Rei'ach HaSadeh Vol 5

128 Rei’ach HaSadeh

II.

I am lonely. Let me emphasize, however, that by stating “I am
lonely” I do not intend to convey to you the impression that I am
alone. I, thank God, do enjoy the love and friendship of many. I meet
people, talk, preach, argue, reason; I am surrounded by comrades and
acquaintances. And yet, companionship and friendship do not
alleviate the passional experience of loneliness which trails me
constantly. I am lonely because at times I feel rejected and thrust away
by everybody, not excluding my most intimate friends, and the words
of the Psalmist, “My father and my mother have forsaken me,” ring
quite often in my ears like the plaintive cooing of the turtledove. It is
a strange, alas, absurd experience engendering sharp, enervating pain
as well as a stimulating, cathartic feeling. I despair because I am
lonely, and hence, feel frustrated. On the other hand, I also feel
invigorated because this very experience of loneliness presses everything
in me into the service of God.

– R. Joseph B. Soloveitchik7

While less intuitive, and definitely more controversial, there is also
both textual8 and scientific9 support that having a relationship with God is

7 The Lonely Man of Faith (New York: Three Leaves Press Doubleday, 2006), pp. 3-4.
8 See, e.g., Psalms 42:3 (“My soul thirsts for God”), 63:9 (“My soul is attached to You”),
119:20 (“My soul is consumed with longing for your rules”), 130:6 (“My soul waits for the Lord”).

The Baal HaTanya saw the verse [Proverbs 20:27] “For the soul of man
is God’s candle” as referring to the constant inner yearning of the
Jewish soul to jump out of the bodily bond into ego-obliterating union
with the Master of the world, much like a flickering flame constantly
jumps and dances in a desperate attempt to escape the earthly bond of
the wick. Beyond the layers of concealment and foreign impulses, the
soul of a Jew is always flickering, constantly yearning for a life of
closeness with its Creator.

Yaakov Klein, The Story of Our Lives: An Epic Quest for the Soul of Our Tradition (Jerusalem:
Feldheim Pub., 2021), p. 28 (citing Likutei Amarim, Tanya, Ch. 19).
9 See, e.g., Joey Marshall, “Are religious people happier, healthier?” Pew Research Center,
January 31, 2019, available at https://www.pewresearch.org/fact-tank/2019/01/31/are-
religious-people-happier-healthier-our-new-global-study-explores-this-question/ (finding
that actively religious people tend to be happier and are more likely to be involved with other
affiliations); Tom Knox, “The tantalising proof that belief in God makes you happier and
healthier,” The Daily Mail, February 18, 2011, available at
https://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-1358421/The-tantalising-proof-belief-God-makes-
happier-healthier.html (citing numerous studies on mental and emotional health trends among
church-goers).

Adam L. Sheps 129

good for our overall well-being. 10 The core of this association is the soul’s
never-ending desire to connect with God. Forging this connection,
however, provides a different set of challenges. First, while there is a
different type of fear of rejection (“Why doesn’t so-and-so like me?” versus
“Why does God not answer me if He loves me?”), there is also a different
form of satisfaction that comes from a relationship with God that is based
on His pure love for each and every person. Second, a tension can be felt in
a relationship where God is always the giver and all we can offer in return is
our belief in Him and our willingness to follow in His ways.

If the nature of interpersonal relationships is commonality, this
facet belies a fundamental shortcoming in any relationship: the inability to
fully know another person. It is impossible to gain a total understanding of
another’s situation; moreover, there are inevitably times when we realize
our seemingly common interests and beliefs might not be wholly genuine.
It is this gap that I believe that R. Soloveitchik is referring to. He couples
this recognition of our limited perceptions with the reality that the only
entity who is capable of a wholesale recognition and understanding of
a person is God. The fundamental shortcoming of this relationship, though,
is man’s inability to relate to God and have a two-way exchange with God;
all we can achieve (from our human perspective) is a one-sided connection
to Him.

Our faith in God, and our willingness to follow in His ways,
is what bridges that gap; and it is our neshamah, the soul-part of our self, that
is ever-striving to find and be closer to God. The goal of following the
mitzvot (especially the mitzvot bein adam leMakom) is to find avenues for
connection. Moreover, the command to “be holy, for I, the LORD your God,
am holy”11 is intended to assist us in finding that commonality – and hence,
connection to God – that goes beyond the mere performance of
commandments. Looking at R. Soloveitchik again, he poignantly captures
the frustration that is to be found in our imperfect connections to other
people, coupled with the desire it invigorates in him to find God.
The challenge thus becomes to find comfort – and not frustration – in our
faith, to find joy in the knowledge that God loves us, even as our
connection to Him is different than it is to people.

10 The author does recognize that a relationship with God does not hinge on being part of
an organized religion – and while exploring that nuance is outside the scope of this article.
these sources do speak to the general nature of how one pursues a relationship with God
through religious activities.
11 Leviticus 19:2. See also, Rambam’s introduction to his Sefer haMitzvot, Shoresh 4, where he
explains that “Be holy” is an all-encompassing command, referring to our Divine service in
its entirety.

130 Rei’ach HaSadeh

Conclusion
It would be both too easy and too shortsighted to take what we
have discussed so far and conclude that we must strive to spend all of our
time with others or actively seeking a relationship with God. Being with
others and being with God contributes to psychological (and physical!)
well-being and enjoyment. However, to spend our time only with a focus
on being with others would be to ignore the value of moments alone. Time
spent in solitude, self-reflection and thought is invaluable for personal
development and can also contribute toward positive relationships with
others. The nuance is whether separation and seclusion lead us to stasis, or
to emotional and spiritual growth. When considering the pain of being
lonely versus the value that can be gained in time spent alone, the words of
the poet May Sarton ring true: “Loneliness is the poverty of self; solitude
is richness of self.”12
Therefore, it is clear that the body and soul are partners in creating
a life framework full of connection. Achieving our sacred work for
ourselves, and playing our roles in the world around us, require the
satisfaction of the needs of both parts of the self. By seeking out and
putting in the effort to develop links with those around us and with God,
our innate need for psychological and spiritual connection will be
nourished.

Adam L. Sheps is one of the founding editors of Rei’ach HaSadeh and works as corporate
counsel for a global insurance company. His podcast – Where Heaven and Earth are
Touching – explores connections between the Talmud and the weekly Torah portion. Adam and
his wife Rachel Lohr moved to Springfield in 2009. They are teaching their children Hannah,
Jacob and Abigail to love kindness and Disney World.

12 Journal of a Solitude (New York: W.W. Norton & Co.), 1992.





Reflections



135

A CALL FOR UNITY:
THE HUNTER SHUL

BY: JOSEPH ROTENBERG, Z”L

INTRODUCTION
By: Daniella Wittenberg

My father was, innately, a storyteller, and his favorite stories to tell were those
that he had lived.

For most of his life, my father regaled everyone around him – friends, family
and strangers alike – with humorous and more serious tales about growing up on the
Upper West Side of Manhattan (subway rides alone at the age of 8!), memorable and
sometimes challenging family vacations (an RV trip in Montana with five young kids is
perhaps not the best idea) and the challenges of being a Modern Orthodox Jew in a world
of growing secularism.

More recently, my father began putting his stories down on paper. What started
as a casual hobby eventually became an impassioned commitment, and before we knew it
my father had written a book. Not just any book, but a book that reflected his one-of-a-
kind humor, storytelling and insightfulness.

A prevailing theme in my father’s stories – both written and spoken – is that
we can find connections with our fellow human beings wherever we might be in the world.
However, connectivity was not just a plot point for my father. It was the fuel that drove
his life. Wherever he went, he sought and found common ground with people of all
lifestyles and religions. Sometimes this resulted in lifelong friendships; at other times these
encounters simply added to the trove of tales my father would one day share. Either way,
my father’s passion for connection reflected his basic belief that, as both human beings and
Jews, our similarities outweigh our differences.

My father passed away before having the opportunity to meaningfully connect
with the individuals who make up the wonderful Springfield community. I have no doubt
that he would have been inspired by our community members’ warmth and vibrancy, and
that he would be elated at the thought of being included in this wonderful journal.

The story below recounts an experience my father had during that 1960s
Modern Orthodox phenomenon known as “summer in the Catskills.” I hope you will
enjoy reading his story as much as he enjoyed living and writing it.

136 Rei’ach HaSadeh

What could YU, Breuer’s, the Bluzhever Rebbe, and the Slutzky
family possibly ever have in common?

As wise King Solomon teaches us in Megillat Kohelet, there are times
when it’s preferable to separate, and times when it behooves us to come
together. In each of our lives, as well as in the lives of our Jewish
communities, there are those events that unite us and those that seem to
pull us apart. We are all familiar with the often polarizing conflicts that have
arisen in the recent Jewish past between various factions, organizations, and
individuals: left versus right, Mizrachi versus Agudah, Yeshivish versus
Modern Orthodox, Ashkenazi versus Sephardi, and chareidi versus everyone
else. Then there are the geographical divisions: Litvak versus Galitzianer,
and Yekke versus non-Yekke. Finally, a historic schism came to these
shores as an import via Ellis Island: European Jews brought us Chassid
versus Misnaged.

From the foregoing list, it would appear that Orthodox Jews
throughout American history have been at each other’s communal throats
more often than not. The following tale emphasizes, however, a happier
time in the past when achdut prevailed in Modern Orthodox American
Jewish life. It also illustrates that opportunities occasionally present
themselves for us to learn lessons from our fellow Jews even if we have to
cross age and geographic barriers to do so. Prepare to consider one of those
special times of year in the American-Jewish calendar when Jews unite as
a community: summer vacation!

Yes, summer vacation is when American Orthodox Jews seem to
bury their differences in the interests of ensuring they can find a minyan to
pray with, kosher food in reasonable proximity, and comfortable
accommodation for large families. Once found, these locations are returned
to year after year, and friendships are renewed with people you only
socialize with when on vacation. Between July 4 and Labor Day, fellow
vacationers become steadfast neighbors. If you’re lucky, summer week after
summer week you can forget about where you come from and put away all
September thoughts until you start reciting L’David during davening. Some
of these summer escape destinations have taken on an almost utopian aura,
lifelong memories of happy moments, and rites of passage that only
become more firmly fixed in one’s recollection as time passes. Every so
often, one or two of these locations rise to the level of legend, where
historic figures in Jewish history rub elbows with commoners, the learned
with those who still have lots to learn. My story is about one such place,
a sleepy hamlet tucked under tree-lined mountains just 128 miles from
New York City.

