Ami Living Issue 291

WHISK: COOK ONCE, EAT TWICE: REUSING LEFTOVERS

NOVEMBER 2, 2016 / 1 CHESHVAN 5777 ISSUE 291

DOES MOMMY KNOW BEST? DESPERATE FOR A CURE, A MOTHER IS ACCUSED OF HARMING HER BABY

BROOKLYNBORN HOLY WOMAN

SARA RIGLER DISCOVERS THE HIDDEN HENNY MACHLIS ON HER FIRST YAHRTZEIT

POINTING FINGERS

>>> RABBANIT YEMIMA MIZRACHI FAMILY LESSONS FROM NOACH >>> AHA! MOMENTS SHE FEARED THE TSA AGENT’S INSPECTION >>> BYTES FROZEN FOOD Pure SAFETY >>> OUR DAYS THE POPCORN LADY >>> WHISK Comfort PUMPKIN MUFFINS AND SQUASH RECIPES FOR AUTUMN Nechama Uses Winter Squash in Fall’s Best (Healthier!)

Comfort Foods

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ESCAE DOWN LATO R KIDDU S CHRO H NICLE S

HOW TO PROVE SHE WASN’T GUILTY

FROM SCRATCH: COOK IT ONCE, EAT IT TWICE, SARA’S ULTIMATE LEFTOVER SOLUTION

ISSUE 291 NOVEMBER 2, 2016 1 CHESHVAN 5777

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CONTENTS

1 Cheshvan 5777 November 2, 2016 Issue 291

Features 18 Truth or Consequences Should I take the blame for someone else’s mistake?

As told to Suri Ungar

22 The Clean Bill When a mother is accused of intentionally injuring her infant

By Zisi Klein

44 Henny Machlis’ First Yahrtzeit Family and friends remember an amazing woman

By Sara Yoheved Rigler

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Departments 6 A Word from the Editor

By Rechy Frankfurter

8 Letters FROM SCRATCH: COOK IT ONCE, EAT IT TWICE, SARA’S ULTIMATE LEFTOVER SOLUTION

12 Parshah

By Rabbanit Yemima Mizrachi 14 Aha! Moments

By Rabbi Yoel Gold

ISSUE 291 NOVEMBER 2, 2016 1 CHESHVAN 5777

16 Bytes

By Miriam Glick

Nechama Uses Winter Squash in Fall’s Best (Healthier!)

Comfort Foods

52 Up the Down Escalator

By Raizel Tannenbaum

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N CO EW LUM N

in Whisk

54 Jamila

The rhythm of our lives

62 K iddush Chronicles

32 Cooking Class

Cooking with the squashes of autumn

N CO EW LUM N

By Nechama Norman

By Rabbi Mordechai Kamenetzky

37 News Chips

63 The Back Page

By Gabriel Boxer

By Dina Neuman

38 From Scratch

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Rebbetzin Feige Twerski’s column will return next week. |

AMI•LIVING

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31 Reader’s Kitchen

By Riva Pomerantz

60 Our Days

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By Victoria Dwek

56 6⁰

Pure Comfort

30 Hello Cooks

By Rachel Berger

Inside Whisk

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Reimagining your leftovers

By Sarah Lasry

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Dear Readers, When Riva Pomerantz and I were brainstorming about the new serial she would be writing for us, Six Degrees, I asked that it focus on human drama rather than on people with mental illness. I wanted her to give us a story of people with ordinary character failings, however extreme, that readers could relate to in some way. Having previously worked closely with Riva and shepherded her through her debut serial, Green Fences, we enjoy a special bond. Riva is a writer with an uncanny ability to hone in on the human spirit, with all its failings as well as its ability to soar, and she brings her characters to life in a way that inspires and enlightens.

Editor in Chief Rabbi Yitzchok Frankfurter

Editorial

Senior Editor Rechy Frankfurter Managing Editors Victoria Dwek Yossi Krausz

Now that we are up to the third installment and have gotten to know Faygie and Menachem Reich, the middle-aged couple whose marriage is in trouble, their children, Leah and Yehuda, and Mariam Bloch, whose life revolves around her daughter Shiffy—fictional characters albeit with real-life character traits and flaws—readers are telling us that they already feel emotionally attached to them. When people start asking why Leah does not want to go to her mother for Shabbos or what’s wrong with Mariam Bloch that she visited her daughter in seminary so often, you know they’re hooked. And frankly, so are we!

Feature Editor Yitta Halberstam Mandelbaum Coordinating Editor Gitty Chein Copy Editors Basha Majerczyk Mendelovicii Rabbi Yisroel Benedek Rachel Langer

Interestingly, right before Six Degrees made its debut, I received the following email: “Dear Editor: I would like to submit the first installment of a column. The idea came from a shiur I heard from Rabbi Paysach Krohn, who spoke about using your most difficult challenge to help others. Mrs. Tammy Karmel imparts the same message in her series on emunah. I thought long and hard and decided that I would like to help other mothers out there who are dealing with the same difficulty I have been dealing with for the past decade. I asked my rav, and he said it would be a big chesed to publish such a column and that it would be fine to do so under a pen name. I am therefore submitting it under an assumed name and providing a special email address in order to protect the privacy of our family.”

Editors/Proofreaders Dina Schreiber Yitzchok A. Preis

Art

Art Directors Alex Katalkin David Kniazuk

Food

This week we introduce her journal, Up the Down Escalator, in which Raizy Tannenbaum describes what her life is like with her mentally ill son. Judging from the response to Out of the Depths, a previous series we ran in which a mother shared the trials and tribulations of having a son go off the derech, I know that Raizy’s column will succeed in its mission to help others. In fact, even though Out of the Depths concluded quite some time ago, we still receive requests for contact information.

Food Editor Victoria Dwek

Advertising

Executive Account Manager Zack Blumenfeld Executive Sales Directors Surie Katz Esther Friedman Sarah Sternstein

(While we are on the topic, I received a text on Erev Rosh Hashanah from the mother of the protagonist in that story: “Kesivah vachasimah tovah! Chaim got married k’halachah a month ago. It was an unusual wedding, but baruch Hashem, with a chuppah.” This too should give chizzuk to parents who are faced with the challenge of an off-the-derech child.)

Europe Advertising 44 203 519 0278 Advertising Coordinator Malky Weinberger Markowitz Distribution

Just as in Out of the Depths, you will feel the power of a mother’s love and longing for the health and well-being of her child when you read Up the Down Escalator. In the face of extraordinary challenges, both of these mothers are truly inspirational. On a similar note, this week Rabbanit Yemima Mizrachi articulates a Jewish mother’s tafkid and her power to keep the family together, not just during hard times but throughout ordinary, everyday life.

917-202-3973 347-675-7456

Ami Magazine

P: 718-534-8800 F: 718-484-7731 info@amimagazine.org Ami Magazine. Published by Mehulol Publications 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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Don’t miss it!

Rechy Frankfurter

rechy@amimagazine.org

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PARDES & HEALTHY have an awful lot in common

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Good olive oil 1 cup chopped sweet onion 3 cloves fresh garlic, minced 1 pint (a little over 2 cups) cherry or grape tomatoes, halved kosher salt & fresh black pepper 1 1/2 tbsp. balsamic vinegar 1 cup frozen Pardes Chopped Kale 2 tsp. dried basil 4 (2 inch thick) pieces of salmon fillet with skin

Grilled

Salmon&Kale

Topped with balsamic cherry tomatoes By: Sarah Lasry

Add the garlic and sautĂŠ for 1 minute more. Stir in the tomatoes and cook over medium-low heat for 10-15 minutes, stirring occasionally.

After 15 minutes, add the chopped kale and mix well with the tomatoes and onions. Let cook for another 3-4 minutes on medium-low until kale is wilted.

Off the heat, stir in the vinegar and basil, set aside & keep warm Place a large skillet pan over high heat for 5 minutes. Brush salmon all over with olive oil, sprinkle liberally with salt & pepper, and place it skin side up in

the pan. Cook the fish for 3-4 minutes without moving them, until browned.

Turn the salmon skin side down with a small spatula and transfer to aluminum pan and bake in oven for 8-10 minutes. Remove the fish to a plate, cover with tin foil, and allow to rest for 5 minutes.

Reheat the tomatoes & kale, season to taste and serve hot over the salmon.

Serves: 2-4

Directions: Pre-heat oven to 425F Heat 2-3 tbsp. olive oil in a medium sautĂŠ pan. Add the onion and sautĂŠ over medium-low heat for 5 minutes, stirring occasionally until very tender but not browned.

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LETTERS

In My Father’s Orchards The esrog revival

In reference to “In My Father’s Orchard,” Issue 289

Dear Editor: In your Sukkos Issue, I read about Rav Michel Yehuda’s flourishing esrog trees with great interest, since I published a story in my books, Sparks of Majesty and Tishrei Tales, reporting the demise of the trees, following the petirah of Rav Michel Yehuda.

I did some research with a relative in Bnei Brak who filled me in on the missing details, which prove that both accounts are accurate. The year that Rav Michel Yehuda was niftar, only 20% of the esrogim in his yard blossomed, but for the first time they could not be used for the mitzvah because they weren’t of good quality.

After that happened, a group of people went to the kevarim of both the Chazon Ish and Rav Michel Yehuda Lefkowitz, where they davened for siyata dishmaya that the trees should have a techiyas hameisim.

(It is highly unusual for such a thing to happen to any tree, surely to an esrog tree.)

In addition, they enlisted the help of agricultural experts to assist them in rejuvenating the trees. Miraculously, they were rejuvenated, and now there are hundreds

of beautiful esrogim that blossom once again on Rav Michel Yehuda’s esrog trees.

I would like to also comment on your article “Are You Ready?” in Issue 288: I was dismayed to read an article in your magazine featuring a group that deviates from normative Judaism, since highlighting them in a frum publication gives them legitimacy.

While the article mentions that most rabbanim and gedolim do not accept the hashkafah of The Women for the Mikdash regarding the proper way to prepare for the rebuilding of the Beis Hamikdash, it neglects to mention the fact that their ascent to Har Habayis is something that our gedolim have expressly forbidden.

In addition, going down to the Ma’ayan Hashiloach to draw water in a golden vessel in preparation for Sukkos, or practicing bringing the korban Pesach in honor of Pesach is a charade at best, a deviant practice at worst. Part and parcel of normative Torah Judaism is the understanding that we must serve Hashem on His terms— which are clearly delineated for us in the form of mitzvos and minhagim—as opposed to serving Him in a manner that makes us feel spiritual.

When the Chafetz Chaim promoted the study of Seder Kodshim as a means of preparation for the upcoming rebuilding of the Beis Hamikdash, he never advocated practicing the various types of avodah.

If these women and their male counter-

parts truly desire to bring Moshiach closer, they would be wise to focus their efforts on Torah and mitzvos so that they can channel their passion and devotion toward something worthwhile.

Genendel Krohn EDITOR’S NOTE: We apologize if it was not clear enough in the article that it is forbidden to go up to the Har Habayis.

Cutting Family Ties Heeding the warning signs In reference to “Update: Shattered Hearts,” Issue 289:

Dear Editor: In response to the article about the mother who was cut out of her son’s life due to his wife, I am wondering why she didn’t intervene early on when there were disturbing signs as early as during sheva brachos.

A wife who can cut her husband off from his family (and vice versa) is someone who can wreak havoc in his life and in the life of their children and should be taken to task as soon as the behavior manifests itself.

SL

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LETTERS

Reinventing the Womb A natural alternative

In reference to “Clean Bill,” Issue 285

Dear Editor, As a PA and obstetrical sonographer now living in Israel, I was very impressed with your article concerning micro-preemies; especially with the revolutionary work of George Mychaliska, who is trying to devise a so called, “artificial” placenta.

As I understand it, rather than attaching premature babies to tubes and catheters to force-feed oxygen into their still immature lungs, Dr. Mychaliska and his colleagues are taking their cues from the “original” system, where the baby’s still immature lungs are bypassed altogether. Oxygen reaches the fetus through its umbilical cord, which draws it from its mother’s placenta.

By mimicking normal fetal circulation, Dr. Mychaliska and his renowned mentor, Dr. Robert Bartlett, (known for his groundbreaking work in extracorporeal membrane oxygenation, ECMO) hope their mechanical placenta will work like the real thing, by removing carbon dioxide and moving freshly oxygenated blood into the preemie without forcing its still growing lungs to work before they are physiologi-

cally ready for the job.

While I wish them much success, I prefer to “fix” the G-d-given system and keep the fetal circulation going “inside” the womb until the baby is due, thank you.

Fortunately for me and some of my colleagues, our mentor, the initiator of the so-called “Marilus Maneuvers,” has given us the tools to do so. Unlike medical methods for delaying premature delivery, the relatively simple postures and exercises we have been taught require no pharmaceutical or internal interventions.

And when followed judiciously, they are usually all a mother with a threatened premature birth needs to keep her growing fetus safely inside, both before and after such complications as PPROM, preterm labor and a shortened cervix.

Chava Blimes Kiryat Sefer

Always Here for You

a mother living with terrible shame and guilt for ruining her daughter’s marriage.

The article ends with the “failure” mother leaving her daughter’s home on Yom Kippur, seeing her daughter as an image of complete weakness. This mother is so engrossed in dealing with her shame, guilt, and need for forgiveness that she walks out on her daughter saying, “Be well—I’m going to shul now.” How self-centered. You don’t get away with enabling your daughter all these years, helping her ruin her marriage, mess up her kids, her life, and then say “Bye! Gotta go.”

Forget about your need to ask for forgiveness; it’s not about you anymore. You’re far from done. Get your precious daughter help. Professional help. You brought her to this, and now get her out of it. See that she gets the tools and skills to get herself back together and hopefully have a second chance to lead a wholesome, stable life.

