he was a rabbi.

He was 55 years old, and still the junior rabbi. What else could he be?

He was not married, something that the yentas in Chelm tutted him about regularly. As a younger man, he had loved and lost and, until it was necessary, he would not walk that road again. So he had no children to occupy his mind and time.

He had written some small books: a thin catalogue called The Wildlife of Chelm and the Nearby Black Forest, an English and Hebrew Haggadah that had been published by someone in America named Maxwell House, even a slender humorous novel in the style of the Russians. Writing, though, was not a job that would pay for eggs and tea and firewood.

“Chak, chak,” the bluethroat chided.

Foolish thoughts.

But, even after Rabbi Kibbitz left the world behind (may that day be distant), Rabbi Abrahms knew that he would always be the junior rabbi of Chelm.

It wasn’t the relative position or lack of prestige that bothered him. Rabbi Abrahms hated listening to other people’s troubles. He didn’t like cheering people up. He was bored with morning prayers, afternoon prayers, evening prayers and Sabbath prayers, let alone the special prayers for holidays and festivals. He dreaded officiating over wedding and bris ceremonies. Visiting the sick made him feel sick. And the idea of saying the Mourner’s Kaddish at Rabbi Kibbitz’s funeral left him weak and heartbroken.

Even being called Rabbi Abrahms chafed like a burr.

“My name is Yohon,” he whispered at the wall. “Can’t you see?”

Perhaps if he had mentioned his affliction to Rabbi Kibbitz a few years earlier, they could have worked something out. Put an advertisement in the Jewish newspaper in Pinsk for a new rabbi for Chelm. Or together found passages in the Torah or Mishnah that would have eased his mind.

But the great man was dying. Rabbi Abrahms shouldn’t trouble him.

Maybe he wouldn’t die this year. Maybe there would be time.

Barring disaster, this season’s apple harvest would be bountiful.

Sukkot was early, right at harvest time, and Rabbi Abrahms would take to the fields, climb the thin triangular ladder with a basket looped over his shoulder. Reach. Pick. Drop. Until the basket was full.

Then move the ladder to another tree, and begin again.

Every so often, he would stop, near the top of a tree heavy with fruit. He would lean against the trunk, take a bite of a crisp just-picked apple, and look up through the leaves at the wide, blue sky.

Mark Binder is a writer and storyteller, who lives in Providence, R.I. He is the author of more than 20 books and audio recordings, including The Brothers Schlemiel, a novel of Chelm. Follow him on Instagram, @MarkBinderBooks, or visit his website markbinder.com.

Around the world in 382 days

Naomi Steinberg has toured the world with Goosefeather and is now working on a book of her travels. (photo from Naomi Steinberg)

Naomi Steinberg’s Goosefeather started in 2011. “It began with interviewing my French maternal grandfather in Paris before he died,” she said. “I wanted to know how he had helped my Jewish grandmother survive the Second World War and why he was a collector of maps, weights and scales. Given his work with the metric system, I also thought it would be interesting for us to talk about measurements in general.”

Fascinated by her grandfather’s story, the kernel of Goosefeather was born. “I made him a promise that he would see the final result,” she said.

She immersed herself in research. “Measurements are extremely important to humans,” she said. “We measure everything, but we have to realize that no measurement is 100% accurate; we have to accept that…. As I went deeper into it, I wanted to know how we measure the truth. What is the truth? What is reality? Same as when measuring length and weight, measuring reality can’t be 100% accurate. We have to accept this area of the unknown. We have to let ourselves ‘not know.’ We have to let everyone just be.”

The show that emerged out of her research is a multifaceted tale involving maps of places and relationships, measurements of physical elements and of abstract concepts. “How should we measure the space between me and another person? Between me and the planet?” she asked herself. “It soon became clear not only that I had a complicated story to tell, I also had an entertaining show that wanted to be on the road…. Goosefeather was going adventuring and I would be going around the planet, by land and sea, carrying a performance with me. As I journeyed, I would be carrying my own prime meridian in the form of presence. I had hypothesized that if, with this, I charted the space-time between myself and others, I might be guided in a good way.”

