Fax Facts

An Interview with Rebbetzin Devorah Wigder 

FROM MAIN STREET TO BEIT SHEMESH AND BEYOND 

as appeared in Binah, December 16, 2013 #362

I had the privilege of meeting Rebbetzin Devorah Wigder this past Rosh Hashanah, when I attended services in her late husband's shul. The following Shabbos, I attended the kiddush that is held in her home – men in the living room, women in the kitchen. Over homemade kokosh cake I heard about the family newspaper she sends out several times a year to family members throughout the world, and the English book lending library that she keeps in her spare bedroom. I decided that this was one woman that I just had to get to know better.

From the time I was a small child I dreamed of creating a home dedicated to Torah learning, which is why, in 1959, right after graduating high school, I went to Eretz Yisrael. While working at an orphanage in Bnei Brak, someone told me about Gateshead Seminary, and the following year, I became a Gateshead girl! There, in addition to learning how to get along with girls from different backgrounds – at one point all five of my roommates were French-speaking, and I was the odd one out – I gained a real appreciation of Torah and limud Torah, which eventually led to my marrying a talmid chacham who devoted his life to Torah.

After one year at Gateshead, my parents insisted that I return to the States. They wanted me to get a job and settle down, but I wanted to continue learning Torah, so I enrolled in Rebbetzin Kaplan's seminary. By the middle of the year I was a kallah. My husband, Rav Shabsie Wigder, was very close with Harav Moshe Bick and a talmid at Beis Medresh Elyon, located in what was then very rural Monsey, New York.

I really wanted to live in Eretz Yisrael, but my husband was an only son, and he didn't feel right leaving his elderly, widowed mother alone in America. Even though my mother in law lived in the Bronx, we made our home in Monsey so that my husband could continue learning in the yeshiva there. It was understood that once we married off most of our children, we'd move to Eretz Yisrael.

Our first home was a tiny basement apartment on Maple Avenue. My upstairs neighbor's nephew, a sweet little boy from Argentina (I thought), loved to come downstairs and play in our living room – I think he liked my homemade cupcakes! It was only later, when the Israeli police discovered his hiding place, that I learned that he was really Yossele Schumacher.

The first year of my marriage, I taught limudei kodesh New Square, even though, at the time, I barely knew a word of Yiddish! Every night, my upstairs neighbor would teach me the vocabulary that I needed for the following day's lesson and somehow I managed. I must have been successful because at the end of the year the school asked me to continue.  Although I occasionally substituted, I decided to devote myself to my primary occupation – being a wife and mother.

Before our second child was born, we bought a house on Main Street. We lived there for 21 of the 38 years that we lived in Monsey.  During those years we were blessed with 17 more children, and then we had twins – or at least some people thought we did! But we didn't; it was nothing more than a practical joke that got out of hand.

Two of my daughter's friends decided to have some excitement, and spread a rumor that our family had just been blessed with twins, numbers 19 and 20, and that we were keeping quiet about it because we were afraid of an ayin hara! We began receiving phone calls from friends throughout the world - Canada, England, and even Eretz Yisrael – wishing us mazel tov on the new additions to our family. My son even called from Eretz Yisrael complaining that, "just because I live so far away you can't include me in the simchah?" Eventually the rumors quieted down, but our family still continued to celebrate the twins’ milestones; when they turned three, we celebrated an upsherin (after all, since there were two of them, we assumed that one must have been a boy) and later on, a bar mitzvah. It was a family joke and we had a lot of fun with our non-existent children.

I thought that the tzibbur had forgotten about our latest (non)additions, until a few years ago, when I met an acquaintance at a wedding in Eretz Yisrael, who asked me if we had already married off the twins! She was shocked to hear that those beautiful babies were nothing more than the figment of someone's imagination. The truth is, I am very thankful for this story, because now, whenever I teach the halachos of shemiras halashon, I use it to demonstrate just how far one’s words can go. Imagine; 20 years after a couple of girls spread a rumor about us, people still remember it!

Thank G-d, I was blessed with a good sense of humor, otherwise, how could I have possibly raised 18 children? Life was never easy, but we certainly had an awful lot of fun! And of course, all the kids pitched in. At one point, to make some much-needed money, a friend and I opened an advertising magazine that was mailed to all the heimishe families in Monsey. For several years, the kids helped with the monthly mailings, even shlepping the magazines to the post office in their little toy wagon! One evening I was cleaning up the kitchen with my two older girls, who were then around nine or ten, when I noticed the girl next door riding her bicycle up and down the street. I was worried that my girls would be jealous that they had to work in the kitchen while their friend was enjoying herself outside. Instead, one of my daughters remarked, "That poor girl, she must be so bored. She has nothing to do all day!"

One time, shortly after I gave birth, our nine-year-old son was hit by a car and hospitalized with a concussion. After he regained consciousness, he was moved out of isolation into a room that he shared with a non-Jewish youngster. When his roommate turned on the television, he jumped out of bed, dragging all his medical paraphernalia with him, and ran into the hall, explaining to the startled nurse that "My parents don't allow us to be in the same room as a television!" Today, this little boy who was so adamant about living a life of taharah and kedushah is a big talmid chacham who devotes his life completely to limud Hatorah.

