My Torahs “Are we on for this morning?” asked
Jimmy. He called to find out whether we were still going to tear down and haul
away our sturdy succot. Since we were
using Jimmy’s truck, I knew I had to wait until he was ready. “I’m just getting
up,” he told me. Despite his assurance the day before that we’d start at eight,
I knew Jimmy well enough to know that was wishful thinking.
“See you in an hour,” I said, as I returned to my computer
to read more about Israel attacking Hamas provocateurs in Gaza. More than 100
missiles had been sent into southwestern Israel with a criminal disregard for
civilian populations. I wondered whether editorialists like Nicholas Kristoff
and the New York Times staff of Palestinian cheerleaders might finally get it
right. Peace with or recognition of Israel has never been on Hamas’ agenda.
What they want is to imitate their warlord prophet Mohammad;
Hamas wants a hudna, a truce that
will allow them to stand back until they’re strong enough to attack more
forcefully. I knew to expect their claims that Israel was to blame. Sadly, I
also knew too many Americans would believe that lie.
That’s what I was thinking when I met Jimmy. Dismantling
began in earnest; I wanted to return to the Net to ensure that Israel and my
daughters in Jerusalem were safe. Forty minutes later, I did. Gone was all
signs of the structure my brother and my son-in-law and I had built.
I sighed as I raced back to my store, its business
downstairs and my home on the second floor. After I grabbed the mail, I
returned to my Israeli sources for news. When I read that the head of the
military branch of Hamas had been targeted and killed by Israel, I winced. As
important as that hit was, I knew retaliations would follow. For a moment, I
had to turn away.
That’s when I looked at an envelope addressed to me from
Phyllis W; “personal” was scribbled on the lower left corner. A post-it note
stuck to the letter inside began, “Dear Barry.” Below that was this question,
“Do you know anyone who might know what’s happened to the Torah?”
“What Torah?” I wondered as I removed the sticky note from
what appeared to be a very old letter composed on a very old typewriter.
Shocked by what I saw, I couldn’t have imagined receiving a more auspicious
document. The letter, written on a piece of bonded stationery imprinted with
Aetz Chayim Synagogue by my grandfather almost sixty years ago, was addressed
to Phyllis W.’s grandfather, President of the “Orthodox Jewish Congregation,
South Boton [sic], Virginia.”
With an orange marker, Phyllis had highlighted my
grandfather Abe’s name on the letterhead. She’d used the same marker to make an
arrow that pointed at his signature on the dotted line that ended with
“President.” With a pen, she had written “my grandfather” atop her grandfather’s
name on the recipient’s address.
In one-sentence paragraphs, my grandfather explained the
purpose of the letter.
“We, the Aetz Chayim Congregation of Danville, Va accept in
our custody the Torah belonging to the Orthodox Jewish Congregation of South
Boston, Va.
“We will keep this Torah in our custody until such time as
it will be needed again by the Orthodox Jewish Congregation of South Boston,
Va.”
Setting down the amazing letter, I examined the envelope.
Phyllis’ address was in a Virginia town I didn’t recognize. Even so, I had to
wonder whether that explained anything. Was she unaware of the complete demise
of the South Boston congregation? It had happened long before the Danville
orthodox congregation had perished and moved away. In fact, I wonder whether
Phyllis knew that the historical synagogue that had been Aetz Chayim’s had been
razed?
Staring at the letter again, I thought about the many small
southern Jewish congregations that had disappeared. Who had noticed? Had
Phyllis known her grandfather? I decided to write to a friend in D.C. whose
father had been a member of Aetz Chayim.
That’s when the phone rang. I answered the call.
“Hey, Dad!”
I managed to say “Hello, sweetheart” to my younger daughter.
“Just want to let you know I’m O.K.” She’d been hiking and
camping in the Negev, halfway between Jerusalem and Eilat. “We saw the Israeli
war planes flying toward Gaza.”
She spoke in a voice that was calm and certain. “We’re
safe,” she said. She was using her boyfriend’s cell phone. It was a good one;
she sounded as if she were next door. We talked for more than twenty minutes. I
tried not to let her hear in my voice that I did not want to say goodbye.
But I had to. I had to let her go the same way that the
South Boston congregation had to hand over their Torah so that it could be
cared for when their congregation dissolved. Perhaps like an overly concerned
father, I hoped her boyfriend would care for my precious daughter the same way
my grandfather had promised to care for South Boston’s Torah.
That’s what I wished for as we discussed the possibility of
her staying in Israel for another year of study. “God bless and protect her,” I
said to myself, “and my older children too.”
I hadn’t heard from them, my daughter and her husband in
northwest Jerusalem. Word from them wouldn’t come until this morning, after I
had heard from my friend in D.C.
He’d checked with others who were related to former Aetz
Chayim families. There was some memory of the South Boston Torah. It had been
properly cared for until the Aetz Chayim congregation disbanded. Then it was
given to another “Torah True Congregation,” as promised in my grandfather’s
letter. That phrase was new to my friend in D.C.
And to me. But the good news was that the Torah, wherever it
is, is in good hands.
“I’ll write to Phyllis about that,” I said to my friend.
“I think I know her,” he said, recalling a chance meeting
not so long ago. He’d noticed a car with a Jewish-themed bumper sticker and had
started a conversation. “Is this her phone number?” he asked, as he read it to
me.
“Yes,” I said, staring at her note, as if a cold case had
been solved. “I’ll write about that too,” I told my friend.
This morning, I returned to my computer and the Net to do
just that. Waiting for me was a note from my older daughter.
It read:
1. We
are okay. Attacks are going on in the south, many miles away from us.
2. We
have our gas masks and a stockpile of emergency food (maybe about a month's
worth and still adding to it).
3. You
know this, but I'll reiterate anyway. Neither of us was ever in the army,
so we will never be called up from reserves…
They're
calling this an actual war. It's the first war since I've lived here, but
so far my life goes on as normal (though I can't say the same for people in the
south)...
Immediately, I responded although I knew she was no longer
at her computer. She would be back at her school studying to be an R.N. For
now, I knew she was safe.
It was me who was shaking. My sweet children, my dear
Israel, were in harm’s way. I could do little to protect them. Nor could I stop
the world from being told that screams from the Muslim world were more like
anti-Semitic curses than real news:
Nov 14, 2012 12:15 pm | Robert
Nov 14, 2012 06:40 pm | Robert
B. Koplen 11/15/12
No comments:
Post a Comment