MT

Don’t walk out now In reference to “Parenting,” Issue 288

Dear Editor, I was disturbed reading the article about

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PARSHAH

by Rabbanit Yemima Mizrachi

Learning from Noach

PARSHAT NOACH

Parshat

Bereishit concludes with the words “V ’Noach matza chein b’einei Hashem, Noach found grace in the eyes of Hashem” (Bereishit 6:8).

How did he merit this grace, which saved him and his family from the flood?

When a person chooses to focus on growing closer to those dearest to him, when he learns to exhibit kindness and selflessness toward his own flesh and blood, he acquires true chein in the eyes of Hashem. Noach was the epitome of a family man. He was noach, calm like the waters of a brook. During the mabul, while the world was turning over outside, he spent his time in the ark tending to the needs of his family.

Following the storm that wrecked the entire world, Noach emerged unscathed with his family and all of the animals he had gathered inside. The verse tells us, “L’mishpechoseihem yatzu min hateivah.”This is hard to understand; which family did they go to? There were no other creatures in the world after the flood. The Sifsei Chachamim tells us that the animals went to establish their own families because when they observed Noach’s devotion to his relatives, they understood the deep connection that only family provides.

Family is the glue that holds us together, the key to success. It’s very difficult for a person to survive the turbulent storms of

Rabbanit Mizrachi is one of Israel’s most popular speakers, with tens of thousands of students. Her lectures are attended by hundreds of women.

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life without this source of comfort and energy. Often, we think we’re managing just fine with friends. But when there’s a mabul, it is the family that surrounds us and provides us with the warmth and comfort we desperately need. There is no greater asset to invest in.

But not always is giving to the family very rewarding. After a long day of taking care of the little ones in your home, it is normal to feel drained. Sometimes it can be challenging to give so selflessly, to exercise selfrestraint, to work on your middos all the time; you just want to sit down and rest instead of running around tending to everyone’s needs at all hours of the day and night. But investing in family, working to bring them together, building a home for Hashem—this is what gives you energy in the long run.

What happened when the world chose to disregard the importance of family and to indulge instead in selfish pleasure? “Malah ha’aretz chamas, the earth became filled with robbery” (Bereishit 6:11). Rav Dessler explains that chamas only happens when a person thinks he’s in this world to receive.

Everything he sees, then, becomes his.

A Jewish woman who wants to help her family emerge unscathed from the storms of life must have her mind and heart set on giving. But it is not enough simply to provide her husband and children with their needs.

She must do it with a happy heart. If a woman says, “Just a moment. Where does it say that I must cook for Shabbos with joy?

Can’t I just stand at the stove and stir the soup? Where does it say that I have to hug my children, that I have to greet my husband with a happy face?”

This is the unwritten Torah, dear sisters.

You won’t find it stated anywhere.

“Why do I have to do everything? And what happens if I don’t? I washed the dishes, I went to work, and I returned in a sour mood. Is that an aveirah?”

No. It’s not an aveirah. It’s worse than that. Parshas Noach calls this attitude chamas.

You rob your husband and children of joy.

You rob yourself of merit. You rob the world of your shining countenance.

Why is giving without joy considered chamas? Robbery is an offense that can be committed outside the parameters of sin. The Midrash tells us that in Noach’s day, people used to go to the market and taste a few peanuts.

Then they would taste the carob. The amount they sampled wasn’t even worth a cent; they couldn’t pay for it, and taking it didn’t constitute an aveirah. But every person did this, and it all added up. One drop and one drop, and then a flood.

You are not obligated to smile, dear women. Where does it say that your eyes have to shine all day long?

Nowhere. You don’t have to feel overjoyed when Shabbos comes. But if you don’t, you’re robbing your children of the joy of Yiddishkeit. If you can’t do it for yourself, do it for your family.

Of course, it is marvelous for a woman to carve out the time to do chesed, to give shiurim, to care for another Jew. But as the akeres habayis, her foremost role is to nurture her family.

Every child has only one mother. On many evenings when I leave the house to give a shiur, I feel a pinch in my heart as I pass the bedrooms where my children sleep peacefully. I look at their angelic faces, and I can’t silence the questions in my mind. Did I give them enough today? It’s true that the women waiting at the shiur are thirsty for words of Torah, but first I have to make sure that my children are satiated with my love.

But how can we always give with joy? How can we keep the stream of selflessness alive? Sometimes it gets stuffy in the ark. We feel like we need air, we need to escape. Your children wake you up in the middle of the night, and they’re always hungry. If dinner isn’t ready right on time, everyone complains; sometimes they throw a tantrum. You feel like you’re drowning in deep waters.

The greatest enemy of prayer is “noach,” when the waters are too calm. The Midrash tells us that in Noach’s time, there were no seasons. All year long, the weather was beautiful, just like in California. Rain fell once in 40 years. What a dream! But then the people forgot about Hashem. Everything was so perfect they had nothing to cry about.

It’s okay to experience fear every once in a while. It’s okay to experience discomfort that prompts you to pray.

The Chida tells us that fear is the appropriate emotion for the month of Cheshvan, when Parshas Noach is read.

Why? He explains that Cheshvan follows Elul and

Tishrei, the months that are known as “Yomim Nora’im,” frightful days during which our hearts are gripped with fear. We worry about what the new year will bring. But when is your prayer to Hashem to remember you for life more powerful—when you’re standing in shul or when you’re facing a tough day ahead?

During the 120 years that Noach was busy constructing the ark, he knew that a flood was coming. But when did he actually enter the teivah? “Noach, with his sons, his wife, and his sons’ wives, went into the ark because of the waters of the flood” (Bereishit 7:7). That’s when he entered—only when the rising waters forced him to seek refuge. Noach hadn’t experienced this fear, says the

What happened when the world chose to disregard the value of family and to indulge instead in selfish pleasure?

Chida, for the entire 120 years, but now that he was facing the reality of the flood, the fright became real as well.

This is the difference between the “fearful days” and the month of Cheshvan. When we encounter fearful moments, when the words “who will live” become reality, that’s when we have a genuine opportunity to enter the ark, to wrap ourselves in the safety of Hashem’s embrace. Now is your chance to make your life the rich, fulfilling experience you prayed it would be.

In Cheshvan, the month of Rachel Imeinu’s yahrtzeit, she begs us to cry. Yes—when the house feels stuffy, when the little kids and their arts and crafts projects are all over the place, that’s the time to pray. When the daily routine and the endless demands weigh heavily on your heart and eyelids, remember that everything is from Hashem, and connect to Him. Tell Him how badly you want to give of yourself with joy; express your pain at how sour you feel.

Connecting to Hashem through tefillah will make you feel so much better. It will fill you with the capacity to give with joy.  Facilitated by Shiffy Friedman 2 8 TA M U Z 5 7 7 3

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MOMENTS

BY RABBI YOEL GOLD

MARKED

T

hroughout her pregnancy, Gitty had been fearful about the health of her baby. She pleaded fervently with Hashem not to challenge her with an imperfect child. The first time she held her baby in her arms, Gitty counted ten fingers and ten toes, and reveled in her loud and healthy cry.

Thankfully, her baby had been born perfect.

Gitty was ecstatic.

Until her mother came to visit and noticed something on the baby’s face.

“What’s this spot on her face? Is this a birthmark?” she asked worriedly. “Is everything okay?”

It was then that Gitty noticed that a third of the baby’s face was discolored by a large pink blotch.

The doctor tried to calm Gitty, explaining that this kind of birthmark was common. It was called a port-wine stain since it often resembled a spilled drink, he told her, but sometimes it darkens—which is exactly what happened to Gitty’s baby.

The doctor assured her that it wasn’t harmful and could easily be treated by a dermatologist. Before they were discharged, he gave Gitty a referral.

Typically, large port wine stains are lightened with laser treatments, starting when the baby is six months old and continuing every three months until the birthmark has faded. The problem with that, the dermatologist told Gitty, is that for seven to 14

days following a laser treatment, the birthmark resembles a bruise. Some young patients may appear to have been struck, and there were parents who told stories of strangers approaching them to ask if they were abusing their children. Some parents had even been reported to the police.

To avoid such an uncomfortable incident, the dermatologist showed Gitty a sample letter often given to the parents of affected children, stating that the baby’s “bruise” was a result of laser treatment for a portwine stain and that the doctor’s office could be contacted for information.

Gitty and her husband scheduled the baby’s first treatment.

The session was booked for a Tuesday.

The following day Gitty’s grandfather was niftar. She immediately booked a flight to Chicago to see her father. She would be flying with her baby two days after the laser treatment.

If there was any place Gitty would have liked to avoid, the airport was certainly it.

The baby’s face would attract attention no matter where they were, and the airport would be swarming with authorities looking out for suspicious characters—including abusive parents crossing state lines to hide their maltreated children.

There were many challenges Hashem could have given her, she knew, and a baby with a birthmark was minor in the grand scheme of things. But still, it was a chal-

lenge she hadn’t expected, and she felt lost.

Gitty anxiously pushed her baby carriage through the airport on Sunday morning, clutching the doctor’s note just in case she was accused of child abuse. She kept looking around to see if anyone was eyeing her.

Would there be a scene?

As she approached security, she mentally prepared her speech: My baby has a birthmark. I have full permission to take her on the flight with me. Here is a letter from her doctor. How humiliating—to need a doctor to certify that you hadn’t beaten your own child!

From the back of the line, Gitty could not see the TSA agents questioning each passenger. Finally it was her turn. She stepped forward and hesitantly raised her eyes to meet the TSA agent’s.

To her shock, she noticed that he too had a port-wine stain covering a third of his face.

The agent looked at Gitty. He looked at the baby. And with a smile and a wink, he waved them through, no questions asked.  Rabbi Yoel Gold, rabbi of Congregation Bais Naftoli in Los Angeles, California, and a ninthgrade rebbe at Mesivta Birkas Yitzchok, has inspired hundreds of thousands of people with his stories through his popular video series. To watch some of his videos or to share your story with him, please visit InspireClips.com.

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

rt a m S

What’s the Perfect Place for a Newborn to Sleep?

Not too close, not too far from his parents A new report from the American Academy of Pediatrics suggests that parents should share a room with their newborn for at least the first six months—but not a bed.

“The whole phenomenon of SIDS implies that we don’t know 100 percent what is responsible, but we do have theories,” said Dr. Lori Feldman-Winter, a member of the task force on SIDS and coauthor of the report. “A baby that is within reach of its mother may have more comfort or physical stimulation from being in an environment with another person,” she explained, adding that proximity also facilitates nursing, which in itself has been shown to reduce the risk of SIDS by 70 percent. “Breastfeeding protects against many adverse outcomes.”

Dr. Ari Brown, an Austin-based pediatrician and author of the Baby411 book series, concurred. “There is an emphasis on room-sharing rather than bed-sharing, and the rationale is that data suggests a protective effect against SIDS when the baby is sleeping in the parents’ room. I would agree that this is sound advice. I might chalk it up to a parent’s sixth sense when a baby is nearby and making erratic noises…that helps save these babies.”

s

A CAUGHT ZIPPER DOESN’T ALWAYS MEAN YOU’RE STUCK WITH A PROBLEM. GRAB A LITTLE LIP BALM, RUN IT ALONG THE TRACK ON BOTH SIDES, AND WATCH IT OPEN RIGHT UP.

DON’T TRUST YOUR GUT FEELING A new study conducted by Harvard Kennedy School professor Jennifer Lerner and psychologist Dr. Christine Ma-Kellams of the University of La Verne has found that systematic thinkers are better at reading people than their intuitive counterparts, especially in an unfamiliar situation.

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“The most surprising thing is that our assumptions about what makes better ‘people readers’ aren’t aligned with reality. People think we should be intuitive.

But in novel situations, when you’re with people you may not know well, intuition doesn’t help you all that much. Thinking slowly and deliberately works better.”

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TRUTH OR CONSEQUENCES

AS TOLD TO SURI UNGAR

The Guilt of My Innocence 18

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I was being accused of something I hadn’t done—but I didn’t want my accuser to know the truth

“I

don’t believe you,” Mr. Freund barked into the phone.

“And unless you can prove otherwise, I will assume that you are the one who sent him that email.”

I had just sweated over a complex project for this client and turned in the magnum opus, yet here he was declaring me a liar only an hour after receiving it, without so much as a thank-you. Was this guy for real?

I was out doing errands when his call came. Conscientious person that I am, and assuming that it was yet another of his many requests for a revision, I was planning to pick up the phone only to tell him that I’d call him back when I was in front of my computer. Instead, I found myself the target of a hair-raising accusation, my hand frozen in place. I could sense his mounting fury as I limply loosened my grip on the can of tomato sauce I’d just taken off the shelf and watched it clang into the wagon as I cupped my hand over the mouthpiece.

“Seriously, Mr. Freund, I have no idea what you are talking about,” I whispered. “I sent the email to you, and only to you.”

I guess I’m getting ahead of myself, but this story still makes me reel even so many months later.

When Mr. Freund initially approached me, he made it clear that the project was a very secretive venture in an industry that was apparently shrouded in confidentiality and bound by complex legal restrictions. Therefore, he declared in an authoritative voice, before he revealed the nature of the job, he would need my word that it would remain a secret between us. He then launched into a five-minute monologue about how the news would revolutionize the Jewish world when it made international headlines.

If I detected a threatening edge to his tone, I dismissed it as my imagination. It sounded as though my big break were only a promise away, and I didn’t want to lose the opportunity.

The only problem was that he’d piqued my curiosity so much that I was worried I wouldn’t be able to carry such a classified secret in my head without exploding from the pressure. What if I was getting access to the Oval Office? How could I not tell my husband? As if reading my thoughts, he suddenly added, “I mean, you can tell your husband, if you like. But basically word cannot get out to the public. It is to remain embargoed until...”

I hardly heard the date. His share-with-spouse permission was a huge relief, dissolving the one obstacle in the way of my ac1 C H E S H VA N 5 7 7 7

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TRUTH OR CONSEQUENCES

“MR. FREUND, YOU WILL HAVE TO ASK HIM YOURSELF. I AM NOT YOUR PRIVATE DETECTIVE.” cepting his offer, so I hurriedly informed him that confidentiality was my standard business protocol and that he needn’t worry.

