through the lens of WJC

By Evan J. Schapiro

As Israel celebrates 75 years, Voices asked some very special members of the WJC community what Israel has meant to them, and to share a few words about their personal connection to the Holy Land. Their stories moved us as we put together this issue, and we hope they move you as well.

Lenny Queen was a beloved member of WJC for many years. He passed away on January 12, 2023, at the age of 96. Lenny is remembered for his enormous presence, both physically and emotionally — his booming voice, singing along with the prayers (even if not always in the right key); or his car in the parking lot — LSQUEEN on the license plate — that announced he was in the building. Not everyone knows of Lenny’s 75-year love affair with the State of Israel. His son Alan agreed to share some words about a side of his father that we didn’t always see at WJC.

In 1950, not even 25 years old, my father made aliyah, moving to the newly-created State of Israel. He took up residence at a brand new kibbutz, Kibbutz Hasolelim, located in Emek Yizrael. In addition to meeting my mother, marrying, and becoming a father, he learned everything you would ever need to know about chickens and eggs. In cleaning out his apartment after his death, I found a letter returned to him by his cousin after he returned to the United States. The letter is dated August 21, 1952. In it, he talks about how hard the work is—but also about how happy he is to do it. His mind, as it often was, was focused on the food. He reported that some days, there were only vegetables. Other days, there were eggs for all three meals, but no other protein.

The scarcity of ingredients was perhaps unsurprising at the time, but as he returned to Israel in his later years— his last visit was well after his 90th birthday, at least until his final trip just recently for burial in Beit Shemesh— my father marveled at how the country had become a foodie’s paradise. He was amazed that he could now enjoy a famously large Israeli breakfast at every hotel where he stayed. He could go out to eat dinner and enjoy the meat or fish of his choice. These small luxuries were missing at the start.

Nevertheless, my father was so dedicated to the kibbutz movement in his time. In later years, he grew to appreciate the growth of Jerusalem, Tel Aviv and Haifa and the smaller cities, and how cosmopolitan they became, fulfilling Herzl’s vision of wide boulevards and sidewalk cafes. His oldest child, Nitza, who was born during his time on Hasolelim, returned to Israel as a young adult and lived on a kibbutz in the northern Negev, on the Gaza border. My father’s amazement at watching Ben-Gurion’s dream of making the desert bloom was never ending. He was so proud to have played a small but crucial role in what Israel has become, and he truly believed the words of Hatikvah: As long as within our hearts / The Jewish soul sings / As long as forward to the East / To Zion, looks the eye / Our hope is not yet lost / It is two thousand years old / To be a free people in our land / The land of Zion and Jerusalem.

Corey Feldman, who grew up at WJC and was Bar Mitzvah-ed at the shul along with his two siblings, is the author of A Line In the Sand: An American’s Story of Service and Sacrifice. He writes here, in an excerpt adapted from his book, about his time serving in the IDF.

Long before I joined the IDF, a friend of mine attended a Hanukkah party in the Old City of Jerusalem. The Rabbi, from whom the guests expected to hear a long sermon about the significance of the holiday, asked only a simple question: “What would you fight for?” At what point do the stakes of remaining a bystander outweigh your intervening? What would you risk life and limb for? Where do you draw the line?

In October of 2010, I enlisted in the IDF because I did not feel whole standing on the sidelines while terrorism threatened the right of Israel’s people to live in peace. I discovered that I draw the line when bomb shelters must be built in playgrounds. I draw the line when guards must be placed outside of stores, restaurants, and movie theaters for fear of suicide bombers. I draw the line when schools are closed not because of incoming snow, but because of incoming missiles.

Over the course of four years between the time I made that decision and the conclusion of my military service, I learned that drawing a line is a lot easier than the follow-through required to uphold that commitment. Serving in the IDF, I learned to be selfless, and to think about my teammates as an extension of myself. To take a friend’s shift at guard duty so that he could catch an extra half-hour of sleep. To do an extra round under the stretcher to help a struggling comrade, content with the knowledge that he would do the same for me. I learned what it meant to be humbled, and to be broken.

Through it all, I persisted and persevered, because as much as it hurt at times, and as much as it may cost me in medical bills down the line, Israel is worth it. The tiny country, I came to realize, is not the “City Upon a Hill” that we who love her sometimes fantasize that she is, and that her founders dreamed she might one day become. But neither is she the tyrant that the international media often portrays her as; in a Middle East dominated by dictatorships, subjugation of minorities, and fanaticism, Israel remains a lone beacon of democracy, tolerance, and reform. Though I set down the path of military service with the intention of giving back to the country that meant and means so much to me, in the end, all that I received and all that I learned far eclipsed the sacrifice I set out to make.

Stephen Kutno and Abbe Kellner-Kutno joined WJC in 1996 when they moved to Mamaroneck, and were active members until moving to Israel in 2017. Stephen served on the Spiritual Life and Teen Engagement committees, and Abbe chaired the Spiritual Life and Clergy Search committees and was a member of the Board. Their daughter Sheva preceded them in making aliyah, in 2013, and the rest of the family (Stephen, Abbe, and their children Matan and Meirav) followed four years later.