One daughter, who was in fourth grade at the time, decided to go to Eretz Yisrael. She and 

a friend left school and started walking down the street, which was not in the best neighborhood. Baruch Hashem, someone caught up with them – who knows where they would have ended up otherwise? My daughter did end up moving to Israel after her wedding, and she is still here, 25 years later.

I credit the success of our children's chinuch to the fact that everything in our home revolved around my husband's limud Hatorah. He was a gaon and gadol b'Torah. When he was in his thirties, he traveled to Eretz Yisrael to ask the head of the Eidah Chareidis (the Gaavid) Rav Yitzchak Yaakov Weiss, zt"l, to test him for semichah. When the Gaavid asked him which Gemara he wanted to be tested in, my husband said, "It doesn't matter; anywhere in Shas." To make a long story short, the Gaavid tested him on one Gemara after another, and then gave him semichah. In his letter of semichah, the Gaavid wrote that even in a previous generation, my husband's level of Torah knowledge would have been considered unique.

As a bubby, and great-bubby, I'm entitled to share some nachas with you; after all, we worked hard to be m'chanech our children to appreciate limud Hatorah. Last week, just as I was about to light the Shabbos candles, I got a phone call from my son in New York. He wanted to share something with me that happened at the sheva brachos they had made the previous night for their daughter and new son-in-law. Toward the end of the seudah, the chassan stood up and requested to say a few words. Then, much to everyone's surprise, he began to recite the Hadran that is said at a siyum hashas! 

WIGDERS THROUGHOUT THE WORLD

 Over the last twenty-something years, my children have grown up and spread out across the globe. Our children and grandchildren have lived in communities throughout the tri-state area and Eretz Yisrael; in Postville, Iowa, as well as Kiev, London, San Paolo, and Australia! 

My son in law, Rabbi Yaakov Bleich and his wife, Bashy, were sent by the Stoliner Rebbe to Kiev over 20 years ago to lay the foundation of what has become a vibrant Jewish kehilla. They established schools, chedarim, yeshivas, and seminaries.

Way back in 1993, when international telephone calls were still prohibitively expensive, I came to the conclusion that the best way to keep everyone up to date with family news was to send out a newsletter. The first newsletter was just a couple of pages and appropriately named “Fax Facts,” since it was faxed, rather than mailed or emailed. Over the years, I added all kinds of different columns, including halachos of shemiras halashon, short one-line jokes, inspiring stories and, most recently, stories and memories of my late husband. The newsletter has grown to be between eight to 12 pages, three columns to a page, and is published between six and eight times a year, with an international circulation of over 60. In addition to the regular family news (and irregular family news, such as the demise of my trusty mixer) and a separate page with everyone's contact information, the newsletters include inspirational short stories and articles that I collect throughout the year, as well as letters, poems, and stories submitted by various family members. It's a lot of work, but also a lot of fun, and besides, at this point of my life I'm retired and all my children are married, so what else do I have to keep me busy? (Actually, a lot, but that's beside the point!) Since the standard sized paper sold in Israel does not fit my old fax machine, I now send the newsletters by email or regular mail. I wanted to change the name – after all, if it's not being faxed, why call it Fax Facts? But the kids wouldn't hear of it, so Fact Fax it has remained!

ERETZ YISRAEL

Fifteen years ago, in 1998, we decided to fulfill our dream and move to Eretz Yisrael. The previous summer I had traveled to Eretz Yisrael on a pilot trip to look at potential communities. I fell in love with Beit Shemesh because of the view; it was gorgeous – mountains, empty fields, nature at its best. I was oblivious to the fact that once the apartment building would go up, the empty hills would disappear.  So now I have a different and much nicer view: in the morning, I see men on their way to learn Torah and sweet children waiting for the school bus. In the afternoon, I watch the young girls playing jump rope, or the boys rushing to minyan. Although I craved my old home in Monsey at first, now I would never leave the kedushah of Eretz Yisrael.

Of course we had the usual new immigrant stories; adjusting to a new culture has its light moments. One was the "Empty Mailbox Mystery." I thought it was very strange that the mailboxes were always empty. Was it possible that no one ever received mail?  It was only when one of the neighbors asked us why we never pick up our post that I learned that the mailboxes outside our door were only there for decoration; and that all our letters were delivered to a central post box ten minutes walking distance from our home! When I wrote about this in a local N'shei newsletter, another new immigrant to Israel called to thank me. She had felt very bad that no one wrote to her!

Taking out a mortgage was a real adventure. The bank told us that we   would need a co-borrower and at least three co-signers, quite a tall order for people who are part of a kollel community!  Although we were able to find three co-signers, we had difficulty finding someone to qualify as a co-borrower. When one of our co-signers got a raise in salary and was able to qualify as a co-borrower, we were left without the three co-signers necessary to take out the mortgage (if you find this confusing, well, it is. We were totally confused at the time!). We were pleasantly surprised when the bank manager informed us that since my husband is a talmid chacham, he would waive the official requirement of three co-signers! I think that only in Eretz Yisrael would being a talmid chacham make one qualify for a mortgage!

When we bought our apartment, we also purchased the basement storage rooms, which we converted to a beis medresh and a beis din for inyinei mamonos. Upstairs, I converted one of the extra bedrooms into a book-lending library, with some 1,800 books (we would have had more, but 750 books were left in storage in Monsey, and then accidentally thrown into the garbage). A steady group of women borrow books, which means that I get to know a lot of really wonderful people!   