Just tell me already, I screamed inwardly, my mind bursting with all sorts of possibilities. What could it possibly be?

Poof ! To say that I was deflated when he exposed the details would be an understatement. I actually had to sit down to recover as he rattled on and on about a truly unexciting topic. And to think I’d been afraid it would disturb my shalom bayis! I would have had to bribe my husband to hear this one out.

In hindsight, I guess it was a big deal to Mr. Freund; it was a pet project of his that had taken several years to reach this stage.

But for me it was a relief that I wouldn’t have to go around choking on classified information.

Several days and many a phone call later, I emailed Mr. Freund the finished product and triumphantly ticked it off my to-do list.

I’d been working on the project so intently for the past few days that my refrigerator and fruit bowl now needed urgent replenishing. After being bent over the computer all that time, the fresh air outside was...a breath of fresh air.

Then his accusatory call came in.

“So how did Rabbi Gelb get hold of the email?” he demanded, gaining momentum. As it happens, Rabbi Gelb was due to receive the project for review once Mr. Freund authorized me to send it.

“I have no idea,” I squeaked, suddenly uncertain. “I sent it out to no one but you. I don’t even have Rabbi Gelb’s email address.”

“Does anyone else have access to your computer? Maybe your husband?”

So now he was dragging my poor husband into the dirt! For me, that was the last straw.

“Mr. Freund,” I announced, chin up, “you will soon discover whoever the guilty party is, because it is certainly not me. But I think you should make some inquiries in your office and verify every possibility before you continue to accuse me. Unless my toddler sent the email, there is no one else it could possibly have come from on my end.” I meant that last bit in jest. My toddler would sooner know how to jiggle a live mouse than an electronic one.

It turned out I had gone from the frying pan into the fire. He dismissed my little joke, attacking both my parenting and homemaking skills. “You mean your toddler has access to your computer? What kind of professional are you? That is definitely not

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what I signed up for.”

At that moment another call came in. I gladly excused myself and put Mr. Freund on hold. It was none other than Rabbi Gelb, whose number I had saved from a previous occasion.

“Hello,” he said calmly, clearly oblivious to the ruckus around him. “I just saw the email and called Mr. Freund about some small changes, but he told me to discuss them with you directly.”

I told him I’d call him back as soon as I got home and switched back to Mr. Freund, informing him who had just called and asking his permission to discuss the project with Rabbi Gelb. He told me to go right ahead; he was going to have me do it sooner or later anyway. His problem was purely an egotistical one, that he was not consulted before the email was somehow passed on.

“You know what?” he then challenged me. “If you are innocent here, why don’t you ask him how he got his hands on the email?”

So not only had he expected me to sign my life away over what he considered a Mossad secret, he was now turning me into his private detective. It would have made for an uproarious comedy had it not been so insulting and stomach-churning.

Hyperventilating, I hurried home to scroll through my sent emails. Not guilty. The only email I’d sent that morning had gone to Mr. Freund. I opened it several times to confirm and reconfirm that there were no mistaken CCs or BCCs. Then, just to assuage my own conscience, when I called Rabbi Gelb back, I politely inquired, “If you don’t mind, may I ask how you got the email?”

“Oh, Mr. Freund’s father works in our office,” he answered nonchalantly. “It was printed out and I got a copy.” He was very matter-of-fact about the whole thing, without even the slightest hint that I might think he’d obtained it in a deceitful manner.

Of course! How could I forget? Mr. Freund’s father worked with Rabbi Gelb; that must be the answer. Either he or a coworker had printed out the email. Whether it had been done with evil intent or not was not my business; I was cleared. It was strange that Mr. Freund hadn’t come to that conclusion himself, but I wasn’t about to get Rabbi Gelb, his coworkers or his father into trouble. And as my appalled husband reminded me, I was not required to do Mr. Freund’s dirty work, and I should tell him as much.

I cleared my throat and picked up the phone. “Mr. Freund,” I said with newfound confidence, “as I told you, I am innocent. I now know how Rabbi Gelb obtained the email, but I only asked

#2/52 LOOKS

him out of my own curiosity. You will have to ask him yourself. I am not your private detective.” There, I had said it.

“Well, as long as you refuse to tell me, I will continue to consider you guilty.”

As I assumed he would, Mr. Freund had the last word. Not because he was right, but because he’d left me speechless. Unable to muster a response, I hung up, mouth agape.

A few days later, Mr. Freund’s number flashed on my screen. The taste of vindication beckoned. Confidently, I answered.

He began as if nothing had transpired between us earlier in the week; he made some small talk, asked me to send him the draft version again so he could compare the two, and reminded me to send an invoice. He then asked me if I could do a follow-up job in the near future.

I had to pinch myself to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating. After taking a moment to gather my thoughts, I said firmly, “No, I cannot do any further work for you.”

“Why not?” he wanted to know, feigning cluelessness.

Although I had intended to steer clear of the old argument—I guess a few days was not enough time for me to feel mollified—we dove right back in where we’d left off. He then bragged about the tight ship he ran and how confident he was that no one on his end had been responsible for the errant email, whereas if I could be so negligent as to allow children near my computer, then I was the easiest to blame.

“Well, Mr. Freund,” I answered, “in that case I will admit it. That is precisely why I will no longer take work from you. We are Yidden, and we are expected to interact with each other in a certain way. Forget professionalism—show some ethics!”

When he began to rant all over again, I realized it was a ploy to get me to break my silence. Alas, it worked. I could no longer bear the brunt of his verbal abuse and blurted, “If you really want to know how he got the email, I will tell you, and I hope you won’t regret it. I am sorry to inform you—and I’m not sure why you didn’t figure it out for yourself—that it came from your father’s computer.”

And I truly was sorry, because what followed was a long moment of silence, and then a pained and pensive “Aha! That explains everything.”

I didn’t hear the rest of his feeble apology. The “acquittal” left me feeling somewhat lighter, but my tongue burned and my innocence was laden with guilt.

Ever since saving my own face, I have been plagued by guilt: Was it right of me to prove my innocence at someone else’s expense? Especially since that “someone” was the person he trusted most and whose betrayal had more serious consequences and was much more hurtful than if it had been anyone else. 

Names changed to protect privacy.

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

A

Mother’s Intuition Can she prove her innocence?

By Zisi Klein

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

N

othing could have prepared me for the frantic phone call I received one day in late October from my sister Suri.

“Shaindy!” she gasped. “Please say Tehillim. I’m flying out to California.”

“Wh…what happened?” I stammered. “Is it Shimon?”

Shimon is my niece Ruchy’s eight-month-old baby, born after four years of intense tefillos and longing. Ruchy is a sweetheart, the kind of girl who’d open up her closet and give you everything she owns—and then take you shopping for more. I was so excited—we all were—when her little prince was born. Although he arrived three weeks early, he had done well—until a certain point. Then he began losing weight and experiencing gastrointestinal problems.

The family kept me posted on his progress, and the last I had heard he was stable.

There was an ominous silence on the other end of the line, accompanied by choking sobs.

“Suri? Talk to me. Did something happen to Shimon?”

“Shimon is in the hospital...but it’s worse than that.”

“What’s going on? You’re scaring me!”

“It’s Ruchy. They threatened to have her arrested.”

“Who threatened her?” My head was starting to throb.

“The nurses in the hospital. They’re accusing her of harming her baby, making him sick. Oh, Shaindy, what are we going to do?”

“What?”

“Naftali’s in the hospital with Shimon because they won’t let Ruchy near him. I’m trying to get in touch with him. Oh, wait, he’s on the other line. Gotta go. Please daven for everyone.” And the line went dead.

I spent the next hour huddled over my Tehillim, trying to keep my hands from shaking. I had a knot in my stomach as I contemplated calling the rest of the family. Was I allowed to tell Mommy?

What about the others? Suri wasn’t picking up her phone, and I didn’t dare call Ruchy.

I must have aged ten years before Suri finally responded to my frantic texts. “I’m on the plane,” she stage-whispered. “I’ll call you after we land.”

By that evening our whole family was up in arms. Twenty-fouryear-old Ruchy was embroiled in a nightmare. The staff at a prominent California hospital were accusing her of causing harm to a minor by purposely withholding nourishment. Child Protective Services was not yet involved, but the specter loomed.

As I later learned, the doctors suspected that Ruchy was suffering from Munchausen syndrome by proxy (MSBP), a relatively obscure psychiatric disease in which a caregiver fabricates or induces mental or physical health problems in a patient in order to attract attention or get sympathy. (This is similar to Munchausen syndrome, a disorder in which the person himself feigns illness or psycho-

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logical trauma for the same reason.)

If it hadn’t been so horrendous, it would almost have been funny.

Ruchy was one of the most normal, level-headed young mothers I’d ever met. After waiting four anxious years for Shimon’s arrival, she might have been a bit overprotective, but she was still incredibly grounded and mature. Just the thought that she would do anything to hurt her precious child was absurd.

“It doesn’t make any sense,” Suri sighed into the phone. “They’re thinking of discharging the baby tomorrow—provided we hire a 24-hour nurse. They don’t trust Ruchy to take care of her own child.”

“What? Who’s going to pay for it?” My sister and her husband were struggling financially, and their son-in-law, Naftali, was still in kollel.

“I’m going to be the nurse,” Suri explained. “I showed the hospital my CPR and first-aid certification and they agreed—for now.

But I can only stay for so long.”

“What about your family? Your job?”

Another sigh. “Right now I need to take care of my daughter and little Shimon.”

Even though Ruchy lived out of town, she’d come back to Brooklyn to give birth and had stayed with her mother for the first four weeks. Shimon had been thriving then, slowly growing out of his newborn onesies, rarely crying and spending many hours sleeping peacefully. “A tzaddik of a baby” was how our mother, the proud elter-bubby, described him. Suri, whose babies had all suffered from colic, thought he was too good to be true.

The problems began when Shimon was around four months old.

His early weight gain tapered off and he seemed inordinately fussy, refusing to fall asleep. He would also cry pitifully after nursing and then vomit, hurling projectiles of sour milk onto everyone and everything. No amount of burping, soothing or Gripe Tea could calm him down. Ruchy, who had given up her job as a special ed teacher, was kept busy running from one doctor to the next, trying to figure out what was wrong. Gastric issues, they all agreed, a severe case of late-onset acid reflux. “We usually see this in newborns,” said her pediatrician, “but there’s always an exception to the rule.”

By the time he was five months old, Shimon was down to what he’d weighed two months earlier. The doctor the family was now consulting began to suspect a genetic disease and ordered a battery of tests. Ruchy could hardly breathe as she waited for the results.

It was torture not knowing what was going on.

All the tests were negative, but the vomiting and weight loss continued. As the days passed, this formerly active baby lost his appetite and became listless. Ruchy had been nursing and supplementing his feedings; now she switched to a specialized formula, Nutramigen, on her doctor’s advice. The new formula didn’t achieve the desired response, and the child began to fade.

Soon Shimon was too weak to eat. He also developed a fever, possibly in response to an ear infection, which further suppressed

his appetite. He was rushed to the hospital, where a feeding tube was threaded through his nose down into his stomach to provide him with nourishment. The tube was very uncomfortable, and the poor baby kept pulling it out. For the next few weeks he was in and out of the hospital, until a feeding tube was inserted directly into his stomach, bypassing the esophagus, which was raw from all the vomiting. The doctors were befuddled; these were atypical symptoms, and they weren’t sure it was a food allergy. Perhaps, they conjectured, it was a genetic disease, or maybe there was an internal obstruction.

The last time I’d seen little Shimon was at a relative’s wedding.

I could hardly suppress my dismay. His legs were matchstick thin, his arms like twin toothpicks. His eyes were sunken into his sallow face. He was seven months old but looked like a newborn. There was no sign of the healthy, smiling baby I had grown to love. A thin plastic tube extended down his leg from a port in his stomach; every three hours it was attached to a small machine his parents carried around in a knapsack that pumped special formula into his emaciated body.

“If you think this is bad, you should have seen him before the feeding tube,” Ruchy told me sadly. She was still the same Ruchy, but there was now a weariness in her eyes and a sag in her shoulders.

A short time later Ruchy sent us some pictures of Shimon, trying to crawl while pulling on his feeding tube, half-sitting (he still needed to be supported), and perched on Naftali’s shoulders, his knapsack dangling down his father’s back. “Our brave little soldier,” her caption proclaimed. Ruchy was a trooper, no doubt about it.

But now Shimon was in the hospital again, and she was being accused of deliberately starving him in a sick ploy to gain attention.

“It’s really scary,” Suri told me. “All he does is whimper. When I held him, he didn’t even open his eyes.”

“Nebach. Poor baby. Are the nurses taking good care of him?”

“The nurses are the ones causing all the problems! Or at least one of them is. The head nurse, Theresa, has had it in for Ruchy ever since the first time Shimon was hospitalized. She insists that Ruchy is sabotaging his feeding tube.”

“That’s ridiculous! Why would she hurt her baby? Ruchy has dedicated her life to trying to plump Shimon up, sitting with him day and night. And she’s done tons of research. I’ll bet she knows more about feeding tubes than the nurse herself!”

“That’s part of the problem.” My sister lowered her voice to a whisper. “The hospital staff is claiming that she’s obsessed with the feeding tube and manipulating it to keep him hospitalized. I feel like I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole.” Suri, my strong, grounded sister, was sobbing. “And now she can’t even see her own child!

She’s falling apart, refusing to eat or sleep. All she does is walk around like a zombie.”

The words were out of my mouth before I could think them through. “I’m coming,” I told my sister. “You guys could definitely use some help. I’m booking a flight for tomorrow morning.”

“You don’t have to do that,” my sister said halfheartedly, as if daring me to disagree. “Your kids need you. Everything’s really under control. Some askanim are working on it—” “There’s nothing to talk about. See you tomorrow, im yirtzeh Hashem,” I said, putting down the phone. I spent the next few hours calling a travel agent, making arrangements for my children and finding a sub for my teaching job. My niece’s life was falling apart; it was the least I could do for her.

