Issue 148

THE WHISK SOUP ISSUE: NOURISHING AND SATISFYING BOWLS BY RENEE MULLER AND ELKY FRIEDMAN

DECEMBER 18, 2013 / 15 TEVES 5774 ISSUE 148

Tovah Kinderlehrer’s mission to form a frum farming community in the U.S.

>>> REBBETZIN TWERSKI YOUR INNER SPACE >>> CLEAN BILL A FAMILY FIGHTS THE GOVERNMENT BUREAUCRACY TO SAVE THEIR CHILD’S LIFE >>> TRUTH OR CONSEQUENCES A NEWLYWED IS CAUGHT IN A WEB OF DECEPTION >>> OUR DAYS A MIDDLE-AGED GRANDMOTHER BECOMES A Soup Season COMMUNITY ACTIVIST >>> MY LITTLE SECRET

RENEE AND ELKY BRING YOU THEIR FAVORITE WAYS TO WARM AND NOURISH IN ONE BOWL

ISSUE 148 DECEMBER 18, 2013 15 TEVES 5774

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CONTENTS

15 Teves 5774 December 18, 2013

Features 16 Truth or Consequences

Should I tell my husband about the money I was “lending”?

By Basya Roth

22 The Clean Bill

Down to the Wire: A race against the clock to secure one family’s last hope of curing their child’s illness

By Rea Bochner

28 Farm Shmarm

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My family’s journey to life on a farm in the middle of nowhere

By Tovah Kinderlehrer

Departments 4

Editorial

By Rechy Frankfurter RENEE AND ELKY BRING YOU THEIR FAVORITE WAYS TO WARM AND NOURISH IN ONE BOWL

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Letters

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The Rebbetzin Speaks

ISSUE 148 DECEMBER 18, 2013 15 TEVES 5774

By Rebbetzin Feige Twerski

10 Golden Nuggets

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By Basha Majerczyk

in Whisk

12 Bytes

By Miriam Glick

By Victoria Dwek

4 A Tavola It’s soup season!

By Liora Stein

by Renee Muller

36 Matchmaker

10 Wholesome Soups to nourish

By Yisrael Friedman

By Elki Friedman

38 Daddy’s Girl

14 Mommy on a Diet

By Dina Neuman

by Nomee Jacobs

40 Our Days

16

The rhythm of our lives

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2 Hello, Cooks

14 Debt Diary

Inside Whisk

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15 The Scale Says...

Diet advice by Tanya Rosen

12/12/13 7:17 PM

Dear Readers, If it weren’t so tragic, it would be laughable. Nowadays, one is

almost guaranteed to find on a weekly basis an article or feature in the secular press written by a person who was once part of the chareidi community. These first-person accounts in newspapers, magazines or online are not only tragic but usually pathetic in the writers’ attempts to justify having thrown off the yoke of Torah and mitzvos. Many of these writers don’t seem to understand why they were doing these things in the first place; hence their totally flawed reasoning for why they chucked their religious observance. I shall leave it to those who study the human psyche to figure out why some individuals feel a need to bare their souls in a public forum that way.

Editor in Chief Rabbi Yitzchok Frankfurter

Editorial

Senior Editor Rechy Frankfurter Managing Editors Victoria Dwek Yossi Krausz Feature Editor Yitta Halberstam Mandelbaum

Then there is another form of tell-all: the memoir. The reasoning behind these is obvious. There is no shorter path to celebrity—and even more important, to riches—than penning a book with a deliberately provocative title alluding to deep, dark secrets in the chareidi community. The more salacious the details, the more copies it will sell. This is all done, of course, without regard for the truth. Even more shocking is how otherwise reputable publishing houses print this trash without prior fact-checking or any form of responsible oversight. They protect themselves with legalese about the authenticity of the content, but adhering to ethical guidelines seems optional.

Coordinating Editor Toby Worch Copy Editor Basha Majerczyk Proofreaders Dina Schreiber Rabbi Yisroel Benedek

Art

Art Directors Alex Katalkin David Kniazuk

Tovah Kinderlehrer’s story in this week’s issue, “Farm Shmarm,” is the polar opposite. Hers is a story of growing up in a non-Orthodox home and choosing to live a life of Torah and mitzvos. Like many others, she was lucky enough to find her way to true Yiddishkeit, and one can sense her joyous embrace of it. But Tovah’s story is far deeper than simply an account of someone deciding that city life is not for her and choosing to live on a farm. In fact, its message is something that many who have discarded a life of Torah and mitzvos seem unaware of: Hashem gave us the Torah to live in this world, and there are many different ways we can serve Him within its parameters. The totality of our individual paths and approaches form a magnificent mosaic, transforming the world into a place of holiness.

Food

Food Editors Victoria Dwek Leah Schapira

Advertising

Executive Account Manager Zack Blumenfeld Executive Sales Directors Surie Katz Esther Friedman Europe Advertising 44 7891 297 866

Some lifestyles such as Tovah’s may be unconventional, but conformity is only demanded with respect to halachah.

Advertising Coordinator Malky Friedman

Looking at Tovah’s pictures, I can truly understand what she finds so compelling about a life lived close to nature. I can only wish that her dream comes true and that others join her in forming a Torah farm community.

Markowitz Distribution 917-202-3973 646-247-0262

Ami Magazine

P: 718-534-8800 F: 718-484-7731 info@amimagazine.org

On another note, I’d like to draw your attention to our cover story. At the very minimum, please turn to the last page of the article so you can find out how to sign a petition to hopefully save this child’s life.

Ami Magazine. Published by Mezoogmag LLC. All rights reserved. Reproduction in whole or in part in any form without prior written permission from the publisher is prohibited. The publisher reserves the right to edit all articles for clarity, space, and editorial sensitivities. Ami Magazine assumes no responsibility for the content of advertisements in the publication, nor for the contents of books that are referred to or excerpted herein.

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Rechy Frankfurter

rechy@amimagazine.org

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LETTERS

A Bubbie’s Footnote Little Dovid and his mother were so brave In response to “Clean Bill,” Issue 146

There is Only One Miracleworker

Dear Editor:

Being sensitive to singles In reference to “Matchmaker,” Issue 146

Dear Editor: I was truly appalled to read the Shidduch Saga in last week’s issue. As the parent of many happily married children, baruch Hashem, and an older single (older than the “ripe old age of 27”), I know the pain that these young people face on a daily basis. If you were writing about someone who couldn’t have children for many years, or who was sick with a serious illness, would he say finding a cure or having a child would be “about as hard as getting into Brisk”?

There are thousands of wonderful singles out there who need our help. If each person would take it upon himself to try to set them up, maybe we could begin to solve the problem. But it isn’t only about setting singles up, it is also about being sensitive, and treating them with dignity.

When talking to older singles, try to understand what they are going through—don’t try to lecture, judge, coerce or criticize what they’re doing.

If we have bitachon, we know that a shadchan is just a shaliach of Hashem. It is insensitive to state that, “working for an older single is never easy. I might be a successful shadchan...but I’m not a magician” or “it isn’t money that I need, but a miracle.” May Hashem send many miracles in the near future to all those in need.

A concerned mother

After reading this poignant story of this brave young mother and her ordeal, I sat down and cried and reminisced... In a short time, I lost my elderly mother, my newborn grandchild and my only sibling, and my elderly father had a massive stroke leaving him totally incapacitated. I was running from one hospital taking care of him to another hospital taking care of my grandchild.

You see, dear readers, this story is about my daughter and my grandchild. Her diligence, her persistence, and my grandchild’s bravery is only a fraction of what you have read. I stand every day on two legs and say “Modim” to the Ribbono Shel Olam for giving me such an amazing daughter, a healthy grandchild, wonderful doctors, and an amazing magazine like Ami that is helping people become aware of facts. To all precious mothers: “Chochmas nashim bansah beisah.” Listen to your instincts, for they are the messages from your heart. And as far as I am concerned, “Ein anu maspikim l’hodos Lashem…”

A humble and most grateful Babby

Coffee and Kashrus Let’s continue to spread awareness

In reference to “Truth or Consequences,” Issue 146

Dear Readers (and AmiLiving Editorial Staff !): There are many parts of the magazine that I don’t see until I sit down to read on Shabbat. One of those is one of my favorite columns, “Truth or Consequences.”

I was very surprised to see our Target-shopaholic protagonist, Suri, ordering a non-kosher drink from Starbucks in Issue 146.

The pumpkin spice latte that she ordered in the story contains ingredients that are not kosher. On top of that, it’s a hot drink that’s made with treif keilim. As reported in “What Could Be Wrong with My Little Latte?” in Whisk Issue 119, while this particular drink wouldn’t be acceptable at any Starbucks, in Target, it’s even worse, as Starbucks locations in Target

Look your best! elegant dresses for weddings & special occasions.

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24 KISLEV 5774

stores share a dishwasher with the Pizza Hut next door.

Our writer and editors didn’t realize that this is a problem; it just goes to show how much further we all need to go to spread awareness in this area of kashrus.

It is my greatest hope that bringing this error to our readers’ attention enlightens more people, rather than, G-d forbid, causes people who read the article to think that what the protagonist did was acceptable.

Thanks.

Victoria Dwek

Do Fat Letters Make the Grade?

A controversial initiative to help fight childhood obesity

Life of the Party

Chanukah party is a Yiddishe concept In reference to “My Take,” Issue 145

Dear Editor: I was really saddened to see Rebbetzin Davis’ article on how we celebrate Chanukah.

The Beis Hamikdash was destroyed because of sinas chinam. One of the ways of hopefully meriting the reconstruction of the Beis Hamikdash (we were taught) is by exhibiting ahavas chinam. What better way can we do this than by having the whole family get together at a Chanukah mesibah? What better way can we practice kiruv krovim than by giving gifts to our children and grandchildren? Latkes, dreidels and doughnuts are all symbols of Chanukah. The Rema even says that when we sing shiros v’sishbachos at a mesibah it becomes a seudas mitzvah. How else do we teach children to love Yiddishkeit and Chanukah? Do you feel we should give all this up?

What better way to give over our mesorah to our children than having them hear divrei Torah at Chanukah gatherings from their rebbeim and elders on topics of mesiras nefesh for Torah and Yiddishkeit?

How appropriate are the words of R’ Shimshon Pincus, zt”l, that after the dark cold winter sets in, we show our children that Yiddishkeit is full of vitality, excitement and warmth. Which part of Chanukah is a reminder of the kohanim going to the sports stadiums before being makriv korbanos? Which part of Chanukah is a reminder of the customs and practices of Yavan? I just don’t get it!!

From a Yiddishe Bubbie

encore

Your child might be getting A’s and B’s on his report card, but the new letters to look out for are B, M and I. In 19 states across the US, schools have undertaken a growing initiative, enforcing mandatory annual weighins, sending home what children are calling “fat letters” that inform parents of their children’s BMI (body mass index) and whether or not they fall in the healthy range. Some pediatricians say BMI readings are effective in the fight against childhood obesity, which is a growing problem, as described in Issue 39. But critics aren’t convinced, claiming that taking readings might exacerbate eating disorders, thereby causing more harm than good.

AMI MAGAZINE 1575 50th St., Brooklyn, NY 11219 Phone: (718) 534-8800 Fax: (718) 484-7731 letters@amimagazine.org

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THE

REBBETZIN SPEAKS

INNER SPACE

OUR SAGES RECOGNIZED THE IMPORTANCE OF ENVIRONMENT AND CONTEXT

By Rebbetzin Feige Twerski

Y

esterday was Shabbos kodesh.

At 9:30 in the morning, I subconsciously waited for my friend Sandy to come pick me up on the way to shul, as she has done for the better part of 50 years.

Of course, her knock on the door never materialized, as she recently moved to Israel. I sat for a while reflecting on why Sandy is so special to me. Baruch Hashem, I am surrounded by a community of people who are wonderful and amazing, each in his own right. Any number of them, I suspect, would be more than delighted to accompany me to shul, so pity would be wasted on me. Certainly, a part of it is the duration of our long-standing friendship. The more important factor, though, has to do with personality. Sandy is easy to be with. When she walks into a room the sun starts to shine, even on cloudy days. Sandy has not been jaded by life. She maintains a refreshing aura of innocence and optimism, and not because of a dearth of challenges or a privileged existence. Sandy has paid her dues, but they have not suppressed her love of life and emunah peshutah. In fact, her faith never wavers. Sandy is straightforward. I rely on her opinion and uncompromising honesty. Whenever she has told me I

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made a bad purchase, she has always been right.

Sandy relishes and celebrates the joys and good fortunes of others. My father, of blessed memory, often suggested that in response to all the ills of the world a “farginners’ club” should be formed of people dedicated to being happy for others’ good luck. Membership cards could be issued and kept in one’s wallet along with the driver’s license and credit cards. This, my father insisted, would mitigate many of the tragedies that befall us, rachmana litzlan. Sandy would unquestionably be a shoo-in for president of such a club. (Interestingly,

a tragic life, marked by great suffering.

And yet, his presence was electrifying, seeming to transcend this earthly existence. Observers had a sense that he had a connection to the supernal realms that was way beyond the grasp of ordinary human beings.

Mimi is a low-keyed, less intimidating version of her father. While totally grounded, intuitive and people-oriented, there is a G-d-consciousness about her that permeates her person. Her comfort level with the Master of the Universe is effortless and appears to be second nature.