Before moving here, it was almost impossible for me to imagine living anywhere other than Monsey—it's such a makom of Torah and chessed. The whole idea was intimidating; moving into a newly developed neighborhood, I knew that I would be missing many of the conveniences that I had gotten used to, such as good bus connections, a large variety of fully stocked stores, a comfortable makom tefillah, and of course my large group of close friends. Basically, I'd be missing home. But once we made the move and I started getting used to my new environment, Beit Shemesh became my new home! It shows that even when we're older and set in our ways, it's possible to change and grow.

In Monsey, I used to go to lots of shiurim, but here, I'm the one giving them; one in English and another one in Yiddish. I began giving shiurim almost as soon as we moved here, and over the past 15 years I have grown together with my talmidos.

Since fewer ready-made foods are available here, I'm busier in the kitchen. As a result, we spend less money on food and eat healthier. At first, I didn't own a clothes-drier; hanging out the laundry provided me with an opportunity to look at the beautiful view outside my window. Now I'm lazy and look out the window as I put the clothes in the drier! It's wonderful to go through an entire Shabbos without seeing any chilul Shabbos, but it was difficult for me to adjust to only one day of Yom Tov. Shuls tend to begin earlier than in the States, which makes it hard for me to come on Shabbos, but on the other hand, it results in a longer afternoon – especially nice in the winter.

Generally, I find that life in Israel is less focused on the material, and more on the spiritual. All the apartments in my neighborhood had a standard layout, so there is no competition to have the fanciest and grandest – just the most functional. Since the standard of living is lower than what I was used to in Monsey, I have more time, money, and strength for the truly important things in life. And I like it that way.

TEXT BOX

"Where is Yossele?"

When Yossele Schumacher's grandfather realized that his grandson would be raised as a non-observant Israeli, he arranged for Ruth Ben Dovid, the famous convert who eventually married Rav Amram Blau, founder of the Naturei Karta, to smuggle him out of the country. Instead of continuing their manhunt for hidden Nazi, including Mengele, the Israeli Intelligence focused its efforts on finding little Yossele. Throughout Israel, and in Jewish communities throughout the world, people asked each other, "Where's Yossele?"

END TEXT BOX

An interview with Rabbanit Yehudit Yosef, daughter of Rav Ovadia Yosef ztz"l appeared in the Binah

In the Corridors of Greatness

 A Glimpse Inside the Palace  

Byline: As told to Debbie Shapiro

When Rabbanit Yehudit Yosef married the youngest son of Harav Ovadiah Yosef, zt”l, she entered into a unique role, privileged to both serve and observe the beloved Gadol Hador of the Sephardic community.

 

When I was meeting my future husband, Harav Moshe Yosef, shlita, the youngest child of Harav Ovadiah Yosef, zt”l, he told me that if I were to marry him, I must understand that his parents will always come first. I asked him what that meant, and he explained that he would always make sure to help his parents with whatever they might need, and that they were his top priority.

 

My father-in-law was especially close with my husband. Prior to our marriage the Rav gave my husband a new car, but with one condition: My husband must continue accompanying the Rav to the netz minyan each morning. Starting from the week of sheva brachot, the Rav phoned my husband each morning to make sure he was up in time to go with him to the beit haknesset. After Shacharit, my husband would drive the Rav home and remain there to prepare and serve his breakfast After we were married about two years,the doctor instructed the Rav to take a nightly walk for exercise. At 11:15 every night, my husband would go directly from his chavruta to accompany his father on his nightly walk.

Some 20 years ago, the Rav suddenly developed pneumonia. His lungs were full of water and he was in terrible pain. The doctor insisted that he be hospitalized immediately, but the Rav refused, explaining that he was supposed to meet with an important person in the government the following morning, to talk about funding additional classrooms for the Shas Educational Network. That night, the Rav was in agony, but in the morning, when he met with the government official, there was no sign that he was in pain. The moment the official left, however, his suffering was obvious. When we expressed our amazement, my father-in-law replied that he had been in pain throughout the meeting, but if he had shown any signs of being ill, the official would have felt uncomfortable and left, leaving the children without classrooms. And the children were his first priority.

Soon after the government official left, we brought the Rav to the hospital. After the doctors completed their examination, they informed us that medically, there was nothing they could do for him. The Rabbanit was inconsolable; she could not stop crying. Through her tears, she told me that the Rav must continue to live, as he has so many more sefarim to write, and so much more to do to help Am Yisrael. Then she lifted her hands upward and said, “Hashem, if it is decreed that the Rav must die, then please, take me in his place.”

The Rav survived and continued learning, teaching, and writing. The Rabbanit passed away that same year. She had always been the healthy one; shortly before she died, the doctor told her that she had the heart of an eighteen-year-old! On Erev Shavuos, as we were in the kitchen preparing for the Chag, she thanked me for everything that I done for her over the years, and then asked me to please run a quick errand for her. I returned some fifteen minutes later to find her lying on the floor, still grasping her Tehillim. She was perfectly tzanuah, everything was completely covered. She had had a stroke, and passed away two months later.

IN THE RAV'S HOME

At the conclusion of the shivah for Rabbanit Margolit the children decided that every two weeks, another couple would move in to the Rav's apartment to take of his needs. But the Rav had other plans. He asked my husband, his youngest son, Harav Moshe Yosef shlita to ask me for my permission for our family to move into his house permanently. At the time, I was 24, a young married woman with small children. I felt as though I had won the lottery. What a zechut to have this opportunity to serve the gadol hador!

