Dear Readers,

A heartfelt thank you to all who sent in your thoughtful, creative, and sometimes surprising suggestions for navigating retirement – or, as I like to call it, “The Big What’s-Next.” Your ideas have been inspiring and insightful.

That said, I have to confess I was a tiny bit disappointed that I only heard from those whom I can only describe as “retirement overachievers.” You know who you are. You’ve mastered the art of meaningful days and purposeful living, and while I’m genuinely happy for you, it’s made this column a bit one-sided. Where are my fellow worriers? The ones who wonder if spending money instead of making it counts as a hobby? (Full disclosure: My husband wonders this, too, every summer!)

For now, I’m still working – at least as long as my bosses keep saying yes. I’m filing away your wisdom for future reference (with the same efficiency I use for lesson plans and recipes). And to be brutally honest, even summer vacation (yes, I’m a teacher) sometimes feels a little too long and aimless. That’s really the heart of my retirement hesitation: What will I do with all that time?

Before I officially wrap up this series, I’m sharing the last two letters I received – each one offering a fresh and meaningful take on retirement. One even made me think, “Hmm, maybe I’ll sign up… right after I finish writing this!”

One morning, more than 30 years ago, when my baby was only four days old, a friend drove my carpool. She got into an accident on the corner of Taney and Cross Country, and all the occupants of the car were taken to the hospital. I rushed to the emergency room to be with my children. My father also came. B”H, no one was badly hurt, and my strongest memory of that whole event was how worried my father was that I was walking around. He remembered how new mothers were treated when he was growing up in England and was sure that a woman who had just given birth should not be walking around. I felt fine, but he urged me to go home.

Different Times

I asked Mrs. S, an elderly lady whom I used to visit, about childbirth in pre-war Czechoslovakia, where she grew up. “We children were very excited when we saw the midwife running through the street with her black bag; we knew that a new baby was coming. As a teenager, I was sent to a few of my aunts when they gave birth. Mothers were not allowed to get off the bed at all for two weeks, so I ran the house during that time. In fact, once, when two aunts were due at the same time, they fought over me since I was considered more helpful than their other nieces.”

Was there such a thing as postpartum depression? I asked her. Mrs. S. replied, “One of my aunts had a few girls and desperately wanted a boy. Wouldn’t you know: She gave birth to another girl. She didn’t want to look at the baby or nurse her. Maybe it was her hormones, although we didn’t know anything about that in those days. The father didn’t know what to do with his wife, so I said, ‘I’ll take her home with me.’ I was ready to do it, too, and named her after myself. It didn’t happen because, fortunately, by the time I left, the mother had recovered and decided to keep her little baby.”

Antisemitism is not a momentary lapse in the moral compass of society, nor merely one prejudice among others. It is a recurring phenomenon that reappears with distinct intensity and irrationality across times and cultures, adapting itself to the emotional needs and ideological frameworks of those who harbor it.

In recent months, the eruption of anti-Israel protests – particularly on university campuses and in public demonstrations across the Western world – has starkly revealed how antisemitic symbols, slogans, and ideologies are again moving from the periphery to the center of societal discourse. While these movements present themselves as political protests, they often carry unmistakable echoes of ancient hatreds: Jews as bloodthirsty, cunning, global manipulators; and Israel as a proxy for the eternal Jewish malevolence. The veneer of “anti-Zionism” has, in many places, peeled away, revealing the older and deeper animus beneath.

To understand this phenomenon with the seriousness and nuance it demands, we must adopt a multifaceted framework that examines antisemitism across historical, psychological, societal, and theological dimensions. We must also investigate how these dimensions interlock, forming a dynamic system in which individuals, subcultures, and societies collaborate, consciously or unconsciously, in the perpetuation of hatred.

A tent rose on our street, where sorrow met holiness.

      We had seen tents before – in the news, even on the streets of Ramat Beit Shemesh. There was really nothing new to see here; move on. Except….

      It’s different when it happens to someone you know.

*  *  *

Eight hundred eighty-eight was the number of soldiers who had died in the line of duty with the tragic ambush of the Netzach Yehuda soldiers in Beit Hanun, Five souls. One unspeakable day.

When the news hit…some people sighed. As they usually do.

Some people cried. Once more.

Others clicked on by, compartmentalizing their grief to preserve their sanity. Yet again.

One by one, the names and hometowns of the first four appeared in the media, and people sighed, and cried, and clicked. But when the last name was published, the community of Beit Shemesh lost its breath.  

My son Chaim wrote a beautiful article about his father, Rabbi Joseph Katz, z”l, in a recent issue of the Where What When, and I got many comments from readers as well as requests to write my own memories of our life together. As you might imagine, life was very different when we started out in the mid-1950s.

I grew up in Cleveland, Ohio. Although Telz yeshiva had already been established, the Orthodox community was small; I had only two frum friends, and in the absence of a high school for girls we attended public school. After high school, I moved to Williamsburg, where I worked as a secretary during the day and attended Bais Yaakov Seminary’s evening program.