Joseph Rotenberg 137

The village of Hunter, New York, stands 1,800 feet above sea level
at the foot of the second-highest mountain in the Catskill Mountains,
Hunter Mountain. For approximately 150 years the area around Hunter
Mountain, at an altitude of 4,000 feet, has attracted visitors for its natural
beauty, cool summer nights, and hiking possibilities. The last 50 years have
also seen the development of all-year ski facilities that set the standard for
the southern part of New York state. Hunter’s virtues have attracted its
share of Orthodox Jews for more than a century, which has led to the
listing of the Hunter Synagogue, located on Main Street, on the National
Register of Historic Places. The synagogue was constructed between 1909
and 1914 through the efforts of, among others, the noted Jewish-American
businessman and philanthropist Harry Fischel, who built a stately seven-
gabled home in Hunter for his extended family to spend their summers
away from New York City. Accompanying him was his son-in-law, Rabbi
Herbert S. Goldstein, founder of the Institutional Synagogue on 116th Street
in Harlem and inspirational leader of the fledgling Modern Orthodox
community.

Without the lifelong efforts of these two men, the Orthodox world
as we know it would be much different. Rabbi Goldstein was the only man
to serve during his lifetime as the head of the Orthodox Union, the
Rabbinical Council of America, and the now-defunct Synagogue Council of
America. He introduced many people to the idea of kosher food
supervision, and he innovated the now very familiar OU kosher
certification. He was also instrumental in creating the concept of the
synagogue center (the synagogue as the center of communal Jewish life,
with educational programming and services supported by membership
dues).

By the 1930s, Hunter was Rabbi Goldstein’s summer refuge from
his busy communal schedule, as it was for his father-in-law, Harry Fischel.
By the time the latter passed away in 1948, no one could have predicted
what Hunter and its shul would come to mean within a generation to a
broadly diverse Orthodox Jewish community.

The 1960s saw Hunter becoming a summer haven for Jews to relax
with fellow Jews, specifically those who wished to avoid the large,
boisterous hotels of the Borscht Belt of Sullivan County. The latter
establishments claimed to be located in the “heart” of the Catskills. As any
amateur geographer (or anyone who could read a map) knew well, those
hotels were nowhere near the Catskill Mountains, which ranged west from
the Hudson River and terminated way short of Sullivan County. The “real”

138 Rei’ach HaSadeh

Catskills were truly mountainous, rocky, with fast-moving streams and
major reservoirs serving even faraway New York City.

Hunter and its twin village, Tannersville, began to attract a new sort
of Jewish visitor, namely those hardy folk who followed the traditions of
Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch and the Frankfurt, Germany, community:
Breuer’s of Washington Heights. Leading this group to Hunter was Rav
Naftoli Friedler with his wife and large family. Rav Friedler founded the beit
midrash of the Breuer’s yeshiva/mesivta and served as its first rosh yeshiva in
1958. Originally trained at Gateshead Yeshiva in England, Rav Friedler
brought many Breuer’s families north to Hunter each summer for at least
a decade.

Alongside the Breuer’s group came members of the growing
Yeshiva University family of teachers and students. Among them were
future roshei mesivta, including notable Talmud scholar Rabbi Yehuda Parnes,
later rosh yeshiva of Lander College, who was equally adept at helping
a student understand a complex Tosafot or on occasion assisting his sons
on a baseball diamond or basketball court.

Alongside Rabbis Friedler and Parnes, the Hunter summer
community was blessed in particular with the annual presence of a true
Chassidic great, the Bluzhever Rebbe, Reb Yisroel Spira (1889-1989),
notable Holocaust survivor and leader of a vibrant Brooklyn community.
His presence in the Hunter shul every summer day was inspiring to young
and old.

In contrast to these rabbinic lights were those many Jews who lived
observant lives, but did not necessarily consider themselves steeped in
learning or training. From the 1920s, for example, the Margareten family of
matzah fame called Hunter their summer home. The Slutzky family not
only developed the Hunter Mountain ski lodge and lifts during the 1960s,
but were the main year-round supporters of the Hunter Synagogue.
Rounding out the summer community were several dozen families of ba’alei
haBatim without any particular affiliation, simple Orthodox Jews from the
New York Metro area, happy to join in this annual summer escape.

The net effect of this varied kehillah was that on an ordinary
summer Shabbat morning in the Hunter synagogue you might find me,
a fifteen-year-old ba’al koreh, grandson of Gerrer Chassidim, reading the
Torah with a German trop to a minyan consisting of, among others, the
Bluzhever Rebbe, Rav Naftoli Friedler of Breuer’s, Rabbi Parnes of YU, the
Margaretens, Rabbi Reichel of the West Side Institutional Synagogue, and

Joseph Rotenberg 139

members of the Slutzky family. Jews of so many different stripes were all
praying together in tranquility on those days, with mutual respect and
devotion and a real sense of community.

The most meaningful of the rituals performed over those summers
in the Hunter shul were undoubtedly those special situations that took place
midweek when the teenagers and young adults of the community were
called upon to participate in greater numbers than on weekends.
The weekly routine of fathers leaving Hunter after the weekend and
returning to the city to go to work put the onus of daily minyan attendance
squarely on the younger male residents and the relatively few older male
members who remained in Hunter during the week.

In 1965, I recall a particularly memorable midweek Tisha B’Av
Eichah reading that brought the younger elements in Hunter directly in
contact with the Bluzhever Rebbe, one of the few adults to attend the
reading that night. His inspiring presence bridged any gaps that might
otherwise have existed between the different types of Jews who attended.
It was as if the Rebbe saw each Jew as equal, and his wartime experience led
him to consider all external, factional labels of little importance.

That particular August evening, the small group that gathered at
the end of ma’ariv to hear Megillat Eichah moved to the front of the shul
where the Bluzhever Rebbe sat in his familiar mizrach seat. The Rebbe spoke
mostly Yiddish, and most of the boys did not. He smiled in their direction
and indicated that they should approach him and be seated. The young man
chosen to read the megillah knew little of the Rebbe’s wartime suffering,
how the Rebbe had witnessed countless horrors, and had lost his wife and
children. In fact, throughout his years of incarceration, the Rebbe had often
lifted the spirits of his fellow inmates by secretly performing important
Jewish rituals and ceremonies. Many have recounted how the Rebbe
obtained matzah, lit the menorah, and pronounced blessings in Bergen-
Belsen at great risk to his life. To the young Jews who sat before him that
night, the Rebbe seemed a passive figure, smiling and nodding in their
direction. What thoughts must have crossed his mind of Tisha B’Avs long
ago, of skeleton-like figures surrounding him, tears in their eyes as they
recalled ancient and present losses of incalculable measure?

Now, in 1965, the Rebbe saw before him a different audience:
young, strong Jewish men who knew no oppression, who knew the return
to Zion, and who venerated their elders, who had suffered through the
bitter war years. Did the Rebbe in any small way feel redeemed by the
experience of hearing the haunting melody of the reader, the poignant

140 Rei’ach HaSadeh

words of Yirmiyahu enunciated by free Jewish voices in a country that had
granted him refuge? Or did he feel simple thanks to HaShem that he had
survived to reach that day? No one spoke much after the Ma’ariv kinot were
completed. Whatever he felt at that moment, clearly the Rebbe saw only
fellow Jews before him – not Chassidim, Misnagdim, Ashkenazim, or
Sephardim. The Rebbe thanked the reader with a “yasher koach,” walked
slowly down the aisle of the shul, and was helped into a car that took him
to his bungalow.

The high degree of humility and modesty that characterized the
Bluzhever Rebbe is further illustrated by an anecdote recently told to me by
my cousin from Toronto. Apparently, my uncle Alex, the best fisherman in
Hunter, had been planning a fishing trip to a location not far from town,
a spot that had, in the past, never produced a satisfactory number of fish.
Alex approached the Rebbe prior to his outing.

“Can the Rebbe give me a blessing so that I might have a
successful fishing trip?”

The Rebbe thought for a while and then responded to Alex with,
“veYidgu laRov beKerev haAretz.” (And may they proliferate abundantly like
fish within the land.)

Alex thanked the Rebbe for his blessing and headed out to the
reservoir. Hours later, Alex arrived at shul for Ma’ariv. Following the
service, he approached the Rebbe.

“So how did it go, Alex?” the Rebbe asked him in Yiddish.

“Don’t ask, Rebbe, I didn’t catch a thing!”

Without hesitation the Rebbe said, “That should show you just
how much my blessings are worth!”

Maybe Hunter wasn’t a utopia for all the Jews who called it their
summer home, but sharing time there with the Bluzhever Rebbe and others
certainly raised the awareness of many of the common features of their
existence as Jews and the superficial, and ultimately insignificant, nature of
their differences. It can be safely said that we need more “Hunters” in our
future and fewer divisions among our people.

Joseph Rotenberg 141

Joseph Rotenberg, z”l was born in New York City in 1949 and grew up on the Upper
West Side with his Antwerp-born father and Brooklyn-born mother and four sisters. He received
his BA from Columbia College and two law degrees from New York University Law School. He
practiced tax law for six years before he entered the investment advisory business. He and his wife
Barbara raised their five children in Teaneck, NJ.



143

SHEMA YISRA’EL:
THE MAN WHO LOVED EVERY JEW

BY: DIANE OSEN COVKIN

“As I write, I hear my sweet Mom chanting the Shema
and my eyes fill with tears. But it is not enough to weep;
rather, do the right deeds as she would expect it of her firstborn.”

These are among the words that my father, Cantor David Osen,
scrawled on a piece of lined paper folded like a kvittel (prayerful note) which
I found years after he died. I have very few memories of my grandmother,
but the necessity of saying the Shema before bed is the first thing
I remember learning from my father about the daily obligations of a Jew.
Even after I became an adult, Daddy could not help but remind me,
his firstborn, to lein keriyat Shema, or recite the Shema. At those moments, he
surely recalled hearing my sister and me sing it aloud in our beds, just as he
had taught us: at the same pace, pitch and volume. He didn’t explain its
provenance or meaning, nor did we ask; we simply memorized the words
and the tune, as we did with the tefillot we were taught at school. Just the
same, I learned what he wanted me to remember forever: that the Shema is
the most important prayer any Jew can lein; and that in moments of grave
distress or great joy, I must sing it to myself, knowing that my words will
always be heard by HaShem.