We had such a warm, wonderful relationship. The Rav was always concerned about our welfare. I never had to worry about my children's chinuch; when one of my boys encountered difficulties in learning to read, the Rav arranged for a private tutor to come to the house and learn with him, without even telling me. When that same child brought home excellent grades, the Rav celebrated it like a chag! When my children brought home report cards, they first ran to show their grandfather, and only later to show my husband and me. My father-in-law would read the report cards carefully, always looking first at the marks in derech eretz, and only later at the academic marks. He often told us that derech eretz kadmah l'Torah; it's impossible to attain Torah without derech eretz.  

After each new baby was born to us, the Rav would constantly remind me to rest, and search for ways to help me. Once, when the baby was sleeping in our bedroom, I left my father-in-law eating at the kitchen table and ran downstairs to buy something in the small grocery store almost underneath the apartment. I returned home a few minutes later to an empty kitchen. Through the intercom, I heard the Rav gently cooing to the baby, telling her not to cry.

Whenever there was an infant in the house, the Rav made a point of holding the baby while reciting Birkat Hamazon, explaining that it's a segulah for yirat Shamayim.

Before my twins were born, the Rav told me that I should not worry about how I would take care of them at night. He would take care of one while I would take care of the other.

When one of my children was about two years old, he started waking up at night and walking into the Rav's study. The Rav would allow him stay for a few minutes, and then put him back to bed and continue learning. One night, however, the youngster refused to go back to bed. That night, the Rav went to bed early, together with his grandson. In the morning, we found the two of them sound asleep in Sabba's bed.

The Rav once heard me yelling at my children. He gently told me that divrei chachamim b'nachat nishma'im; people hear words that are spoken quietly. I was so embarrassed; since that day, I try to speak quietly to my children.

My father-in-law was careful to never speak to his children if he was angry. He would wait until he was no longer upset, and only then would he discuss what happened with the child, and give a punishment if necessary.

The Rav was always effusive in expressing his gratitude. Once, after I served him a meal, he told me that although he's so grateful for everything I do for him, he's afraid that someday he'll be so accustomed to it that he'll forget to thank me. But that never happened. He always thanked us for every little thing.

My father-in-law spoke to his talmidim about the importance of gratitude. Around three years ago, on Simchat Torah, the Rav told several Rabbanim, including my husband, that he wants to tell them a story and that the story has an important lesson.

Although I was busy in the kitchen and missed the story, I did hear the lesson. The Rav pointed to the food that was on the table and asked, “Did you ever think about how hard your wife works to prepare all of this delicious food? Please, right after Yom Tov, buy her a piece of jewelry as a token of your gratitude.” 

A week later, the Rav asked me if my husband had bought me jewelry. 

The world knew the Rav as the Gadol Hador, but for us, he was a warm, loving grandfather, who took a personal interest in each of his grandchildren, and in my husband and me, until the last day of his life. The children were in awe of their sabba. As one of them once explained, Sabba learns, and learns, and then learns some more! Torah was his life, nothing else.

The following story exemplifies the Rav's love of Torah: My grandmother passed away just before the Rav turned 80. The Rav traveled to Ramleh to pay a shivah call to my mother. I decided not to tell him about the memorial service that was to take place a month later, so as not to disturb his Torah learning. But on the day that the service was to take place, someone came in to speak with the Rav, and upon leaving said, “B'ezrat Hashem, I'll see you again at the memorial service tonight.”

After the man left, the Rav came into the kitchen. “Yehudit,” he said, “it's normal for a person to live to be 80 years old, but afterwards, every day of life is a miracle. Now that I am 80, and I know that my remaining time on earth is limited, I need to pack in much more learning than I did before. I still have so much more to learn, and so many more sefarim to write. For that reason, I prefer to remain at home to learn, and to dedicate my learning l'iluy nishmat your savta.”

It was only then that I understood something that had perplexed both me and my husband. After my father-in-law had turned eighty, he suddenly seemed younger; although he had previously been learning day and night, now it seemed as though he had somehow doubled his hours of learning!

A RAV FOR ALL OF KLAL YISRAEL

The Rav was available to answer questions every morning and evening – until age 92! Most of the people who came to him were simple, hardworking Jews. They would pour out their troubles, and he would return home with eyes that were red from crying. He felt all of Am Yisrael's pain. If there was a war, or - more recently - with the decrees against the yeshivot, he cried as he recited Tehillim throughout the night. A few years ago, when an entire family was killed in a horrific accident, our home was plunged into mourning. It was as if he had lost a family member.

Because he took such a close, personal interest in so many different types of Jews, I was not surprised by the huge number of people who came to pay their final respects at his funeral. During the Rav's final illness, thousands of people who were not shomer Shabbat took upon themselves to keep one Shabbat as a zechut for the Rav's recovery. Someone told us of two brothers who reconciled after 20 years of not speaking with each other, as a zechut for the Rav. Another person told us that in the discothèque across the street from his apartment, a few days before the Rav passed away, the music came to a sudden stop and the MC announced that the Rav's situation was extremely serious. He requested that everyone join him in reciting Tehillim. Everyone in the discothèque started to cry as they began reciting Tehillim together, begging Hashem to have mercy on the Gadol Hador. There were many more similar stories.