There is a Jewish saying that goes, “For believers there are no questions, and for

The world is full of many toxic influences. At the very least, our immediate environment should serve as an oasis.

her Israeli phone number is comprised of the same digits as my own in America.

Coincidence? Maybe or maybe not, but it’s certainly nice to maintain that level of connection!)

This mood of reflection produced another image, that of my niece Mimi.

Mimi is the daughter of my husband’s oldest brother, Reb Shlomo, zichrono livrachah. She does not live anywhere near me, but we have managed to have a meaningful and intimate long-distance relationship for many years. Reb Shlomo was a towering giant of the spirit. He had

15 TEVES 5774

apikorsim there are no answers.” Despite her many challenges and struggles over the years, Mimi has never voiced any questions. She exudes an acceptance, peace and serenity that is calming to all who encounter her. I love being with Mimi. In her presence, I am reminded of the words of a famous poem: “I love you not only for who you are, but for who I am when I am with you.” She brings Heaven down to earth. There’s no posturing or pretense, only genuine goodness and an unmistakable abiding faith. When I am with her, I find myself

aspiring to greater things.

The importance of making friends like Sandy and Mimi is underscored many times in our holy sefarim.

Consider the results of the configuration of the Twelve Tribes’ encampment in the desert. The Midrash Tanchuma, cited by Rashi on Bamidbar 3:28, tells us about the price paid by the tribe of Reuven because they were located near the Levite tribe of Kehos. As a consequence of their proximity, Dasan, Aviram and 250 others were adversely influenced by Korach. “Woe to the wicked, and woe to his neighbor!” our Sages exclaimed. Conversely, as Rashi continues, the tribes of Yissachar and Zevulun were positively influenced by being close to Moshe and Aharon, and became renowned for their great piety and Torah scholarship.

“Fortunate are the righteous, fortunate are their neighbors,” is the rule here. This truth is further emphasized by Rabbi Yehoshua in Pirkei Avos (2:13) in his answer to the question of his teacher, Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakkai, regarding the best acquisition a person should seek: “a good friend.”

Environment and context are powerful forces in determining who we are and who we will

become. “Show me your friends and I will tell you who you are” is an apt observation.

In the morning davening we ask Hashem to distance us from “a bad person, a bad friend, etc.” This tefillah speaks to an understanding of how crucial it is to surround ourselves with people who bring a positive energy into our lives. The world at large is full of many toxic influences. At the very least, our inner space, our immediate environment, should serve as an oasis.

Thank G-d for the Sandys and Mimis in our lives, may they live and be well, who carve out a healthy place in which our spirits can thrive, and where we can be inspired to be better people.  Rebbetzin Feige Twerski is the mother of 11 children and many grandchildren, whose number she refuses to divulge. Alongside her husband, Rabbi Michel Twerski, she serves as Rebbetzin to her community in Milwaukee, and counsels people all over the globe. The Rebbetzin is a popular lecturer, speaking on a wide variety of topics to audiences in America and overseas. She is the author of Ask Rebbetzin Feige and, more recently, of Rebbetzin Feige Responds.

GOLDEN NUGGETS // By Basha Majerczyk

A REMEDY FOR ARROGANCE

R

eb Avraham of Kalisk was an iluy, a childhood prodigy whose genius was already evident at an early age. When the boy was 11 or 12 years old, his father, Reb Alexander, complained to the Alter Rebbe that while his son was certainly brilliant, it pained him to see that the boy’s intellectual gifts were making him arrogant. “Bring him to me,” the Alter Rebbe replied, “and I will speak to him.”

The next time the father went to the Alter Rebbe, he took his son along. “Do you know how to learn?” the Rebbe asked him.

“Yes,” the child replied.

At that, the Alter Rebbe stood up and brought him a thick volume of shailos and teshuvos written by the Rosh (Rabbeinu Asher ben Yechiel). Opening it to a certain passage, he asked the boy if he understood what it meant. “Yes, I do,” the iluy answered.

The Alter Rebbe then brought up a strong contradictory point and asked the lad to resolve the conflict. When the boy was unable to do so, the Alter Rebbe provided an answer.

“Is my answer a good one?” he prompted the child.

“Yes,” the young Reb Avraham replied. “It is an excellent answer.”

The Alter Rebbe then proceeded to destroy his own hypothesis and explained to him why it wasn’t sound.

This happened several times, the Alter

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Rebbe asking the boy for his approval, and after obtaining it, clarifying why his line of thought was flawed.

At the end of the interview the Alter Rebbe closed the book. “You don’t know how to learn,” he pronounced. “You believe whatever you are told.”

This remark nipped the future gaon’s arrogance in the bud.

Years later, Reb Avraham had another audience with the Alter Rebbe. This time, the Rebbe showed him the Responsa of the Maharam of Rotenburg, who, when asked a shailah, had cited a certain passage in the Gemara as proof. This proof, however, was extremely tenuous. The Alter Rebbe asked Reb Avraham if he could think of any other Talmudic passages to bolster the Maharam’s argument, and he cited five. The Rebbe then mentioned six other passages for a total of 11, each

of which seemed stronger and more compelling than the one actually quoted by the Maharam.

“Why do you think,” the Alter Rebbe questioned, “that the Maharam chose that particular passage when there are 11 better ones he could have quoted?”

The Alter Rebbe then knocked down each of the 11, leaving only the original proof cited by the Maharam, which was incontrovertible.

“Don’t think,” the Alter Rebbe concluded, “that when the Maharam sat down to write his Responsa, he considered and then rejected each one of the other 11 passages, and it was only when he reached the twelfth that he was satisfied. Not at all! The twelfth passage was the one he thought of first. For that is the advantage of our Rishonim, in whom the light of truth shone openly!” n

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WINTER 2013:

DOCTORS ARE WONDERING AT DECREASE IN PATIENTS VISITS WHAT CHANGED?

M

any competitors have tried to copy our unique blend of Chinese herbs, vitamins and minerals, formulated by top specialists in Israel who developed natural supplements for the famous Kupath Cholim. No one has succeeded!

Thousands of bottles of Mega Health Immune Booster have flown off the shelves of major health food stores in the tri-state (and now online through our website) as customers clamor to stock up before the winter hits.

Why are our customers doing whatever it takes to find our specific immune booster and no other? It’s simple. It works. Once they try it once, they can’t live without it.

Do you have time for runny nose, colds, flu, strep, and spending hours in your pediatrician’s office? Do you grimace when your coworker sneezes right next to you, or when your companion in the elevator can’t stop coughing? Do you sometimes feel like you need to walk around with a mask over your nose and mouth, rubbing antibiotic gel on your hands all day long? Do you wish you could put a giant protective bubble around your kids when you send them off on the school bus? Now you can. the highest standards of kashrus. The highest level of quality.

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Weingarten

THRPUN SPML IL[[LY

BYTES

// Morsels of Wisdom, Wit and Popular Advice By Miriam Glick

d n a alm

C Collected HOW TO COOL DOWN WHEN YOU’RE GETTING HEATED UP

DON’T DRAMATIZE

SHARE

When faced with a problem, don’t exaggerate the matter to yourself. Never use the words “always” or “never.” Don’t be a drama queen when it comes to stress.

But do talk it out. Wait a few minutes and talk to a friend. A problem shared is a problem halved.

THINK BEFORE YOU SPEAK Before sharing your troubles, think it over and try to cool down a little. Sometimes sharing will only make you angrier when your friends will sympathize a little too much.

ECONOMY BLUES BAD ECONOMY LEADS TO BAD PARENTING

A bad economy is not just bad for the wallet; it’s bad for parenting too. The recent recession showed that American parents became harsher parents.

It wasn’t only families that were actually affected by the economy. But the uncertainty and stress lead to more spanking and harsher talk across the board.

“It’s commonly thought that economic hardship within families leads to stress, which, in turn, leads to deterioration of parenting quality,” study lead author Dohoon Lee, an assistant professor of sociology at New York University, said in a statement. “But these findings show that an economic downturn in the larger community can adversely affect parenting—regardless of the conditions individual families face.”

Phew, always good to have something else to blame it on when you are suffering from Jewish mother’s guilt.

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TAKE A HIKE Get away from the stressful situation. Take a walk, breathe deeply and relax.

REMEMBER This too shall pass. Like all stressful situations you faced in the past, this one will also be a mere memory one day. Don’t sweat on it too much.

SLY SALES

BLACK FRIDAY’S BLACK DEALS

Think you got a bargain on Black Friday? It’s all a hoax. That’s the price it was originally intended to be.

Shop owners are smart indeed. They know customers like a good deal, but they don’t like to give one. Solution: Make the customer feel like he or she got one. Store owners will hike up prices before the holiday sale season, then slash them for the holidays. Whatever you’re paying on sale, that’s what the original price was meant to be.

Your $100 sweater that you got 40 percent off was never meant to sell for more than $60.

And you thought you’re a smart shopper. Well, the owner is even smarter then you.

PUTTER

AROUND

the

HOUSE

MORE THAN A

Sleep your way to Skinny…Or Not SIZING UP A GOOD NIGHT’S SLEEP

Wondering why the pounds won’t go away? Gotta give your body a little more sleep.

Wondering why they still won’t go? Gotta give your body a little less sleep.

Confused? Don’t be. Researchers at Brigham Young University found a link between consistent sleep and wake times to less body fat among young women. Also too little sleep—less than six and a half hours—and too much sleep—more than eight and a half hours—was linked to increased body fat.

The lowest body fat was found among women who had eight to eight and a half hours of sleep a night.

“We have these internal clocks and throwing them off and not allowing them to get into a pattern does have an impact on our physiology,” study researcher Bruce Bailey, an exercise science professor at the university, said in a statement.

Now if only they could know how one can get a consistent amount of sleep…

SMILE Toothpaste ain’t just good for teeth

BURNS For minor burns, smear some toothpaste on it. It temporarily relieves pain and helps prevent the wound from opening.

BAD COMPLEXION Got a pimple? Apply a dot to the zit before going to bed and wash off in the morning.

CAR SEAT SAFETY

NAIL SHINE Just like teeth need a brushing, so do our nails. For cleaner and stronger nails, scrub underneath and on top with toothbrush and toothpaste.

BUNDLE DOWN BEFORE BUCKLING UP

A horrifying story brings a new safety rule.

Strapping kids in a car seat is not the only thing you have to do to keep them safe. You first have to unbundle them from their bulky winter gear.

In Maine, a horrific accident caused a car seat with a six-month-old baby to be ejected from a car. The baby was buckled in and the car seat was new but the baby was not found in the car seat. He was found 25 feet from the car crash. The baby was too bundled up for the car seat straps to hold him.

The baby survived but is in serious condition.

So buckle up, it saves lives. But before you do, unbundle your precious bundle.

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HAND ODOR Just handled some smelly food?

Scrub with toothpaste. Just as it takes away bad mouth odor, it will do the same to the hands.

DIRTY SHOES Scrub dirty shoes or sneakers with a toothbrush and toothpaste.

DIAMOND SHINE Diamond ring lost its luster?

Lightly scrub with some toothpaste.

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true s ’ e l p ou ir One c y of the ver stor to reco ial ggle stru om financ fr ter disas tein

aS r o i L By

Diary

Recap: The Steins’ babysitter quit during a busy time for Liora’s graphics business. Tzvi gets burned out providing childcare all day Sundays while Liora works.

Part 18: Perspective Shift I broke my iPhone. The screen shattered into jagged fragments when it fell out of my hands onto the sidewalk. I should have had a better case. I should have been paying attention to my children instead of texting. I could chastise myself ad nauseam but it won’t fix my phone.

My daughter takes the cracked device, and tries out some functions. She can still call Tatty and if she squints she can read the weather, but the game app doesn’t stay open when she clicks on it, so she hands it back.

“Now you can get a new phone, the 5s,” she reassures me as she reaches for my hand. We lace fingers as we continue walking down the street.

I smile at her and nod. I don’t want to launch into a long explanation about why I won’t be getting that upgrade any time soon. I don’t want my kids to feel our financial pressure.

“If you’re not going to get a new phone, what will your students think?” she whines before adding her real concern, “How will I reach you?”

“There was a time before cell phones. Don’t worry guys,” I try, fumbling for a topic to change the conversation. Without a babysitter, I’ve requested extra

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hours of my cleaning lady so there will be someone at home when they get off the bus. I breathe out, bringing my older daughter in for a hug. “It’ll work out,” I reassure her.

But later, when they’re busy with homework, I find myself staring at the disfigured glass. As I struggle to read the messages and emails and texts through the broken shapes, I feel disconnected, unable to respond to the client requests or text my friend who sometimes sends me updates of her kids’ after-school antics— keeping us both in a light mood during those cranky early evening hours. I put down the phone and refocus on my own children who are ignoring my requests that they start homework or set the table or clean up the rainbow loom in the hallway.

When Tzvi comes home in a funk, it feels like everything is shattered. He frowns at the mess on the dining table. Sensing tension, the kids scatter downstairs to complete their homework without one more reminder.

To give Tzvi a little space to unwind, I finish chopping the salad in the kitchen. I hear him rustling with his photo equipment, clicking lenses into place, sorting through photo paper. He yelps.

