The Holocaust shattered both their spirit and any sense of spirituality. Even though their bodies made it alive out of the German murderous ashes of death, any visible connection to Judaism or the Creator did not survive the war. Instead, their hearts turned cold and they were left with an anti-religious sentiment of ice.
Rabbi Menachem Mendel Shemtov, fondly referred to by Anash as Reb Mendel, was born in Poltova on the 28th of Sivan in 1933 to Horav Hachossid Reb Benzion and his wife Golda. For most of Mendel’s childhood, his father was exiled to Siberia for the self-sacrifice of opening chadorim and spreading Yiddishkeit to children in Russia.
On the 18th of Adar, Harav Yitzchok Zirkind passed away at 57.
Many knew him far better and far longer than I. However, over the past three years, through my wife’s friendship with the family, I came to know this special man and frequent his Shabbos table.
As a young woman who decided in her early 20s to become Orthodox, my life has been anything but boring. I grew up with a tight knit family, went to a reform synagogue, attended inner city schools and learned how to interact with all walks of life at a young age. Those friendships I still hold onto dearly. After my high school graduation I was accepted to a college in NYC and soon enough I was living in the city that never sleeps. I found a cute apartment in Spanish Harlem where many people are too afraid to walk even in broad daylight.
Anyone who reads my blog knows that I’m just not that big a baker. So when Purim comes around, I’m not about to make my own hamantaschen. The bakery stuff is good enough for me. I still like to get into the Purim spirit, so coming up with something that has three corners (reminiscent of Haman’s three-cornered hat) is a must. Last year, I made these puff pastry ones, filled with sauteed spinach, cabbage, and pumpkin fillings. This year, I knew I had to step it up.
Live updates of the International Kinus Hashlucos, taking place now at the New York Hilton in Midtown Manhattan.
Early this morning, one of the larger Chabad yeshivas from outside of Jerusalem, came to the Kotel. Their schedule was to first sit in small groups, mostly with a chavrousa and learn Chassidus, and then an hour or so later, they straggled off to the local mikvah.
It was a sunny February Friday morning in Monsey, NY. A friend invited me to attend an Estate Sale. I’ve never been to an Estate sale, and am not even sure what they are. For some reason I decided to join along. Perhaps because he said it was just a few minutes’ drive from where we were and it wouldn’t take much time.
In December, not long after “Among Righteous Men” was published, I returned to Crown Heights. The evening was unseasonably warm, and I walked east from my apartment, past the lip of Prospect Park, and down the undulating clamor of Eastern Parkway, my hands in my pockets. The neighborhood, where I had spent so many months reporting — some happy, some not — appeared largely unchanged.
In my last blog post, I wrote about the genesis of my book, “Among Righteous Men,” and the emotional connection I often felt to Crown Heights, the Brooklyn neighborhood where the book is set.
I did not set out to write a book about Jews. In fact, I was warned repeatedly against it — by friends, acquaintances, publishing professionals.
The patriarch Jacob, my namesake (Jacob Shmuel) of whom we have read the past few weeks in the Bible, is the most maligned of all the patriarchs. He is the one whom non-Jews can do without. The Christians claim to have been grafted onto the seed of Abraham and the Muslims make equal claim to the father of Monotheism as the Jews. But Jacob, with his seeming deception of his blind father to gain the firstborn blessing from Esau and his commercial manipulations of his father-in-law Laban, most of whose flock he eventually owned, is treated by anti-Semites as the prototype of the wily, cunning, dishonest Jew who will do anything to profit.
Jews who travel know to contact the local Chabad rabbi in whatever city they find themselves to seek help about kosher food and Shabbat accommodations. The local Chabad website will have that week’s Shabbat candle lighting time and parshah (Bible portion), even when the traveller’s own congregation’s website may not be as current. This free service is extended to all Jews, regardless of religious background; but sometimes, the Chabad connection goes beyond the normal call of duty.
You can barely take a step in the modern world without everyone knowing where you are and what you’re up to. Take your choice: You can Facebook, tweet or simply change your BBM or Whatsapp status to instantaneously geotrack yourself.
18 years ago today, the 14th of Cheshvan 1993, was the last time we saw the Rebbe ‘B’Gashmiyus’ as he made his last appearance in 770. The following poem, submitted by one of our readers, was written as a ‘Pan’ – a letter torn up and placed in the Rebbe’s ohel. It expresses the feelings of all chassidim who yearn to see the Rebbe’s holy face once again.
Every parent only wants the best for their child, and every (good) Shadchan only wants the best for their client. But when you guys call me and ask these strange questions about my friend – who put my name on his reference list even though I hardly know him (and perhaps for that reason) – please keep in mind that what I’m saying and what I am thinking might not be on the same page.
Readers of this column will know that last week my wife and I, thank God, married off our eldest child. What they will not know are the conditions we endured for the days prior to the wedding when a freak snow storm caused a power outage in our home town of Englewood, New Jersey, and much of the Northeast. We were preparing for a wedding with a house filled with relatives from around the world who, freezing with no heat, light, or phones, thought America was a third world country.
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