SUNSET

During the last few months of the Rav's life, he was in constant, excruciating pain. Shabbat was especially difficult. With true mesirut nefesh, he would recite Kiddush, and force himself to eat a kezayit of challah before retiring to his room.

But on Shabbat Chol Hamoed Sukkot, the last Shabbat before his final hospitalization, the terrible pain disappeared. That Shabbat we returned to our previous, happy life. The Rav made Kiddush, sang zemirot, told stories, and spoke divrei Torah at the table. Although we understood that the lack of pain was a sign that the Rav's kidneys were failing, it was still a very wonderful Shabbat. At the conclusion of the seudot, he held my three-year-old twins on his lap and encouraged them to respond to the mezuman, and even gave them his traditional loving slap on the cheek! He was in such a great mood!

Shabbat afternoon, the Rav thanked me for all my years of help. He asked mechilah for making me work so hard, and then blessed me.

On Motzoei Shabbat, the Rav blessed my sixteen-year-old son, Avraham. I explained to Avraham that his sabba was saying goodbye, and we both cried. 

We were undecided if the Rav should be hospitalized, and asked the nurse who had been helping us for the last 23 years to come to the house to do a blood test. When she arrived, the Rav thanked her profusely for all her help over the years. Through her tears she responded, “K’vod Harav, I will continue coming here to help you.” She drew some blood for a blood test; the results were not good and she told us that he needed to be hospitalized.

As they wheeled the Rav into the ambulance, he told us that there was nothing more that the doctors could do for him. He was crying; he knew that he would never return home.

Two days later, on Monday, my husband asked the Rav for mechilah. The Rav responded, “You are asking me for mechilah? I am the one who must ask you for mechilah. Throughout the years, you were always there for me. You always did whatever you could to help me.” Then the Rav did something that was very unusual for him: he pulled my husband close to him and kissed his face over and over again.

Within the hour, the Rav's lungs had collapsed and he was given medication to put him into a medically induced coma. A week and a half later, he had sufficiently recovered for the doctors to stop the medication. When the Rav woke up from the coma and saw the medical staff standing around his bed, he somehow found the strength to thank the doctors for everything that they had done for him, and then proceeded to bless them.

But now that he was awake again, he was in agonizing pain. When I came to see him that Motzoei Shabbat, he could not stop crying. Yet, even in his pain, he kept thanking me over and over again. But when he tried to lift up his arms to bless me, he began to cry that the pain was unbearable and begged us to have mercy on him.

Sunday night, the doctors told my husband that they were going to put the Rav into a medically induced coma again, and that this time, he would remain unconscious until his petirah. My husband kissed his father's hand. The Rav was too weak to move. He kissed the air.

Monday, shortly before the petirah, the entire family was called in to recite Kriyat Shema with the Rav. As one, we screamed Shema Yisrael, but then the situation suddenly stabilized! The doctors told us that it could take minutes, hours, or even days. No one wanted to leave, so we all remained and were there for the petirah.  

My daughter's wedding was scheduled to take place a few days later. As we watched the Gadol Hador slowly take leave of this world, I gently told my daughter that her wedding will take place during shivah. She said that it would be impossible for her to get married then; she had grown up with her sabba, and was very close to him. How could she rejoice while the entire family was in mourning? Then she said, “Let's ask Sabba what he thinks.” I sadly pointed to the Rav. She took one look at his unconscious figure, attached to multiple machines, and burst into tears. I think that's when she really grasped what was happening. After the petirah, we asked Harav Wosner, shlita, what to do about the wedding. He told us to postpone it until after the shloshim.

Now that the shivah is over, our entire life has changed. Before, everything revolved around the Rav, and the house was bustling with people. Now that the Rav is gone, I'm alone with my family. The first Shabbat that we were alone, my husband tried to make Kiddush, but instead, he broke down crying and our son-in-law had to make it for us. People say that I should appreciate my privacy, something that we never had before. But I can't. I miss the Rav too much.

***  

At the conclusion of the interview, I packed up my equipment and ran downstairs to catch the taxi that I had ordered. When the driver, who was not wearing a kippah and appeared completely irreligious, realized that I was coming from the Rav's house, he started telling me about the Rav's greatness and told me that he went to the Rav with all his questions. "He was my posek. I used to pray in his synagogue every day. I went to him for everything."

That was the Rav's greatness. To the talmid chacham, he was pure, unadulterated Torah. To the simple, unlearned Jew, he was a father. All looked up to him and appreciated him, because he loved and appreciated every single Jew.

 

@@ in a box @@

THREE SPECIAL MITZVOT

The Rav often spoke about the importance of women waiting 72 minutes after sunset on Motzoei Shabbat (shittas Rabbeinu Tam) before beginning melachot. Like every other woman, I have lots of work to do after Shabbat, and I like to start as soon as possible. But the Rav told me that I would have a huge zechut if I refrain from performing melachot until 72 minutes after sunset, so that's what I do.

The Rav also held that women should cover their hair with a scarf or hat, rather than with a wig, and that the hair be completely covered. The day after our wedding, my father-in-law was so happy to see that none of my hair was showing, that he hugged my husband and told him how happy he was that I am such a tzanuah!