“Are you okay?” I ask from the kitchen, breaking the easy rhythm of slicing celery and cucumbers that’s

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been distracting me from thinking about the phone.

“Paper cut,” Tzvi explains, grabbing a Band-Aid from the kitchen cabinet stuffed with vitamins and a first aid kit. After a long pause, he adds: “I’ll be fine.”

Tzvi surprises me by setting the table. I forget to thank him, ruminating instead at my bad phone luck.

The kids are still busy downstairs, except for one daughter who wanders up hungry.

“Mommy’s iPhone broke,” she announces into the quiet of the dining room as Tzvi puts down the last placemat.

“Let’s see,” says Tzvi, sounding calmer than when he walked in the door. It seems like his photo hobby is a positive outlet. Though Tzvi’s convinced his artistic prints will bring in money one day, I’m satisfied he’s found a creative way to reduce stress from his demanding job.

I hand him my rectangular device reluctantly, fearing how much this breakage is going to cost us—not in dollars, but emotions.

“You’re probably ready for an upgrade,” Tzvi says, trying to lighten the mood as he stares at the damage.

Pin-sized shards of glass flake off as he scrolls through

The evening felt like it was unraveling, our little family splintering off into angry, disconnected units. my contacts, testing if the screen works.

“I moved to my parents’ plan remember,” I remind Tzvi, stumbling backwards. The fleishig everyday plates are stuck under the Shabbos china, causing me to lose my balance as a I attempt to maneuver out the Corelle without taking the safer step of removing the stack of dishes from on top. “It’d have to go through them.”

“I don’t think so,” Tzvi countered. “Your contract terms stay the same.”

Our daughter rushes into the kitchen to wash her hands. “Can you tell everyone supper’s ready?” I ask, sending her downstairs.

“There’s no new phone in my future,” I explain. “My mom got a new contract when she added me.”

Tzvi tilts his head as if further examination will yield success.

“You never know,” he continues, playing with the small dull glass. “Ask.”

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“Right. I’ll just call up my mother and admit I broke the phone she sent me,” I say, too loudly. “I’m so embarrassed. I feel like I’m 15.”

Moving to my parents’ family plan seemed like an easy way to save $100 a month in cell phone bills.

I hadn’t expected hidden costs of not having access to the contract. Having misplaced two phones and broken two others in the last two years, I was grateful she had offered to let me on her plan.

The kids had yet to appear at the table and the salmon was getting cold. “Supper!” I called downstairs, again. I was starting to feel depressed. Saving money left me stuck with broken electronics and no cheap way out.

The kids finally sat down to eat. Yet Tzvi’s tolerance faded when one kid announced she didn’t like the food and wanted to make instant oatmeal. He escaped upstairs, closing the door behind him, leaving a plate of uneaten green beans at the head of the table. The evening felt like it was unraveling, our little family splintering off into angry, disconnected units.

With Tzvi upstairs, I had no excuse, no one to count on but myself to change the atmosphere. I put on my calm face, lowered my voice as I served seconds, signed homework and scurried them up to bed.

I came back down to bentch, instinctively reaching for my battered phone. When it was too cumbersome to make out the tiny letters, I took the nearest bentcher.

The letters were so clear and distinct; it was much easier to concentrate looking at paper. Humming the last few lines, I thought about how long it had been since I’d davened, really sat down and enjoyed davening, rather than mumbling through the words in 20 minutes. The feeling of panic over our finances should have driven me towards trying to connect spiritually, yet I’d felt so distant since the summer.

Maybe it’s time to try again. n

To be continued...

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y cell phone rings.

“Hi, Bassie.” It’s my father. His voice is solemn. “I need to ask you something, but it mustn’t get back to Mommy.”

“Okay,” I say evenly. I know what’s coming next.

“Listen,” he says. “I need $250 to make an important payment. It’s urgent. I’m getting some cash on Monday, im yirtzeh Hashem. Could you please tide me over until then?” Yup, he’s following the script perfectly; no cues necessary.

I swallow. “I don’t have that much cash right now…”

“No problem.” There’s always a solution. “When will you be home?”

“Twenty minutes. Thirty, maximum.”

“That’s fine. Let me know when you get there and I’ll come by to pick up your bank card, okay?”

“See you then.”

Now the only obstacle is getting this little transaction past my new husband of seven weeks without his knowledge.

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$ My father is a man of many talents.

He’s designed for wealth; his generous build, brilliant mind, magnificent oratorical skills, booming laugh, bigheartedness and personable manner combine to produce the classic profile of a man of means.

My father experienced several “good” years—not quite affluence, but something pretty close. We lived quite comfortably; I was one of the older children and had everything a kid could want without hearing a word about the price tag that dangled from the many possessions and countless indulgences I enjoyed.

I was a young teenager when the recession hit. A reading addict, I followed the news and kept up with the collapse of the major banks and businesses. It was with a sense of detached dismay that I read about the crumbling of financial empires and the ensuing losses of figures I couldn’t fathom. The poor had nothing to lose, I reasoned; their financial situation was always stable. The risk of loss is one

of the challenges of wealth, I pondered philosophically, folding the newspaper to resume my carefree life. I never considered the existence of those in the middle, people who had a tentative grip on some level of financial comfort, but didn’t have years of “solid” wealth to cushion the fall when monetary difficulties knocked them off their feet.

I was rudely acquainted with this category of people one afternoon during a casual conversation with my unmarried aunt, with whom I shared a close relationship. Somehow the conversation drifted to the week’s news and the continuing recession. “The sums they’re talking about are unbelievable,” I remarked. “But when they talk about massive corporations, it doesn’t seem so bad. It’s less personal, less tragic.

At least the average person like my father hasn’t been affected.”

“Your father?” my aunt said, giving me a strange look. I’ll never forget her next words. They were so unexpected and unadorned that there was no possibility of

interpreting them differently. “Your father lost his trousers completely.”

$

There was never any family discussion about our reduced circumstances, but then again, it wasn’t necessary. There was enough evidence in the ominous letters arriving in the mail, the tense phone calls, and the electricity and phone lines that were periodically cut off. Not to mention the late-night conversations between my parents that all too often turned voluble.

I was greatly affected by these conversations. Whenever I overheard one, I would be overwhelmed by feelings of vulnerability, guilt, helplessness and insecurity. My mother is a strong woman who is unable to admit to any weakness. She had a difficult childhood, forcing her to be independent at a young age, and consequently feels she must be able to shoulder any hardships on her own; conceding to needing help is practically a sin. I also present a resilient exterior, having inherited this 15 TEVES 5774

trait from my mother, but in truth I am a sensitive person who is very aware of my emotions and deeply affected by conflict. Yet as a victim of my own character, I didn’t discuss my feelings and worries with anybody and allowed the dust to settle thickly on my emotional landscape.

Looking back, I realize that the most frightening aspect was relinquishing the childish, reassuring belief that my parents were able to overcome any challenge and protect their family from all hardship. Not only were my parents battling an unrelenting demon but they appeared to be on opposing sides, employing different strategies and therefore not presenting an effective defense.

Aside from this, there were no other signs that our financial situation had plummeted. Our lifestyle didn’t change in any significant way. We continued to enjoy lavish meals attended by numerous guests, and we still purchased quality clothing and accessories—only now they were rapidly turning my father’s beard |

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TRUTH OR CONSEQUENCES

gray and robbing him of sleep. I wondered how, practically, it was possible. Where, indeed, was the money coming from?

The answer came several years down the line when I graduated from seminary and landed a full-time job in an insurance office. By then my two older siblings had gotten married in quick succession; their weddings were large, elegant affairs that placed significant additional strain on the family’s finances. My job was very demanding and time-consuming, and I received a weekly wage so meager it was laughable. However, I was grateful to have found employment when so many of my classmates were still looking, and I devoted myself entirely to my work.

One Sunday shortly after I began working, my father asked if I had $150 on me.

He explained that he needed the money for some urgent purpose and was expecting a payment from someone on Wednesday, when he would return the money immediately. My pay envelope was still in my handbag and I handed the cash over without a second thought. Wednesday came and went without my father returning the money. Assuming he’d forgotten and would repay me as soon as he remembered, I didn’t say anything.

Three weeks later my father discreetly requested $350. “I haven’t forgotten the $150,” he reassured me. “The payment was delayed, but I’m expecting a lot of money next week and I’ll give you the full $500 then,” he said as I counted out the bills.

Upon his third request a month later he added, “Write down how much I owe you, okay? I don’t want to get confused.

And don’t say anything to Mommy—it’s better that way.” I nodded obediently as something in my gut twisted. It wasn’t the loss of my earnings that made me anxious; it was the sudden understanding of how my father was funding our lifestyle.

The money he had borrowed from me was undoubtedly only a tiny fraction of his debt. I recalled the persistent phone calls he’d refused to take; the numbers we’d learned to recognize on the caller ID; the irate callers asking for my father’s cell phone number (which we’d been

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Looking back, the most frightening thing was relinquishing the childish belief that my parents could protect their family. instructed not to disclose).

Whenever my bank statements arrived, I would peruse them with a dull throb of worry. One time my mother accidentally opened a bank letter addressed to me; she then handed it over in confusion. I had always been exceptionally close to her; she was intricately involved in every aspect of my life. Keeping the truth from her had been very difficult, and I could not lie to her face. It was a tremendous relief to tell her what was going on, even though I knew I was betraying my father. Her first question was how much he owed me in total. She immediately gave me a very small portion of it, pledging to eventually return the full amount from her earnings at a part-time job she had held since my childhood. She also instructed me to stop handing over my earnings and claim that I didn’t have the money. I agreed, despite feeling awful that I would simultaneously be lying to my father and inevitably causing strife between my parents.

Late that night I heard the results of my confession. My mother confronted my father about his consistent borrowing from me, and the ensuing conversation was ugly. Defying my instincts, I crouched at the top of the staircase and listened to the accusations and recriminations; it ended with my father exiting the house and my mother resolutely finishing the dishes. I cried myself to sleep, the tears running down my face even as I willed them to stop. I pulled the covers over my chin and held my breath as my mother later gently closed my bedroom door before she went to sleep.

15 TEVES 5774

The next time my father made a request, I swallowed hard and said I didn’t have the money on me. He asked for my bank card; numbly, I handed it over with my PIN. My father reiterated that my mother be kept out of this; I realized that she had wisely not mentioned that her “discovery” had come from me. I didn’t see my bank card again for the next few weeks, but I did see the withdrawals from my account on my next bank statement. When my mother asked me if my father was still borrowing money, I looked her in the eye and shook my head as my stomach curdled. Occasionally my father would return $50 and ask what the “balance” was, after which he’d whistle and say, “Wow, it’s growing, huh? I haven’t forgotten about it…” I would smile weakly.

One time I wanted to travel abroad and mentioned to my oldest brother that I didn’t want to ask my parents to cover the expense. He smiled and said, “How about paying for it yourself? I know you don’t earn much, but you must have some savings by now.”

I’d always been close with my brother, and the stress of orchestrating this complex operation suddenly overwhelmed me. “I could have a lot more!” I burst out, near tears. It didn’t take him long to draw the story out of me. Much to my shock, he revealed that he had undergone the same ordeal, albeit on a smaller scale. (The financial situation had worsened considerably since my brother’s marriage.)

“But you know what, Bassie?” he asked.

“Daddy and Mommy have given you the very best of everything your whole life. I

parents was escalating drastically. My father became prone to irate outbursts followed by long periods of sullen silence.

Even though I knew my upcoming wedding was a source of great joy to them, I felt immensely guilty about the expense it entailed and the subsequent strife. The guilt sapped the joy out of my engagement period and made me long for a simpler wedding that would be attended by relaxed parents and a truly contented bride—had anyone asked me.

Strangely, as soon as I got engaged my father stopped borrowing money from me. It was an opportunity for me to save up a little and I was grateful.

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always used to consider this my way of repaying them. It’s hard, and we wish it wouldn’t be this way, but compared to what they’ve given you and continue to provide, it’s not a bad deal. Besides, don’t forget that halachically your earnings belong to them, and right now you don’t really need the money anyway.” * I never discussed the situation with my brother again, but this perspective did make it easier. I also stopped keeping a record of how much my father was borrowing; I realized that seeing the figures add up was only causing resentment and frustration, and it wasn’t as though I was going to be repaid any time soon. My mother did try to repay some of it, but it wasn’t realistic for her to cover a significant portion. My resentment still surfaced from time to time, popping up like a little Whac-A-Mole in an arcade game.

I would thwack it back down out of sympathy for my father, who was clearly desperate, having reached the point of borrowing money from his children. For a person of his stature it was a humiliating, degrading situation, and it was painful to look into his face as I handed over the cash and heard his forced, assured promises to repay me shortly.

Then I got engaged. I was floating on air, looking forward to spending my life with the most wonderful guy ever. In the back of my mind, I had always worried about the financial aspects of my wedding; it was undoubtedly going to be as grand an affair as those of my siblings.

My mother reassured me, however, that there was a financial plan in place to cover the wedding costs of the remaining few children. Nevertheless, I kept an anxious eye on the figures as we proceeded to select gowns, menus and home furnishings. I urged my mother, who always seemed to pick out the costliest items, to keep the costs down. Sometimes I managed to convince her; most times she told me “not to worry and enjoy.” Yet I did worry as my chasan was presented with top-of-the-line gifts and our apartment was outfitted to the highest standards.