Even as a child I perceived that nothing was more important to
Daddy than being a Jew. He adored our mother and loved being our father,
but his notions about marriage and fatherhood were rooted entirely in his
identity as a Jew born and raised in Frankfurt am Main, Germany. It was he
who encouraged my sister and me to follow his example by kissing every
mezuzah, along with all siddurim, chumashim and bentschers; who tested us to
ascertain whether we could recite “Az Yashir” (“The Song of the Sea’”)
without stumbling; who introduced us to the horrors of the Holocaust and
the tragic history of the Jewish People. I was certain there was nothing
about Torah and Jewish law that he did not know—an impression
reinforced at our shul, the Jewish Center of Teaneck, where my father’s
authority as a cantor was evident and his chazzanut (mastery of Jewish
prayer) instantly commanding. It was not only his melodious and moving
voice that drew all eyes and ears, but the nature of his davening. My father
was clearly communicating with HaShem on our behalf and urging us
—vocally, gesturally—to daven with more faithful intention ourselves.
When members greeted him after services, I could not help but discern in
their own voices and gestures expressions of admiration that confirmed my

144 Rei’ach HaSadeh

conviction that Daddy was entirely wise, kind and good, a king among mere
mortals.

Not coincidentally, this notion was one of the key animating
principles of Osen family life throughout our childhood and adolescence;
though at our home, Daddy was not only a cantor and a king, but the
virtual voice of HaShem Himself, setting the standards for our religious
beliefs and practices, speech and conduct, achievements and friendships.
Mommy devoted most of her domestic energies to echoing my father’s
pronouncements and preserving our perceptions of his singularity:
enforcing her prohibition against contradicting Daddy; ensuring that we
raced, whenever summoned, to retrieve from his hands an orange peel or
empty coffee cup; and reminding us to say nothing that might compromise
his privacy or reflect poorly on our parents. Though I faltered often over
many years in meeting these and other expectations, I nonetheless
understood that Daddy deserved my kavod (honor) not just because he was
a cantor and a king and the virtual voice of HaShem, but because his
conduct never seemed to deviate from the standards he set for us.

Like many refugees from Nazi Germany, my father was also
a deeply patriotic American citizen; and when I began at a very early age to
initiate political discussions at our Shabbos table, he invariably concluded
them by declaiming reverently, “Girls, America is the greatest country in the
world.” Yet Daddy would never have contemplated emulating the millions
of non-Jews who followed baseball or grilled hot dogs or washed and
waxed their cars. Teaching my sister and me how to ride a bike without
training wheels represented the apogee of his accomplishments as an
Americanski father, no doubt at the urging of our Americanski mother. Why
Mommy also charged him with serving as bartender on those rare occasions
when they served alcoholic beverages to guests, we never understood;
though this was a seemingly eternal paternal responsibility, my father did
not even try to fulfill it as expected. We watched in dismay as he invariably
poured out Scotch instead of bourbon as requested, assuring us, “They will
never know the difference.” But my sister and I never complained because
my father concocted drinks for us too—Cherry Heering with ginger ale on
the rocks—which we consumed happily between shifts delivering platters
of crackers topped with Mrs. Weinberger’s Chopped Liver.

Daddy had his own ideas about other cultural norms as well. He
picked us up at the Rappaports’ house on Pomander Walk every Friday
afternoon, so we would not have to ride the bus home from Yavneh for yet
another half an hour. Our destination rarely varied: Rocklin’s candy store,
which Daddy called Rickel’s, where he gave us each of us a dime and two

Diane Osen Covkin 145

pennies—the only allowance we ever received—to cover the cost of
a comic book apiece. That our highly cultured father, who looked askance
at nearly every aspect of non-Jewish life, enabled us to follow the
adventures of Superman like every other American kid was in retrospect
nothing short of astounding. If he hadn’t already visited, our next stop was
Butterflake Bake Shop, to buy the chocolate-topped, custard-filled donuts
that stood at the pinnacle of my favorite food group. My sister and I were
not allowed to eat candy, but bakery treats—available to us only on Friday
afternoons, Shabbos and Sunday mornings—were another matter; and on
the way home I was allowed to weigh, in my unwashed hands, every single
donut before choosing the heaviest to devour before Shabbos dinner.

These glimpses of Daddy at ease stood in stark contrast to his
majestic status at our shul, then the spiritual home of 1,500 families. But
I perceive now that both of these personae were dimensions of Daddy’s
identity as a man who loved every Jew—an attribute that I appreciate more
than ever in 2021.

I believe it was in the Shema that Daddy found both the imperative
to embrace ahavat achim and the determination to become a shaliach tzibbur.
That we are addressed in both the singular and the plural—“Shema Yisra’el
(singular), HaShem Elokeinu (plural), HaShem Echad”—was, for him, proof
positive that HaShem gave the Torah to every Jew individually and to all
Jews collectively, thus linking us inextricably to Him and to one and
another. For Daddy, being a chazzan—using his gifts to animate the words
of HaShem, David HaMelech and Chazal, and to beseech the Ribbono Shel
Olam to attend to the prayers of every Jew and all Jews—was the ultimate
embodiment of emunah (faith) and achdut (unity).

As a child, my father’s love of every Jew made no impression on
me; I never even noticed it. For one thing, I was unaware of the existence
of sinat chinam (baseless hatred); for another, his allegiance to ahavat achim
(love of fellow Jews) was hidden in plain sight. If he heard that a shul
member had been admitted to a hospital, he visited with the same alacrity
whether he or she davened regularly or on the High Holidays alone. When
he mentioned other Jews, he never differentiated among the various
streams of Judaism or criticized their tenets. He delighted in naming the
disproportionate number of Jewish Nobel Prize winners, inventors,
scientists, philosophers, writers and musicians who had changed history,
whether or not they identified as Jews. He loved Israel and Israelis with
abandon regardless of political party or religious affiliation; a visit to Israel
was the capstone of the honeymoon cruise he planned for Mommy, who
was surprised to discover among their suitcases one filled with shirts, ties

146 Rei’ach HaSadeh

and suits that Daddy brought along to donate to other refugees. When we
were girls, it was not uncommon for my sister and me to find my father
seated at the kitchen table, a tallis draped over his head, listening to a Tanya
broadcast on WEVD-AM, New York City’s Yiddish-language radio
station.1 At a time when many in the Jewish world had not yet come to
appreciate the wisdom of the Lubavitcher Rebbe, my father revered him
without reservation because he was devoted to sustaining the divine spark
within every Jewish soul.

This is not to say, of course, that Daddy was never critical. He
reserved special opprobrium for a Jew of any means or education who
failed to give tzedakah—in his view, the most heinous crime a Jew could
commit without going to prison—because to him it reflected a rejection of
achdut. My father raised us to share his belief that Jews rarely commit
criminal offenses altogether; and whenever a Jew was sent to prison, he
seemed overwhelmed as much by surprise as shame. Although he found it
difficult to love these Jews and others whose deeds he judged unworthy,
he made an effort nonetheless, never stooping to curses or insults.

It was only recently, 18 years after my father passed away, that
I began to wonder how his love for the Jewish people grew ever stronger
despite his alien status in communities that did not share his worldview;
how he accepted with equanimity the setbacks he rarely or never discussed;
and how his spiritual mission was shaped by his parents, his rabbi in
Frankfurt, and his experiences before, during and after his ordination as
a cantor.

My father started life as Dawid Ozjynksi-Ozdynski, the elder son of
Icek and Rachel—our Oma and Opa—who were born and raised in
Poland. Daddy told my sister and me that Oma’s mother Shaindel had been
a young widow who owned an inn where Oma worked too, after
completing eighth grade; Opa, orphaned at 12, was apprenticed immediately
thereafter to a tailor. After their marriage they moved to Frankfurt, where
Opa eventually became the proprietor of a textiles factory that was seized
by the Nazis to manufacture flags emblazoned with swastikas. By the time
their firstborn was called to the Torah, he was already six feet tall and eager
to accept the responsibilities of an adult. But my father’s bar mitzvah

1“The Usage of Technology,” A Timeline Biography of the Rebbe, available at
https://www.chabad.org/therebbe/article_cdo/aid/62171/jewish/1960-The-Usage-of-
Technology.htm.

Diane Osen Covkin 147

Shabbos marked more than just a religious milestone. We heard countless
times about the visit that same afternoon by R. Dr. Jacob Hoffman, z”tl,
whose devar Torah in the family’s apartment seemed to confirm Daddy’s
status as a cantorial prodigy certain to enjoy professional acclaim—though
the occasion was marred, to Daddy’s lasting mortification, by the presence
of five German marks left inadvertently on a side table.

What my father never told us, however, was that R. Dr. Hoffman
did not preside over a local shtiebel (small synagogue) as I had thought, but
was the Chief Rabbi of Frankfurt am Main, and a son of R. Dr. David
Hoffman, zt”l, the leading posek in Germany in the late 1800 and early
1900s. Arguably, the elder R. Dr. Hoffman was even more famous in some
circles for his advocacy of Wissenschaft des Judentum, or the scientific study of
Judaism—a movement meant to appeal to Orthodox Jews who shared his
belief in Torah Min HaShamayim (HaShem’s Torah) but wished to engage in
intellectual inquiry as well. 2 This multifaceted approach to learning,
common among secular scholars, was anathema to many of his fellow
rabbinic leaders; and his son R. Dr. Jacob, who was likewise a supporter,
also attracted accolades and abuse in equal measure. A talmid (student) of
the Chatam Sofer, he agitated a multitude of Orthodox and Hasidic Jews by
delivering a eulogy for Theodore Herzl, a figure reviled by anti-Zionists,
and by earning a Ph.D. at the University of Vienna focusing on halachah and
the Koran.3

In 1923, when my father was two years old, R. Dr. Jacob Hoffman
succeeded R. Nechemiah Nobel, zt”l as the Chief Rabbi of Frankfurt’s
Orthodox community. Already a divisive figure, he enraged many peers
across Europe by asserting, “We who represent traditional Judaism have no
right to demand from the individual all or nothing…Every Jew who
recognizes one G-d is part of our community. Every Jew who seeks
affiliation to Judaism will be accepted with joy.”4 R. Hoffman’s views were
especially unpopular among members of the famed Breuer’s Shul in
Frankfurt, who declined to refer to him as a rabbi or defer to him as
a posek.5 Decades earlier, R. Samson Raphael Hirsch, zt”l, a previous Rav of
the community and the one of the most renowned rebbeim of the modern
era, had not only decried Wissenschaft des Judentum, but advocated for the

2 See David Ellenson and Richard Jacobs, “Scholarship and Faith: Rabbi David Hoffman
and His Relationship to Wissenschaft des Judentum,” Modern Judaism 8(1), 1988, pp. 27-40.
3 See Simcha Krauss, “Rabbi Dr. Jacob Hoffman The Man and his Era,” Jewish Action, Fall
2001, available at https://jewishaction.com/books/reviews/rabbi-dr-jacob-hoffman-man-
era.
4 Ibid.
5 Ibid.