The Rav was very particular about eating the fourth seudah, on Motzoei Shabbat. Even when he was in excruciating pain, he would force himself to eat a kezayit of challah dipped in hot tea. Following his last Shabbat at home, I prepared a special meat delicacy for the fourth meal. With every mouthful he thanked me, saying "Salamedeiki," which in Arabic means, "May the hands of the one who prepared this be blessed."

@@ end box @@

 

 

TEXT BOX

The following letter, written in 5734 (1974), was found among the Rav's sefarim. Although it is in the Rav's handwriting, the signatures are his children’s. In this letter, the children sign that they will listen to their parents, help their mother with the housework - especially with the preparations for Pesach - and behave with derech eretz and kavod to both parents, as is commanded by the Torah.

In the second paragraph, the children obligate themselves to go to sleep no later than midnight, and to wake up by 7:30 in the morning.

TEXT BOX

SIDEBAR  My Window Faces Harav Ovadia Yosef's Grave

My back window is almost directly across from Harav Ovadia Yosef’s, zt"l, grave. At any time of the day or night, I can see dozens - sometimes even hundreds - of people praying there. It's a strange feeling – Jews are standing almost below me, praying with an intensity that I can only envy, while I make the beds, fold the laundry, and continue with my normal routine. Yet despite the seeming regularity of my outward motions, my life really has changed. Every once in a while, I glance out my window, and those petty peeves lose their sharpness; for that moment, I remember there a reason for it all.

Although during the Rav's lifetime I was aware of his greatness as a gadol b'Torah and leader of the Sefardic community, it was only after his passing - when I witnessed the variety of people who mourned him as a father - that I began to comprehend his greatness as an ohev Yisrael.

Most of my neighbors are Sefardic. Some are traditional, some charedi, and a few, not yet shomer mitzvot. Yet when the Rav's situation became critical, the same young men with earrings and punk hairdos who congregate in front of my building were now sitting on our front steps and crying – yes, crying! – over their sifrei Tehillim as they begged Hashem to save their Rav.

For my Sefardic neighbors, Rav Ovadia Yosef, or as he is commonly referred to, Maran, was the ultimate religious authority. He was their father, and with his passing, they were orphaned.

Although I was overwhelmed at the sheer enormity of the levayah - close to one million people! - it was the small, intimate scenes that moved me to tears; the group of seemingly irreligious soldiers reciting Tehillim at the grave, the spontaneous minyanim in my parking lot, where an incongruous mixture of talmidei chachamim and "amcha" – the outwardly non-observant vegetable vendor and taxi driver - join each other in prayer.

I called my sister, who is not religious, and explained, "It's as if the Lincoln Memorial has been moved to my front lawn." Only it's not the Lincoln Memorial, it's the kever of a tzaddik. It will take time until I discover the full impact of living in such proximity to one of today's kivrei tzaddikim.

 

 

 

 

Debbie Shapiro lives in Jerusalem with her husband, children, and grandchildren. She works in marketing development and teaches at Levavi Seminary.

 

 

Thirteen Glimpses into Love

This appeared a few years ago in the OU's Shabbat Shalom. Forgot about it... Enjoy.

Here are thirteen glimpses at Israel, glimmers of what I love about living in the only place I will ever feel truly at home-- Israel.

1. As I take my morning walk, I love watching the men rush to shul, their tallis and teffilin held securely under their arm. One morning, I stopped at the corner to let the garbage truck by. That's when I noticed the driver wearing his tallis and tefillin. It reminded me of the famous story about Rabbi Levi Yitchak of Berditchev. He once saw a baal agala, a wagon driver, changing the wagon's wheel while davening, and wearing, of course, his tallis and tefillin. "Oh, how beautiful are the Jewish people!" Rabbi Levi Yitzchak he proclaimed. "Even in the midst of their work, their thoughts are with You!"

2. I love walking through the different neighborhoods. They are each so different –a true ethnic experience. The Bucharian neighborhood is just minutes from my apartment. As I cut through Bucharim to visit my daughter in Batei Varsha, I hear the haunting sound of the Bucharian Jews chanting Mincha in unison. Passing the synagogue complex I see elderly women, some with white embroidered pants peeping out from under their voluminous flower-printed dresses, standing outside, waiting for the opportunity to answer "Amen." Tiny tables, piled with anything from seforim to audio discs to toys to kitchenware, are set up along the side of the street outside the shul, making walking along the narrow, cobblestone street almost impossible.

I continue up the street and rush past the tiny "Aish Tanura" (an Arabic flat bread) bakery, a tiny hole in the wall, just big enough to hold a large, sturdy wooden table and an ancient stone oven. The circular flat breads are baked on the sides of the oven, just as described in the Mishna. The bakery hasn't changed since I arrived in Jerusalem close to 37 years ago. The smell is tantalizing, and I hasten my step to avoid temptation. But the owner stops me. "Rebbetzin," he calls out [here in Jerusalem, almost everyone's a 'Rebbetzin'] "I have a mitzvah for you. Please take challa for me." I make a bracha, separate the challa and throw it into the furnace underneath the oven, and yes, I also buy a half-dozen aishtanuras. How could I resist?

I continue up through the Bucharim shuk (marketplace), a miniature of the famous Macheneh Yehuda shuk, boasting anything from exotic spices, to bakery goods, to tablecloths, to fresh meat, to fish, to vegetables, and anything in between. I step into the spice store to buy Chilba seeds for my pungent Yemenite Chilba salad. The heady smell and combination of colors and textures transports me to the Orient. For less than twenty five cents, I have the makings of a phenomenal side dish for Shabbat lunch.