Meanwhile, the tension between my

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Marriage turned out to be more wonderful than I had ever hoped—and I had high expectations. My husband is an incredible person. Cosseted by his attentiveness and genuine caring, I found myself opening up emotionally much faster than I thought I would. My fierce independence and “I can handle everything just fine on my own” personality melted when exposed to his warmth.

Late one night I revealed how my parents’ financial difficulties had impacted my life, mentioning only the emotional ramifications and leaving out my role in keeping our household running. To my dismay, my husband witnessed his wife in tears only five weeks after our wedding. Yet I was too weary from keeping it all suppressed for so long and quickly allowed relief to overcome my shame and natural inclination to withhold the tears.

My husband responded in the most beautiful way. Gently he explained that no person can handle everything on his own. Carrying a burden that was getting increasingly heavier would only leave me shattered. From this point on, he declared, he would share the load.

We were working on the same team, he reminded me, and our battles were one and the same. With sensitivity and maturity he told me not to view crying as a sign of embarrassing weakness; rather, he was honored that I had entrusted

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TRUTH OR CONSEQUENCES

“Write down how much I owe you, okay? And don’t say anything to Mommy—it’s better that way.” him with my feelings and grateful to have merited to marry a person who had handled this difficult situation so selflessly and respectfully.

I had known that my husband was wonderful, but that night I realized how truly fortunate I was. When I snuggled into my pillow later, the tranquility and sense of security I felt were like nothing I had ever experienced before.

The timing was perfect. Two days later my father called me at work. This time it was $400. I told him when I’d be arriving home, praying that my husband wouldn’t pop in unexpectedly. But my father rang the doorbell earlier than expected. Hastily I tipped the pouch containing my bank cards and checkbook onto my bed and ran down the five flights of stairs from my apartment to hand him the card. I had just closed the door behind me when I heard my husband’s key in the lock, before I had time to get rid of the evidence. After saying hello, he casually mentioned he’d met my father downstairs. There was a subtle question in his voice. I felt nauseated. I chose to ignore the unasked question, avoiding a hasty answer that I might later regret. The meal I had carefully prepared was heartily consumed and my husband complimented me on it. But I didn’t touch a thing, feeling like a fraud.

Once before my husband had asked lightly how much I had in savings as I had been working for three full years before our marriage. I had given him a vague response and changed the subject.

I knew that the truth about our finances would have to emerge sooner rather than later and wondered if now was the right opportunity, especially since he’d been so admirably understanding of my situa-

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tion. Moreover, since “mine” and “his” had been replaced by “ours” upon our marriage, surely he deserved to know about the day’s “transaction.”

At the same time, I had my parents’ honor to uphold. How could I strip them of their dignity and expose their struggles and humiliation?

But I couldn’t bear to hide it any longer.

That evening I asked my husband if he knew why my father had been downstairs.

When he shook his head, I said simply, “He came to borrow $400.” My voice immediately became thick with tears— what was wrong with me? My husband just nodded and said he’d wondered at the unusual sight of my bank cards and checkbook scattered all over the bed, but no questions followed. Using his “Gemara kup,” he must have filled in the gaps himself, although I doubt he realized that it was far from the first time it had occurred and would surely not be the last.

I had no intention of being the one to enlighten him.

$

It’s a week later. My cell phone rings at work.

“Hi, Bassie.” It’s my father. “I need to ask you something, but don’t tell Mommy.”

“Sure,” I say. I know this script like the back of my hand.

“I need $250 very badly. I’m getting some money next week. Could you please tide me over till then?”

I swallow. “I don’t have that much cash right now…”

“How about letting me know when you get home so I can come and pick up your bank card?”

15 TEVES 5774

“All right,” I say. “See you later.”

What am I supposed to do? I’m stuck.

$

I’m at a crossroads. My father’s borrowing habits were always a challenge, but the situation is much stickier now. As a single, I didn’t rely on my earnings, but as a married woman I need them for my own future, and they’re being devoured with no end in sight. There’s also the spousal relationship to consider. How much longer can I keep the full truth from my husband? Do I even want to embark on my marriage that way? My husband fully deserves to share these decisions with me, but will that alone force me to say no to my father’s next request?

And upholding my parents’ honor is vitally important—it’s the last thing they still possess. I want my husband to be able to view them with respect. So which should I betray, my parents’ trust or my husband’s trust?

I honestly don’t know the way forward.

I’m willing to forgo a one-time loan, but I know this will not be the last request.

When my father’s phone number comes up next time, is there any chance of finding the right words that will protect all the people who are everything to me?

All I know is that I can’t go on like this.

This game is too taxing; the rules are too complicated. There are too many players and possible moves, and none that will make me a winner. I want to opt out.  [Rabbinical editor’s note: The halachah is not so simple. According to many, although in some instances a father can choose to assert his authority over certain properties and items of his children, earnings may fall into a different category. According to these opinions, a child’s earnings, even if he or she lives at home, always belong to the child and a father has no right to assert any power over them.

The Ramban, Rivta and others rule that an unmarried daughter retains her earnings.] * The author is using pseudonym

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DO

TO Raphael Elisha Cohen

By Rea Bochner

WI

Having exhausted all that conventional medicine has to offer, the family of Raphael Elisha Cohen hopes a controversial figure will be given the chance to save his life

OWN

THE

IRE

I

didn’t want to call Devorah Cohen.

It wasn’t that I had no interest in talking to her— the story of her six-year-old son’s battle with cancer was compelling, to say the least—but I was reluctant to intrude on what was surely a tense time for the Cohen family. For over a year Devorah had watched her son undergo a series of treatments for medulloblastoma, a particularly deadly pediatric cancer of the brain and spine: surgery to remove the tumor from Raphael Elisha’s brain, followed by a year of radiation and chemotherapy. The surgery deprived Raphael Elisha of the ability to speak, walk or eat (although he later regained these skills with therapy), while the chemo and radiation left his bone marrow “shot,” having effectively wiped out his immune system. Nonetheless, the harrowing experience seemed worth it, as it seemed that the tumor had disappeared. Then in September of 2012 an MRI showed that the tumor had returned. The prognosis for a relapse of brain cancer is generally fatal, and the doctors in Houston, where the Cohens reside, told them that there was nothing else they could do.

I could personally relate to the Cohens’ anguish, having lost my own mother several years ago after her battle with cancer.

I remember that strange season that came after the doctors pronounced her disease terminal, no longer treatable; our small world seemed suspended in time, and any outside communication, from the delivery of a package to a phone solicitor, felt jarring and invasive. The last thing I wanted to do was add extra strain to an already heavy burden.

But when I heard Devorah’s husky voice on the other end of the line I felt instantly at ease. She was clearly juggling a lot— aside from her son, and his intense medical regimen, she has five other children—but she was warm, funny and straightforward about their situation. She also seemed to demonstrate an otherworldly level of bitachon. “For us, it’s late in the game,” she told me, “but from an emunah perspective, there’s no timeline.”

Over the course of her son’s illness, Devorah, a teacher at the Torah Outreach Center of Houston (TORCH), along with her husband, Rabbi Yaakov Cohen, has acquired an unsolicited education in the field of cancer treatment, and in her view the system is broken. She refers to the standard cancer therapies— chemotherapy, radiation, stem cell therapy and transplants—as “cookie cutter treatments,” and feels strongly that not only are they ineffective against brain cancer, but they also cause undue harm to the patients they’re meant to cure.

For a long time I’ve also harbored the same suspicions about the current protocol, after watching my mother dwindle to a shell of her former self after eight months of chemotherapy, 15 TEVES 5774

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THE CLEAN BILL // Real People on the Quest for Health

unable to eat or get out of bed for more than an hour, then losing the use of her left arm after surgery to remove cancer cells from her shoulder. Listening to her crying from the pain, I would often wonder which was the real makkah, the illness or its “cure.”

Devorah agreed, telling me about children who had suffered side effects from their cancer treatments like third-degree burns, hearing loss, infertility and a destroyed immune system. “There are no good answers for malignant brain cancer,” she said, “so the attitude is, ‘Let’s dump chemo in…even though it’s dangerous for the whole body.’ They kill these kids. They mutilate them.”

It isn’t that mainstream treatments don’t work at all—they’re generally very successful at killing cancer cells—but in late-stage or aggressive cases like Raphael Elisha’s their effect isn’t lasting.

It’s usually only a matter of time until there’s a relapse.

As Devorah explained to me, many of the same treatments are used for different kinds of cancer. The problem, however, is that certain tumors, such as aggressive brain cancer, don’t respond

son Landon after refusing to continue treating his leukemia with chemotherapy, which had made him extremely sick and given him night terrors. Opting instead to give him capsules of cannabis oil, which several studies have shown to be effective against various forms of cancer, Landon’s doctor threatened to turn Sierra in to the authorities. The pressure to be taken to court eventually caused Riddle to capitulate, and she agreed to continue the chemo. “It’s horrible,” she told Dominic Kelly of “Opposing Views.” “It’s not even a decision I got to make.”

The Cohens thus found themselves trapped in the same Catch-22 as many other families around the country, compelled to treat their children with chemicals that might or might not work, but unable to explore other options until they had done so.

In some cases, like Raphael Elisha’s, by the time an alternative treatment can be attempted it is often too late. “There was a trial treatment being done by Dr. David Sandberg,” Devorah recalled.

“He goes into the brain stem, the fourth ventricle, and injects chemo directly into the brain with a catheter.

But [Raphael Elisha] wasn’t eligible because no one ever told us about it. His tumor got too big.”

“But why wouldn’t the FDA allow people to have alternative treatments first?” I asked her.

“Why do they have these regulations?”

Devorah sighed. “It has to do with money, bottom line.”

While many people would disagree with this assessment and defend the FDA as only being motivated by public health concerns, the truth is that cancer has become a trillion-dollar industry, as all medications (and the equipment used to administer them) must be approved and regulated by that agency. The FDA receives payment from pharmaceutical companies each time a new drug is submitted for approval; in 2010 alone, the FDA received $500 million in “user fees.” So while the pharmaceutical industry keeps its financial momentum going by constantly introducing new medications to the marketplace, the FDA essentially operates on Big Pharma’s payroll by collecting these fees.

This pattern also extends to cancer research. The more “popular” cancers are given the resources because “there’s more money in it,” Devorah explained. “Pediatric brain cancer is rare; it gets only one percent of the [cancer research] funds. No one is putting effort into it because it’s not profitable.” She told me how difficult it’s been trying to find trial medications for medulloblastoma because they’re basically nonexistent. “I’ve been so disappointed. I call them [for help] and they say, ‘We’re only doing gliomas now.’” [Gliomas are much more common forms of brain cancer, affecting 20,000-30,000 children per year.]

The thought of so many children with “orphan” diseases suffering because of a lack of funds is overwhelming. “It’s a crime,” Devorah said, as if reading my thoughts. “It’s not malicious, but it’s a crime anyway.

“The way it works now, you can’t do an alternative treatment until you first do the chemo and radiation— and then relapse.” to chemotherapy. The reason is that the drugs are unable to get through the blood-brain barrier, the protective buffer that prevents the brain from becoming contaminated. It’s difficult to penetrate, and these treatments aren’t designed to do it. Without access to the brain, they can’t get to the cancer. Devorah confided her regret that she hadn’t known about this problem before.

“We’re only learning about it now. As a parent, I cry about it. I don’t know if he’s going to make it, and it’s sad.”

Consequently, the Cohens have joined the ranks of thousands of others seeking alternative therapies for their children after unsuccessful cancer treatment by the mainstream medical establishment. And it’s a daunting task, as “there isn’t any guidance for parents for trial drugs and treatments. All the referral agencies tell you is to do the chemo and the radiation.” Parents must also maneuver around the strict regulations for trial drugs set by the Food and Drug Administration. The way it works now, “You can’t do an alternative treatment until you first do the chemo and radiation and then relapse.”

I was astounded. “You mean they have to try something that might not work, wait until it doesn’t, and then try something else that may have worked better?”

“The law takes over kids’ bodies,” she said, her voice heavy with regret. “One mom went to jail.” She was referring to Sierra Riddle of Colorado Springs, who risked losing custody of her

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“Parents should be working with researchers as well as oncologists,” she continued, sharing that her family has been working with a private researcher to explore other options for her son.

“Oncologists work with the problem; researchers get to the root.”

At present, Raphael Elisha is on eight different trial medications, using various cutting-edge therapies. One, for example, combines antidepressants, which are able to cross the blood-brain barrier, with chemotherapy, thereby opening the door to the brain for the anti-cancer medication to get in. The Cohens have also had tissue taken from Raphael Elisha’s tumor sent to Boston for genetic testing, where over 300 genes are screened for mutations. Their findings could pinpoint the cause of his cancer as well as the most effective means of treating it with targeted gene therapy. “In the same way doctors routinely test for strep,” she explained, “they should be ‘culturing’ tumors to find the best way to treat them. That’s one thing I would urge parents to do: Save the tumor. Freeze it. Send it for genetic testing. It’s covered by some insurance plans. Pay privately if you have to, but find out what you’re dealing with before the relapse. That way, you know what the enemy is.”