When we think of rescue flights, what usually comes to mind is bringing people from a place of war or disaster to a safe area. But, as the oft repeated joke that became popular in Israel goes, “Israel is the only country where people who are in a country where there is peace are eager to be rescued to a country where there is a war.” During the recent 12-day war with Iran, many people were struggling to get home – in both directions. Here are a few stories of the very circuitous ways that some people managed to make the trip. 

Rikki Rubin

My daughter and son-in-law, Chana Leah and Motti Margalit, sponsored a hachnasat sefer Torah at Suburban Orthodox on Sunday, June 15^th. Among the many participants were Motti’s family members from Israel. The Margalits had a full house of guests a few days before the ceremony, many of whom were planning to return to Israel within a few days. However, once the war with Iran began, on Friday, June 13^th, Ben Gurion airport was closed, and all foreign carriers canceled their flights, disrupting plans for thousands of people

My grandfather, Rav Chaim Cohn, z”l, was the Rav in the Lessinstrasse shul in Berlin, from 1919 until 1939. This shul attracted a range of daveners: important rabbanim, such as Rav Ahron Neuwirth, the father of the author of Shemiras Shabbos k’Hilchasa; Rav Shlomo Wolbe, a father of modern mussar; as well as less important people, such as Albert Einstein and other famous intellectuals. Yes, before you ask, Albert Einstein did go to shul – maybe not every Shabbos but not only on Yom Kippur. Interestingly, he went to an Orthodox shul, and that was not because he could not find a Reform temple; there were plenty of those in Berlin. The fact is, davka, that this Orthodox shul with 250 seats was nicknamed intelligenztempel, the shul of the intellectuals in pre-WWII Berlin. Interestingly, Opa was actually mekarev Rav Wolbe as a young boy, which Rav Wolbe often acknowledged during his lifetime.

In November 1939, on Kristallnacht, the shul was burned down. A few weeks later, my grandparents with seven children and one mother-in-law left for Switzerland. They were fortunate; my grandfather was born in Switzerland and had Swiss citizenship. They ended up in England, where my grandfather never held another rabbinic position. I don’t think he ever learned English. 

One Shabbos afternoon, after a short nap, Rav Moshe Feinstein, zt”l, woke himself up and returned to his learning. The rebbetzin pleaded with Rav Moshe to get more sleep, but he refused and said, “I must learn; I don’t want to be an am ha’aretz (ignoramus)!” The rebbetzin turned to their guest and asked, “Would anyone say that Rabbi Feinstein is an am ha’aretz?!” But R’ Moshe insisted that he needed to push harder to reach greatness in Torah.

This is an example of the type of powerful message that many of us heard in yeshiva that inspired us to put in our utmost to become talmidei chachamim and live the elevated life of a ben Torah. The pinnacle is to become a gadol b’Torah, and one has failed if he remains an am ha’aretz. These messages at times are explicit and, more often, implicit. Regardless, they serve to fuel much of the inspiration for yeshiva talmidim of all ages.

A tent rose on our street, where sorrow met holiness.

      We had seen tents before – in the news, even on the streets of Ramat Beit Shemesh. There was really nothing new to see here; move on. Except….

      It’s different when it happens to someone you know.

*  *  *Eight hundred eighty-eight was the number of soldiers who had died in the line of duty with the tragic ambush of the Netzach Yehuda soldiers in Beit Hanun, Five souls. One unspeakable day.When the news hit…some people sighed. As they usually do.

Some people cried. Once more.

Others clicked on by, compartmentalizing their grief to preserve their sanity. Yet again.

One by one, the names and hometowns of the first four appeared in the media, and people sighed, and cried, and clicked. But when the last name was published, the community of Beit Shemesh lost its breath.  

Most people are fascinated by nature – as long as it stays outside. Birds are delightful (until they accidentally find themselves in a grocery store), and spiders are very helpful (but not really appreciated in your bedroom). Ants are no exception to this rule. Their industrious nature has inspired people to persevere for generations. Sefer Mishlei shares the ants’ message: “Go to the ant, lazy one; watch its ways and become wise.” This idea is especially relevant today, when young and old alike have made it their mission statement to avoid investing effort at all costs. Unfortunately, we most often encounter ants when they get into our kitchens, which somehow does not leave us feeling very inspired.

Putting aside our unfavorable meeting place (inside), ants are beyond fascinating. For example, if an ant accidentally drops a kernel of grain, the other ants won’t take it, even though it would make their personal trip to find food much shorter; stealing from each other is not an acceptable short cut. Furthermore, they can carry 50 times their body weight, which is the equivalent of a person carrying a car, and they selflessly work for the good of the whole group.

By clearing away dirt to form a network of vast underground tunnels, ants aerate the soil, which lets air and water penetrate more deeply. They also carry tons of organic material into the ground, some of which decomposes before it can be eaten, adding valuable nutrients to the soil.