148 Rei’ach HaSadeh

secession of Orthodox Jews from the larger Jewish community. His
followers’ antagonism toward R. Hoffman never abated.6

By contrast, R. Dr. Hoffman found in my father and grandparents
hearts that beat together with his. No doubt motivated by his example, my
father joined the Mizrachi movement and Beitar as soon as he was eligible,
inspired by his Rav’s declaration that involving oneself “in the settlement of
the land of Israel is a religious obligation.”7 Further, it seems evident that
R. Dr. Hoffman’s full-throated embrace of Judische Wissenschaft influenced
the choices Opa made about his two sons’ education. Daddy did not attend
a classical yeshiva or study Talmud formally when he was a boy, as I had
thought until I reviewed his only extant report card. Rather, he was a typical
student at a school for Jewish boys where he was taught, largely in German,
some Judaic Studies as well as subjects like math, science and history.

Of course, he had never claimed to be a star pupil or a Torah
scholar; it was I who had invented this eminent biography. I was struck by
another realization as well: Daddy had never revealed to us the communal
controversies that shaped his earliest experiences in an Orthodox
community, even after Opa moved to Washington Heights and began
davening at the Breuer’s Shul. For that matter, I never heard him argue with
Mommy or anyone else about religion or other potentially divisive topics.
His belief in shalom bayit (domestic harmony) extended well beyond the four
walls of our home and our shul.

Given the family’s fidelity to the philosophy of R. Dr. Hoffman,
they understandably rejoiced when Daddy, at the age of 16, was admitted to
the prestigious Hoschschule fur die Wissenschaft des Judentums, or the Higher
Institute for Jewish Studies, in Berlin. It had gained such renown by 1937
that its student body was dominated by graduates of Orthodox yeshivot,
many from families like ours who had emigrated from Poland.8 There, my
father told us, he dreamed of gaining the preparation needed to serve the
German Orthodox community as a chazzan. He never imagined that the
year would end instead with the arrest and expulsion of R. Hoffman by the
Gestapo, and the flight of Icek, Rachel, Dawid and Max Ozjynksi-Ozdynski
to America aboard the USS President Roosevelt. My father sang with or
conducted the ship’s orchestra nearly every night of their voyage, buoyed by
the applause of guests and musicians alike. Their enthusiasm must have
encouraged him to believe he would find similar success in other spotlights.

6 Ibid.
7 Ibid.
8 Ibid.

Diane Osen Covkin 149

Any such expectation was tempered at Ellis Island, where the
family was detained as aliens—a not infrequent occurrence among the very
few Jews who were permitted to enter the US in the 1930s—but one that
augured years of inauspicious experiences to come. 9 However, Daddy’s
name was not changed to David Osen by immigration officials, per family
lore, but rather made its first official appearance in the 1940 United States
census, after Opa was interviewed in the family’s new, far less commodious
apartment in East New York. By then my father had already spent three
years helping Opa, now a tailor once more, support a household that had
grown to include Oma’s mother. For 10 years Daddy worked variously as
a cashier, house painter, clerk and diamond polisher for Jewish
employers—some of whom, to his amazement, did not trust implicitly in
the integrity of their Jewish employees. More happily, he also worked for
the Hebrew Immigration Aid Society (HIAS), helping resettle other Jewish
refugees.

The discovery of a previously undiagnosed, asymptomatic cardiac
ailment was a dispiriting development, as it prevented him from enlisting in
the United States military. On the other hand, he often told us how elated
he felt in 1940, when the federal government—with the support of
Postmaster General James Farley, whom he always credited by name—
allowed the Lubavitcher Rebbe Yosef Yitzchak Schneerson to enter the
country followed by his son-in-law, who became the next Lubavitcher
Rebbe a decade later.10 Momentous events like these not only provided a bit
of relief from the inescapable terrors of Nazism, but reinforced Daddy’s
hope that his future lay in America as well. At nights and on Sundays he
circulated the references he had received in Germany before the war, and
sought temporary assignments as a cantor on Shabbos or the High
Holidays. He also sang in supporting roles at the New York City Opera in
an effort to attract the notice of prominent Jews in the local music world;
but advancement at any opera house was impossible for an Orthodox
baritone, and in any case his goal was to become a chazzan, not
a professional singer. Unsurprisingly, given the unprecedented challenges
facing New York City’s Jewish community during the war, my father could
not find a full-time cantorial position.

9 See Jonathan D. Sarna, Zev Ellis, “The Immigration Clause that Transformed Orthodox
Judaism in the United States,” American Jewish History, Vol. 101(3), 2017, pp. 357-376,
available at www.muse.jhu.edu/article/665977.
10 Ibid.

150 Rei’ach HaSadeh

It was not until 1947 that Daddy finally resumed his education at
the only institution in America that then offered an ordination program for
cantors, along with a bachelor’s degree: Hebrew Union College in New
York City. As at the Hochschule in Berlin, the program focused on Judaic
Studies with the added benefit of a curriculum including subjects like sacred
music and pastoral counseling. There my father met other Orthodox men,
some of them older refugees too, who likewise wanted nothing more than
to serve the Jewish community as chazzanim. That some classmates had
been raised to observe different religious traditions was never mentioned to
us; so I don’t know whether Daddy was shocked or nonplussed if, as
a newly minted alumnus, he happened to peruse an article in The National
Jewish Post outlining what may have been the first public condemnation of
his alma mater by an official of the Union of Orthodox Rabbis. This
spokesperson declared that Hebrew Union College did not, contrary to its
claim, educate cantors to serve in Orthodox shuls, adding that “A Shaliach
Tzibbur…must be a devout and observant Jew, one who prays for himself
as well as his for his people—clearly not one who sings to the congregation,
which practice is, in itself, a desecration of religious worship.”11 But after a
youth shadowed by bitter feuds in Frankfurt, Nazism and a decade of
struggle, Daddy did not permit any obstacles to deter him from embracing
other Jews or fulfilling his spiritual vocation.

Instead, he became the cantor of one of the most storied
Conservative synagogues in New York City: Temple Ansche Chessed,
founded in 1829 by Dutch, German and Polish Jews, and housed in
a Romanesque-Byzantine building distinguished by a vaulted main
sanctuary seating 1,300 people.12 Having absorbed pre-war German values
like precision, pomp and an affinity for formal attire, Daddy enjoyed
regaling us with stories about his tenure at a shul where members sported
silk top hats and waistcoats on Shabbos—and even more important, where
traditional European chazzanut was valued. His enduring fondness for
Ansche Chessed was no doubt fueled by his having met Mommy there—
even though she agreed to go out with him only because she thought
a different David of her acquaintance had called her for a date. This detail
never ceased to confound my sister and me, as Mommy had raised us on
stories of strangers mistaking my father for a movie star and demanding an
autograph; and his magnetism, which we later saw for ourselves, was
similarly striking. Nonetheless, within months of their first date she had quit
her job at Mademoiselle magazine and married Daddy in a ceremony led by
Mesader Kiddushin R. Dr. Samuel L. Zar, Mommy’s cousin, a prominent

11 “‘Not for Us,’ Orthodox Say of HUC Cantors,” The National Jewish Post, Volume 6 (46),
p. 5, available at www.newspapers.lib.in.gov.
12 www.anschechesed.org

Diane Osen Covkin 151

religious Zionist and the then-Dean of Men and Professor of Bible at
Yeshiva University.

Although my father had worked solely as a cantor at Ansche
Chessed in the years before we were born, after our family moved to
Teaneck he had to take on a second job in order to support us. Had he
known from the start this would be necessary? I have no idea, because my
sister and I were taught that talking about money—whether within our
family or another—was prust, or uncouth. When I was five, I assumed my
father worked during the week for our maternal grandfather because he
needed Daddy, the smartest man in the world, to manage our family firm’s
most important accounts in Washington, DC. That Daddy also needed our
grandfather was inconceivable to me. After my father nearly drove off the
highway late one night on his way back to Teaneck and decided he could no
longer risk the exhausting weekly trips, I felt immensely relieved; but
I never wondered even once how he spent his time now that he was at
home every weekday.

I had just started junior high school when Daddy became
a stockbroker, a profession I inferred he had chosen because he was a whiz
at investing stocks and bonds for us; that he had by then been supporting
our family for several years as a cantor with only one job failed entirely to
register. I was similarly unaware of the growing pressure he must have felt
to feed, clothe and educate two daughters entering adolescence. Yet during
this period, my father offered just a single hint anything might be amiss.
“Girls,” he said, “we have no money in the bank. But here’s a nickel each
for tzedakah.” The suddenness of this announcement, the solemnity of our
father’s voice that afternoon, his insistence that we too must give tzedakah:
all of this my sister and I remember vividly, though we said nothing to one
another after depositing our coins in the blue JNF pushke (tzedakah box).
I, at any rate, refused to allow myself to interpret this episode as anything
but an inspiring illustration of the importance of tzedakah. Further,
as a daughter of the singular Cantor David Osen, it did not occur to me
then to compare our financial status with that of my friends’ families, or to
wonder why he was the only man in our parents’ social circle who held two
jobs. And soon enough, Daddy proved to be just as adept at making
investments for clients as I had anticipated; and my parents were better
positioned to treat me to orthodontia, a teen tour to Europe, my own TV,
a summer in Israel, and additional years of costly tuition at day school,
followed by college and graduate school.

Only in retrospect did I recognize the scope of the sacrifices they
must have made repeatedly for the sake of my sister and me—and how

152 Rei’ach HaSadeh

much Daddy must have loved serving as a shaliach tzibbur (communal prayer
leader), despite all it required of him in addition to emunah and ahavat achim.
It took me even longer to apprehend that Daddy might have questioned
whether he achieved the glorious career that had seemed within easy reach
on his bar mitzvah Shabbos. Yes, he was a beloved cantor at what was then
the largest Conservative congregation in New Jersey; yes, he was named
Cantor Emeritus after his retirement; yes, he never lost his relish for
standing before an Aron Kodesh and calling out to HaShem on behalf of his
fellow Jews. On the other hand, if his dream had been to serve as a shaliach
tzibbur at an Orthodox shul, to have Orthodox friends in the neighborhood
with whom we could dine on Shabbos or Yom Tov, or to be recognized for
his gifts by more knowledgeable aficionados of chazzanut—all that had
remained beyond his grasp.