Ruchy and I had always been very close. I was the youngest child in the family, born after five rambunctious boys. My sister Suri was already a teenager when I made my appearance, depriving her of her only-girl status, but she loved me from the start. It was Suri who wiped away my tears, chose my clothes in the morning and put me on the school bus when my mother went out to work.

When Suri became a kallah, no one was more elated than her four-year-old sister. I still remember the delicate mauve gown with the matching gloves that I wore to her wedding, and the little wreath of flowers that was woven into my hair. I treasure the photograph of that special day, proudly displayed on my bureau along with pictures of our own three little ones. When Ruchy was born, I was the proud aunt, cuddling her and singing her songs.

Suri, who lived around the corner, was thrilled to have another pair of hands, especially when Ruchy’s brother was born 13 months later. Ruchy literally grew up in our house, playing with my doll collection and spending long, lazy Shabbos afternoons on our sagging couch. Whenever my niece had a school project or test to study for, I’d sit with her for hours. Ruchy was the first person I told about my impending engagement. She joined me for most of my shopping trips, helping me decide on the linens and décor for my new apartment. The tables were turned a few years later when

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

“The hospital staff is claiming that she’s obsessed with the feeding tube and manipulating it to keep him hospitalized. I feel like I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole.” Suri, my strong, grounded sister, was sobbing.

“And now she can’t even see her own child!

Ruchy became a kallah. I was a busy young mother by then, but never too busy for my favorite niece.

Now Ruchy was in trouble. She needed me more than ever.

After a somewhat turbulent flight, I took a cab to Ruchy’s apartment, dreading what I might find. My sister was at the hospital with the baby, leaving Ruchy and her husband, Naftali, at home. He opened the door and perked up when he saw me.

“I’m so glad you came. Ruchy is going to need a lot of support.

She’s taking this very hard.”

“I can imagine,” I replied. “What are the charges against her?”

“Nothing yet, but the doctors are warning us that it might turn ugly. They want Ruchy to give up custody voluntarily and let them be in charge of Shimon’s care.” He clenched his fists in anger. “As if I’d trust them!”

“That’s nuts!”

By now Ruchy had joined us in the kitchen. She was rail-thin and her eyes had a haunted look. We embraced, and she offered me something to drink.

“No, thanks,” I told her. “First I want to hear everything.”

“It all started the first time Shimon was hospitalized,” she began.

“He’d been cranky for days, vomiting around the clock. He couldn’t keep any food down. I was spoon-feeding him Pedialyte—that’s what the pediatrician told me to do—but he kept kvetching.

Eventually we took him to the ER, where they decided to keep him for observation.”

“Did they test him for anything?”

“Test him? The poor baby was there for three days,” Naftali said.

“They subjected him to a CAT scan, an MRI, multiple blood tests and a spinal tap. By the end of the three days he was too exhausted to cry. And after all that, they still couldn’t find anything wrong.”

“All they could come up with was acid reflux,” said Ruchy, picking up the story. “They said I was probably overfeeding him—which is pretty ironic, because now they’re saying that I’m underfeeding him. Whatever.” She heaved a tortured sigh. “They told me to feed him Nutramigen, a special formula for sensitive babies that costs $60 a can. I honestly don’t think it agrees with him, but that’s what they insisted I use.”

“So it didn’t help?”

Naftali snorted. “You can see how much it’s helping. Sometimes the food stays down for a while, but sooner or later everything comes out. When they first put the feeding tube in his nose he was doing well, but after he pulled it out a few times they decided to implant a port in his stomach. The nurses taught us how to take care of it and sent us home.”

But soon they were back in the hospital because the vomiting continued. Sometimes it was formula coming up, but other times the vomit was thin and watery. “It was very strange,” Ruchy said.

“Where was the water coming from? The doctors thought I was crazy when I mentioned it. But Theresa took it very seriously and accused me of putting water into the feeding tube instead of formula.”

“That’s insane. Why would they think you did that?”

“Because I kept making a fuss about the Nutramigen. I really

don’t think it’s helping, but at this point I can’t switch to something else because the doctors are on my case. Theresa thinks I’m so obsessed with my baby’s condition that I’m deliberately making sure he keeps losing weight to keep him in the hospital.” Her face contorted with anguish. “She made such an ugly scene in front of everyone! I couldn’t stop crying.”

Our conversation was interrupted by Ruchy’s cell phone. It was Suri, calling to inform us that the doctors had changed their minds and Shimon would not be discharged after all. Fortunately, due to the askanim’s intervention, Ruchy was now allowed to visit the baby, provided she was under supervision at all times.

I held my niece’s hand tightly as we rode the elevator up to Pediatrics and stopped at the nurses’ station. Ruchy tensed visibly as Theresa, a tall, blonde nurse with sharp features, greeted us with frosty politeness, her eyes never leaving Ruchy’s face.

“Good afternoon, Rachel. I see you’re back. We’re going to keep a watchful eye on Shimon today. He was supposed to be discharged this afternoon but he’s lost another few ounces, so you get your wish and he gets to stay a while longer.”

Ruchy bit her lip and remained silent, with visible effort.

“Can I see him now?” she finally asked with as much dignity as she could muster.

“Your doctor has agreed to allow supervised visitation. I see you’ve brought an entourage,” Theresa said, looking me up and down.

“I’m the aunt. I came to help,” I managed. If looks could kill, Theresa would have been holding my head on a platter.

She led us to Shimon’s crib in the ICU. I gasped when I saw my poor nephew lying listlessly on his back, eyes half-closed. He was whimpering as if in pain, his small stomach convulsing.

“My little lamb,” I crooned. “What’s happening to you?”

“We are trying to help him,” Theresa snapped. “We upped his feeds and are making sure that he receives the proper nourishment.

He won’t be discharged until his condition stabilizes and we are confident that he will be receiving adequate care at home.” She gazed directly at Ruchy.

“What kind of formula are you giving him?” I ventured. It was a loaded question that slipped out innocently. Theresa bristled.

“Nutramigen,” offered Janice, a nurse’s aide who seemed to be a bit friendlier. “We’re giving him three ounces every three hours. In

fact, he’s just finishing a feed right now.”

At that moment, as she bent over the crib to check on his progress, he suddenly tensed up and moaned. As we watched, horrified, Shimon began to vomit. The aide lifted him up as he retched all over her uniform, with a force that was surprising for such a small child.

“My poor baby,” said Ruchy, stretching out her arms. “Let me hold him.”

Janice handed him to his mother before Theresa could protest.

Ruchy soothed him lovingly, as only a mother can.

“So what do you say now? Are you still blaming my daughter for what just happened?” Suri demanded. “She hasn’t been near the baby for the last two days!”

“I’m not sure what’s going on,” Theresa replied with a touch of hesitation. “This has never happened before.”

“He vomited last night,” Janice interjected. “It says so right here on the chart.”

Theresa colored. “Well, then, we may have to switch to a continuous feed with a much smaller amount of formula. The doctor will reevaluate him later this afternoon.”

“I know it’s the formula!” Ruchy protested. “I’ll keep saying it until I’m blue in the face.”

Theresa just stalked out of the room without a word.

Ruchy broke down in sobs. She handed me the baby and reached for a tissue. “Instead of taking care of him properly, all they’re doing is building a case against me. I begged them to take him off Nutramigen and put him on Neocate, which is also for sensitive babies, but no one is paying attention.”

“I’m going to talk to the doctor,” I promised.

“Don’t bother. They won’t take you seriously. It’s like ‘I made up my mind—don’t confuse me with the facts.’”

Little Shimon seemed to be in a better mood now that the offending formula was out of his system. He drifted off to sleep in my arms, his small fists unclenching, his stomach relaxed.

I stayed in the hospital with my sister and niece the whole afternoon. We were waiting for the doctor to arrive on his evening rounds so that we could have it out with him. “I’m so worried about Shimon that I’m even considering signing him out against medical advice,” Ruchy said.

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

“You can’t just take the baby away,” I cautioned. “They’re already suspicious. You could end up in jail!”

“I know. I’m gonna be in therapy for the rest of my life when this is all over.”

“You’re coming back to Brooklyn for a nice, long rest and some pampering,” I promised her. “But first we have to get the baby stabilized.”

Sitting near Shimon’s crib that day, I had ample opportunity to observe my niece in action. She seemed competent and calm, perfectly comfortable with his feeding tube and care. I couldn’t understand how anyone could accuse her of sabotaging his health.

Then again, there were so many horror stories nowadays. What if the stress of dealing with the baby’s issues had driven her over the edge?

When the doctor came in, I sensed the change in atmosphere.

He was curt and abrupt, not even bothering to listen to what we were saying. He refused to consider changing the formula or calling in other experts.

“This is ridiculous!” I said when he left. “They can’t hold you hostage here. This is a free country. You have to get another opinion.”

“I keep saying that but nobody listens,” said Ruchy.

That evening we reached out to several askanim who were connected in the medical community, and they arranged for a prominent pediatric gastroenterologist to visit the ICU and take a look at Shimon. The visit would cost nearly $1,000, but we didn’t think twice.

The gastroenterologist was courteous and professional, listening carefully to the child’s parents as he gently inspected the port and feeding tube. When Ruchy described the watery vomit, he nodded gravely.

“The water is fluid collecting near the esophagus. We see this all the time. This little boy is aspirating his formula. Whenever he eats, some of it ends up in the wrong place. That’s why he keeps vomiting, to clear his esophagus.”

The doctor agreed that Shimon’s formula should be switched to Neocate on a trial basis, but more importantly, he recommended a continuous feeding schedule instead of every three hours, with only a thin trickle every few minutes. He issued instructions to the nurses, wished us well and left. Then the wait began.

Incredibly, 24 anxious hours passed without any vomiting—of

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either formula or water. Slowly but surely our precious Shimon began to wake up, shaking off the lethargy that had been caused by starvation and exhaustion. The nurses were tight-lipped as they witnessed the transformation, forced to agree that the specialist was right. While no mention was made of dropping the charges, they began to treat Ruchy with newfound respect.

Two days later Shimon was discharged into the arms of his grateful mother. There were plenty of follow-up visits to the doctor as well as nurses’ visits to the home, but overall the crisis was over.

My little nephew began to gain weight and thrive. In the course of a single month he learned how to sit up, turn himself over and stand on his skinny legs.

By the time he was nine months old, he had already caught up to the average seven-month-old. His feeding tube was removed six weeks later, and he was painstakingly introduced to a bottle.

Naftali and Ruchy were in constant contact with their doctor, who applauded his progress. There was no mention of Munchausen by proxy syndrome again.

On his first birthday Shimon took his first steps, cheered on by his adoring extended family. Two days later the hospital formally closed the case. My niece was declared a competent parent, and the hospital issued a formal apology. Thankfully, Child Protective Services was never contacted or the ordeal would have lasted much longer.

The nightmare was over, but it left its scars. Ruchy is still very wary of doctors and hospitals, avoiding them as much as possible.

She is extremely grateful that her story had a happy ending, unlike that of many other parents unjustly pilloried for harming their children. Some have even been jailed or faced murder charges after their children passed away from SIDS. (A few years ago Ami ran a serial, Crib in the Attic, based on one such true story.)

Shimon now has a normal appetite. Thankfully, he has no recollection of his feeding tube or extended hospitalizations, unlike his parents, who will never forget the trauma. It was only our insistence on bringing in a specialist who was willing to pay attention to Ruchy’s pleas that saved an entire family from unspeakable disaster.  To submit your story for this column or to have your story featured here, please contact us at submissions@amimagazine.org.

l a c i d e m utNe misn ews t Health

Late arch from and Resethe World Around

FOUR HOME REMEDIES FOR RHEUMATOID ARTHRITIS PAIN TRY ANTI-INFLAMMATORY FOODS—Omega3-rich foods, like some fish, help reduce inflammatory proteins that can cause arthritis pain.

EXERCISE—Without regular exercise, your pain meds won’t be able to beat the effects of lack of conditioning.

GET SLEEP—Sleep problems can cause stress hormones to spike, increasing pain, as well as increasing depression and other conditions associated with pain.

USE HEAT AND COLD—Alternating hot and cold therapies can help; you may want heat for sore muscles and cold for swollen joints.

A Pill for Alzheimer’s?

Researchers at Baylor College of Medicine, Texas Children’s Hospital and Johns Hopkins University School of Medicine have suggested, in a paper in the journal Neuron, that a preventative treatment might keep people at risk for Alzheimer’s from developing the disease or delay its onset.

Their research looked at ways of keeping the protein known as tau from forming in the brain; tangles of tau are believed by many researchers to be a cause of brain degeneration in Alzheimer’s patients.

The researchers found that by inhibiting the enzyme known as Nuak1, they were able to bring down tau levels in fruit flies and in human cells. And when they inhibited it in mice engineered to have a version of Alzheimer’s, the brain degeneration and its symptoms did not take place. The scientists believe that this may lead to a pill that can stave off Alzheimer’s, similar to the way anti-cholesterol drugs stave off heart attacks.

A study of patients with lower-back pain who were taking opioids, despite the potential for addiction, found that only 13 percent of subjects said they were very successful in treating the pain.

Defeating MRSA’s Decoy Molecules The deadly bacteria known as MRSA, or methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus, may act like a fighter aircraft or submarine escaping enemies, releasing decoys to trick antibiotics that are closing in on it, according to new research from Imperial College London.

About 30 percent of MRSA infections cannot be treated with the last-ditch antibiotic daptomycin, which leaves patients in real danger of losing their lives. What the researchers found is that some MRSA bacteria release a fatty molecule that resembles the outer shell of the bacteria itself. Daptomycin, rather than latching onto the MRSA and destroying it, attaches to the decoy molecule and is deactivated.