From the Bucharian shuk, I climb the steep mountain of Yoel Street. Within minutes I am plunged from the Orient to a modern-day shtetel. The sidewalks are so narrow that I end up walking in the middle of the street, sidestepping the cars that (chutzpah!) actually try to drive there. Instead of lilting Sefardi chanting, I hear the most beautiful sound of the world – that of men learning Torah -- coming from the tall arched windows of the nearby yeshiva. From the next building, I hear small children repeating pasukim of Chumash after their teacher, and then reciting the Yiddish teitch, the Yiddish translation. Mah tovu oheleicha Yaakov, Oh! How beautiful are your tents, Jacob!

From Yoel Street, I climb the narrow steps leading to the alleyway behind Meah Shearim Street. I navigate my way along the crowded alley until I arrive at my daughter's house. Her three older children are outside playing jump rope. The minute they see me they stop their game and come running to give me a hug – and that's the most beautiful thing of all!

3. I feel so privileged to live in this beautiful, holy city. I am writing this on erev Yom Kippur. From outside our living room window I hear someone speaking into a loudspeaker. "Tzedaka, tzedaka tatzil m'maves," he says. "Tzedaka saves from death. Give to the family in need…." I hear apartment doors opening and children rushing down the stairwell, their sweaty hands clutching the money that their parents gave them to deliver to the poor family. What a blessing to be able to give, and to have the opportunity to give brought to my own front yard.

4. I love the people of Israel. Even the simple people, despite lacking the outward trapping of religion, are holy (well, actually, aren't all Jews holy?). Rosh Hashana afternoon the upstairs neighbor knocked at our door. Dressed in nothing but a pair of shorts and flip flops, he shoved a candle in my hand and said, "Chag Sameyach. Our candle went out. Can we use your fire to light it?"

5. I love how everything in Israel is so – well – just so Jewish. I love walking to shul to hear Kol Nidrei on Yom Kippur night. The streets are crowded with hundreds – yes, hundreds! – of men wearing white kittels, women in their Yom Tov best, children, babies, teenagers, rushing to shul. In the short four blocks from our apartment to the shul where our family davens, I passed close to a dozen synagogues, some housed in large, impressive buildings, others housed in apartments or even bomb shelters. Each one unique and different, yet, on the deepest level of all, they are one, united in serving the Holy One.

6. And Sukkot, oh, how I love Sukkot! I literally bump into a Sukkah wherever I turn. In addition to building them on any available open porch, people construct them on the sidewalks and in the parking lots. Someone actually built their Sukkah in the middle of the neighborhood playground, right next to the swings. I guess that's one way to take care of unruly children during the meal…

7. I love sitting in my Sukkah on Yom Tov night. From all sides, I hear people reciting Kiddush. Chassidim, yeshivishe, Yemenite, the words are the same, but they each sound so different. That's the beauty of Am Yisrael – a symphony of differences that, when properly synchronized, create a unique oneness that is our strength.

8. Here in Eretz Yisrael, Chanuka has no competitors. The radio plays the traditional Chanuka melodies, and every house sports at least one menorah in its window. No tinsel, no strings of lights (that's saved for the Sukkah. And yes, many Israeli use those decorations in their Sukkah, without ever realizing their source!), just simplicity and purity, without any alien influence. One year someone in the neighborhood made a toy sale a few days before Chanuka, and I went to see if I could find some bargains. A group of very orthodox young women were oooing and ahhing over a little train with a bearded man dressed in a red suit and hat sitting on top, singing "We wish you a merry…" No one had any idea that this was definitely NOT a Jewish toy --- until I enlightened them!

9. Believe it or not, I love erev Pesach in Eretz Yisrael! Everything sparkles with cleanliness. The bottoms of my shoes become wet from the rivers of "sponja water" spilling out from under the front doors and flowing down the sidewalk, into the gutter. Laundry is hanging everywhere and mattresses are balancing on porch railings. I pass an elderly man scrubbing a step ladder, a teenage girl scouring the front door. Amidst all this commotion, little girls are playing jump rope while keeping half an eye on younger siblings so their mother can ready the house for the holiday. The anticipation is tangible. Everyone's waiting for something great to happen!

Are you ready to go yet?
Register for the OU's Thanksgiving Mission to Israel!

10. I love taking a walk after the Seder. Although it's two or, perhaps, three o'clock in the morning, the streets are vibrant with life! I hear the last strains of "Chad Gadya" wafting out from an open window. From another window, I hear the sharp scraping sounds of tables being cleared and dishes being washed. A child is playing with some Lego on the porch while singing (not so quietly!) songs from the Seder. He probably fell asleep right Kiddush, and woke up again when everyone started singing "L'shana haba b'Yerushalayim, "Next year in Jerusalem."

11. Although sitting on crowded buses has never been, and will never be, one of my favorite pastimes, I love how, when someone gets on a crowded bus through the back door, it is common courtesy for the other people on the bus to pass that person's fare up to the driver, and then return the change. The money passes through perhaps a dozen peoples' hand, yet no one would consider pocketing it! Could you imagine trying that on a crowded New York subway?