But I don’t believe Daddy harbored any regrets. In part, I believe,
this is because he remained haunted by the Holocaust he had escaped;
so much so, it seems to me now, that he was unable to appreciate the
degree to which he sought to ensure that my sister and I would remain
attuned forever to the frequency with which disaster seems to follow Jews.
His favorite stories, repeated with only slight variations, were about people
whose lives changed in an instant and always for the worse. His favorite
novel was “The Book of Abraham,” which traces the largely tragic history
of the descendants of a scribe killed during the destruction of the second
Beit haMikdash. Even in his prime, my father read the obituaries of other
Jews before he read the front page of the newspaper. Notwithstanding his
admiration for any “big givers,” as he called them, to tzedakah, he often
looked in turn at my sister and me and said gravely, “Girls, the financial
system is a house of cards.” Yet despite the existential dread we found
embedded in these messages, it was clear that Daddy felt—more strongly
than anything else—profound gratitude for the opportunity HaShem had
given him to survive and put his faith to work by serving Him in a vibrant
Jewish community. Like his namesake David HaMelech, he believed that
HaShem’s “nearness is my good; I have placed my refuge in the Lord G-d,
to tell all Your mission.”13

In fact, it seems to me now that my father devoted his life to this
mission by trying to cultivate the traits of the Jew whom Ben Zoma
describes in the Mishnah (Pirkei Avot 4:1): he was wise because he learned
from everyone and every experience; he was powerful because he chose to
repress disabling emotions like rage; he was wealthy because he was entirely
satisfied with the portion HaShem had allotted him; and he was honored by

13 Tehillim 73:28 (author’s translation).

Diane Osen Covkin 153

others because his love for every Jew was radically transparent. It was this
affinity for achdut that enabled him not only to preserve his equanimity, but
to simultaneously maintain his lifelong identification with the differing
philosophies of the Gerrer Rebbe, the Chatam Sofer and R’ Dr. Hoffman.
Moreover, he had been blessed to marry Mommy, a woman who might not
have heard of these Gedolim before she met Daddy, but who embraced his
ideals because she loved him with all her heart and considered him a king.
Finally, HaShem had given him the privilege to teach two daughters to lein
keriyat Shema and give tzedakah, and to listen and watch as his cherished
grandchildren followed their Opa’s example. His greatest hope was that we
would never cease trying to actualize the inextricable links connecting the
Shema, ahavat achim and chessed.

When Daddy became desperately ill after years of suffering stoically
a series of onerous medical interventions, I noticed that he began
responding to my queries about his health not by saying, “Thank G-d,” but
with a slightly longer phrase from Tehillim (68:20): “Baruch HaShem yom
yom”—“Blessed is God, Day by Day.” I had always marveled at his ability to
tailor his reply to this question to the interlocutor posing it. When a former
client called, for example, or George from the garage came to visit—my
parents had moved by then to a Fort Lee high-rise—he always responded
as expected in secular America: “Fine, thanks, and you?” To religiously
observant Jews alone he answered, “Thank G-d.” So when the phrase
“Baruch HaShem yom yom” became a recurrent conversational motif, I had to
wonder: was my father trying to tell me that I should express more
fulsomely my gratitude to HaShem every day? Or was this phrase a code
meant to convey his knowledge that his blessed life was about to change in
an instant and for the worse?

The last time I saw Daddy, hours before he died, he and my
daughter Serena watched a movie in my parents’ bedroom while I sat beside
them. My father was able to chat audibly despite his weakness, and he was
as eloquent as he had been before his illness. He asked Serena about her
classes and me about my work—and of course he inquired as well about my
husband Rick, the man he described as a “Malach min haShamayim”
(an “angel from heaven”) after their first brief meeting on Columbus
Avenue. He praised their accomplishments and middot (positive traits) as
usual, before closing his eyes.

154 Rei’ach HaSadeh

I had already told my father before his discharge from the hospital
that I would do my best to take care of Mommy and my sister, but he had
neither acknowledged my words nor given me a siman (sign) of any kind.
I had found this odd, given how distraught Daddy had been after three of
his and Mommy’s parents died suddenly, depriving them of what he
regarded as indispensable words of instruction. That I too might be
deprived of a siman had been unthinkable until that moment. Nonetheless,
as I watched him breathing shallowly I realized I had no choice but to fulfill
a promise I had never articulated to him or myself. After a while I stood up,
retrieved his Siddur and invited him, through tears I tried to hide, to “lein
keriyat Shema” with me. Daddy was too depleted to sing but he was utterly
content, because he was fulfilling a mitzvah. I also like to think that he
looked so tranquil because he believed I had understood the siman encoded
in Baruch HaShem yom yom: that a Jew must bless HaShem every day for the
gift of life as a Jew; for the capacity to fulfill the mitzvah of tzedakah and the
other righteous deeds of a Jew; for the opportunity to praise HaShem, bless
HaShem and pray to HaShem; and for the zechut (merit) to endeavor for
a lifetime to emulate HaShem’s love for every Jew, as evinced in the Shema.

So it was no great surprise, then, that while looking through
Daddy’s papers recently, I found another kvittel, also scrawled on lined
paper, with indispensable words of instruction for another little girl.

“Serena,” he wrote, “remember who you are. Tzedakah.”

Diane Osen Covkin, a retired communications executive and consultant specializing in the
arts and technology, has loved to read and write since childhood. Formerly an adjunct professor of
writing at NYU, she has published four books and dozens of articles; her most recent major work
is the libretto for the prize-winning opera Jane Eyre, now on Naxos Records. She and her
husband Rick raised their daughter Serena in Short Hills, and moved to Springfield in 2009
with their golden retrievers Koufax and Biscuit.

155

THE GIFTS OF OUR PARENTS
BY: JUDY COHEN SANDMAN

When our daughter was in middle school, she came home one
weekend with the assignment to depict the Kohen Gadol in all his finery.
The Torah (Exodus 28:4), in describing the garments of Aharon, the High
Priest, says: “These are the vestments they are to make: a breastpiece,
an ephod, a robe, a fringed tunic, a headdress, and a sash,” and then devotes
thirty-eight verses—thirty-eight!—detailing exactly what these vestments
are to look like, what they are to be made of, and how they are to be
crafted. Dressing Aharon was hardly a weekend project (and Aharon
probably didn’t wear combat boots, as did the knockoff G.I. Joe doll our
daughter used).

The Kohen Gadol’s garments and the ephod (breastplate) are not the
only items described in such detail. The Mishkan (Tabernacle) itself, and
everything in it, receives the same treatment—each element another
example of hiddur mitzvah (beautifying a mitzvah)—lovingly taking
a mitzvah to a higher level and elevating our ancestors’ worship of HaShem.

The Mishkan was built and furnished by the Israelites as a gift
to God. God says to Moshe (Exodus 25:2-8):

Tell the Israelite people to bring Me gifts; you shall accept
gifts for Me from every person whose heart so moves him.
And these are the gifts that you shall accept from them:
gold, silver, and copper; blue, purple, and crimson yarns,
fine linen, goats’ hair; tanned ram skins, dolphin skins, and
acacia wood; oil for lighting, spices for the anointing oil
and for the aromatic incense; lapis lazuli and other stones
for setting, for the ephod and for the breastpiece. And let
them make Me a sanctuary that I may dwell among them.

156 Rei’ach HaSadeh

These are beautiful gifts from children (Benei Yisra’el) to a parent
(God). During the year of Covid, I thought a lot about gifts from parents to
children. My father passed away in June, my father-in-law in December
(though neither from Covid). Attendance at their funerals was limited;
shiva visits were attenuated. During Covid we were restricted to our homes
as we had never been before. In all ways, our physical connections to family
and friends were circumscribed during the pandemic.

For my husband, working from home, this meant constantly being
confronted by “too much stuff” in our house. I felt just the opposite. I love
being surrounded by stuff—books, art, books, ritual items, books,
decorative objects, books. The books are ours, but truthfully, mostly mine.
But many of the other things were given to us by our parents—beautiful
objects purchased as gifts for special occasions, presents carefully carried
home from vacations, and now bequests inherited from them, including
objects that belonged to grandparents and great-grandparents. This year, all
of these objects became even more meaningful reminders of our parents’
love for us—and ours for them.

The beautiful objects in the Mishkan symbolized the love of the
Israelites for God, and God’s love for and presence in the lives of the
Israelites. Whether a silver kiddush cup, a set of china or crystal, or
a painting by a Jewish artist in Prague, the beauty of the gifts—tangible and
ineffable—of our parents has elevated our faith and our Jewish
celebrations, brought back joyous memories of childhood, and
strengthened our ties to our own children, grandchildren, and extended
families during this very difficult year.

I thank HaShem for the blessing of family and friends, and for the
beautiful ties that bind us to them, keeping those we love close to our
hearts and always alive in our memories.

Judy Cohen Sandman and her husband, Arthur, raised their children, Zachary
and Ellie, in Springfield and have lived here for twenty-four years. Judy is a graduate of
Barnard College and the Jewish Theological Seminary. She is a Hebrew school teacher,
an editor, and a volunteer puppy raiser for the Seeing Eye.

157

A DIVINE SEARCH ENGINE

BY: SHARI STEIN

Imagine having access to the internet but without a browser such
as Chrome or Safari. Judaism has always been “available” for me, yet I was
missing the most fundamental gateway: Torah learning. Fortunately,
because Judaism has been an important and meaningful part of my life,
becoming a Ba’alat Teshuvah has not been a 180-degree change. Instead,
it has felt like a very natural process, one that was meant to become integral
to my life. The CIS Women’s Shiur led by Rabbi Marcus, Shabbos davening
and observance, holiday celebrations and hundreds of additional Shiurim
have led me onto the proper derech. Hearing and reading the parashah each
week is a guiding force that has given me access to the real worldwide web,
the most important and necessary guide to living, the Torah. More than any
Google application, the Torah is the connection that has helped me find my
way.

Google did, literally, assist in my connecting to CIS. I returned
home to Millburn, NJ from my first visit to Israel in August 2018 with
a conviction that I needed to learn how to read and understand Torah.
I knew I could not do this on my own, so I Googled “Torah study,
Millburn NJ.” Eventually, Google’s results led me to Congregation Israel.
I wrote to the CIS office and Christine Spinner replied, letting me know
that the best class for me to attend would be the weekly women’s Parashah
Shiur. After a few email exchanges with Ben Hoffer, I was all set to attend
my first Shiur on Nov. 11, 2018. Ben assured me that “the Rabbi will be
excited to have you there.” I am sure it is no surprise that Ben followed up
with invitations to come to shul for services and join his family for Shabbos
and Yom Tov meals. It is your – and now, our – kehillah’s warm welcome
that helped this initial connection grow.

Immediately after meeting me – another “no surprise” – Sheila
Hanover offered to let me know the day and time for each shiur, invited me
for Shabbos dinners, and also included me in the community’s “Mystery
Shabbos” lunch event. One month later, I saw Cheryl Becker and Sheila at a
JNF event, where they echoed Ben’s invitation to come for Shabbos
morning services. I was nervous. Though I was well-versed in services in
Reform synagogues, this would be my first Shabbos in an Orthodox
synagogue. I loved it. I recognized many of the prayers, especially what I
knew as the Amidah. I felt comfortable sitting in the women’s section and
having quiet space to concentrate solely on davening. I was very fortunate
to have a built-in support group; from the start, Samantha and Jordana

158 Rei’ach HaSadeh

Hanover helped me find the right spot on the right page of the Siddur.
I was on the derech! Soon after, my path was being paved even more
completely as I met additional CIS members. Becoming Shomer Shabbos,
making sure to light the candles on time each week, listening to and reading
divrei Torah, and joining new CIS friends for Shabbos meals provided
a direct connection to HaShem and helped me connect as well with more
fellow Jews.