The researchers found that using certain other antibiotics with daptomycin stops MRSA from deploying the decoys. For example, oxacillin cannot treat MRSA on its own, but it does reduce the decoy production of the MRSA bacteria, allowing daptomycin to work. New drugs are being developed based on this discovery.

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(American Society of Anesthesiologists) |

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y l o H Woman

DISCOVERING THE HIDDEN HENNY MACHLIS ON HER FIRST YAHRTZEIT

H

By Sara Yoheved Rigler

earing that I was writing a book about Henny Machlis, a”h, some people asked me, “Did you know her?”

Did I know Henny Machlis? I’m not sure how to answer that question.

I first met Henny in 2002, when I was sent to interview her. Of course, I knew—as everyone in Yerushalayim knew—that the Machlises hosted over a hundred guests for both meals of Shabbos, every Shabbos, in their modest Yerushalayim apartment. I knew that anyone and everyone was welcome. I went expecting to meet a great exemplar of chesed. Instead I met a unicorn.

A unicorn is a mythical creature that does not really exist. From that first meeting 14 years ago until the last of the 90 interviews I conducted to write the book, I was so 1 C H E S H VA N 5 7 7 7

astonished by what I heard that my rational mind kept thinking, How can this person actually exist? How can an American-born woman made from the same fiber as the rest of us be so utterly—shockingly—great?

And not just in chesed. When I started researching the book, I discovered that she was also a great exemplar of tefillah, of devotion to Torah, of working on middos, of raising her 14 children with boundless love, and of an emunah that shattered the limitations of the physical world. Researching Henny’s life was like entering a cave of treasures. The deeper I went, the more dazzled I became by the endless trove of gems I discovered.

PASSION FOR MITZVOS An example was her passion not only to perform mitzvos but also to get all other Jews to perform mitzvos. Teaching her seminary class, Rebbetzin Machlis explained that the seeming repetition (Shemos 13:16|

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“SUKKAH WAS ONE OF HENNY’S FAVORITE MITZVOS… SHE USED TO SAY THAT THE SUKKAH IS ONE BIG HUG FROM HASHEM.” 46

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17) of the mitzvah of eating matzah on Pesach means that not only should you eat matzah, but you should also try as much as you can to get all Jews to eat matzah. Thus, one Pesach, when she and her family were staying in the Israeli seaside town of Ashkelon, the following took place: On the last day of Chol Hamoed, they made an excursion to the marina. A yacht had just docked, with an American couple who were sailing around the world. The wife was Jewish, but she knew nothing about Pesach and she had never eaten matzah on Pesach. The next day, which was Yom Tov, Henny walked all the way back to the marina to bring the woman some matzah to eat.

“It was the first time she ever ate matzah on Pesach,” Rebbetzin Machlis effused to her seminary students. “So it’s not enough that you eat matzah, but every Jew you know should also be eating matzah. In America, wherever you are, there may be people who have never eaten matzah. You carry around a few matzos in your pocketbook and you say, ‘Oh, are you Jewish? Would you like to have matzah?’”

Henny’s first cancer surgery took place on 1 C H E S H VA N 5 7 7 7

a Thursday in Yerushalayim’s Shaare Zedek Medical Center. On Friday, she asked her daughters to bring her dough so she could fulfill the mitzvah of challah. In her hospital bed, weak from surgery, Henny kneaded the dough, and then asked for the staff to gather around her bed. She explained to the dozen Jewish doctors and nurses that before she did the mitzvah of separating a piece of the dough, she was going to say a brachah, and they should say, “Amen.” Then, in the merit of the great mitzvah of challah, they should ask Hashem for whatever they want.

After that, Henny’s daughters took the dough home, baked challahs, and brought some back to the hospital for their mother to eat on Shabbos. The point of all their exertion was not for Henny to have challah to eat, but for Henny to do—and share—the mitzvah.

Sukkah was one of Henny’s favorite mitzvos. During Yom Tov, she ate and slept in the sukkah. The large Machlis sukkah had a dining area and several separate bedrooms.

She used to say that the sukkah is one big hug from Hashem.

Even during her last Sukkos, a week before

PHOTO CREDIT: EUGENE WEISBERG PHOTOGRAPHY

The Shabbos table in Machlis home

she passed away, Henny refused to leave the sukkah. It was an oppressively hot week, and her husband begged her to go inside to the air conditioning, but Henny wanted to stay in the Divine embrace of the sukkah.

In her weakened state, it took her 20 minutes to walk from the sukkah to the bathroom, but still she wanted to stay in the sukkah every moment possible. When her family pleaded with her to go into the house where she would be more comfortable, Henny got upset. She said, “Why do you torture me? Why won’t you let me do one more mitzvah?”

Henny made many shidduchim in the same way that a carpenter constructs an aron kodesh, devoting time, energy, skill and much hard work to building the holy edifice. She understood that behind people’s reasons for rejecting this or that match is often the dread of marriage itself, a fear born sometimes of a divorce in the family or a traumatic past. Tali was an 18-year-old girl from California whom Henny took under her wing and influenced to become religious. When Tali was 21, Henny suggested a shidduch to her. Tali, however, was too scared. Her father had abandoned her family when she was nine years old, and Tali feared that the same thing would happen to her.

Henny begged her to meet the young man. Out of her love for Henny, Tali agreed, but in the Machlis home right before the date, her fears overcame her.

Henny reassured her, “I’ll go with you. I’ll hold your hand. I’ll be there the whole time.”

As Tali recounts: “Because she said that, I found the courage to say, ‘Okay, I’ll go on my own.’ She gave me hugs and kisses.

I was very nervous as I went to meet Yitzchak. I saw him, and I got really scared off and angry in my heart, and I started to get upset with Henny, thinking, Why did I do this?”

Henny was there for Tali every step of the way, encouraging, directing, and supporting her until the couple finally married.

As Tali concludes her account: “I’m 42 now, and I know that I still wouldn’t be married nor have my beautiful 13 children if it weren’t for Henny. It was all because I believed in Henny Machlis.”

THE PILLAR OF TORAH The world stands on three pillars: Torah, tefillah, and chesed. A great person is one who excels in one of these areas. Henny excelled in all three.

Her devotion to Torah was evident even in her youth in Brooklyn. Her sister Esther saw her carrying a pile of Torah volumes one evening when Henny was involved in a shidduch with a young rabbi named Mordechai Machlis. “I thought you were going out with Mordechai tonight,” Esther said.

“I am,” replied 21-year-old Henny.

“What do you think we’re going to do on the date?”

Growing up in Yerushalayim, the Machlis children received a siyum as a birthday gift. Rabbi Machlis would learn a masechta, and Henny would prepare a special fleishig meal. The family, amidst much joy and excitement, would celebrate the birthday as the culmination of a portion of Torah study.

As their daughter Yocheved remembers, “It was my mother’s biggest joy that my father was learning. On our birthdays, we got a siyum instead of gifts, and that was so special. Whenever we had a siyum, all the kids would be so happy. It was the biggest simchah.”

At the beginning of one academic year, one of Rabbi Machlis’ teaching jobs was cancelled at the last minute. Henny was not disappointed. She told him that now he’d have more time to learn.

Henny’s nephew Rabbi Eliyahu Dershowitz recalls one Motzaei Shabbos at the Machlis home. After hundreds of guests, the house was in shambles. “Uncle Mordechai had a quick Melaveh Malkah and then he went out to learn. I remember Aunt Henny and I were standing in the hallway, and she said to me, ‘You know, Eliyahu, when Uncle Mordechai and I got married, we made a deal. The deal is, any time he wants to go out to learn, he can go out to learn no matter what’s going on in the house. All he does is say that he wants to go learn, and he goes to learn.’”

Henny not only encouraged her husband and sons to learn, but she was a scholar in her own right. As a visitor said to Rabbi Machlis, “In the beginning when I started

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coming here, I knew that you’re a talmid chacham and she’s a ba’alas chesed. But then I discovered that you’re a big baal chesed and she’s a big talmidah chachamah.”

Rabbi Machlis always asked his wife to give a dvar Torah during the Shabbos meals.

He often said, “My wife is a greater talmidah chachamah than I am.”

One of the delights of writing Emunah with Love and Chicken Soup was including Henny’s Torah teachings from the transcripts of her classes in two seminaries as well as her class for adult women in Ramat Beit Shemesh. Her teachings were downto-earth, directed at real Jewish women and girls, with practical applications of wisdom from the weekly parshah.

An example from her class on Parshas Lech Lecha: How is it that Lot was taken into captivity?

It was because he was in Sedom! What was he doing in Sedom? Rashi points out that the source of the problem was that Lot settled in Sedom.

That would have been a perfect out for Avraham Avinu. It was Lot’s own fault. He was attracted to the sinfulness of Sedom… He made his bed. Let him lie in it!

No! No! No! Avraham teaches us a new dimension in chesed. Even if the suffering person is responsible for his own downfall, we are still obligated to help. We warned the chain smoker about the consequences of his smoking.

He didn’t listen. If he’s sick now, it’s his own fault. Remember Avraham!

We told them not to get involved with drinking or drugs. Now they’re suffering. It’s their own fault. Remember Avraham!

We told them that the very anti-religious

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atmosphere that they’re opting for will cause their downfall. It’s their own fault. Remember Avraham!

THE PILLAR OF CHESED In terms of the pillar of chesed, while the Machlis Shabbos hospitality was famous, less well known was the daily chesed Henny did to everyone who came to their house.

As Rena Coren, a seminary student who volunteered in the Machlis kitchen, remembers: “The door was always open to the extent that anyone could walk in. Sometimes people who were not so mentally balanced would walk into the kitchen and start eating the food we were making for Shabbos, like taking a pulka. I’m from Long Island. The first time it happened, I was freaked out.

Why are you letting this guy in? He’s not normal.

“But the attitude of the Rebbetzin was, ‘Of course they should come in. Just let them eat. It’s fine.’

“I remember this person who wasn’t well (sometimes people who are not well see things the rest of us don’t see) who said, as he was munching on his chicken, ‘You should know that this is the home of Avraham and Sarah.’

Pointing with the drumstick in his hand toward Henny, he said, ‘This is Sarah Imeinu.’”

Indigent people would “go shopping” in the Machlis kitchen. They would show up on a weekday with their shopping cart, and help themselves to canned goods and packages from the cabinets. As Chanah Magori recounts: “One Friday I was helping Henny prepare

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for Shabbos. Some people came in and said they needed tuna fish, and they emptied out the cabinet of all the cans of tuna fish. I got upset. I said petulantly, ‘Henny, how are we going to make the tuna salad for the 50 people coming for seudah shlishis?’

“She looked at me and explained calmly, ‘Don’t worry, Chanah. We’re going to have tuna fish for seudah shlishis, but we’re going to have it in their house instead of in our house.’”

The Machlises made weddings and sheva brachos in their house, often for people they barely knew. They made their home available for people to sit shivah. The two couches in the living room were almost always occupied by an array of people: new immigrants, homeless vagrants, and men convicted of minor crimes serving their terms of house arrest in the Machlis home.

The night before Henny’s first cancer surgery, she made a wedding in the house.

Her surgery was scheduled for 9 a.m. Thursday morning, and she made a wedding, cooking and serving the seudah, on Wednesday night. While most people would feel

PHOTO CREDIT: EUGENE WEISBERG PHOTOGRAPHY

Rabbi Machlis

THE MACHLISES MADE WEDDINGS AND SHEVA BRACHOS IN THEIR HOUSE, OFTEN FOR PEOPLE THEY BARELY KNEW.

that the best preparation for surgery is rest and calm, Henny believed that the best preparation for surgery is to generate more spiritual merit. When her children objected to her making the wedding so close to the surgery, Henny responded, “Let it be a zechus for me.”

Henny lived in a world of sufficiency, where everything necessary was supplied by a good and loving G-d. As her daughter Elisheva declared, “My mother’s mantra was: I have all the money; I have all the time; I have all the space. She always said, ‘I have all the money,’ although she had no money.

She would say, ‘I have all the time,’ although she had no time. ‘I have all the space,’ although she had no space, because we were 14 children.”

Indeed, this may have been the secret behind all of Henny’s copious accomplishments. As her teacher at Central Brooklyn, Rabbi Shlomo Teichtel, who was a significant influence on her life, explained, “Some people want to do a lot, but they get overwhelmed. They feel that it’s too much, too hard. Henny didn’t get overwhelmed. Her goal was to do and to help, and she didn’t worry about it being too much.”

Henny spent hours talking to people and giving them chizzuk. At Henny’s shivah, a man with long peiyos and wearing chasidishe garb, said, “It’s only because of Henny Machlis that I have Jewish children. I have never told this story publicly before. I feel that if I don’t share it now during shivah, it would be the epitome of ingratitude.” Taking a deep breath, he continued, “I was a lost cause. I was going out with a goyishe girl.

Henny spent days talking to me.”

Days? Where did this busy mother of many children and hostess to hundreds find the time to spend days talking to one errant Jew? Somehow Henny expanded time. Her mantra, “I have all the time,” distilled into her reality.

THE PILLAR OF PRAYER As for the pillar of tefillah, Henny was a master of four different kinds of tefillah: Praying the standardized tefillah from the siddur; reciting Tehillim; speaking to Hashem

throughout the day; and doing hisbodedus.

As her daughter Elisheva remembers: “For her whole life, my mother davened three times a day. At Sloan Kettering Hospital, she was getting ready for a treatment. She said to me, ‘I just remembered that it’s Rosh Chodesh, and maybe after treatment I won’t have enough energy to daven. Elisheva, if they come in, just ask them to wait a few minutes.’ She went to the corner, put on her glasses, and davened Shacharis, Hallel, and Mussaf. She just loved Hashem.”

During different periods of her life, Henny recited the whole book of Tehillim every day, sometimes at the Kotel, sometimes at the nearby kever of Shimon Hatzaddik.

Henny’s son Moshe relates a story: After shivah, I went to a moneychanger.