As the show was still coming into form, Steinberg’s grandfather was dying in a hospice in France. In 2013, she visited him in the hospice one last time and showed him the first draft of Goosefeather. “I shared with him all my ideas, and he said I got it ‘correctly.’ For a man obsessed with measurements, that was a high praise.”

The first performance of Goosefeather occurred in 2014 in Vancouver. (For a short review, see jewishindependent.ca/storytellers-excel-at-fringe.) But Steinberg needed to take it on the road. “I knew the show should travel like a Canada goose, all around the world,” she said. “I love traveling. I have a nomad soul, and I value my experience as a traveler, but I care very much about the environment. I didn’t want to just take a plane. You don’t experience your travels fully when you fly. It should be closer to the ground, slower, so I could stop and perform.”

In November 2014, she left Vancouver for California, where she boarded a cargo ship heading to Australia, which started her journey around the world. “It was easy,” she said. “The cargo companies sell tickets. They often have a couple cabins vacant – an owner’s cabin and a pilot’s cabin. That’s where I stayed on the cargo ships.”

She also performed Goosefeather on the first ship, as a Christmas gift for the sailors. When the captain asked her for a repeat performance, she bartered: a show for a phone call to her father, who celebrated his birthday while she was on the water.

It took her 21 days to reach Australia. From there, she took another cargo ship to China. Her further travels – by boat, bus and train – included Japan, Russia, Belgium, France, Switzerland, the United States and, finally, back to Canada. The entire trip took 382 days.

In every country, she performed Goosefeather, facilitated workshops and participated in creative collaborations. In every country, she stayed with friends. “I came back with $100. I lived in a cash economy for over a year and I fully supported my journey with my shows and workshops,” she said. “In the entire time I was away from home, I only paid for a hotel for seven nights.”

Despite the crazy itinerary, she didn’t prepare all her stops beforehand. “Sometimes, I didn’t even know where I would spend the night when I arrived in a city or a country, but I always found friends,” she said. “I researched storytelling organizations on the internet. I put my scheduled countries on my Facebook page and asked my friends for help. They asked their friends, and the word spread around the world like a goose feather. Everywhere, people wanted to see my show. I got contacts in every city and country. Everywhere, people wanted to help.”

Even the language barrier in countries like Japan and Russia didn’t deter Steinberg. She can perform Goosefeather in either English or French, and she always found a translator when she needed one.

“In Japan, they asked me to perform for children, and I created a special show for them: a Kamishibai show.”

For Steinberg, a professional storyteller, a storytelling tradition like Kamishibai is extremely compelling. According to Wikipedia, “Kamishibai is a form of Japanese street theatre and storytelling popular during the Depression years and the postwar period … until the advent of television.” Storytellers would travel from town to town, performing on “street corners with sets of illustrated boards … narrat[ing] the story by changing each image.” Some consider Kamishibai to have influenced manga and anime.

“For my first Kamishibai show, the adventures of a little goose feather, a talented 8-year-old drew the illustrations,” said Steinberg. “It was a big success. Now, I perform it with the pictures created by a wonderful Japanese artist, Shiho Oshita Beday.”

Currently, Steinberg is busy writing a book, a travelogue of her journey around the world with Goosefeather. She aims to publish it next year. To learn more, visit goosefeather.ca.

Olga Livshin is a Vancouver freelance writer. She can be reached at [email protected].

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Note: This article has been edited to reflect that Steinberg’s total journey took 382 and not 386 days.

Musical tribute to dear friend

Perla Batalla brings the music of Leonard Cohen to the Rothstein Theatre March 11. (photo from Chutzpah!)

I didn’t choose singing. It chose me,” Perla Batalla told the Independent in an email interview. Batalla brings her personal and moving tribute to her good friend, Leonard Cohen, to the Chutzpah! Festival March 11.

“He was not only a mentor and a friend, but also a very great inspiration. Being as I was young when I worked with Leonard – I was in my 20s – I watched him like I was watching a master and learning as much as I possibly could,” she said. “His need to always seek the comfort of his audience was truly generous – and all too rare. We began working together in the 1980s and we never lost touch, even after I was touring on my own.