After years of poring through a vast variety of self-help books,
I have now found the one. Torah is the most comprehensive and impactful
self-help book in existence. It is a roadmap that provides guidance for both
personal character-building as well as universal peace. Ken Spiro shares
a relatable analogy in the film American Birthright: “Torah is the fuel,
guidance system, Jews are the hardware, Torah is the software.” 1
The challenge is making sure we use this fuel and software to guide our
decision-making and actions. Unlike other programs, however, this software
does not need to be updated; it is timeless! The Talmud puts the onus on us
– we need to keep up with it.

It is commonly understood that each time we read any classic text,
we discover new meanings due to new life circumstances; moreover, deeper
reading leads us to discover nuances we may not have noticed before. I am
now in my third year of reading the Torah, and each time I read and study
the parashah, I feel a deeper connection to HaShem and our history. Each
parashah provides endless advice about how to live a better life. There is
comfort in having this one book to consult, and in heeding the parameters
that HaShem set and our sages explained. It is just as “Ben Bag-Bag said:
“Turn it [the Torah] over and over, for everything is in it. Reflect on it,
grow old and gray in it, and do not stir from it, for there is no better
portion for you than this.”2 Over the last three years, I have experienced
a natural progression from studying to practicing more halachah. “Doing”
Judaism has become more essential than simply “being Jewish.”

Early on in my journey as a Ba’alat Teshuvah, I realized that my
library of Jewish books needed to be revamped. ArtScroll publications have
helped me learn the purpose of the prayers and the meaning of the words,
both those I had been saying for much of my life and those that were new
to me. More than any silent meditation, in the prayers I find affirmation for
many of the values that I already had learned to live by and/or aspired to
incorporate in my life. For example, I now understand that my tendency to

1 Becky Tahel, American Birthright. Miami Film Festival. USA: Go Tahel Productions, 2021.
2 Pirkei Avot 5:22 (all translations from The Koren Pirkei Avot, trans. R. Jonathan Sacks,
commentary R. Marc Angel (Jerusalem: Koren Publishers, 2015)).

Shari Stein 159

“forgive and forget” comes from and is reinforced by HaShem. Holding
grudges has always seemed pointless to me. Now I know why: HaShem
“is forgiving of iniquity.”3 Learning and living a Torah-observant life brings
forgiveness to a new, more intentional level that is relevant no matter what
our habits might be. Through prayer we are reminded that HaShem
“withdraws His anger, not arousing His entire rage.”4 HaShem shows us
how to acknowledge our own and others’ misdeeds and handle the anger
we might feel. HaShem demonstrates that letting go of anger is vital in
order to repair and maintain our connections with each other.

Through Torah, I have learned about my yetzer haRa and yetzer
haTov. Torah has taught me where these come from and how to manage
them. Even more comforting is the knowledge that “HaShem helps us
overcome our evil inclination every day.”5 Becoming aware of HaShem’s
love and support is life-altering and comforting. “Who wouldn’t want to be
engaged with a “tradition [that] holds man in high esteem and extols the
amazing capabilities of every individual.”6 As I learned early on in Rabbi
Marcus’s Shiur, we read the Torah to learn how to live a true Torah life,
how to improve our own character and our interactions with others.

Even before I found my way to Orthodoxy, I connected many
years ago with the warnings against lashon haRa, a concept introduced to me
by a cousin. At first I understood this to be a simple prohibition against
gossip. I felt relieved! I had a reason besides what I thought was my own
conscience for avoiding gossip; clearly, HaShem disapproved Himself.
When I learned that lashon haRa encompasses much more than the typical
“dishing the dirt,” I wanted to learn more. The Chofetz Chaim: A Daily
Companion (ArtScroll Halachah Series) The Concepts and Laws of Proper Speech as
Formulated by Sefer Chofetz Chaim continues to inspire me to think about the
effect my speech has on others. A classic story illustrates just how
permanent and dangerous gossip is. Sharing negative anecdotes or personal
details about someone is like cutting open a feather pillow and watching the
feathers fly; once the words are out of our mouths, it is impossible to
collect them all again or control their reach. Similarly, Rabbi Marcus helped
me rethink the famous adage, “Sticks and stones will break my bones, but
words will never harm me.” As the internet has become ubiquitous in our

3 All translations from the liturgy are from Ohel Sarah Women’s Siddur with Special Prayers, Laws
and Customs for Women, Klein Edition, ed. Dovid Weinberger, et al. (Brooklyn, NY: Mesorah
Publ., 2005), p. 41.
4 Ibid.
5 Pirkei Avot 5:22.
6 R. Tzadok Cable, Constants: 6 Mitzvos You Can Always Do: ‫( ספר התמיד‬Los Angeles: Mosaica
Press, 2016), p. 139.

160 Rei’ach HaSadeh

lives, lashon haRa is even more dangerous; anything damaging that we post
online has the potential to travel the world and remain available forever.
We must pause before sharing any unkind words or criticism. By choosing
our words carefully, we avoid rifts and divisiveness. This prohibition also
helps us stay connected with each other.

In addition to the content of the prayers, I have also connected
with their structure. Before reading an Orthodox siddur, I had
experimented with meditation, gratitude journals and goal-setting strategies.
Now that I understand the order of blessings of the Shemoneh Esrei, I have
everything I need to start my day focused on positivity and productivity.
To start, we praise HaShem and are reminded of our connection to our
forefathers, our role models. Recalling “G-d’s might,” and reviewing what
HaShem has created and continues to do for us, provides comfort and
a reminder of what is expected of us. It makes sense that humility is
a prerequisite to making requests. More than any mantra I can imagine, the
Shemoneh Esrei sets me up to “formulate [my] needs and ask G-d to fulfill
them.” Even our requests are humbling, since they remind us of our
weaknesses and mistakes – but they are nonetheless a call for our own
action. I appreciate the reminder that since “HaShem sustains the living
with kindness,” I must act with kindness.

Through these prayers, I feel a close connection with my creator
and fellow Jews. After all, we are all endowed with “wisdom, insight, and
discernment.” It is not just Ba’alei Teshuvah, but each of us who must return
every day to serve HaShem and be influenced by Him through prayer.
The Shema that I recite before each night before going to sleep brings all of
these values full circle. At the end of the day, I must “forgive anyone who
angered or antagonized me or who sinned against me….whether
accidentally, willfully, carelessly, or purposely; whether through speech,
deed, thought, or notion...I forgive every Jew.” This prayer is a perfect
recipe for maintaining our connections with each other, and another
reminder that we must rely on HaShem’s Torah to guide us.

I hope that reviewing my journey has felt relatable for you.
If you’re having a little trouble, try to remember when you visited a location
you thought you knew well – say, a park or garden, an historical site or city
– and found meaningful new spaces that came as a complete and very
welcome surprise. You would no doubt be filled with exuberance and feel
as if you had discovered this favorite location for the first time. My return
to Judaism has been just as exciting because I have found new paths and
insights that fuel my dedication to being observant.

Shari Stein 161

Yet among the challenges I continue to face is one I did not
anticipate: remaining connected to long-time secular Jewish friends who do
not understand my joy. I might not have the opportunity to watch them
make similar discoveries, yet I can use all that I am learning to foster
relationships that are void of judgment. As the Aish HaTorah CEO,
R. Steven Burg, explained in a recent pre-Shabbos email, “the definition of
being a Jew is the connection we maintain around the world, and that we
are with them, wherever we are.”7 To remain connected with other Jews,
regardless of where they stand, we do not need Google Maps or Search;
we have Torah.

Shari Stein is starting her 3rd year as a member of CIS. She raised her two children, Sandra
and Pesach, in nearby Millburn. She is a career educator as a teacher and head librarian for the
last 35 years. A certified Google-certified instructor, she designs and leads digital training
workshops, and tutors students in writing. She is thrilled to have connected with CIS and to share
her journey with you.

7 Email entitled All Hands On Deck, received by Author on June 11, 2021.



163

OLD CONNECTIONS WITH NEW DIRECTIONS

BY: CLARA T. HARELIK

The Covid-19 Pandemic impacted the entire world due to untold
deaths, sicknesses, quarantines, lock-downs, school closings, and business
shutdowns, which were further exacerbated by social distancing, mask
wearing, and other restrictions. The challenge presented by this deadly
pandemic has been protecting people’s lives while simultaneously
protecting people’s civil rights. Two rights affected by the pandemic are
freedom of religion and freedom of assembly, which are guaranteed to the
American citizenry by the First Amendment to the United States
Constitution. In my opinion, not even a deadly pandemic should result in
the loss of these First Amendment rights, but this is exactly what has
happened. Accordingly, the pandemic changed the way we practiced our
Jewish religion and how we assembled to do it.

To ensure that the traditions of Judaism have remained strong
throughout the pandemic, we have been forced to go in new directions.
Davening in synagogue, celebrating the holidays, and marking Jewish
milestones all changed; but fortunately, together, we have adjusted to a new
way of practicing our faith. The key, therefore, is to stay connected even
when doing so required a new direction. As a result of the pandemic, my
connection to religion and my connection to Congregation Israel of
Springfield has grown stronger and, in fact, has taken me in a new direction.

Due to the declared Covid-19 pandemic beginning the week of
March 15, 2020, Congregation Israel (together with all other houses of
worship) was required by the State of New Jersey to suspend minyanim,
shiurim, and all activities at the synagogue. Communal worship at
Congregation Israel disappeared altogether for nearly three months,
encompassing numerous Sabbaths, daily minyanim, the holidays of
Passover and Shavuot, plus Yom HaSho’ah, Yom HaZikaron, Yom
HaAtzma’ut, Yom Yerushalayim, and Lag baOmer. It impacted funerals,
the saying of the mourner’s kaddish, the marking of a yahrzeit, and the
celebration of an aufruf, wedding, bris, baby naming, Bar or Bat Mitzvah.
Suddenly, there were no more religious services, study groups or gatherings,
and our sacred Torah was no longer available for us to read or kiss in
person.