He told me, “I remember how your mother used to sit here and say Tehillim when she needed a certain amount of money.” Let’s say she needed 50,000 shekels for a pressing project, and he didn’t have that amount of shekalim. He would say, “Geveret Machlis, I don’t have the money and I’m not getting it today.”

My mother would say, “Do you mind if I sit here and say Tehillim?” She used to sit there, saying Tehillim for a while.

Then a guy would walk in wanting to change shekels to dollars. He’d say, “Can you change 50,000 shekels?” According to the moneychanger, this happened several times, exactly the sum my mother needed.

Henny taught that prayer should not be reserved for certain times. A Jew should talk to Hashem all day long. To women who told her that they didn’t have time to daven Shemoneh Esrei, Henny counseled them to utilize other times to speak to Hashem. She told Tali, eventually the mother of 13 children, to speak to Hashem while she’s nursing her babies, and added, “Even if you wake up at night to turn from left to right, talk to Hashem.”

“Formal davening is important,” she told her niece, “but you can talk to Hashem in any way you can. The kids are behaving?

Thank Hashem. The dinner turned out well?

Thank Hashem. The baby is having a tantrum? Turn to Hashem for help.”

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As a faithful follower of the Ramban, who wrote that someone who doesn’t believe that everything is a miracle has no part in the Torah of Moshe Rabbeinu, Henny did not believe in nature. For example, carrots and cucumbers contained vitamins not because they were endowed with vitamins by nature, but because Hashem implanted vitamins in this particular carrot or cucumber—or not.

That’s why she prayed over the food she gave her children—whatever it was—that it should be healthy and nutritious for them.

For those who wonder how Henny functioned for years on so few hours of sleep, the answer was the same—she prayed.

“Before I go to sleep, I ask that whatever sleep I manage to get tonight will be enough to give me the koach I’ll need for tomorrow.”

Henny knew that Hashem controls not only the movement of the planets, but also the movement of a child’s teeth. One of Henny’s daughters sucked her thumb for a long time. Everyone said she would need braces for her buckteeth. Henny, asserting that Hashem could make her daughter’s teeth straight even without the expense of braces, davened that her teeth should become straight. This author can testify that now, in her 20s, this daughter’s teeth are perfectly, beautifully straight, without benefit of braces.

Another daughter, at the age of 19, complained to her mother, “Why aren’t my teeth straight? Didn’t you daven for me to have straight teeth?”

Henny replied, “I davened for a lot of things for you, but because you didn’t suck your thumb, I forgot to daven for straight teeth.” That daughter now wears braces.

From the time her children were very young, Henny davened not only that they should each have a shidduch, but also that they should each own an apartment in Eretz Yisrael. This really flew in the face of natural cause-and-effect because the Machlises never had the funds even for their huge weekly expenses. (The massive Shabbos meals cost almost $3,000 per week.) Nevertheless, although none of their children married into wealth, five of their seven married children own apartments in Eretz Yisrael—each one with a miraculous story. |

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The biggest snowstorm to hit Yerushalayim in 67 years struck on the Thursday night before the bar mitzvah of the Machlises’ oldest grandson Elisha Willig. The bar mitzvah would take place in Ramat Beit Shemesh, almost an hour’s drive from Yerushalayim. Although Ramat Beit Shemesh, far below the hills of Yerushalayim, had no snow, it became impossible to leave the city, because all the roads out of Yerushalayim were snowbound and closed.

Rabbi Machlis called various transport companies in an effort to get his family to the bar mitzvah, but to no avail.

While their daughter Yocheved was in tears at the prospect that her parents would miss her son’s bar mitzvah, Henny calmly said, “Don’t worry. We’ll make it.” And she davened that somehow they would get there.

Rabbi Machlis found a friend who had a 7-seat 4x4 vehicle. Their son Yehoshua followed with seven more family members in a regular car. When they left their neighborhood, where the snow was knee-deep, the three highways that led out of Yerushalayim were still closed. They slowly made their way through the snowy streets to the exit of Yerushalayim on Route 443. Suddenly the army removed the barricades and opened the road. The Machlises drove through.

Within the hour, the roads closed again and didn’t open until Sunday.

During the last eight years of her life, Henny spent many hours every day in hisbodedus, talking out loud to Hashem in her own words. As she said to her seminary students: For many, many years I’ve been davening over everything I cook, and when I do laundry and when I do dishes and when I change my children and when I sweep the floor, I talk to Hashem. But hisbodedus is an added level.

I’m sharing with you my own good finding so that you also could do it. When I started to go out of my house and say, “Hashem, I’m here to talk to You,” and just have private time with Hakadosh Baruch Hu, not multitasking, not I’m talking to Hashem while I’m doing 17 other

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things, but just me and Him, then I started to feel closer to Hakadosh Baruch Hu. And I feel Hashem is closer to me. So that’s it. I’m sharing it with you so you could try it.

A “regular” at the Machlis home testifies: “The Rebbetzin was the most alive person, the most alive Jew, that most of us had ever had the opportunity to meet.

“Ten years ago, my mother was diagnosed with the machalah [of cancer]. The day that she was diagnosed, my father and the doctor sat together and they called us here in Eretz Yisrael to explain what was going on. My father said, ‘I’m taking care of everything medically here on this end... I need you to daven and pull all the strings that you can pull over there.’ In other words, get to work spiritually.

“It was 11:30 at night in Israel. And I asked Rebbetzin Machlis what I should do.

Should I drive to Meron to the kever of the Rashbi? Should I go to the Kotel? Should I go to Kever Rochel? Should I sit and learn?

“She said maybe I should go to Rav Chaim Kanievsky. It was late at night, so I figured that I would sit by the Kotel for a little bit, daven for a little bit—be there to daven netz.

I took my tallis and tefillin and got in the car. I ended up sitting in the parking lot near their house at 1 o’clock in the morning. I fell asleep in the car.

“First thing in the morning, I woke up and came into the Machlis house. The Rav was already out davening, and the Rebbetzin was at home with some of the kids. I gave her my mother’s name.

“I believed then, and I believe now, and I know very clearly, that the headquarters of tefillos in the world, the headquarters of yeshuos in the world, the headquarters for changing nature in the world, is here, in the Machlis house.”

THE BIGGEST MYSTERY The biggest mystery surrounding Henny Machlis is: How did she get there? How did a girl born to a regular Orthodox family in 1950s Brooklyn, who was not the scion

1 C H E S H VA N 5 7 7 7

of an illustrious rabbinic family, who liked to play basketball and ping pong, and who attended Central Brooklyn, Teachers’ Institute, and Brooklyn College, become one of the greatest Jewish women of our time?

The answer is that she continually worked on herself to elevate her spiritual level. As her daughter Yocheved said, “She wanted to bring her middos to perfection. It’s exactly because she was so aware of giving everything over to Hashem that she noticed the little parts of her life that weren’t given over to Hashem. Any area that wasn’t perfect bothered her. She would try to perfect herself all the time.”

In teaching her seminary students how all Jews are connected, Henny gave an intimate glimpse of her own spiritual struggles: I want to just tell you something. When you hold back from doing what you’re not supposed to do, whatever it is, you affect your parents, your children, and all the people in the generation who are connected to you. We’re all connected. It’s a very scary thing.

Yesterday morning, on Shabbos, I got up and there was this big, juicy, luscious-looking piece of cake. It was mousse cake, and I had a feeling I should not eat it. It’s not good for me. It was before davening. Even though I’m chasidish and if I’m very hungry I eat so that I can daven, I felt I shouldn’t eat it. I heard a loud voice, “Don’t eat it. It’s not good for you.” Anyway, I ate it at eight in the morning.

After that I felt bad, because I felt disappointed in myself. I didn’t do what I knew was the right thing. When we don’t eat cake, we’re saying that I want my neshamah to be stronger than my body. Why did I succumb to this taavah to eat the cake? So, when I did hisbodedus after Shacharis, at 11 a.m., I said, “Ribbono Shel Olam, I’m sorry. I fell, but please don’t be distant from me. You know I didn’t mean it, and I just fell and I’m human and this is how we are. And I’m sorry.” I did teshuvah.

Then today someone came to my house. He’s a baal teshuvah and he’s been frum for a while.

He told me that yesterday morning at eight he

NO SHORTCUTS, No Disappointments...

couldn’t overcome his taavah, and he texted someone on his cellphone.

This guy told me that all the times that he texted on Shabbos, afterwards he would feel like that’s it. He would take off his yarmulke and be mechalel Shabbos all day. But he said that yesterday after he texted, he caught himself. He said that at 11 he got up and he went to shul and he said, “Hashem, I know You love me and You know I love You, and I don’t know what happened. I just lost it and I texted on Shabbos. And I’m sorry.” And the rest of Shabbos he learned Torah and did everything he was supposed to do.

Asked how Henny had changed in the course of her life, her husband Rav Mordechai replied, “The first area was in seeing the greatness of people. It’s something she learned and believed, and she worked on it.

“She also for sure changed in her relationship with Hashem. That was something she was constantly working on.

Hashem was always part of her life, but over the years her connection to Hashem became much stronger. In the end, it was all Hashem. Ein od milvado, the awareness that there is nothing but Hashem. In the end, there was no part of her life that was not connected to Hashem.”

Henny, of course, would not want any of us to become like her, but rather to become our own highest self. Her favorite story was the story of Rav Zusha, who said, “When, after 120, I get to Olam Haba, they will not ask me why I wasn’t Moshe Rabbeinu. They’ll ask me why I wasn’t Zusha.” None of us will be asked why we weren’t Henny Machlis, but we will be asked why we didn’t stretch ourselves to actualize our own great potential.  Sara Yoheved Rigler will be speaking about Henny Machlis on her U.S. tour Nov. 27-Dec. 22. She will be lecturing in Flatbush, Queens, Lawrence, Lakewood, Monsey, Baltimore, Chicago, Los Angeles, and other cities. For details, see her website www.sararigler.com or call 718-921-9000 ext. 226.

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by Perele Itzkowitz Brooklyn. 5622 18 Avenue Monsey. Town Square Mall 59 Route 59 Picadilly Photo Suite 157 718.232.8466| 845.667.9282| 201.862.0288

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B Y R A I Z E L TA N N E N B A U M

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Chapter One: Introducing Myself

snake slithered into our living room one night while we were all sleeping. It wrapped itself stealthily around our young son’s neck and stayed there.

We had no idea what was happening. Life went on at its usual busy and distracted pace, what with school, homework, meals to cook, and family trips and holidays.

Our son, an adorable 11-year-old with long, curly eyelashes, seemed to be fine. He was the only boy in the family, so naturally we doted on our prince. His sisters loved him. And no one knew his secret. No one.

We lived a normal existence. In the seventh grade, our son’s rebbe went on and on about what a great kid he was. In the eighth grade, he won middos awards and sports trophies.

Throughout high school he was very popular, and had many friends who loved him. He was tall, handsome, athletic and smart. Parent-teacher conferences were fast and easy. Our son was a truly sparkling gem.

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We had no inkling of what was going on inside of him. How could we have guessed the demons that he was fighting? He graduated from high school with a carnation on his lapel and a sweet smile on his face.

Off he went to yeshivah, to study away from home. All was idyllic, although he did call home a few times sounding a bit lonely rather than his usual easygoing and happy self. We invited him to come home more often for Shabbos.

It wasn’t until the middle of the year that we saw a hint of change. He began to experience uncomfortable physical symptoms when he stood to daven for the amud, such as his heart beating faster and faster. Something was wrong.

We made an appointment with a cardiologist to check his heart. The doctor fitted him with a Holter monitor to see if there was anything abnormal going on. A few days later he read the results and reported, “Everything is fine with your son’s heart. We don’t see any abnormality.”

We breathed a sigh of relief and assumed we could just move on. He went back to yeshivah and sounded happy whenever he

called. When I phoned the rosh yeshivah to see how our son was doing, he told us that everything was fine. All he needed to do was focus a little more on his learning.

Thinking that perhaps he was homesick, I called him and he confirmed that everything was fine.

Except that it wasn’t.

One day that spring, when the azaleas were in bloom and the air was scented with lilacs, our son came home and announced that he wasn’t going back to yeshivah. We were puzzled. Had something happened?

But he wouldn’t speak to us and locked himself in his room. We knocked on the door. He wouldn’t let us in. There was a wall between us. He wouldn’t speak to me or my husband or to any of his sisters. Our prince was locked away. Something terrible and traumatic must have happened.

We repeatedly tried to get him to talk to us, but he wouldn’t set foot out of his room. The rosh yeshivah had no answers, so we decided to try to get him to a psychologist. Of course, this seemed like an impossible goal, since he wouldn’t even look at us.

In the middle of the night he would sneak downstairs for food and bring it up to his room. He was completely isolated.

My stomach was in knots. Through a friend, we found a kind social worker with a good reputation, and my husband and I began seeing him to try to figure out what was wrong and get our son the help he so desperately needed. We imagined all kinds of scenarios and felt a lot of anger towards our son’s out-of-town yeshivah. Our whole world became blurred and uncertain. Little did we know that we had hopped onto an endless roller coaster ride.

This is the first installment of our story.

Our roller coaster ride with mental illness is now almost a decade long, and we’re still plummeting and careening over uncharted

territory in a continuous maze of confusion and powerlessness. Though it hasn’t ended yet, we’ve decided to grab onto the sides and strategize a way to hang on, remaining hopeful that the ride will eventually slow down and become a steady, enjoyable trip, or else we’ll somehow learn to tolerate the constant lurches and upside-down loops.

We realize with perfect clarity that everything comes from Hashem and is in His hands. We are determined to serve Him throughout our journey, as Tammy Karmel, who is battling ALS, so eloquently teaches in her bitachon videos. That is where this column comes in, dear friends.

We want to reach out to you who are suffering in silence, dealing with a family member who has mental illness. Mental illness is highly stigmatized, which is why it is often difficult to reach out for the help you need.