“In Leonard’s earlier tours,” she said, “he would tell stories before every song – very funny, honest stories about his life. Each night he’d tell similar stories, but they always seemed fresh – like I’d never heard them before – I think that was because of his honesty, and his ability to show up and always be authentic, be authentically Leonard Cohen.

“He had a huge impact on what I do and how I perform. If I approach a song with unconditional honesty, the meaning is not static – it can ebb and flow as I relate the words to my own life and experiences.”

In Vancouver, Batalla – who lives in Ojai, Calif. – will be joined by pianist Michael Sobie.

“He recently returned after touring as assistant conductor and pianist with the Game of Thrones Concert Stadium Tour,” Batalla said. “Michael also performs as the principal pops pianist with the Grand Rapids Symphony and has toured internationally as pianist/conductor with Broadway musicals like Les Misérables, Wicked, Aïda and tons more. He is a dream to work with.”

Perla Batalla in the House of Cohen features songs and personal stories that “reveal Cohen’s lighter side,” notes Batalla’s website. It also shows “her sincere respect and deep love for the music, the poetry and, most of all, for her dear friend, Leonard Cohen.” Cohen passed away Nov. 7, 2016.

Batalla released her first recording in 1994, an eponymous CD on the Warner/Discovery label, and has since produced six CDs on her own label, Mechuda Music, one of which, Bird on the Wire, was a tribute to Cohen. Internationally known, Batalla composes and performs in both English and Spanish. The names of two of her CDs, Discoteca Batalla and Mestiza, more than hint at how important her heritage is to her.

“I grew up in Venice, Calif.,” she said. “Our family owned a Mexican record shop called Discoteca Batalla, which served as an important hub for Latino culture in West L.A. I constantly feel the push and pull of the Afro-Mexican influence from my father and the Euro-Argentine-Jewish elements from my mom. This is my own mestiza, mix – I wouldn’t trade it for the world. From all sides, theatricality is in my bones, my roots. I don’t only use my voice to sing a song. To completely engage, I have to use my entire body. And it has to be sincere. It has to come from within.”

She said she comes from a long line of musicians on her father’s side in Mexico and theatre people on her mother’s side in Argentina. “My father was a singer and my uncle, Cipriano Silva, was a trumpet player with the world-famous Mariachi Vargas de Tecalitlán,” she added. “My desire to sing came early – when my family took a camping trip, I can remember sitting by myself among the redwoods singing to them. I made up a song and it felt strange, but good. Trees are a very attentive audience.

“When I was a little older,” she continued, “I remember watching my uncles and my father (who were usually pretty scary) singing traditional songs after dinner and openly weeping as they sang – and it occurred to me at the time that music seemed to have a unique power. By the time I was in my teens, I was studying opera privately and singing in clubs at night; I have never wanted to do anything else.”

When asked about her creative process, how a song comes to her, she said, “Research and serendipity. My current Frida Kahlo project, Blue House, is an example. I wanted this song cycle to be a love letter to the creative spirit. My songwriting partner, David Batteau, and I began by reading everything we could get our hands on; we spent a lot of time in museums; I even started to paint and do art pieces. Through research and discussion, ideas begin to appear like ghosts. It starts as a thread, and then we follow the thread to wherever it leads; destinations we had no idea were even there when we embarked.

“I am also inspired by stories. When I keep my ears open, I can hear stories everywhere. Sometimes there can be a great story hidden within a painting, a black-and-white photograph, or a symphony.”

Not only has Batalla been recognized for her work in music, but she also has been awarded for trying to heal the world in other ways, as well.

“I am most grateful for having the opportunity to do educational outreach with at-risk youth in underserved communities around the U.S.,” she said. “I take a lot of time to talk with the students about how being creative can give you power. Sometimes young people just need to be given permission to explore the artistic horizon.

“Passing on love and appreciation for music, poetry and the beauty of the Spanish language to the next generation of artists is paramount. I want young people to discover the magic of song. When words and music collide with honesty and humanity, the result is the foundation on which everything of life is built. At a time when art and music are marginalized in the education of youth, I am now more than ever committed to educational outreach as I travel throughout the world. Exposing young audiences to the beauty of art, music and poetry through music and live theatre may be our best defence against the current onslaught of cynicism.”