164 Rei’ach HaSadeh

It was not until June 6, 2020 that Congregation Israel was allowed
to gather for a Shabbos service, and then only in backyards with a limit of
no more than 25 people. As various restrictions were lifted by the State, on
June 13, 2020, services returned to the synagogue building for Shabbos and
then daily minyan, but not without numerous limitations. Due to the
ongoing pandemic, Congregation Israel could no longer open its doors to
welcome anyone, non-member and member alike, who wanted to walk in
off the street and daven. Instead, there were limits as to who and how many
people were allowed to attend, where people were allowed to sit, what
people were allowed to do and not do, and how people were allowed to
daven.

The return to shul was bittersweet. In order to attend services, one
had to first sign a Covid-19 waiver. Then, one had to meet the eligibility
standards set forth in the Covid-19 Symptom Checker and Self-Assessment
Form. Next, one had to sign up to reserve a seat to attend services on a first
come, first served basis, with significantly reduced capacity due to State
restrictions. Further, children under Bar and Bat Mitzvah age initially were
banned from attending services, and adults over sixty-five years of age were
discouraged from attending services. Once one got past all the prerequisites,
it was finally time to attend services, but in a very different way.

Services did not look the same and neither did the shul. The service
was condensed, and various prayers no longer recited aloud, in order to
limit the amount of time people were exposed to each other indoors. There
was no sermon, the Torah was not marched around the shul, there were no
aliyahs, singing was prohibited, seats were assigned, kiddushes were
suspended, socializing was barred, and mask wearing and social distancing
were required. Further, plexiglass dividers were installed and hand-sanitizing
stations were set up as further protection against the deadly pandemic. We
were forced to go in a new direction in order to stay connected with our
traditional services.

In reality, the strong connection that Congregation Israel and its
members have to the practice of Orthodox Judaism is what paved the way
for a new direction of in-person services in the midst of a worldwide
pandemic and the attack on our First Amendment rights of freedom of
religion and freedom of assembly. Local Conservative and Reform
congregations offered only virtual services, with many still not offering in-
person prayer after over one year.

Clara T. Harelik 165

In my opinion, while services did not seem uplifting at first, it felt
good to be back. There is an old saying: “there is no place like home.” This
was the feeling I had when I came back into the synagogue building. My
parents were among the first families to join the synagogue in 1972 when
they moved into Springfield. Congregation Israel has always been an
integral part of my life. I took for granted the fact that the shul was always
available to me – until it was not – due to the pandemic. By the same token,
I took for granted the fact that my First Amendment rights to freedom of
religion and freedom of assembly were guaranteed to me – until they were
not – due to the pandemic.

To be honest, prior to the pandemic, I had my list of excuses that
I used occasionally to justify staying home on a Shabbos morning rather
than going to shul. Sleep, bad weather, being under the weather, long walk,
and children topped my list. Incredibly, once the shul reopened, despite the
pandemic, I found myself grateful to be able to exercise my First
Amendment rights and go to shul. As they say, “absence makes the heart
grow fonder.” I truly missed being able to go to shul on Shabbos and
holidays, but I did not realize how much until it was gone. This emotion has
resulted in my perfect attendance record: not one missed Shabbos or
holiday since the allowable return to in-person services on June 6, 2020.
No more need for excuses because I have connected to a new appreciation
for my Constitutional right to freely practice my religion and to freely
assemble to do it.

June 6, 2020 was not just a significant date because it marked the
return of in-person Shabbos services, but because it was my mother’s
yahrzeit, the 14th of Sivan. This providential moment in time was my
religious connection back to shul. It was my calling to come to synagogue
to recite the kaddish to honor my mother’s memory, reflect on her life and
her contributions to the shul, and lift her soul. The fact that I chose to
attend shul to honor her memory, during a raging pandemic that restricted
freedom of religion and freedom of assembly, represented not only my
deep connection to my mother, but a basic connection to my traditional
Judaism. If it had not been for my mother’s yahrzeit, I do not believe that
I would have gone to shul that day, and taken an old connection into a new
direction, which has only grown stronger over time.

166 Rei’ach HaSadeh

It is the strong connection to Judaism that allows us to see how
aspects of the pandemic mirror the origins and/or traditions associated
with certain Jewish holidays. The analogies give us the hope we need to
know that G-d will get us through the pandemic, just as G-d has helped the
Jewish people throughout history, including when the right to freely
practice Judaism and assemble to do it was taken away. The following are
examples:

1. Passover – plagues;
2. Purim – masks;
3. Sukkot – outdoor dining;
4. Chanukah – miracle of survival; and
5. Shavuot – commandments.

On a lighter note, some of the new directions that needed to be
taken in shul as a result of the pandemic have produced some positive side
effects. Here are a number of examples:

1. Mask wearing and social distancing eliminated talking in shul;
2. The condensed service meant I could no longer be late to shul or

I would miss the service. Initially, before the Rabbi brought back
his sermons and other parts of the service, I spent more time
walking back and forth to shul than being in shul;
3. Restricting young children from attending shul, while sad, gave me
a much appreciated break;
4. Walking to and from shul became my only form of exercise;
5. The lack of a kiddush meant I no longer had to regret the extra
derma I ate; and
6. There now was proof that seats could be assigned in shul without
controversy.

The Covid-19 pandemic has caused us as a society to work to
overcome many challenges. Our freedom to assemble to freely practice our
Jewish religion was one such challenge. While I may not have agreed with
every change instituted by Congregation Israel, I honestly can say that
I have always felt safe and protected from the pandemic while in shul.
I commend the efforts made by Congregation Israel toward this end. The
fact that I could attend shul safely during a pandemic only strengthened my
connection to G-d. In retrospect, I truly believe that we would have been
able to attend shul safely during the approximate three months that the
synagogue was forced to close by the State, in my opinion a violation of our
First Amendment rights, because Congregation Israel would have risen to
the challenge – just as it did in the months that followed.

Clara T. Harelik 167

No matter how different services looked or the synagogue looked
or we looked in our masks, it was a great and necessary accomplishment,
during a time of extreme uncertainty associated with the Covid-19
pandemic, to have been able to continue to connect to the age-old peaceful
tradition of attending shul, and this right should never be taken away from
us again. Religion always should be deemed an essential part of society in
the United States of America. I am happy to report that, as of this writing,
many people have been vaccinated, herd immunity is growing, and the
pandemic appears to be under control, allowing us to return to the more
traditional synagogue experience. The lesson to be learned, therefore,
is that new directions can successfully maintain old connections.
Our connection to synagogue and communal worship is what has kept
Judaism alive for generations, and will continue to keep Judaism alive for
generations to come.

Clara T. Harelik, Esq., an attorney with her own firm in Springfield, was the first and only
woman to serve as Mayor of Springfield for three terms, having also served as Deputy Mayor twice
and on the Township Committee for nine years. Currently serving her sixth term as Commissioner
for the Union County Board of Elections (a gubernatorial appointment), she has been honored
frequently for her service on numerous local and county committees. Married to Jay Mevorah and
the mother of Cole, Michael and Cayla, she and her parents were among the first families to join
CIS in 1972.



169

REFLECTIONS OF A COVID KALLAH

BY: CHERYL BECKER

It was two weeks before the day of my marriage to Dave, and
I couldn’t have been more distraught and inconsolable: a terrifying, novel
virus was spreading across the country, and Rabbi Marcus had just called to
suggest that I call all of our wedding vendors. I wasn’t sure what the Rabbi
was trying to tell me. Maybe the flowers we had painstakingly chosen might
no longer be available? Dave and I had already queried the owner of our
wedding venue, who had assured us the virus would never reach our shores,
much less affect our simchah; in our relief, we had enjoyed a celebratory
dinner that night with our parents. But the next time my phone rang that
day, it was Dave, and he was calling with an even more dire warning:
I should brace myself for some major disruptions in our lives. And he was
right: the next day, in March of 2020, America was essentially shut down.

My tears, on the other hand, flowed freely. Dave and I had gotten
engaged on the previous Shavuot, which made the chag even more special
for us; and we had spent months planning what we hoped would be the
perfect simchah: a ceremony conducted by Rabbi Marcus and attended by
140 beloved family members and friends, followed by a festive meal and
dancing in an elegant setting. Now, it was clear our beautiful new life as
a married couple was not going to begin any time soon. We learned that the
venue would not be open on our wedding day, and realized that people
were too scared to leave their houses, much less socialize with others.
The shock and disappointment was overpowering; all that anticipation,
preparation, organization had been for naught. Yet, even through my tears
I recognized the irony of the situation: I hadn’t initially wanted that
glamorous, large wedding, but rather had gotten on board when I realized
how much it meant to Dave and the rest of our immediate family members.
Left to my own devices, I would have planned a small, intimate backyard
wedding. But no one, of course, orchestrates a wedding alone; collaboration
is one of the pleasures of becoming one with a future spouse and
developing closer connections with both sides of one’s expanding family.

With these considerations in mind, Dave and I scrambled to
answer impossible questions. What to do? When to reschedule? When
would it be safe? We believed there was no way our economy could
withstand a complete shutdown beyond June of 2020, so we considered
rescheduling accordingly; then we thought it might be safer to wait until
October, or to postpone our wedding until August 2021. On the one hand,
I feared putting at risk the life of anyone I cared about; on the other hand,

170 Rei’ach HaSadeh

I could not bear the thought of postponing our life together for more than
a year. So after much discussion, Dave and decided to have the small,
intimate outdoor wedding I had initially envisioned.

It was at this moment that connections – with one another, with
our families and friends, and with HaShem – began to assume an entirely
new importance in our lives.

Dave and I already knew we loved each other deeply, but we never
had to face adversity of this magnitude together; how would we manage?
We already knew our parents and siblings loved us too; but how would they
feel about our new plan, after having invested so much in our dream
wedding? We already knew our friends loved us; but would they be able to
support our decision at a time when all of them were facing so much stress?

What we discovered was not a total surprise, but it was nonetheless
an important revelation. First and foremost, Dave and I learned that we are
able to weather a storm together. When challenges come our way, no
matter how unwanted or difficult, we can support each other, talk things
through and deal with each problem calmly and constructively. I don’t
know why HaShem gives different challenges to each of us, but I believe
more strongly than ever that He also gave Dave and me the strength and
faith to meet each challenge individually and as a couple.

Along the same lines, we discovered that our parents and other
family members are even more flexible and supportive than we had any
right to expect. They were able to change course very quickly, more than
once, because they care more about us than themselves. Their selfless love
was not only a huge boost but a lifelong inspiration. They are the kind of
parents we hope to be.