Unfortunately, at this point most of the Cohens’ options have been exhausted and their son’s condition is growing increasingly tenuous. As a last resort, they are turning to Dr. Stanislaw Burzynski, the founder of the Burzynski Clinic in Houston, the only place in the country offering a controversial therapy using what he calls “antineoplastons.” These substances, a strain of peptides (chains of bonded amino acids that make up the genetic code) that “turns on” the genes that fight cancer and “turns off ” the ones that cause it, were found to be abundant in the blood

and urine of healthy people but virtually nonexistent in those with cancer. Back in the 1970s, Burzynski hypothesized that if he extracted these substances they would help people suffering from the disease. Claiming to have had remarkable results, Burzynski has already treated over 8,000 patients since his clinic opened in 1984. He has further stated publicly that he can cure half of the estimated 200 children a year who are diagnosed with brainstem tumors.

Burzynski, an internist with no board certification or formal training in oncology, has many defenders and ardent supporters.

The subject of two documentaries by filmmaker Eric Merola— “Burzynski, the Movie” and “Burzynski: Cancer is Serious Business”—hundreds of people claim to have been cured of their cancer and swear by him. According to Merola, antineoplaston therapy is “the genetic mechanism that can cure most human cancers,” and many people with brain tumors who were given virtual death sentences have gone on to live long and healthy lives after their tumors disappeared. When contacted by Ami, Dr. Burzynski said that he had recently been invited to three weddings of former patients, one of whom he had treated when the child was only three and suffering from medulloblastoma, the same type of cancer as Raphael Elisha.

He does, however, have his critics as well, among them the National Cancer Institute, which insists there is no definitive evidence Burzynski has ever actually cured anyone and accuses him of selling false hope. According to its website, no randomized, controlled trials showing the effectiveness of antineoplastons have ever been published in peer-review scientific journals. And despite Burzynski’s claims that they are non-toxic, natural sub15 TEVES 5774

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THE CLEAN BILL // Real People on the Quest for Health

medica minutel stances, antineoplastons can cause many of the same potentially dangerous side effects as conventional chemotherapy: fatigue, anemia, headaches, numbness and rashes, confusion, seizures, and swelling in the brain. Moreover, his detractors point to the steep price of his ministrations: $20,000 up front, with an entire course of treatment running as high as $250,000, usually paid out of pocket because antineoplaston therapy isn’t typically covered by insurance.

Right now, though, the challenge is getting Dr. Burzynski to even consider treating Raphael Elisha. Advised by their private researcher to just show up at the clinic one day to talk to him (“We didn’t even have his wheelchair with us,” Devorah recalled. “We had to carry him in; it was more pathetic that way!”), they learned that there were several obstacles to be overcome. Dr. Burzynski told the Cohens that he could help them, but explained that by law, his private practice therapy is only offered to adults. In order for Raphael Elisha to receive antineoplastons it would have to be done within the framework of a clinical trial, which requires FDA approval. The Cohens would also need to find at least two other children seeking antineoplaston therapy in order for the FDA to consider “compassionate care” treatment—in other words, make an exception to the rule.

“We’re not putting all our eggs in one basket,” Devorah said about the therapy, but at this point they’re willing to try anything. Local community members have been raising funds to help the family with its medical and living expenses, and have started a petition to the FDA and another to be submitted to the White House for a “compassionate use exemption.” The campaign for signatures has since gone viral on Facebook and other social media as well as email chains, and has already gotten over 40,000 of the required 100,000 signatures.

“Do you think it will help?” I asked her.

“No matter what happens to my son, and G-d willing he will live, I’m hoping that something good comes out of this,” she replied. “I believe that Hashem chose us to alert people. This happened to us to help another child.”

I’m overcome by this woman’s clarity of purpose and complete lack of self-pity in the face of harsh reality. I wish I could reach through the phone to hug her, but I get the sense that she would offer me more comfort than I could ever give to her.

“I have to go now,” Devorah said. “We’ve got to do his meds…”

As I hung up the phone I pictured her going back to that familiar tableau I once stepped into myself with my own family member.

Devorah Cohen is going through a period in her life when more is being demanded of her than she may have ever imagined herself giving. But she is also being refined into a better, stronger version of herself. And with her emunah intact, I have no doubt that something good will come out of this. n For more information about the Cohens and to sign the petition, visit https://petitions.whitehouse.gov/petition/authorize-fda-grant-compassionate-use-exemption-Raphael-elisha-cohen-antineoplaston-therapy/ BVSP1ZkW.

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The mice they studied had the front and back of their brains disconnected. The implant, which required a control microchip smaller than a quarter outside the mouse’s head, received impulses from one side of the brain to the other side. Within two weeks of implantation, the mice had recovered physical ability comparable to uninjured mice.

The researchers are still examining how long after an injury implantation of the device can recover brain function, and they are studying whether use of the device eventually allows the brain to heal itself and thus permit the device to be removed. It is unclear when human trials would be considered.

B Y T O VA H K I N D E R L E H R E R

How a couple of country-loving iconoclasts came to live in the middle of nowhere n the first night of Chanukah, as I was driving to the store for some potatoes and oil to make latkes, my seven-year-old son pointed out that all of the houses we passed were already decorated for Xmas. What struck me was not the fact that it wasn’t even Thanksgiving yet, but that we hadn’t seen a single menorah. That’s because there aren’t any Jews living anywhere near us. We live in a small country town in northwestern Pennsylvania. On a 38-acre piece of land. In the middle of nowhere. We call it Farm Shmarm.

Normally, a thought like this would cause me to go into an emotional downward spiral, beginning with loneliness, descending into regret and finally landing in despair. But not tonight! For one, it’s Chanukah, the festival of miracles. And while that in and of itself might be enough, sometimes a person needs a little extra inspiration and chizzuk.

In fact, I had just gotten a large dose of that a couple of weeks before, when I attended the Jewish Intentional Communities Conference at the Pearlstone Center in Maryland, along with 200 other like-minded Jews trying to bring their out-of-thebox dreams to fruition.

What kind of dreams, you ask? The best way to answer that is to describe my own personal dream, as it’s the one I know best. I dream of living a holistically integrated life in connection with Hashem, Torah, human beings and nature.

I want to live in a community where I belong, to raise my children in a Torah-centered environment, and to rejoice in Hashem’s creation because we’re surrounded by it. I want to feed my children food they grow themselves, so they can see the true miracle of a seed becoming a meal. I want them to understand the cycles of life by knowing the animals that provide food for us for Shabbos.

I can tell you right now that it hasn’t all been a dream. Our first challenge was having to buy the farm before our house Micah and Shaya relaxing on the porch

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Micah teaching the kids how to pound mushroom spores into a log

was sold in Pittsburgh. With two monthly mortgages to cover, my husband Micah had to stay behind to work until we found a buyer, while I came out here alone with our three children, ages ten months, two and a half, and six. We live 100 miles north of Pittsburgh, and Micah was able to join us every Shabbos, but the rest of the week it was just us. The gas line wasn’t connected yet so we had no furnace, stovetop or oven, and for the first two weeks there was no landline or cell phone reception. It took almost a year until the house was sold and my husband could join us full time.

I didn’t sleep at all my first few nights in our new rural paradise. The frogs were loud. Very loud. I don’t remember frogs being that loud when I was growing up.

But there’s a big pond right outside our house that must be the perfect place for the frog version of speed shidduch dating. Even more difficult were the fears I didn’t even know I had that leapt into my head. One evening I saw a bonfire way over in the next yard. I hadn’t yet met any of our neighbors, but I immediately got this strange idea that they had found out that a Jewish family moved in and were planning to come to our house at night and “take care of the Jewish problem.”

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Since then, not only have our utilities been connected but we’ve also met all our neighbors. While we are the first Jews many of them have ever met, they’ve all been quite friendly. In fact, one of our neighbors took it upon herself to help me while Micah was still in Pittsburgh, and she would come over regularly with fresh eggs, help me put the kids to bed or even tidy up after a long day. When she and her husband first came over to introduce themselves, one of the things they asked me was, “So, which church do you belong to?” But what began awkwardly has turned into a beautiful and valued friendship.

For the first few weeks I spent my days caring for my kids, unpacking, and creatively using a toaster oven as our only means of cooking. (Remember, no gas.) One day my toddler daughter came over to me smiling, smelling suspiciously minty fresh. In a moment of terror I realized that she had swallowed an entire tube’s worth of toothpaste. The label said something about calling Poison Control if this ever happened. I grabbed my cellphone, desperate for a signal, but there were no bars!

I ran into my room to get a coat and wake my sleeping baby before throwing all the kids in the car and driving

“Oh G-d,” I prayed, “let that thing die quickly and not fall on the carpet and start running towards me!” to the hospital, even though I hadn’t figured out where it was yet. But standing in my closet, I saw that I had one bar on my cell phone, and in a moment of panic realized that the toothpaste tube with the number for Poison Control was in the kitchen, and if I ran there I would lose my precious signal. So I called my father instead. My father is actually a medical doctor, so he was able to tell me what to do. (If, G-d forbid, this ever happens to you, you’re supposed to have the kid drink a lot of milk.

Who knew?)

Another terrifying thing about being out in the country without my husband was the spiders. I’m a confirmed arachnophobe. Here’s a typical scenario: “Mom!” my son shouts. “Come quick! There’s a spider on the wall.”

“Oh, honey, it’s just a little bug looking for food. Leave it alone.” Then I walk into his room and see a black, eight-legged hairy monster the size of my big toe, owning that wall like he was paying the mortgage. “Honey, go get me my shoe. Better yet, get me a frying pan!” Oh, G-d, let that thing die quickly and not fall on the carpet and start running towards me!

I’ve actually considered what I would do if I ever found a spider like that crawling on one of my kids. I’m ashamed to say that I’d probably yawn, “Gee look, there’s a spider on your shoulder,” and then race quickly out of the room and hope that in their flailing they manage to get rid of it. Perhaps in a moment of adrenaline-infused heroics I could lift a car to save my baby’s life. But for the life of me I cannot imagine flicking a spider off anyone with my bare hands.

HOW AND WHERE IT ALL BEGAN My arachnophobia began long before I ever moved to Farm Shmarm.

Micah and I both grew up in the country. I was born in a small town north of Boston where I spent my summers swimming in the lake and digging for worms in my dad’s vegetable garden. I loved playing with all manner of creatures (except spiders). I would catch small snakes, frogs and mice and keep them as pets. I had cats, dogs and even a ferret as my companions. Micah grew up in a rural area of southwestern Pennsylvania, with a creek running through his backyard. He spent his days sitting quietly and observing deer, hawks and other wildlife, or hiking and exploring.

When Micah was a senior in high school he moved to Massachusetts and enrolled in the alternative school I was attending, the Sudbury Valley School. I was 15. We soon became good friends and I started inviting him over to my house. For some reason, he always seemed to want to visit on Friday nights. I couldn’t understand why. On Friday nights we sat around the table with my parents, singing Carlebach niggunim and eating a traditional Shabbos meal. I grew up in a Jewish Renewal home and attended Jewish day schools before transferring to Sudbury Valley for high

school. What I didn’t know then, but soon learned, was that Micah was deeply drawn to my family’s traditions.

In 2002 I moved to Boulder, Colorado, to attend Naropa University. By then I was starting to keep kosher, although I really didn’t know very much about it. I ate a lot of beans and rice, vegetables and fruits, but no fish or meat. There was a small community of Jews there who got together on Shabbos and called themselves Aish Kodesh. A woman named Yehudis Fischman used to give lessons in Tanya and Rabbi Nachman’s teachings. It was a magical time for us college students. On Friday nights, we would take turns hosting meals. We’d sit together for hours, laughing, connecting and singing niggunim. Then someone would call out, “Wait, I just remembered a Baal Shem Tov story I once heard!” And we would listen, rapt with attention. At the end of these long evenings we would walk each other home, sometimes riding our bikes because we knew we weren’t supposed to drive.

Eventually the Aish Kodesh community grew and brought in Rabbi Gavriel Goldfeder from the Bat Ayin yeshivah. By that time Micah had also moved to Boulder, and the two of us attended every shiur we could. With every new mitzvah we learned we gradually became more observant until we realized that we were frum. So we decided to do what frum Jews do: We got married and moved to Israel.

Soon after our wedding I found myself missing the familiarity of America. By then I was expecting, and Micah reluctantly agreed to move back with me. But we didn’t know where to go. It seemed that the only places with frum communities were cities, and neither of us wanted to live an urban lifestyle. Moreover, we couldn’t afford it even if we wanted to.

After doing some research we decided on Pittsburgh.

I had an aunt and uncle living there, and Micah’s family was nearby. Housing was surprisingly affordable compared to other frum communities, and it offered everything we

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My son Shavtiel getting some exercise with the chickens

thought we needed. There were five Orthodox shuls, three Jewish schools, mikvaos, kosher restaurants, Judaica shops and grocery stores. It even had playgrounds and parks.

Having worked in construction his whole life, Micah was able to find a job, and we settled in.

Eventually, though, we would hear the siren call of the wilderness. While a lot of things about Pittsburgh were great, including having friends nearby, there was always something missing. I lived in a community, but never felt part of it. I didn’t understand how I could be so lonely surrounded by so many. Moreover, it was hard for me to leave behind so much of my former self in order to live a city lifestyle. As a baalas teshuvah, it’s hard to fit in. I still struggle with having to wear skirts when I want to work in my garden or roughhouse with the kids.