As for her love of Cohen’s music?

“For me, it is his imagery, use of metaphor and painful honesty, which gives Leonard’s lyrics such depth of meaning,” she said. “His poems and songs are also intrinsically personal. When I sing his songs, Leonard’s lyrics help sustain me – I reinterpret them with each performance. Plus, his lifetime dedication to his craft at the expense of all else is the epitome of devotion to beauty.”

She added, “For an artist, reading reviews or caring what everyone thinks is the kiss of death. Since I’m human, I do care what some people think, but, in the end, I do what will satisfy my creative goals and desires. I am grateful every day that I have the freedom to take chances and continue my own journey.”

Perla Batalla in the House of Cohen is at the Rothstein Theatre for one performance only, on March 11, 7:30 p.m.

For all of the Chutzpah! music offerings and the full festival schedule, visit chutzpahfestival.com.

Time to light the lights

Chanukah lights (photo from pxhere.com/en/photo/285940)

Rabbi Kibbitz! Rabbi Kibbitz!” Young Doodle ran into the rabbi’s study, breathless and excited. “Rabbi Kibbitz! It’s time to light the Chanukah candles!”

Doodle stopped cold. The senior rabbi of the village of Chelm sat behind his desk, with his head drooping in his hands, staring blankly into nothing.

“Rabbi Kibbitz, are you all right?”

The wise old man shook his head.

“Are you having a heart attack? A stroke? Indigestion?!”

Again the rabbi shook his head.

“You’re not getting a divorce are you?”

The rabbi’s head shot up. He stared at Doodle, and firmly shook his head, no.

“Then, Rabbi, what is it?”

“The world, Doodle,” the rabbi said. “It’s falling apart. The czar is going crazy and so is the king of Poland. It looks like war may happen at any time, and Chelm is right in the middle.”

“That’s not new,” said Doodle. “The czar is always crazy. I hear last week he commissioned a jeweler to make a dozen eggs out of gold!”

“What’s crazy about that?” asked Rabbi Kibbitz.

“Eggs come out of chickens for free,” Doodle said. “With real eggs, you can eat ‘the gold.’ But golden eggs, it seems like you’re paying a lot for nothing.”

The rabbi nodded. He’d never been able to understand how Doodle thought.

“Come, Rabbi,” Doodle said. “It’s time to light the Chanukah candles. Everybody is waiting.”

“The harvest was poor this year,” the rabbi said. “It’s been poor the last four years. I don’t know how we are going to feed ourselves this winter. And, if next harvest is bad, then I’m sure we will all starve.”

“Actually, rabbi, it’s been six bad years,” Doodle corrected. “And you know what they say in the Torah? After seven years of famine, there will be seven years of feast!”

“I’m not sure it says that.”

“Perhaps not,” Doodle said. “But we will figure it out. We always do. If nothing else, we can always move somewhere.”

“Borders are closing, Doodle. Nobody wants to have poor refugees.”

“In America, there is plenty of opportunity!”

The rabbi shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“Come, let’s light the candles,” Doodle said.

“People are becoming so hateful.” The rabbi’s head slumped back into his hands. “Neighbours fight each other. Everyone looks out only for himself or his tribe. I always thought that, over time, the world would become a better place, but I hear the news about this revolution or that uprising or this massacre and that famine and all I see is darkness.”

“Let’s light the candles,” Doodle insisted.

“Enough with the candles!” The rabbi burst with frustration. “Chanukah is not even a major holiday. With all the problems of the world, it just doesn’t matter.”

Doodle stood still and stared at the rabbi. “It does matter. Every year, on the last night of Chanukah, our whole community gathers in the synagogue to light the candles. We kindle a shammos from the eternal lamp, and then that flame is passed to every shammos. We sing the blessings, and then one light becomes eight lights, multiplied by every single family in the village. It doesn’t matter how cold it is outside. We are warm and together in celebration. Even in the darkness the menorahs glow as bright as day.

“Come, Rabbi. Let’s light the candles.”

Rabbi Kibbitz looked up at the young boy. The wise old man had tears in his eyes. He nodded and stood.