I am providing my email address so you can write to me. I hope I can give you some sort of support, or at least offer empathy and hopefulness. I am not a professional; I am only a Jewish mother who has been living with this for many years, trying her best to accept it, deal with it and stay optimistic. I can share my experiences and things I’ve learned, and that is what I wish to do with this column. I will continue to share our ongoing struggles in the hope that it will help you feel less alone, and that our own experiences will somehow assist you in your own navigations.

Feel free to reach out to me at raizeltannenbaum@gmail.com.

All emails will obviously be kept completely confidential; otherwise, it would defeat the purpose of this column, which is to provide support to other parents in this situation. 

To be continued.

Our roller coaster ride with mental illness is now almost a decade long, and we’re still plummeting and careening over uncharted territory.

BY RACHEL BERGER

Recap: Nachi tells Yaffa that there is something very wrong with their mother.

T

he air is heavy with the tang of medication and industrial cleaning soaps.

“She has gone crazy,” Nachi is saying to me as we walk down the empty hospital hallway.

“Don’t talk about her like that!” Nachi walks one stride for my two, and I hurry after him.

“No, Yaffale. I don’t mean to be flippant.

I mean it literally. Ima has gone crazy.”

The tiled floors that I’m hurrying along are smudged dully with long, thin scratches, and I think of the countless gurneys being wheeled down this hallway, the countless patients in countless matching faded hospital gowns lying on them. I break into a short run until I have passed my brother, and then I spin around to block him from walking further. I hold out my hands, and he stops walking.

“Nachi. Ima is not right in her mind. We know this. She has been this way for years.

What do you mean, she’s gone crazy?”

“I don’t know how to describe it,” Nachi says. His eyes are dark pools of intensity as he looks down at me. “I have never seen her like this before.”

I feel a shudder work its way slowly down the length of my spine. “You’re scaring me.”

“I’m preparing you.” He walks around me and points at the closed door beside us. “Do you want to go in first, or should I?” I pause with my hand on the door. I am inexplicably furious at Nachi, at the boy

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who is and yet is not my brother. I think that he doesn’t know how to handle Ima, that he never has. I think that he is too impatient with her, that he gave up on her long ago. I stare at him, and I see in a sudden rush of mental images how very flawed he is, this brother of mine whom I used to idolize. “You said something to her. You made her upset.”

Nachi’s shoulders slump. “I said many, many things to her when I was alone in the burial caves. I shouted them at the uncaring skies. I cried out in anger at the woman, who, on a whim, took with her a child who was not hers to take when she left Isawiya.”

“She took you because she loves you.”

“She has a twisted way of showing it.”

“She shows you in the only way she knows how!”

A woman in blue scrubs sitting at the nurse’s station scowls in our direction, and I quickly lower my voice. “You know she can’t show her feelings like other people can. She is like a doll that looks perfect on the outside but on the inside, where it counts, she is broken. You need to treat her gently!”

“I do! I didn’t say anything to her. I still call her Ima. I love her. But Yaffa, I don’t know who I am and it’s all because of her.”

“Well, figure it out already!” My voice is a whip. “Yala, Nachi. Get over yourself!”

“That’s easy for you to say!” Nachi’s eyes are flashing fire. “You don’t have to make a decision that will change your life forever! You don’t have to wake up in the 1 C H E S H VA N 5 7 7 7

morning and say to yourself, ‘Why am I doing this? Why am I choosing this life?’”

“Which life are you choosing?” My question is a shout, and the nurse rises to her feet in annoyance.

“Oh, you know which life I’m choosing.

You know, Yaffa.” When Nachi smiles, it’s as if I have been holding my breath ever since Nachi told me the story of his birth and I haven’t even noticed it until now, when I finally let it out.

I smile back at him, and suddenly find myself understanding: Of course he is flawed. I am flawed, too. Being flawed does not stop us from loving or being loved. In fact, it helps us to love more deeply.

We are silent for a moment until Nachi spoils it by grinning at me. “If I had known my saying that would make you stop talking, I would have said it a long time ago.”

I mock-glare at him. “So nu, Nachi. If you are going to join the tribe, what are you waiting for? A personal sign from heaven?”

“Actually, yes,” Nachi says, and I push the handle to open the door and we duck inside, just ahead of the irate nurse.

All feelings of celebration evaporate, like helium leaking from a pricked balloon, when I see my mother.

My mother is beautiful. Everyone says so. She has shut herself up in her small, dark apartment for years, disdaining food and sunlight, and the result should be a ruination of the woman who bore me.

Instead, her beauty has become haunting, ethereal, the stark beauty of the desert.

She is like one of the sketches littering the borders of Chaya Tov’s scripts: high cheekbones, slender limbs and large eyes.

For a moment I don’t recognize the woman lying on the bed in front of me.

Even in the dim light, I see that her eyes are dull, colorless. Her lips are cracked and bleeding and her hair is matted and wild, like dirty straw. There is a strange, twisted look on her face, as though she is seeing something in the distance that only she can see, and the thing that she is seeing is horrible.

CHAPTER 47 “Ima.” I grab her hand. It’s like ice. “Ima. I am here.”

She doesn’t look at me, but her dry lips are moving, and I bend closer to listen.

Her words are faint, sand on the desert wind. “It has gone wrong!” she is saying.

“All-h save us, it has all gone terribly wrong!”

She is saying those words over and over, and I squeeze her hand tightly. “Ima, nothing has gone wrong. Ima, we are safe.

Ima, everything is okay. Look! See?” I smile brightly. “Here we are! Here we are, Nachi and I, with you!”

She doesn’t look at me or at my brother, and she doesn’t return my smile. “It has gone wrong!” My mother’s voice is scratched and raw, a tortured whisper, and I wonder how long she has been saying these words, these same words, over and over and over again. “All-h save us, it has all gone terribly wrong!”

We sit together at my mother’s side, Nachi and I, listening to her repeat her words until the nurse says gently that it is time for us to go home. * Ber Fischer wants to know when he will receive the doctored scene for his approval. He sent me three emails to that effect last night.

His tone is as snide as ever, and I decide that he could not have hurt my mother because I don’t know what he would have hoped to accomplish by carrying out his threat at this point; it is only distracting me, thoughts of my mother lying on her hospital bed, murmuring over and over again the words that she had cried on the night that we fled Isawiya.

“What’s wrong?” Emunah asks me.

“Yaffa, your face is white as paper.”

“I didn’t sleep last night,” I say to her.

“My mother is unwell.”

She gives me a brief hug and is already in her office before I remember that I should probably tell her what Nachi had told me. You know which life I’m choosing, 1 C H E S H VA N I 5 7 7 7

“IMA IS NOT IN HER RIGHT MIND. SHE HAS BEEN THIS WAY FOR YEARS. WHAT DO YOU MEAN, SHE’S GONE CRAZY?”

he had said, and my heart had burst into wild celebration for a brief, shining moment before I went into my mother’s room and saw what she had become.

I consider for a moment going into her office and telling her, but she is too unpredictable when it comes to my brother, and I don’t have the energy right now to spare for her. Not now, not when I know that I must finish tonight what I started yesterday, no matter what.

I had told Nachi to meet me at the hospital later tonight, after work, but I will be late. I stay in the bathroom once again, waiting until the lights in the office are out and all is silent. Then I make my way to the viewing room with the hard drive in hand.

An hour later, I compose an e-mail.

Ber Fischer: Please find attached scene 27.

I am sure it meets your specifications. The taste of wine is growing on me. Yaffa I attach the doctored file to the email, and when I press “send,” my hand and my heart do not waver at all. 

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LAST WEEK: AFTER INDICATING SHE WOULD NOT COME FOR SHABBOS, LEAH’S HECTIC MORNING AT THE CLOTHING STORE SHE OWNS IS INTERRUPTED BY AN ANGRY PHONE CALL FROM HER MOTHER, FAYGIE REICH. MENACHEM REICH PONDERS HIS WIFE’S TERSE TEXT MESSAGE AND THEIR STIFF RELATIONSHIP.

Three

“G

ood workout, huh? Jennifer is amaaaaazing!” mumbled one of the women streaming out of the stuffy gym and into the changing room.

“Oh, she is definitely a slave-driver!” Mariam Bloch delicately dabbed her forehead with a towel and bent to remove her sneakers. “But no pain, no gain, right?”

“In our case, if there’s no pain, there’s for sure gain,” giggled a

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stout newcomer in a plaid bandanna. “That’s what I keep telling myself when she wants us to bike up an incline for what feels like a thousand hours.”

“You’ll get used to it,” Mariam said authoritatively. “Believe me, after a dozen years of day in, day out, you get used to it.”

“You do this every single day?” gawked Bandanna, staring at Mariam. A couple of women stopped what they were doing to listen in.

“You think this figure is a freebie?” Mariam gave a reproachful laugh. “It takes work.” A few heads nodded approvingly. “Not

“No one is good enough for my Shiffy!” said Mariam slowly, ardently.

only at the gym, but at the kiddush on Shabbos and at the sheva brachos and a million other times. Willpower, that’s the secret.”

“My downfall,” sighed Gitta Reiner, an old-timer who never managed to lose an ounce. “Mariam, you need to give us private lessons. You should be a fitness coach.”

“I’m happy to share my diet with anyone who wants,” Mariam offered magnanimously, glancing at her watch. There was a half-hour to her nail appointment. “Ta-ta, lovely ladies! Have a wonderful day!”

She sailed out of the changing room but not before overhearing Rikky Samet whisper jealously, “I’ll bet you anything she did a surgery.”

“Shif ? You awake, honey?” It was already nine o’clock. What time did these girls get up in the summer? Mariam swerved to avoid a parked car. “Shif ?”

“Y-yeah, hi, Ma!” came the muffled response. “Where are you?”

“On my way to Stephanie for my nails.

Wanna come, sweetie? You haven’t had a manicure in ages. I’ll take a little detour and pick you up.” It was a generous offer, considering that it would make her at least five minutes late.

“Uh, a manicure?” Shiffy’s voice was furry with sleep. “Ma, um, I just got off the plane.

I’m totally jet-lagged. What time is it even?”

“All right, fine. You go back to sleep. I’ll do my errands and come home, and then we’ll do breakfast together, okay?”

“Okay.” Shiffy hesitated. “Um, you want me to come with you for the manicure?”

Mariam swallowed hard.

“Well, I mean, I haven’t done a manicure with my sweetest girl in the universe in an entire year,” she crooned. “So of course I would love to. But I don’t want to drag you out of bed…”

“No, no, it’s fine. Give me three minutes, okay, Mommy?”

A delicious warmth filled Mariam’s entire being.

“For sure, gorgeous. I’ll call Stephanie and get her to book you in and pick up iced coffees for both of us, and by then you’ll be dressed and ready, okay?” She smiled to herself. “How did you like my little present, by the way? You fell asleep before I could even see your reaction!”

“You’re the best, Ma,” Shiffy said over the sound of splashing water in the background.

“Stunning! How did you know my taste?”

“Of course I know your taste!” Mariam murmured. “I’m your mother—I know every single thing about you!” She had had the linens custom-made—a delicate gold satin with cream lace trim. “For my post-seminary daughter I need something sophisticated, but very feminine,” she had told the woman at Linens Unlimited. It had taken a few tries, of course, but in the end the result was absolutely perfect.

Stephanie, of course, was very accommodating.

“So you’re back from Israel?” she asked as she worked her nail file adeptly. “How was it?”

“It was wonderful,” Mariam answered, with a fond look at her daughter. “She learned so much, made tons of friends. The most popular girl in the whole seminary!”

“Oh, Ma,” Shiffy protested, blushing. “It really was great, though. But a whole year without you, Stephanie, now that was rough!”

They all laughed appreciatively.

“So this means you get married now, yes?”

Stephanie said in her thick Filipino accent.

There was a moment of contemplative silence.

Mariam gave a strangled chuckle.

“Of course,” she said, with an exaggerated wink. “Will you find her someone good, Stephanie?”

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“I’m sure she will find a good husband!

She is a beautiful girl!” said the manicurist, giving Mariam’s hand a reassuring pat.

“Of course she is,” crowed Mariam. “But you know what?”

She waited for the suspense to build for a minute, then looked deep into her daughter’s shining eyes.

“No one is good enough for my Shiffy!” said Mariam slowly, ardently. ~ “Yeah, nu, so what’s the matzav with you?”

Yehuda Reich craned his neck out the open window to watch an ambulance careening over the curb and down the street. “How was?”

“Eh.” Yanky Shain wasn’t a big talker, but that single syllable conveyed everything.

“I had a bad feeling about this one, tell you the truth,” Yehuda fibbed, plucking his hat and jacket off the bed. Shain was one of those guys who you were drawn to—until you really got to know him. They had learned together for exactly one zman, but Yehuda wasn’t exactly shedding tears when Shain left suddenly to a no-name yeshivah Upstate. Still, the guy needed to get married and the girl had sounded half-decent. Zivugim were from Shamayim, right?

“Nu? How’s the learning? How’s things?”

“Whatever.”

Yehuda glanced down at his watch. If he didn’t make it to the dining room in three seconds flat there would be not a stitch of food left. He cleared his throat awkwardly.

“So there’s always the next one, and you’re one step closer to your bashert, right?” It was such a perfectly ridiculous thing to say, but hey, everyone did it anyway so may as well give it a try.

“Whatever.”

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What had begun as a niggling, uncomfortable sensation had now grown into a very vivid pain somewhere in the back of Yehuda Reich’s throat.

He could almost hear the elaborate Yanky Shain shrug.

“Nah, my nephew’s bar mitzvah.”

“Oh—right. I forgot. Swanky situation over there, right? They’re doing it at the Crowne Plaza I heard, no?”

“Yeh.” “Okay, fine.” From behind the dining room doors came the din of 300 people eating lunch, which brought the conversation to an abrupt close. “We’ll talk.” Yehuda frowned at the phone as he slipped it into his pocket. Why did he even bother calling Shain? It wasn’t exactly to hear the reid on his latest shidduch attempt, that was for sure.