Finally, we learned that our friends in Springfield are avatars of
chessed beyond imagining. Rabbi Marcus immediately agreed to serve as
Mesader Kiddushin. The Hanovers happily offered their backyard as our new
venue, and Sheila and I planned out together how we would serve food and
drinks in a beautifully decorated, Covid-safe environment. After the florist
reneged on a promise to create a chuppah for us, Adam Sheps, Rachel Lohr,
and John and Mandi Ricard volunteered to make one themselves, using
four pieces of bamboo, four umbrella stands, my grandfather’s tallit and
a great deal of creativity. When a change of venue became necessary, the
Strulowitzes graciously offered us the use of their beautiful, spacious
backyard, while Sheila remained in charge of all aspects of our seudah.
We thought we were all set to go – until it rained and we decided to rent a

Cheryl Becker 171

tent in case of another downpour. The Sheps, Lohr, Ricard, Chakrin and
Becker gang got to work, setting up the tables, chairs, coolers, and
decorations, working until 11pm on the night before the wedding. No
amount of effort or care was spared – another example Dave and I hope to
emulate now that we can reciprocate their kindness as a couple in
Springfield, living in our new home nearby.

My wedding day began with the arrival of my good friend Melissa,
who styled my hair and makeup with such expertise that no one would
guess she is a professional educator who teaches with me in Millburn.
After that Dave and I went to Verona Park, a perfect setting for pre-
wedding photos since we both love nature and had bonded, when we first
got to know each other, on walks we took together. Later that day we were
surrounded by – but socially distanced from – our close family and some of
our dearest friends, all of whom had worked together to make our day
unforgettable. We invited all of our friends and family to log in and join us
on FacebookLive so that everyone could join us virtually during our simchah,
and share in our happiness as Rabbi Marcus married Dave and me and
spoke so meaningfully about our journey to that moment.

As I write these words, I am 37 weeks pregnant and – beSha’ah
tovah! – Dave and I will be parents soon. As I reflect on all that has occurred
since we became engaged, what strikes me most strongly is the fact that
HaShem is in charge, no matter how much we want to believe that we are
in control. When bad things happen, people often break down and ask,
“Why me?” It can feel like a nightmare coming to life. But I felt a change
occurring within me the moment I stopped focusing on the bad, and started
to appreciate all my blessings. The popular aphorism “Let Go and Let
God” took on a whole new meaning.

No, the large wedding we had planned was not in the cards, but we
were nonetheless able to get married and start our lives together, thanks to
the help and support of so many others. We could have never pulled off
our wedding by ourselves, and our simchah was much more special because
everyone helped us as lovingly as they did. I realized too that HaShem is
always watching out for us, and that our friends and family will always help
us through life’s challenges. This is the kind of chessed Dave and I are
committed to practicing as well, and, fortunately, we have many role models
surrounding us.

Being a Kallah during Covid wasn’t easy, but it reinforced my belief
that family and friends are blessed connections to be treasured always.

172 Rei’ach HaSadeh

Cheryl Becker and her husband David Chakrin recently welcomed their son Eli Michael to
the CIS community, which Cheryl has called home for the past 14 years. A math teacher at
Millburn High School, where she focuses on subjects including Geometry, Pre-calculus, and
Calculus, she is also a lifelong Zionist who serves on the board of Women for JNF in New Jersey;
and to date, she has led five Birthright trips to Israel. In her free time she enjoys exploring her new
Springfield neighborhood, hiking South Mountain Reservation, and reading non-fiction.

173

MS. YOUNER, ARE YOU A NURSE?

BY: SARA YOUNER

Your connections are your history. They tell your story and define
who you are. When strangers meet, they often seek common ground by
engaging in some equivalent of what we call Jewish Geography (“Oh, if
you’re from Queens you must know…”). Judaism, almost by definition, is
about connections. And as with any culture, you feel a bit out of step
without them.

Unfortunately, I am not very good at Jewish Geography.
Our children are master players, but I came to the game a bit too late.
They attended Jewish schools, enjoyed summers in Jewish camps and spent
their gap years studying in Israel. I went to King Street School and Park
Avenue School in Portchester, New York, and was invariably the only
Jewish student in my class. In fact, I still remember being told not to come
to a classmate’s home when her parents learned that I was Jewish. I had
little understanding of what being Jewish meant; after all, my parents sent
me to school on Rosh Hashanah. When we moved to Queens, I had Jewish
classmates at P.S. 21, Edward Bleeker Junior High School, Flushing High
School and Queens College, but any relationship we had was not based on
Judaism.

The fact that my parents did not foster any Jewish connection
– we never went to synagogue, even on the High Holidays, and there was
never a mention of a Bat Mitzvah – did not mean that I was completely
ignorant of Judaism. My paternal grandfather had been a kosher butcher
and my father often spoke to him in Yiddish. We were culinary Jews:
My mother prepared hamantaschen, cheesecake and potato latkes to be
eaten at traditional times but without religious meaning. There were
Passover Seders with my grandparents and cousins, but these were family
get-togethers, not religious events. But those visits to my grandparents,
which involved driving through Orthodox Jewish neighborhoods and
getting a brief glimpse of what was to me an alien culture, must have
sparked my curiosity.

I started in earnest to learn about Judaism in graduate school at
Columbia University. I shared an apartment with two roommates whose
only requirements were that I pay my share of the rent on time and that
I respect their kosher kitchen. I was supporting myself, so the first
requirement was hard enough. Learning about kashrut was like earning an
additional degree, but my curiosity was piqued. I read the Jewish Catalogs

174 Rei’ach HaSadeh

(the First, Second and Third volumes!) started taking some classes at
Lincoln Square Synagogue, and ultimately attended R. Ephraim Buchwald’s
Beginner’s Minyan.

During this process, I started socializing with a broadening circle of
Jewish friends and was even invited to a kosher Halloween party where
I met my future husband, who seemed to know everyone there. As I started
dating a man from an Orthodox family in Brooklyn, I was amazed by his
network of friends and acquaintances from Jewish day school, Yeshiva high
school, Brooklyn College, and Israel. They were all part of his world, and
although I was accepted wholeheartedly by his family and friends, I often
felt that something was missing because I did not have the same connection
with my own family and friends.

Gradually, through learning and practice, Jewish observance
became an integral part of my life – and my connections began to expand as
well. At Columbia, we were active members of the Old Broadway
Synagogue, and still run into friends from time to time. When we moved to
the Bronx we joined the Young Israel of Riverdale, and when we returned
for a Shabbat after twenty years, we were treated as we had never left. And,
of course, before we moved to Springfield, New Jersey and joined the
wonderful Congregation Israel community, we spent a trial Springfield
Shabbat at the home of a friend of my husband from summer camp.

We are now veterans of the Springfield community, and I have
come to enjoy hearing friends talk about growing up in Jewish New Jersey,
especially when I realize that our own children must be telling similar
stories within their networks. Nothing is more delightful to me than to
meet a young family that just joined our congregation and to learn they had
some scholastic or athletic connection with one of our children – and then
find out that my husband knows their parents from Brooklyn or elsewhere.
I have even gotten used to the awkward silence when Flushing High School
is the answer to a Shabbat guest’s innocent question. But nothing prepared
me for the question I was asked the last time I donated blood.

I was lying on the table, grateful that everything had gone
smoothly, when a nurse, whose lab coat identified her name as Stacey, came
over and asked if I was also a nurse. I was a bit surprised by the question,
but I told her that I am not. She then asked if I had a family member who
had gone to Queens General Hospital Nursing School. I hesitated, and then
I told her that my mother had attended. She smiled, said that she suspected
as much because of our uncommon last name and facial resemblance.

Sara Youner 175

She then told me she had been in my mother’s nursing school class and
remembered her well.

My mother went to nursing school when I was in high school.
She was in school all day every day and did her homework at home in the
evening. I learned from her classmate that she had to get special permission
to live off campus. The rest of the students – most were recent high school
graduates – lived in the school dormitory during the week and went home
on weekends. My mother was about forty years old – twice the age of most
of the students – with three children, a husband, and a household. Stacey
remembered my mom as an exemplary student, always studying, and
ultimately class valedictorian.

She barely knew me, but she spoke of my mom with such fondness
and clarity that I was extremely touched. This was the first time in my life
that I experienced the kind of historical connection that I had always felt
was lacking. In addition, I was proud to hear of my mother’s
accomplishments under very challenging circumstances. Stacey later sent
me the class graduation picture with my mom standing in the row above
her. Stacey was sixteen when she started nursing school, just a bit older than
I at that time, and she looked as if she could have been my sister.

The photo and the story behind it gave me a sense of family history
and continuity. It reminded me what it means to be part of a greater whole.
I will have that picture mounted and framed, and I will use it to reinforce in
my grandchildren the importance of knowing all your connections.

Sara Youner and her husband, Howard Apsan, moved from New York in 1991 and raised
their family in Springfield, New Jersey. Sara is a Doctor of Acupuncture and Chinese Medicine
and the owner of Springfield’s Morning Light Acupuncture. Before acupuncture, she practiced law
in both New York and New Jersey.



177

COUNTRY ROADS CAN TAKE YOU HOME –
AND THEN HOME AGAIN

BY: GABE COOPER

Connection not only makes one feel more involved with the
present moment, but also is built upon that which has preceded that
particular moment. In a year of tremendous uncertainty and loss, my family
has been blessed by HaShem to experience many moments that have
made us feel more connected with the different aspects of our lives.
The birth of our son Sammy, moving to a new home, and beginning
a medical residency have enabled us to feel more connected to one another,
excited about establishing a new generation of Coopers and Millers, and
grateful to live in Springfield, New Jersey, a vibrant, learned, and chessed-
focused community. But this past year has unexpectedly reinforced
a longstanding connection I treasure with a remote community in
New England that has, in a very different way, renewed our shared
connections to the past.

Halfway between the roaring Adirondacks of New York and the
picturesque Green Mountains of Vermont, lies Poultney, a small slate-
mining town that is full of history for my immediate family, as well as
a group of Jewish merchants, peddlers, and tailors who arrived between
1870 and 1890. On Route 30, there is a brick house built in 1790 that was
purchased by my grandfather Paul Cooper. He resided there for the last few
years of his life after being diagnosed with leukemia in his 50s. With much
strength, Paul – a former World War II Veteran who fought for the
US Army in Belgium – surpassed the timeframe that doctors predicted he
would live.

After Paul passed away, he left the home in the hands of my father,
Jonathan Cooper, who tilled the land and invigorated the house with life.
The years spent on this property stirred something in my father as well.
As his farming and carpentry acumen grew, so did his curiosity about
Judaism; though he has never said so explicitly, I believe that planting,
growing and protecting his fields led him to contemplate his own origins.1
Having been raised in a non-religious household, and having spent the
better part of his childhood moving from town to town, my father had
never experienced the warmth of any Jewish community – Orthodox,
Conservative, or Reform. Beneath his feet, in this small town in Vermont,

1 Additionally, in terms of what sparked my father’s connection to his Judaism: I cannot be
entirely sure, but I think it had something to do with being in a place where he felt different
than those around him. Perhaps this is what prompted him to do a bit of soul searching.