Living a city life also meant ignoring a large part of who Micah and I are. My husband is a nemophilist (I just learned this word), which is defined as “a haunter of the woods; one who loves the forest and its beauty and solitude.” That is Micah’s true place of calm and connection, not the shul or the kollel. And I really love getting my hands

On Friday nights we’d walk each other home, sometimes riding our bikes because we knew we weren’t supposed to drive.

dirty, in deep, rich soil that smells strongly of the earth.

It was Rebbe Nachman’s lessons in Likkutei Moharan that really inspired me and Micah when we were first exposed to Torah. Rebbe Nachman speaks about connecting to Hashem through joy. But how were we supposed to do that if living a Torah life meant leaving behind the very things that brought us the greatest happiness?

To me, happiness is living with my whole self in connection with Hashem and others. In Pittsburgh, I Seamstress on premises for all your alterations and custom designs

just wasn’t able to do that. I had a few very close friends, but on the whole I never felt like I belonged. And so, we began to search for other options.

TRYING TO BUILD A NEW COMMUNITY It was hard to believe that we were the only religious Jews in America who felt as we did. So where were the others? Through networking and connections, Micah and I heard about some folks who were trying to start a moshav in Maryland. A Shabbaton was being coordinated for everyone interested in exploring the idea. Filled with hope, Micah and I quickly signed up.

At the Shabbaton, however, we immediately discovered the flaw. In such a large group of people, each one with his or her own vision, it would take forever to agree on every detail of an intentional community: location, level of observance, how communal or socialist or democratic, etc. It seemed like no one was willing to make a move until all the details were worked out.

Well, I didn’t want to wait. In the meantime my children were growing up in a city, distanced from nature. I couldn’t just open the door and let them play outside. In the city we had to worry about predators and kidnappers, and G-d knows what other horrors no parent wants to think about. I felt nostalgic for a past I had never lived, where the neighborhood kids all played outside until dark and came home tired and happy. I longed to feel part of a community where every person was essential and valued and we raised our children together.

I spoke to our rav about all my desires and longings, and how I felt like an outsider no matter where I went.

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My daughter Nisayah harvesting spring radishes

Micah and Shavtiel building a chicken coop made out of reused garage doors

I described the loneliness of being in a city community, but not necessarily being a part of it. I asked him where I might feel that I truly belonged. He told me that I was unique, and that the only community I would ever belong to is the one I created. Now, it could be that this was said in jest, but my mind was made up. There was no other alternative but to build a community.

My husband and I spent hours searching for properties around the country. We made lists of what we would need: Access to an established Jewish community.

Farmable land. Enough room for at least ten families.

Nearby institutions and amenities like hospitals, libraries and stores. And perhaps most importantly, the property had to be affordable. Our dream was to invite ten families to live on it with us, and no one would have to go deeply into debt.

Lo and behold, a property appeared: 38 acres, within 100 miles of Pittsburgh and Cleveland, stores, hospitals, universities nearby—and it was reasonable! After touring the property and seeing that it had everything we needed (including a spring-fed pond that could work as a mikvah!) we knew we had to try to pull it off. To be honest, I was doubtful we could really do it, but there

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were three other bids on the property, so it was now or never. We made our bid and a month later the property was ours.

After living through a winter in the countryside, I couldn’t believe how easy I’d had it in the city. The first few times it snowed on the farm, I didn’t know what to do about my 200-foot-long driveway. I tried shoveling.

Ha! Thank goodness a neighbor took pity on me, and till today whenever there’s a snowstorm he drives over on his snow blower and clears our driveway. He has never once asked for compensation. I began to understand how country community works. You may never speak to your neighbors, but you’ll move mountains for them if they’re ever in need.

We live just south of Lake Erie, and when the snow starts falling it doesn’t stop. For three months. One particularly bad storm began while I was at hockey practice with my children last winter. When we arrived home I was surprised to see that I hadn’t left the outdoor light on, as I usually do. After I finally managed to get my key in the door we stepped into a cold, dark house.

Panicked, I put the baby down on the floor and began searching for a flashlight. When I finally found one, I

How were we supposed to be joyful if being frum meant leaving behind the things that brought us the greatest happiness? realized that the baby had crawled away and I couldn’t find him in the dark! I quickly lit as many candles as I could. We found the baby, baruch Hashem. The children thought it was all very exciting, but I was terrified. How would we keep warm? What would happen to the food in the fridge? Why do I have only a cordless phone and not an old fashioned plug-in one for emergencies like this? We ate dinner by candlelight, and if someone dropped a fork or napkin on the floor, it was so dark we just got a new one from the drawer. That night we huddled next to the fireplace and read stories until bedtime. I tucked the children in with extra blankets and said an especially meaningful Modeh Ani when I woke up the next morning to find the lights—and heat—back on.

So here we are, building our Farm Shmarm community. Founded on the premise that there’s a place in the world for every Jew, we hope that ours is just one of hundreds of intentional communities that will spring up in the near future. Of course, turning our dream into a reality involves sacrifice. Summer Shabbasos can feel like an eternity without other Jews with whom to celebrate. Trips into Pittsburgh for kosher meat and cheese, chagim and other occasions can be taxing. We’re also homeschooling our children. Some people might think that spending your birthday drilling holes into logs and planting mushroom spores rather than going out

with friends is strange. But there is so much magic too.

Sitting quietly outside with Micah one night, a large harvest moon just visible over the horizon, we both heard a tiny swoosh. Following the sound we found an enormous owl sitting in a low branch of a tree. He (she?) just blinked at us as we stared at it in awe. Watching families of deer graze in our pasture, listening to the neighbor’s cows mooing at dusk, seeing shooting stars on clear nights and eating food we planted with our children—these are the simple joys that keep us going until our community is built.

If life doesn’t turn out as we hoped and Hashem has different plans for us, that’s also okay. I’m open to whatever our future holds. But I do hope we’ll begin to see new kinds of communities, groups of people choosing the life they want to live rather than just living in proximity to one another for convenience.

Until then, I will continue to cultivate my garden and nurture my dreams. n Tovah Kinderlehrer is a mother, wife, farmer, writer, artist and dreamer. She lives on Farm Shmarm with her devoted and hardworking husband, three children and a bunch of chickens and turkeys. She can be reached at matovufarm@ gmail.com.

Have a shidduch question or story?

Write to us at matchmaker@amimagazine.org

Recap: Mr. Berger is convinced that he has found his daughter’s future husband, but a quick call to Shalom Davidson’s mother elicits doubt.

shidduch saga All in the Family. Part 2 “Mr. Friedman,” Mrs. Davidson* continued, “my son Shalom didn’t attend a wedding in Miami last week, but someone else in the family did. This Mr. Berger must have spotted my younger son Yoni, who flew down to Florida for the Braun-Goldstein wedding. Yoni is nowhere near ready for shidduchim—he’s only 19!”

Things were finally starting to make sense. I’d been working with the Davidsons for a few years now, trying to find Shalom a shidduch. While Shalom Davidson was certainly a great guy, there was something about Mr. Berger’s description that was slightly off.

Refined? Yes. Life of the party? That’s not exactly how I would describe this particular 27-year-old bachur. It would take a lot more than a “l’chaim” to get Shalom Davidson animated enough to be described as a “chevraman,” if you catch my drift.

There was no way I could possibly suggest Penina Berger for the real Shalom Davidson. Fresh off the plane from seminary, I didn’t think she would go for a boy who was nine years older than her, not to mention a good three inches shorter than his 19-year-old brother. Penina isn’t exactly short at 5’5”.

All the more problematic was the fact that Penina and Shalom didn’t seem to be on the same page at all. Shalom

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Davidson was a serious long-term learner.

The Bergers were looking for a boy who would sit and learn for only a year or two before going into business. This boy didn’t fit the bill at all.

I called Mr. Berger back. “Sorry, Mr. Berger,” I said, “but you’ve got the wrong Davidson boy. It was Shalom’s younger brother Yoni you saw in Miami.

Unfortunately, you’ll have to wait a few years until he’s ready to meet your daughter as he’s only 19.”

“Really?” Mr. Berger seemed surprised,

There was something about Mr. Berger’s description that was slightly off. but it didn’t take more than a minute for him to digest this new piece of information. “What about the ‘real’ Shalom, though? If he’s anything like his younger brother, I’d be very interested.”

“What can I tell you, Mr. Berger?” I replied. “Shalom and Yoni are complete opposites. They don’t even look alike.

Shalom is much more serious. He doesn’t seem to be at all what you’re looking for; 15 TEVES 5774

he wants to learn for many, many years.

And did I mention that he’s 27? And only 5’8”? I just don’t see this shidduch happening. But I do have other ideas for you.”

I ended the conversation, promising that I’d start working on other shidduchim for Penina right away.

But I didn’t get very far. An hour later Mr. Berger was back on the line. “You know what, Yisrael?” he said, cutting right to the chase. “I realize that this sounds crazy. Penina and my wife certainly think it is, but I’ve decided that if Shalom is even remotely similar to the brother I saw, he might be the one. Do you think you can convince the Davidsons to give this shidduch the go-ahead?”

I didn’t exactly need to twist anyone’s arm to convince Mrs. Davidson to give Penina a yes. Shalom had actually never met a girl like Penina before.

That Motzaei Shabbos, Mr. Berger welcomed the “wrong” brother into his home. A few hours later Penina returned from her first date with—well, isn’t it obvious? Mr. Right. They were married a few months later. n

* All names changed for privacy This story was told to us by Yisrael Friedman, a Lakewood-based shadchan with six years of experience making countless shidduchim. He is also a Gateways shadchan.

shidduchresources

COMPILED BY ESTHER GARTENHAUS

The sheer volume of emails, letters, phone calls and faxes we receive regarding the shidduch crisis is eyeopening. This column is our contribution to helping address the crisis.

A more complete list appears on our website, www.amimagazine.org. This is a joint communal effort, so we need to hear from you! Shadchanim and activists, please contact Esther Gartenhaus at matchmaker@ amimagazine.org to list your appropriate services, shidduch meetings and pertinent activities!

FOR COMP THE LETE L IST, GO TO amim agazin e.org

General Shidduchim

Mental Health/Emotional Issues

Sora Cohen 718.755.4836 / aryehsora@aol.com Mrs. Hadassah Hoffner 718.309.5700 Mrs. Chana Rivka Jacobs 718.256.7525 at Binyan Adei Ad The Kesher Connection of Boro Park 718.576.1094 / support@kesherconnection.com.

Mrs. Pearl Klepfish 718.338.8106 Rebbetzin Elisheva Koenig 718.258.8475 / 718.377.2631 / elishevakoenig@gmail.com Mrs. Dina Lapp 917.470.4840 / diny613@gmail.com lchaimshidduch.com Mrs. Libby Lieberman Mazal.brocha@gmail.com Mrs. Devorah Meyer 718.213.0761 / M, T, W 8–10:30 p.m.

Mrs. Shaindy Mitnick 347.322.0001 / afternoons and evenings / shaindymitnick@gmail.com Mrs. Chava Most Fax: 732.377.5484 / sensitiveshidduchim@gmail.com / specializes in shidduchim for individuals with physical, medical, fertility and/or genetic conditions Rabbi Ahron Mueller 848.299.2598 Mr. Motti Neuhaus (Brooklyn) mottineuhaus@yahoo.com Contact for appointments as well as for special shadchanus arrangements.

Mrs. Gabriella Nirenberg 917.344.9839 / gabrielladavidson5@gmail.com Mrs. Adina Reich adinareich@gmail.com Résumé Center ifoundashidduch@gmail.com Mrs. Chana Rose chanarose36@verizon.net Mrs. Joy Scher proudbubby1@aol.com Mrs. Baila Sebrow 516.239.0564 / bsebrow@aol.com Mrs. Chaya Segal 718.854.6315 / evenings / specializes in older singles Simchas Olam rivkalittman@yahoo.com Mrs. Blimmie Stamm 732.363.1554 Rebbetzin Judi Steinig jsteinig@youngisrael.org Mrs. Malka Sussman 416.787.5147

Shoshana Goldman 718.983.9187 Temima Gross 410.358.7017 / temiragross@gmail.com

Israel

Mrs. Yehudis Abir 02.586.3310 / evening hours / judyabir@gmail.com Mrs. Shulamit Goldberger 02.561.1019 V’hareinu B’vinunei (Yiddish-speaking organization) Shidduch for zivug sheini 011.972.54.849.9440

Ohel’s Simcha Program / Sarah Kahan 718.686.3262 sarah_kahan@ohelfamily.org fcbrecher@gmail.com

Public Announcements Shadchanus Services—hire by the hour. Hire your own private shadchan to network for you!

Shadchanim and interested parties, please contact Mrs. Hennie Mandelbaum at 718.490.9817 / 718.951.0067 for more details.

Call to schedule your workshop and for private appointments: 347.482.8429

Shidduch meetings in Kensington. For details, call Mrs. Edie Jaffe at 718.853.8691.

Looking for computer-savvy girls/women for assessment and categorization of shidduch resumes. Email ifoundashidduch@gmail.com.