Oh, yeah. Yehuda’s cheeks reddened just a tad, but there was no time to think about it right now unless he wanted to go hungry all afternoon. Only much later that night, as he sourly noted that his sock collection had dwindled to exactly half a pair, which meant either a torturous laundry experience or a mandatory trip home, did the gaunt visage of Yanky Shain resurface in his brain.

He fumbled for his phone.

“Yeh?” “Ever heard of this greeting called ‘hello’?

You should try it some time.” Yehuda gave a chuckle so it would sound like he was trying to be funny. “Anyway, listen, uh, I need to ask you something.”

A silence. Shain would wait wordlessly.

A conversationalist the man was not. Poor girl, whoever she ends up being…

“Yeah, anyway, it’s like this. Gottfried— you know, your cousin?” He didn’t even bother pausing again. “So a little while ago I thought maybe the girl you went out with a couple months ago with the older single brother—what was the last name? Frimmer? Schwimmer? She was some kind of

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teacher—they all are, but you know what I mean…?” He trailed off expectantly.

“Donner.”

“Ah, yeah, Donner!” A triumph! “Exactly! That’s it. Anyway, so for whatever reason I thought maybe it would takeh be good for Gottfried, but he told me straight out that she was too frum for him so he wouldn’t even look into it. But then I heard they got engaged last week!” Yehuda cracked his knuckles absently. “So I was thinking, like, do I get shadchanus, not get shadchanus, you know what I mean? Like, did I redt it or did someone else redt it? There’s a nafka mina here. You know what I’m saying?”

“Whuddaya asking me for?”

That was another thing about Shain. He had a wonderful knack for making you feel really, really dumb.

“Whatever,” Yehuda snorted, completely deflated. “I just thought maybe you would know—he’s your cousin, for goodness’ sake.

Plus, you went out with the girl a couple of times—maybe you know how the shidduch happened.”

Fact was, the chevrah had had a juicy debate last night about whether Gottfried should actually have to pay something to Reich for suggesting the shidduch. With three bona fide shidduchim under his belt, Yehuda had become something of a maven, but the actual shadchanus gelt was much less forthcoming. Of course, his mother thought it was ridiculous that he should even expect any money simply for setting up two people, but a guy was entitled to his hopes, right?

And anyway, weren’t there halachos about it?

“Mebbe learn some Gemara some time?” came the biting comment.

“You’re a real pal.” Even a laid-back guy 1 C H E S H VA N 5 7 7 7

like Yehuda Reich had his threshold and the sarcasm was sizzling. “Great talking to you, too. Don’t you ever get sick of being so anti-social?” He reached for the “End” button.

“What about you?” Shain was predictably unfazed.

“What about me? I’m the opposite of antisocial, if you haven’t noticed. In fact, I actually have friends.”

“Maybe set yourself up one of these days?”

Yehuda gave a surprised laugh. Eight whole words. Not bad. Of course, Shain had to be the latest and greatest to utter the most detested line Yehuda had ever come to hear.

“Yeah, great idea,” he said quickly, to keep extremely unwanted thoughts at bay. “I’ll keep it in mind. Anyway, listen, if it comes up in conversation, you can say something if you think it’s shayach, I mean with Gottfried, about the shidduch. Stam, I just thought, whatever… Only if it’s shayach.

Otherwise, forget about it.”

“Forgotten.”

“I should have known—you’re all heart, Shain, you know that? Pleasure talking to you, too.” What had begun as a niggling, uncomfortable sensation had now grown into a very vivid pain somewhere in the back of his throat.

A spider made its tentative way up the wall. Yehuda smashed it hard with his flipflop.

“Get married,” Shain said acidly. “Maybe then you’ll have someone to talk to.”

In response, Yehuda Reich hurled his cell phone at the wall and stormed out of the dorm. 

To be continued…

e l k r a p S . . . s r a t s e h t under

fun furs and sweaters for the sukkah

days

THE RHYTHM OF OUR LIVES

I

The Popcorn Lady

was sitting on a bench outside the local grocery store when I spotted her. From a distance she seemed put-together enough, with a three-quarter-sleeve shirt and a knee-length skirt, her graying hair cut in a short, boyish style.

But as she got closer, there was something about her that made me wonder if she wasn’t quite all there.

I watched as she opened up her shopping bag and took out a few small sandwich bags full of homemade popcorn. Then she took out an old cracked piece of cardboard and set it up proudly for all the passersby to see.

Amused, I craned my neck to see what this homemade sign said—“Popcorn for Sale, $2 Each,” in what looked almost like a child’s handwriting.

For the next few minutes I monitored the scene. Hardly anyone was paying at-

We must all look out for each other

By Sari Blum

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tention to her as they rushed to complete their Erev Shabbos errands. What a sad sight, I thought, my heart breaking for this lonely individual. Surely she knew that the store directly behind her sold bags of popcorn ten times the size of hers for less money, along with a proper hechsher. Obviously, no one would be interested in her wares.

Seeing that she wasn’t having much success, she left her cozy spot on the bench and approached the street. I watched as she held her homemade sign high above her head, trying to catch the attention of the passing cars. It must not have registered that the few parking spots on this busy street were already taken and there was no place for a driver to stop even if he had wanted to.

A few minutes later she finally saw me sitting a few benches away, rocking my baby

HE PUT DOWN THE CELL PHONE AND GAVE THE WOMAN HIS FULL ATTENTION AS HE HANDED HER TWO DOLLAR BILLS. to sleep in his stroller. I was waiting for my husband to finish buying some last-minute Shabbos treats for the kids. She turned her sign around so that I could see what it said, but at that moment she noticed someone else approaching and quickly lowered the sign, holding it face down on her lap.

“Hello, Becca,” an acquaintance said to her as she walked by. She nodded and smiled, and only after her friend had left did she raise her sign again. She clearly felt embarrassed for the woman to see her like that. This made me pity her all the more.

I really should go over and just buy a bag of popcorn, I admonished myself, even though I wouldn’t be able to actually eat it. But something held me back. What was it?

Stinginess? Laziness? Apathy? Finally I identified what I was feeling—fear. I was simply afraid to approach her. She clearly wasn’t dangerous, so there really wasn’t any reason to keep my distance. But somehow she made me feel uneasy.

At the same time, I wondered how long she would stand there with her few sandwich bags of popcorn until someone took pity on her.

As if in answer to my thoughts, a man

with a huge backpack suddenly appeared.

He was wearing a pair of khaki shorts, sandals, and a pink T-shirt, and he had a mop of unruly curly hair under his small kippah. He put down his cell phone and gave the woman his full attention as he handed her two dollar bills and selected a bag of popcorn. Then he smiled and nodded before resuming his conversation on the phone and continuing on his way.

I wasn’t the only one who had witnessed the man’s act of chesed. A young mother with several children in tow had observed the scene upon exiting the store. I watched as she paused, and I could almost hear her make the decision to emulate his good deed.

She walked over to the popcorn lady and selected a bag of popcorn, smiling as she handed her the money, and then continued on her way.

My husband finally emerged from the store, and I stood up. The baby had settled down for his morning nap, which was helpful since we had a 15-minute walk home ahead of us. Enough is enough, I told myself as I went over to the woman. I can also do the right thing.

“How’s the baby?” she asked me as I got

1 C H E S H VA N 5 7 7 6

closer, acting as though she knew me.

“Baruch Hashem,” I replied simply. “I’d like to buy a bag of popcorn.”

She gave me a 100-watt smile.

“Which one should I take?” I asked, pretending to examine each bag carefully.

She pointed to a bag. “That one looks good,” I said. “Two dollars, right?”

She nodded. “Good Shabbos,” she said, and I wished her the same.

When we were out of hearing range, my husband looked at me quizzically. “You do know that we can’t eat that, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

I filled him in, and he responded, “That’s really nice of you.”

But I knew the truth—I was only a follower. I hadn’t initiated the chain of chesed that had been started that morning by the man with the curly hair, my new hero. The message was clearer than any mussar shiur.

Despite the differences in our appearance and garb, we’re all just Jews trying to take care of one another.  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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F

Kiddush CHRONICLES BY RABBI M O RD ECH AI KAMENETZKY

Every single simchah is worthy of being celebrated in its own right, and an opportunity for giving praise.

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or the past year or so I have invited you to share in the personal journey of an adult orphan who is saying Kaddish. Entitled “Kaddish Chronicles,” the column brought you along a road that covered many miles and encompassed a variety of situations.

I was fascinated and equally heartened by the sheer number of enthusiastic comments I received from many who had similar experiences and felt that they now had a voice to tell their story. I was inundated with letters and phone calls from friends and strangers relating incidents that were both comparable to mine and very different. People met me on the street and shared their feelings and emotions. It was an extremely gratifying experience.

But throughout it all, I must admit that even if I injected an uplifting or even humorous anecdote into the column, a pall of sadness hung over it each and every week.

Mourning isn’t supposed to last longer than a year, and thus neither could the column. Nonetheless, I still wanted to continue to share my insights into life with the most wonderful audience I’ve ever encountered. But how to continue?

I tried to think of the antithesis of the sad end-of-life cycle, the polar opposite of death and grieving, and came up with one of the greatest blessings that Hashem has bestowed upon us: the joyous occasions with which we mark births, happy milestones and marriage, and the eternal continuity of Hashem’s will.

Seventy years after the Holocaust, and by the grace of the Almighty, there are simchahs every week in our ever-expanding Jewish community. In contrast to the years right after the devastation, when every simchah was truly treasured and appreciated, many of us today tend to take them for granted.

But should they be?

Thirty-odd years ago, when I was in kollel, I attended the bris of my chavrusa’s first child. The rule was that we all had to be back at the beginning of seder, meaning that the bris had to finish by that time. My chavrusa and his family didn’t seem to be intimidated by the restriction, and the singing of praises to the Ribbono Shel Olam went on for quite a while.

Twenty minutes into the first seder, the mashgiach suddenly appeared, and he was not at all pleased. “Are you aware that you’re late?” he asked, looking at his watch. “You were supposed to finish bentching and be back in the beis midrash a long time ago.”

My chavrusa was unfazed. “Rebbe,” he began quite respectfully, “may I ask you a question?” The mashgiach nodded his head.

“If my wife and I had had to wait for 20 years—or even five or ten—for our first child to be born, would you have allowed us to sing an extra few words of hodaah?”

The mashgiach waited for him to continue. “So just because we had a baby in our first year of marriage, does Hashem deserve any less praise?”

There was a stunned silence from the mashgiach that melded submission and admission.

Since then, I’ve thought about that conversation many times. Baruch Hashem, our lives are replete with simchahs, sometimes so many that they can become trite. But in truth, every single one is worthy of being celebrated in its own right, and an opportunity for giving praise to the Creator of all joy.

And they are certainly worthy of a column in Ami Magazine!  Rabbi Mordechai Kamenetzky is the rosh yeshivah of Yeshiva Toras Chaim at South Shore, a weekly columnist in Yated Ne’eman, and the author of the Parsha Parable series.

the back page

BY DINA NEUMAN

T

he first day of Mommy Vacation dawns gray and overcast and perfect. The kids leave to school on time except for one straggler, who is easily bribed with a cookie persuaded to hurry up through a complicated parenting process that is both consistent and psycho-

logically sound.

We mothers don’t ask for much, do we? Just for enough hours in the day to do what we need to do, enough days in the week to enfold those hours, and that everyone recognize the fact that our kids are the cutest and most precocious children the world has ever known, but that last one is obviously a given.

Mommy Vacation is the term we use for the span of time between Sukkos and Chanukah, when the regular schedule stretches out before us, offering the comfort of solid routine.

There is something nearly decadent about it—the kids going off to school in the crisp fall air in their new jackets and school sweaters, leaving silence in their wake. I make the beds and clear away the breakfast dishes without stopping to fulfill even one request or wince at a single kvetch.

And then there is the soft glow of my computer, the steam curling off my coffee, the knowledge that the dishes from Yom Tov have been washed and dried and washed and dried and washed and dried and finally washed and dried and put away, along with the extra-large pot used for making stuffed cabbage.

There are enough leftovers in the fridge for dinner, even, and the morning hours are mine to use.

“Goodbye!” I call after the girls’ retreating ponytails as I wait with the boys at their bus stop. “Have a great day!”

I like to think that this is when I am Mommy. Now, when the hours before the kids get home are mine, all mine; now, when I can greet them cheerfully as they return from school because you can only greet them when they return from school and they can only return from school if they go to school in the

Back in the Saddle first place.

But. I pause with my hand wrapped around the handle of my coffee mug. Can I really divide myself up that way? Can I dismiss yesterday—when we were at the home stretch of a vacation from school that is three weeks long but feels like it has been roughly three centuries and my extremely thoughtout parenting process, which is both consistent and psychologically sound, has become a euphemism for “bribing with cookies”—as simply having been off schedule?

“Definitely,” say my sisters.

“Yes,” says my mother. “Cut yourself some slack. It’s hard to parent during vacation.”

“Yes,” say my friends. “I fed my kids ice cream for dinner last night, but if you tell anyone I will deny it. Fair warning.”

“Go to sleep,” says my husband when I ask him. “Seriously, it’s three o’clock in the morning,” because every party needs a party pooper.

I am excited about the time ahead. I have a great many things planned for the months that lie stretched out before me, gray and cold and wonderfully free of vacation from school.

Now I can do it all. Now I am Mommy. Now, when life is on schedule, I can take pride in my parenting—and that rings so false to me even though I want it to ring true.

But I need not have worried one little bit about whether or not I can comfortably go easy on myself during off-schedule times, because on-schedule becomes off-schedule with the snap of a Mommy finger and it usually occurs on the third or fourth day of Mommy Vacation, just when you are getting into the swing of things.

“Ima.” The child I am waking up for school is looking at me through fever-bright eyes. “Ima, I don’t feel so good.”

“Ima, I also don’t feel so good.” Another sad face from the top bunk, and just like that, it’s time for that awesome parenting process that is both thought-out and psychologically sound. I think I’ll save some of the cookies for me.  1 C H E S H VA N 5 7 7 7

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