12. I love how everything in this country is so uniquely Jewish. Recently, the air conditioning technician called to explain why he would be late. "I'm stuck in a haknassat Torah (A Torah inauguration)," he began. "I went into a store to buy something to drink, and when I came out, my truck was surrounded. Right now they're auctioning off the honors, so it looks like I'll be here for a while." I knew he was telling the truth; I could hear the strains of canned "haknassat Torah" music over the phone.

13. Waiting in line in the local health clinic, I started speaking to the woman sitting next to me. She told me that this summer she had taken her eleven year old son, Shlomo, "the type who loves rollerblading and lives for his skateboard" to visit relatives in the United States. She made sure to give Shlomo the time of his life – amusement parks, ice skating, boating, you name it, if it was something an eleven year old kid would go for, they did it!

On the plane back to Israel, Shlomo was a bit pensive. "Boy, mom," he said. "I'm really, really happy that we're going back to Israel."

His mother was a bit surprised. "You didn't like America?" she asked.

"No, no," he replied. "It's just that I'm not frightened in Israel, like I was in the United States."

Now Shlomo's mother was even more confused. "Frightened?" she asked. "Why were you frightened in America?"

"Because I didn't feel Hashem with me, constantly, the way I do in Israel," he replied.

And that story, more than anything else, explains why I love living in Eretz Yisrael. With every step that I take on this holy soil, I am fulfilling a mitzvah. I am privileged to observe Hashem's holy Torah in the holy land that Hashem bestowed to our nation. May we all be able to keep all of Hashem's mitzvoth in Hashem's rebuilt Holy Land, speedily, and in our days. Amen.

Motzaei Rosh Hashana -- I spent Yom Tov with my daughter, Faigie, and her seven very gorgeous children. Davening, eating, reading, playing with the kids, it was a very special time for all of us. As I was leaving, something happened that really brought home the meaning of the days.

 
My daughter's neighbor has a little girl who is the same age as my eight year old granddaughter. She has cancer that has spread to the brain. To put it very bluntly, this sweet child, who spends hours on the stairwell trading stickers with her friends, or outside on the sidewalk, jumping rope, is, according to the doctors, dying of cancer.

 

Motzaei Rosh Hashana, as I was running to catch the bus (that never came!) a van stopped in front of my daughter's apartment building, and some fifteen yeshiva bachurim, all dressed in black suits and white shirts, jumped out. From the back of the van they started pulling out music equipment – a keyboard, a set of drums, a set of amplifiers, and a large suitcase filled with clown costumes, puppets, and anything that would make a sweet little girl, dying of cancer, laugh.

 

My daughter told me that they've come many times in the last few months. "Each time they come," she says, "the entire building comes down to dance with them."

 
How beautiful, yet how sad

Practice Runs

It was one of those exhausting humdrum days –a quick shower, a quicker davening, breakfast on the run, and a race to catch the eight o'clock bus to Bnei Brak. After sitting for nine hours opposite the computer, I somehow managed to drag myself to the bus stop and wait for the 402 to Jerusalem. The bus was fairly empty, so with two seats to myself, I slept like a log until we arrived at the entrance to the city. I remained in a semi-conscious state as the bus slowly snaked its way through the neighborhoods, until, with a start, I realized that everyone had left, and it was just me and the driver. I rang the bell for my stop.

 That's when I heard it! A shofar, the throbbing leaves-you-quivering-in-your-shoes sound of a shofar blowing --  very very, loudly! There was no mistaking it, this was the real thing. I looked outside, with a sense of awe and excitement that perhaps, maybe, this was what we have been waiting for and praying for and hoping for, for so many years. But sadly, there was no angelic looking man sitting on a white donkey, tooting his horn. We'll have to wait longer.

I had become somewhat a pro at judging shofar sounds. I am working on a promotional video that concludes with a 4 second shofar blowing. In our search for the perfect ending that pulls at the heart without sounding tinny or perfectly unreal, I devoted a good chunk of my time to listening to recorded shofar sounds. Now, the sound of the shofar vibrating through the bus, shook me to my very core. I couldn't help but wonder if my work had affected my sanity.

But then again, I live in Israel. I remembered the time I took my early morning walk and saw the garbage truck driver crowned in his Tefillin, quietly praying as he waited for the garbage truck men to finish loading the garbage (an interesting twist on the Berditcher Rebbe's story about the wagon driver in Tefillin)! And then there was the time that I found a shofar next to the sandbox. I had placed notices throughout the neighborhood, announcing my find. Much to my surprise, four people called to see if had found their shofar before the owner finally appeared. So why should I find the sound of the blowing shofar on a bus unusual?

Instead of exiting through the back door, I walked through the now empty bus to the front, opposite the driver. And there he was, with his long pony tail, torn jeans and, yes, very conservative blue button-up Egged uniform shirt, blowing away. Tekiah, teruah, shevarim, the sound reverberated through the stuffy Egged bus. 

"Beautiful,"  I said, trying to hide my surprise

 

"I blow the shofar in shul," he explained, "and I practice when the bus is empty, whenever I'm stuck at a red light!"

 

 "That was a gorgeous shofar blowing. You put a lot of feeling into it." I didn't bother explain how I had become a pro at shofar sounds. But it really was, and I wished that I had taken my recorder with me, because it was the perfect shofar blowing to end the video.

 

But I had left my recorder at home, so obviously, it was not. I guess I'll just have to save my emotions for the real thing.

To see the video, go http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fhuX86SGOCA