Looking for single girls/women and young men of all ages on medication for emotional or physical issues. 1) Please email resumes anonymously with only a contact phone number.

2) Kindly write “special” on subject line. 3) Please include all pertinent information and how condition affects daily life/ projected marriage. Email Ifoundashidduch@gmail.com.

Shidduchim workshops in Brooklyn, Lakewood or your town! Premarital/shidduch hadrachah workshops with Mrs. Esther Gartenhaus for post highschool girls and young women!

On-the-ball single girls are needed to volunteer time navigating/matching resumes.

Please call 347.482.8429.

New! Exciting service now available! Well-known shadchan Mr. Motti Neuhaus will be meeting groups of singles throughout the US. For details, contact mottineuhaus@yahoo.com.

You can help yourselves/your children/your clients finalize the shidduch! Guidance in practical communication techniques throughout the dating/b’sho process is a valuable resource for parents and shadchanim.

Please call Rifka Schonfeld at 718.382.5437.

We welcome your letters, comments and shidduch questions, as well as helpful ideas, advice and tips on...shidduchim! Contact us at matchmaker@amimagazine.org or via phone (718.534.8800) or fax (718.484.7731).

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37

BY DINA NEUMAN Chapter Thirty-Seven

L

akey hung back, uncertain. Was Tova crying?

She was.

Lakey’s proud, efficient, unemotional, endlessly energetic— and, more recently, infuriating and hateful—older sister seemed to kind of crumple. There was no other word for it. She held her head in her hands and suddenly seemed so small.

The vaguely uneasy feeling that had started at the beis din when she had suddenly noticed how thin Tova had become now took firm root in the pit of Lakey’s stomach. She swallowed hard, past a sudden longing for her old security blanket and a bag of chocolates, and taking a step forward, reached out to put a hand on her sister’s shoulder.

Her fingers had only grazed the material of the rain-soaked coat when Tova straightened up and rose smoothly to her feet as though nothing had happened. She was small no more, and Lakey quickly stuck her offending hand into her coat pocket. She wasn’t needed.

Tova didn’t need people. People needed Tova.

“What we have to do,” Tova said briskly, “is find the trail that the painting left. Because everything leaves a trail.

Nothing really, actually, disappears.

Right?” she didn’t wait for Lakey’s reply, answering her own question instead: “Right. So. So we need to find names and numbers. It’s just a matter of who has it now. The question is, where do we start?”

“We?” Lakey asked archly.

“Me.” “You do that,” Lakey said. She reached for her umbrella and tried to open it. “I’m going home.”

“Give my love to the kids.” Tova walked

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over to the filing cabinet and pulled open one heavy drawer. She began to rifle through the files, her eyes and fingers flashing over the title tabs.

“What are you doing?” Lakey asked in spite of herself, looking up from her stillclosed umbrella.

“Looking.”

“Looking for what?”

“For information.”

“What kind of information? And those are Avi’s files.”

“Any kind of information, and these are Daddy’s files.”

“They were. Now they’re Avi’s.”

“Hang on a sec...I’m looking for...Aha!” Tova pulled a folder out of a file and held it aloft in triumph. Then she dashed over to the desk and snapped it open.

“What’s that?”

“I thought that you were going home?”

“I am.” Lakey took up the struggle with her umbrella again.

“Insurance.” Tova flipped rapidly through the papers found within the folder.

Lakey tossed her umbrella onto Avi’s chair. “Are they charging you per word?

Can you give me more than one-word answers?”

“The painting was insured. I can find out if it’s still insured. If it is, then I know that it’s still owned by Daddy. That Daddy only moved it somewhere. Or…” her eyes flicked up for a second at Lakey, “or it was stolen.”

Lakey grabbed for her umbrella again.

“Would you cut it out? I didn’t take the ugly thing.”

“I never said that you did.”

“It’s what you don’t say that speaks volumes.”

“That is a very dramatic way of saying 15 TEVES 5774

nothing. I never said that you took it.”

“Well, for someone who isn’t supposed to be on speaking terms with me, you’ve been doing an awful lot of talking.” Lakey flashed back again to the awkward phone conversation that Tova had initiated the week before. Tova must have been thinking about the same thing because even though her fingers did not stop moving through the file, she flushed a dark, brick red.

When she reached the end of the folder’s contents, she frowned. “Figures.

I’m going to have to call them. Daddy kept lousy records, do you know that?”

She punched the number into her phone, grabbed her bag, and headed for the door.

“It’s still raining,” Lakey said casually.

“Why don’t you make the phone call here?”

And Lakey saw, right before the studied casualness returned to Tova’s face, that for a split second, her older sister’s eyes lit up.“But aren’t you going home?” she asked.

“Not if you need me to stay.”

It was the wrong thing to say, Lakey realized right away. Tova didn’t need people. People needed Tova.

***

When Shmuel came home, Tova was cradling the phone in one hand and a piece of paper covered in doodles and phone numbers in another. He closed the door quietly behind him and took off his wet shoes at the door. The table was empty. The stove top, in the darkened kitchen, was empty, too.

“Where’s the baby?” he asked, his forehead wrinkling in sudden concern.

Tova jumped to her feet, banging her shin on the table in front of her. “Ouch!”

RECAP: THE PAINTING IS MISSING, AND TOVA IS POINTING FINGERS AT LAKEY. WHEN LAKEY LASHES BACK, TOVA DEFLATES.

“You okay?”

“You scared the living daylights out of me!” Tova rubbed at her leg, wincing.

“When did you come in?”

“Just a second ago.”

“What time is it?” she glanced at the clock. “I completely lost track of time. I didn’t make dinner!”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay. Don’t say it’s okay.”

“Yitz is crying.”

Her sobs were wild and out of control, even from behind the closed door of their bedroom, and Yitz started crying again in earnest.

“No, Yitz, no,” Shmuel said automatically. “Ssh.” He held him to his chest and thought, a little wildly, about what to do.

What was he going to do?

For months, he’d felt like shaking some life back into her blank eyes, but this

This was now far beyond trying to helping someone who didn’t want to be helped.

“Avraham Yitzchak is sleeping.”

“No he’s not. He’s screaming, Tova, can’t you hear him?” Shmuel quickly went to the back and emerged a minute later, holding the little boy in his arms. He was still crying, but in the soft, hopeless kind of way that meant that he’d been sobbing for a while and had forgotten how to stop. “How long was he crying for?”

Shmuel asked as he rocked his son gently.

Yitz stopped crying and stuck his thumb into his mouth.

“He must have just started.”

“He doesn’t look like he just started.”

“Well, I didn’t hear him.”

“Well, were you listening?”

“Leave me alone!” Tova screamed suddenly. “All of you! Everyone! Just leave me alone!” She ran in the direction that Shmuel and the baby had just emerged from and slammed the door behind her.

was now far beyond trying to helping someone who didn’t want to be helped.

This was about those caught in the wake of her free-fall. He looked at his son’s rounded cheeks, the long curly lashes, the sweet blue of his innocent gaze. His sobs had quieted down and he was hiccupping, his chubby fingers clutching his father’s arm.

Shmuel buried his face in Yitz’s neck, breathing in the sweet baby scent found there. “Hey, Yitz-man,” he said softly, and was rewarded with a rubbery grin.

“Everything’s going to be okay.”

But what if everything wasn’t okay?

Because sometimes, everything wasn’t…

What if it wasn’t in his crib, in his bedroom, that he lay crying, alone and forgotten? He was safe there, at least. But what if she forgot him somewhere else next time? The supermarket? The car?

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He closed his eyes tightly, but the picture was now superimposed over everything else in his mind; Yitz, redfaced and screaming in the too-hot interior of the abandoned vehicle, waiting for help that never came…

Shmuel got to his feet and went to the kitchen. He flicked the lights on and looked into the fridge. Then he closed the fridge and the lights. He had been hungry when he had first come home, but he wasn’t now. He walked back into the living room and set Yitz down. The little boy promptly pulled himself up on the edge of the couch and grinned in triumph.

“Very good, Yitz!” Shmuel said into the silence of the apartment, and that’s when he realized that the sounds of crying had stopped. Was Tova embarrassed to come out? Or had she fallen asleep?

Or maybe she was sitting there, in their room, with that horribly blank look on her face, looking like a broken doll.

What was she thinking of in those moments?

What was she capable of in those moments?

Unwillingly, he thought again of the picture that his mind had conjured up for him, of Yitz in his car seat in the back of the car, forgotten, like those kids that you hear about in the news and then you click your tongue and say with righteous anger: How could the parents have forgotten them?!

But Tova wouldn’t do that. She couldn’t.

She was as responsible as ever. She was just a little distracted these days. Right?

He shook his head hard to get rid of the unwanted images, but they kept coming. n

To be continued… |

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days “In a Place Where There Are No Men…” Or, how a middle-aged grandmother inadvertently became a community activist

By Naama Klein

T

he municipal elections in Israel are fast approaching, and their unmistakable scent is in the air. No, I’m not referring to campaign posters from the competing candidates, although a few signs hang here and there on random porch railings, fluttering in the occasional breeze. But there are other irrefutable signs that a major contest is just over the horizon.

Suddenly, magnificent new playgrounds are sprouting up all over town like oversized wild mushrooms.

I am convinced that the latest one, a humongous blue and yellow monstrosity, is visible from outer space. Then there is the sight of orange-vested workers diligently pulling the ubiquitous weeds that have long graced the entrance to our neighborhood, clearing the land in preparation for planting. Both are certainly welcome in our otherwise neglected town, but neither is the improvement I most wish to see.

For while we feel truly blessed to be in the Holy Land and are otherwise

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extremely satisfied with our lovely frum community, there is one negative aspect to living here that gnaws at me every single day: Our new city of choice is severely lacking in basic cleanliness and aesthetics.

To put it bluntly, this place is filthy! It’s a disgrace.

I try calling and emailing the mayor multiple times. The secretary clucks her tongue sympathetically, but can do little else. My emails are never even acknowledged. Then I try phoning the city official who is responsible for maintenance. Finally, I strike pay dirt (no pun intended)! He hears me out and agrees that the city is in a sorrowful state.

Then he metaphorically raises his hands in resignation. “There’s nothing I can do,” he shares, with obvious regret. “I just don’t have the budget.”

When I press him further, he elaborates.

“The municipality employs a total of 35 part-time maintenance workers, while other cities our size have over 100!” Then he divulges even more appalling facts and figures.

“In the past few years, trash collection 15 TEVES 5774

has gone from four times a week down to three. In some areas the garbage is only picked up once every two weeks!”

As a law-abiding taxpaying citizen, I am horrified.

“What can I do to help?” I implore, my voice faltering.

He doesn’t sound overly confident that there is, in fact, anything to do, but he suggests I find another 40 or so residents who feel the same way and approach the mayor.

He concurs with my observation that this crucial period before the elections affords us some otherwise nonexistent leverage. I thank him sincerely and hang up the phone.

Then I reluctantly launch my campaign.

First I Google “how to start an online petition.” That part is blessedly easy. I follow the instructions on the website and, despite my propensity for verbosity, keep the message brief and to the point.

Next I post it on our community’s online list. I start receiving passionate responses and suggestions almost immediately. There’s no looking back now;

my campaign is already taking on a life of its own. Only time will tell where it will eventually lead, and what it will ultimately accomplish.

But there is no time to rest on my laurels. I have also volunteered to take over the vaad habayit duties for my block. Hopefully, I will not regret having committed myself to a two-year (!) stint.

I basically have to oversee and pay the weekly maintenance worker, a polite, middle-aged Ethiopian; collect and keep track of dues from the residents on the block; and be a liaison with my co-chair to make sure the vaad accounts are in order

and the electricity bill is paid on time. It sounds relatively easy. But of course, it will prove to be far from it.

My greatest challenge is one that I have unfortunately inherited from my predecessors. To make a long story short, the problem is my downstairs neighbors.

Now, in many respects they are model neighbors and nice people. They keep their house and beautiful garden neat and orderly, they are friendly and personable, and their children are well behaved and adorable.

However, Mr. Neighbor does not seem to feel bound by the dictates of our vaad.

THERE IS ONE NEGATIVE ASPECT TO LIVING HERE: TO PUT IT BLUNTLY, THIS NEIGHBORHOOD IS FILTHY!

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Despite the objections of other residents, he sees nothing wrong with parking his two vans on the narrow street, after having enclosed his two allotted parking spots for other purposes. Moreover, even after a few of us talk ourselves blue in the face expressing our displeasure, he likewise sees no problem with leaving various pieces of unsightly furniture and equipment on that same public thoroughfare. Worst of all, he impetuously requisitions a sizeable piece of city property under our building and, without consulting any of the neighbors, claims it as his own.

At the vaad meeting at which I “win” my uncontested new title (needless to say, said problematic neighbors are no-shows), these topics are all raised and debated.

Then one of those present transcribes the minutes and all of us sign it. The provisions are as follows: No parking on the street, especially if it blocks other vehicles and/or pedestrians; no personal items are to be left on the communal sidewalk; and all public areas are for the use of all residents. Anyone not in compliance with these rules is urged to abide within two weeks, or risks being reported to the municipal authorities.

The following day an anonymous malshin (informer) files a report against our neighbor, as well as against another resident on the block. The inspectors show up with unparalleled haste and efficiency.

Tempers flare and accusations are hurled.