For as long as we have been together as a couple, we dreamt of making aliyah. Abbe’s love for Israel grew from her Zionist upbringing and involvement in Young Judaea; Stephen’s love grew out of a gap year in college that he spent in Israel through Project Otzma. It helped that the two of us met during that year. Despite dreaming of aliyah, life happened—extended family, graduate school, careers, children, a mortgage, and a great Jewish community at WJC. Following a simcha trip in 2003, we returned as frequently as possible, each time discussing the possibility of making aliyah. There was a moment when we came close to making the move in 2007, but we found it impossible to leave our comfort zone.

We visited with even greater frequency during our daughter Sheva’s studies at the Technion. When Abbe was visiting Sheva in 2015 with Matan and Meirav, she decided it was time to explore the possibility again. After several pilot trips, we decided that it was time. To this day, we wonder “what were we thinking?” We were outside the demographics of most new olim, who are young people/young families or retirees. Some called us brave, others crazy. In 2017, we finally took the plunge to live our dream.

There are frustrating moments in a new country. Banking has its quirks; drivers are impatient; people don’t respect personal boundaries or understand queues. All of that is forgotten in a moment. So often we are reminded that we are all family. The cashier who won’t let us overpay for an item that is on sale; the store owners who know and greet us. We love that the Jewish holidays are the national holidays. “Shabbat shalom” and “shavua tov” are the greetings at the end and beginning of the week. And at Passover time the “destination signs” on the buses read “Chag Sameach!” The land, the beaches, and the sea are beautiful. We are home.

Robin Nazarzadeh and Veronica Hogasten have been members of WJC since moving to Larchmont in 2007. Their three children (Leo, Alina, and Liv) went through WJC preschool and Religious School and have been Bar and Bat Mitzvah-ed at the shul.

Israel is where our story began. We first met each other at Kibbutz Giva’t Brenner in December 1994. We were a part of an ulpan program and spent five months working various jobs at the kibbutz and also learning Hebrew. The program was sponsored by The Jewish Agency and meant for new immigrants beginning their integration into Israeli society. Jewish non-immigrants were also allowed to participate. Our group of ninety people consisted of immigrants, mainly from the former Soviet Union, along with a handful of American and European “tourists” like us. Our three workdays per week started very early and usually consisted of either picking avocados or working in the sod fields — thankfully neither of us got chicken coop or cow milking duty! We spent the other days in immersive Hebrew classes.

It was inspiring and daunting at the same time to witness the immigrants embarking on their new lives. It was amazing to see the sense of hope and optimism in the group, despite being in a country where most everything was new to them. It was also difficult not to be impressed by the efforts that Israel — and Israelis—made to welcome and absorb the new immigrants. That sense of family and optimism was what made a lasting impression on us.

After our time on the kibbutz, we spent a month traveling through Israel on our own. We camped, took buses, stayed in hostels, and on two occasions were invited into the homes of complete strangers who treated us like family. Before going to the kibbutz, Veronica had been to Israel a number of times from her native Sweden, since her aunt and cousins live there. I (Robin) had been there once as a child—when there were direct El Al flights from Tehran to Tel Aviv, if you can imagine! We don’t know if it was because of the thrill of meeting there, but after those six months, Israel became even more of a special place for us. We even considered making aliyah, but it was not meant to be. Many other trips to Israel have followed—including another six month stretch for me. We still feel at home there.

Neil Wexler moved to Rye in 1984 and joined WJC with his wife, Arlene, in 1991. Their 3 children grew up at WJC and celebrated their B’nei Mitzvah from 2000-2003.

First I was a Jew, then an Israeli. I was born in 1954 in Iasi, Romania. Both of my parents were Romanians whose families had lived in Romania for generations. Before World War II, Iasi— which was Romania’s second largest city—was one-third Jewish, but Communist threats eventually forced us and many others to flee. In 1965, we left Romania for Israel. As refugees, we spent several months in Italy in somewhat squalid conditions, but in 1966, Israel welcomed my parents, me (age 12), and my 15-year-old brother with open arms, music, falafel, hora, and hugs. Not to mention an Israeli kova tembel (sun hat), which was invaluable in the heat.

I was astonished by the new country, the strong bright light of Israeli sunshine, and the amazing food and local architecture. My Aunt Gisella, who had made aliyah several years earlier, brought us to her Tel Aviv apartment. It was only two bedrooms but somehow it fit two families and four children until we were given our own apartment by the Jewish Agency in the in-settlement town of Or Yehuda. Or Yehuda was close to Lod Airport, and as a young boy I spent countless hours watching the air traffic.

I was the only Romanian, and the only Ashkenazi, in my school. The other students spoke Iraqi and Hebrew. It was a hard year trying to acclimate, made even harder as I was about to turn 13 and have my bar mitzvah. Given the timing of our aliyah, my parents were advised to delay the celebration until my Hebrew improved. I was given private lessons, which I enjoyed. The big day was scheduled for early June 1967. I thought that I was as ready as I would ever be—and then the Six Day War broke out the same week my bar mitzvah was scheduled and my celebration was postponed again. We spent the war in a communal shelter.

By the following year, my Hebrew had improved and I started to feel more like an Israeli. We moved from Or Yehuda to Jaffa. In high school, I traveled via bicycle nearly an hour each way to and from school. In my last year before graduation, I was invited to apply for the Air Force for my army service. I was shocked when I got the invitation, and even more shocked when I was accepted. While I still spoke with an accent, my transition to becoming an Israeli felt more complete than ever.