Just then, Reb Cantor the merchant burst into the rabbi’s study.

“Rabbi Kibbitz! Have you heard? They’re devaluing the currency. The money – all the money – is going to be worthless!”

“Reb Cantor,” said Rabbi Kibbitz. “It seems very dark and bleak sometimes, doesn’t it?”

Reb Cantor nodded in agreement.

“Isn’t it wonderful,” the rabbi said, “that it is time for us to gather in the synagogue and light the Chanukah candles?”

Reb Cantor took a deep breath and nodded. “You are a very wise man, Rabbi Kibbitz.”

Together, the rabbi and the merchant left the study and their troubles behind.

Doodle rolled his eyes. Then, he grinned and ran to catch up. “Rabbi Kibbitz, Reb Cantor! Wait for me!”

Mark Binder is a Jewish storyteller and the author of A Hanukkah Present! Twelve Tales to Give and Share and Matzah Mishugas. These and other books are available in print and ebook on Amazon, iBooks, Google Play Books and other booksellers. To learn more about Binder, visit markbinder.com.

Stories that empower

Shanie Levin brought Sholem Aleichem’s stories to life with Al Stein. (photo by Binny Goldman)

Tell me a story, please…. Which one of us has not made this request of a mother, a father, a zayda or bubbie?

On Oct. 30, almost 70 people gathered at the Peretz Centre for Secular Jewish Culture, where they were welcomed by Peretz president Gene Homel, who shared some of the activities that the centre hosts, including the Sholem Aleichem speaker series (SASS, or “SASSY,” as they call it). The Tuesday night event was held by Jewish Seniors Alliance of Greater Vancouver in partnership with SASSY.

Gyda Chud of both JSA and Peretz introduced the first session of this year’s JSA Elders Empowering Elders series, which focused on storytelling.

photo - Myrna Rabinowitz — The audience sat enraptured as they listened to Myrna Rabinowitz. *(photo by Binny Goldman)*

The audience sat enraptured, traveling back to their kinder yorn, childhood years, as they listened to Myrna Rabinowitz. She sang several Yiddish songs. Among her original compositions was one that she had composed for the birth of her grandson.

From stories told in song, to those spoken, Shanie Levin and Al Stein read stories that came alive with their interpretations of the text and their excellent delivery. Enhanced by the clever use of minimal but appropriate costuming, and done with humor, the characters and the way of life of Shayneh Shayndel and Menachem Mendel became real to those listening, as did the ongoing dilemma that they each faced. As Sholem Aleichem once famously stated, “You can take the Jew out of the shtetl but you cannot take the shtetl out of the Jew.”

In thanking the performers, Chud quoted Stein, who had said in his preface to reading his first story: “In keeping with the Narodnik movement (Power to the People), the young Russian intelligentsia at the time and not the elite, Sholem Rabinovitch chose the name Sholem Aleichem, the common Jewish greeting, as his pen name, ‘Peace be unto you.’” Chud commented on the fact that Power to the People motivated Sholem Rabinovitch to change his name, and that the theme of JSA’s Empowerment series is “Elders Empowering Elders.”

photo - Al Stein, with Shanie Levin, entertained with their lively storytelling — Al Stein, with Shanie Levin, entertained with their lively storytelling. *(photo by Binny Goldman)*

Ken Levitt, one of JSA’s vice-presidents, rose to the occasion by thanking the performers partly in Yiddish, having researched the phrasing on the internet. He explained that he hadn’t grown up in a Yiddish-speaking household, although Yiddish had been used as a secret language between his parents. His valiant effort endeared Levitt to all the Yiddish-speakers in the audience.

The session ended with eppes zees mit a Yiddish taam, something sweet with a Jewish taste, accompanied by hot drinks. To quote one of the characters in the story that Levin read: “If you have a piece of bread, take your eyes off the cake!”

Volunteers of both JSA and SASSY helped make the event a success, as did JSA staff Karon Shear and Rita Propp.

Es eez given a mechayeh, it was a pleasure and an oisgetzaichent, outstanding and enriching time together.

For more on JSA and future events, visit jsalliance.org.

Binny Goldman is a member of the Jewish Seniors Alliance of Greater Vancouver board.