Other than that, nothing happens to correct the violations. Instead, a virtual cold war descends on our block, with no end in sight.

This is the juncture at which I assume my new position. In truth, it is not exactly the job of my dreams, but I am stuck with it for the foreseeable future. With no other recourse, I roll up my proverbial sleeves and get to work.

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days TEMPERS FLARE AND ACCUSATIONS ARE HURLED. OTHER THAN THAT, NOTHING HAPPENS TO CORRECT THE VIOLATIONS. intractable neighbor, to no avail. Pleading, cajoling and begging are equally ineffective. He actually confides in me that some of the paraphernalia on the sidewalk is virtually worthless: He is apparently deliberately accumulating it out of spite!

A few nights later I notice that both of his cars are gone and his house is quiet and apparently deserted. I impulsively decide to take matters into my own hands…literally. Piece by piece, I shlep the leftover construction materials and other detritus over to the long flight of stone stairs and down to the street, and heave everything into the trash receptacles under our building. I am emboldened by the fact that my neighbors seem to be away, but I try to minimize the noise because the hour is late and I don’t want to disturb anyone. It takes multiple punishing trips up and down to ferry all of the smaller items. Sometime after midnight my son returns from the beis midrash and I recruit him to help me carry the remaining three huge panels and place them neatly alongside the trash bins next door.

There is plenty more unsightly mess where this came from, but at least I’ve made a considerable dent. After taking a much-deserved hot shower, I head to bed

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somewhat scraped and sore, but with a perceptible measure of satisfaction.

A few days later I survey the territory again, mentally calculating what can be disposed of and what might have inherent value. I go up to my apartment and return carrying a large garbage bag, which I proceed to fill with empty cans, bottles, bags and other assorted debris. When I have already accumulated a respectable amount, my neighbor drives up and parks alongside where I’m standing. This time I’m caught in the act, so I clear my throat and invite him to verify that I haven’t discarded anything of value. He looks visibly embarrassed and vows to clean the mess himself. Then he shares with me that he was unable to sleep for two nights after I carted down his heavy panels. He seems genuinely sorry and uncomfortable about the whole sordid parshah, but still sticks to his guns that it’s his property and he can do what he likes with it. Even after another neighbor joins the conversation in my defense, he refuses to budge an iota.

We discuss asking a local rav for a psak, and he wholeheartedly agrees to allow me to consult with a certain highly respected talmid chacham who answers sh’eilos every day in the beis horaah. After I speak to the rav’s wife, however, I realize that little if anything can be accomplished if I go 15 TEVES 5774

alone to present this case; both parties will need to appear. I phone my neighbor and am pleasantly surprised when he immediately offers to go with me.

I utter an impromptu tefillah that shalom be restored to our block and throughout all of klal Yisrael. Then I hurriedly brush out my sheitel and run downstairs to my waiting chariot.

The rav listens to the neighbor’s three questions and responds to each one in turn. B’chasdei Hashem I barely have to interject a word. The rav’s position is virtually identical to that of our vaad, but the litigant accepts the gadol’s psak without question. On the way home, he assures me that he will remove the rest of his clutter ASAP. True to his word, within a couple of days almost all of the items are gone.

What was a constant eyesore, for as long as I can remember, is miraculously gone without a trace.

I assure my neighbor that this entire episode is just between us; other than my husband, I do not intend to divulge it to a soul. But he surprises me once again. He actually wants to publicize the story and share it with everyone on our block. He writes a synopsis of our meeting with the rav, ironically addressed, “Dear Residents, Shalom U’vrachah!” and brings it to me for my approval. I feel like pinching myself to make sure I’m not dreaming; I had apparently greatly underestimated the power of tefillah and my neighbor’s adherence to daas Torah.

The parshah isn’t over quite yet, but I joke with my husband that he should

nominate me for a Nobel Peace Prize. (Although after Arafat, yimach shemo, was awarded one, it’s obviously not worth that much anyway.)

In the meantime, our petition to the mayor has garnered over 200 signatures and more than 50 impassioned comments.

Although I would love to get additional signatures, time is of the essence. With the Yamim Noraim fast approaching and the elections not far behind, the time to act is definitely now. My husband hand-delivers the petition to the mayor’s office. For added impact, we include a few recent photos of the nauseating mess in the town square. I also send the pictures to a few other city officials, and follow up with a phone call. The person in charge of sanitation assures me that he has just requested additional funding for scouring the city in advance of the holidays. I thank him for his efforts and pray that they are successful. Then we sit back and wait.

A few days later on my morning walk I see a mirage a few blocks from my home. A maintenance worker is sweeping the sidewalk! In the four years that I have been living here I have never been treated to this incongruous sight. Maybe there is some hope after all…

I walk past the city center on both days of Rosh Hashanah, on my way to and from shul. Admittedly, the area still wouldn’t pass any self-respecting mother-in-law’s white glove test, but it is noticeably cleaner than it used to be. I guess some extra funding did come through at the eleventh hour.

Perusing the local paper after Yom Tov I see it in bold print: a two-page spread in Hebrew and English touting the mayor’s accomplishments during his first term in office and outlining his campaign promises if he is reelected. Many of the resolutions are cosmetic, including a vow to increase the frequency of trash collection, as well as this gem: “Improving the cleanliness and appearance of our city’s streets will be placed at the top of the municipality’s order of priorities.”

I begin to wonder if I’m hallucinating. I also don’t know whether the mayor will honor his commitments if reelected, but a moment of (tempered) euphoria washes over me. Perhaps our joint efforts will bring about positive change after all, despite all the naysayers.

And maybe a tired, middle-aged Bubby still has more fight in her than she cares to admit.  15 TEVES 5774

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my Mum From

days Tangible Evidence

The care packages stopped when my mother died As told to Riki Goldstein

T

his might sound strange if you’re not used to Israeli simchos, but the bris was at midday, which meant that I had to bring all three kids along. My cousin had made it very clear she expected women to attend, so I had no choice. We don’t have many family members living in Yerushalayim, and it was nice to sit together and schmooze, even with all the little ones on laps and under the table.

After the meal I lingered to say mazel tov to Uncle Aryeh, my father’s brother, who had come in for the occasion. A few of my cousins were hanging around for the same reason.

“Oyf simchas by you, dear,” he told me, as jovial as ever. “Regards from your father.

I just saw him yesterday. He’s fine, baruch Hashem. Great to see you.”

I was walking away when he called after me. “Did I bring something for you?

I can’t remember. The packages are over there by the coats.”

His words stung, and it hurt even more when I saw my relatives gleefully retrieving hefty shopping bags filled with clothing, toys, books and nosh. I got my kids together and left the hall quickly, feeling a familiar chill of resentment.

My mother had been famous in Brooklyn and beyond for her shopping

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prowess. Neighbors, aunts and cousins knew to ask her where to find bargains.

She dispensed her advice freely and warmly, more often than not taking others along on her jaunts to elusive outlets and strip malls all over the Tri-State area. She could never resist a great deal and would always come back with clothes for the kids or designer goods she had found for bupkes.

When Mommy was alive she always found people willing to bring me packages. The shopping bags filled with goodies came with relative frequency and were a real treat we looked forward to: decorative pillows for the apartment, clothing for the kids, all kinds of American products my mother figured didn’t exist here. (They usually did, but as a struggling kollel couple we appreciated anything we didn’t have to pay for!)

Sometimes the items arrived in response to our requests; other times they were just lovingly prepared, thoughtful extras. My mother would call with a phone number and address where I could go to pick up the package. Cousins traveling to Israel for a simchah, a neighbor coming to visit a new einikel—everyone was happy to do her a favor. I would always thank them, of course, and call my mother to express my gratitude, but I pretty much took these 15 TEVES 5774

packages for granted.

Then my mother passed away, after a nightmarish illness that lasted just two weeks. For us, it began with a sudden late-night phone call from my aunt. My husband started packing almost before the phone was hung up. We arrived only hours before she lost consciousness and died.

Coming back home was very hard.

However many times we would cross the ocean in the future, we would never find her waiting for us. Not only did it close a chapter irrevocably, but being in Eretz Yisrael meant that we were far away from the comfort of a grief shared with close family. Here in Eretz Yisrael few people had known my mother, and although my neighbors were kind and supportive, the loneliness cast a pall on my quiet apartment.

For the first few months back in Israel my American phone gathered dust and my eyes would fill with tears whenever I glanced at it, but gradually my sisters and I fell into a comfortable rhythm. I figured out which sister to call with cooking queries, which with baby-related issues, and who had time to schmooze when.

Some of us wanted to speak endlessly about our mother and retell old family jokes, while others couldn’t mention

her without choking on tears. The more practical siblings were preoccupied with taking care of my three school-age brothers.

The year crawled by and then was gone. We all discovered the truth in the old cliché, “Time is the best healer.” I still missed my mother, my fingers still dialed the old number wistfully, but the constant ache subsided. I learned to be confident that my mother was in the good place she had surely earned in Gan Eden.

Whenever I missed her very badly, I tried to focus on how Hashem looks after orphans, and it really comforted me that Hashem Himself was taking care of me. I was grateful to have a happy, fulfilling life with everything I needed. All my needs were provided for.

And yet, an occasional care package would have been very nice. A connection to home, a tangible expression of love.

But no package ever came for us.

The night after the bris I spoke to my father and mentioned that it had been good to see Uncle Aryeh. Then, very casually, trying to keep my tone light I added, “The next time your brother comes to Israel, maybe you can send a package along.”

Tatty sounded surprised. “Do you need something?”

“Uh, no, not really.” I was suddenly flustered. “I mean, no. Nothing at all. I

gotta go, Ta. Talk to you later.”

A few weeks later our neighbors from Brooklyn, the Blochs, were coming to Eretz Yisrael for Sukkos. I thought, Maybe Tatty will remember to send me something. I called him the day after Yom Kippur to see how he had fasted. We schmoozed for a few minutes and he mentioned that the Blochs were coming, but he didn’t seem to be associating it with me. After hanging up I suddenly began to cry, flooded by a wave of selfpity.

I calmed myself down. What was wrong with me? Why was I getting so worked up about something so trivial?

What did I need from America anyway?

It wasn’t as if I was lacking anything.

IKEA had even opened up several branches in Israel. We had all the food we could possibly eat for Yom Tov, including meat, wine and plenty of extras, and my children were outfitted and accessorized courtesy of Kiddie Chic. There was nothing I actually needed.

I realized it was the love and thought that went into the packages that I missed so much. So before I could lose my nerve, I called my father back and told him that he said I should remind him to send something along. Even as the words came out of my mouth I felt foolish, embarrassed to reveal my vulnerablilty and neediness.

15 TEVES 5774

“Sure! Just tell me whatever you want and I’ll get it,” he said. Cringe. Oh, Ta. I just want you to send me something. It doesn’t matter what.

The next day, after another reminder, my father put a few things together and called Mr. Bloch. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“We would have loved to take something along, but we’re on the way to the airport.”

My father is a very generous man.

We weren’t in our first few kollel years anymore, and he was still sending us occasional checks to help out with the rent. The “problem,” as it were, was that he’s a man, and running around shopping for tchatkes and bargains just wasn’t his thing. Sending us socks as evidence of his love just wasn’t a language my father spoke.

I then came to the realization that not getting packages when everyone else seemed to be getting them was not what was bothering me: It was all part of the same loss we had cried over as a family four years ago. Nothing could bring my mother back, no matter what anyone did.

I finally accepted it.

From now on Hashem would be taking care of me, smoothing my path, wiping my brow and cushioning my every jolt of pain.

And no doubt sending me “packages” too. 

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DECEMBER 18, 2013

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AMI•LIVING

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EUROPEAN DESIGNER COLLECTIONS & CUSTOM COUTURE EVENING WEAR 1342 51 ST. – TEL. 718.851.1201 – SUN-THURS 11-6

days Time Out Please don’t tell anyone where I am

By Goldie Weltscher

I

t’s my guilty little secret.

The need can hit me at the most hectic time of the day, like when the kids and I have just piled into the house, supper is unfinished and the house is flying. I know I shouldn’t, but it’s at that craziest, race-againstthe-clock time that the emotional craving is most desperate.

Some might call it an addiction; I call it five minutes of heaven. No one would ever guess that I’m a self-proclaimed health nut.

I lock my bedroom door and open a magazine. I cradle the coffee mug and hug it close, its steam curling up lazily as if it has all the time in the world. I inhale the exotic aroma and tear open a shiny red wrapper. The Swiss milk chocolate melts in my mouth as the coffee pours down my throat, almost too hot, just perfect. I feel vaguely decadent; my shoulders relax as the magical elixir courses through my body.

The kids are banging on the door but Mommy is on a desert island, a self-contained oasis of blissful me-time. All I need is five minutes before I can unlock the door and be sucked once again into the maelstrom. Now, though, I feel myself slipping into an altered state of being. I smile a secret smile, a warm echo in my gullet, a vanilla aftertaste on my tongue.

I am ready. I open the door. 

I FEEL VAGUELY DECADENT; MY SHOULDERS RELAX AS THE MAGICAL ELIXIR COURSES THROUGH MY BODY.

To submit your story for this column or to have your story featured here, please contact us at submissions@amimagazine.org.

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DECEMBER 18, 2013

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15 TEVES 5774

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