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.

Today, I interviewed Shaindy Kelman.

What year did?you graduate?Bais Yaakov Baltimore, and what was the school like then??? 

I?graduated in 1975?with a class of 22?girls! We were in the old building on Greenspring Avenue, and Rabbi?Steinberg, z”l,?was our principal.?We had a very loving and cohesive class.? 

My face beamed with excitement when I woke up in the morning. Even six time zones away from America, on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean, I felt myself amongst the Americans celebrating the country’s 238^th birthday and was overwhelmed with gratitude to the country that adopted me and transformed me into a happy, content, and fulfilled person. This was the second summer that I had come to this small town on the marvelous shores of the Baltic Sea or, more accurately, of its Gulf of Riga, to escape the heat and humidity of the Washington D.C. area and to work on my memoirs. I was delighted to notice the Latvian national flag at a single-story office building located exactly in front of the window where I was sitting and writing. Latvia also had something to celebrate on the Fourth of July. It was windy, and the flag, two red strips with a narrow white one between, was cheerfully fluttering in the breeze.

Around 12 years ago our youngest son, Dani, was assigned a project at school where he was required to interview a Holocaust survivor. He asked if I thought my father, Rabbi Joseph Katz, z”l, would be a good person to talk to. Born in Guxhagan Germany in 1932, my Dad rarely spoke about his experiences growing up, but from what I knew, I told him that, if my father agreed, it would be a worthwhile pursuit. Little did I know. What I thought I knew was nothing compared to what I was about to find out.

Watching the video of Dani’s interview, I realized that, while I had heard much of what my father had told me, including my dad and his parents getting out in May of 1941, it wasn’t until my father said something like, “Yeah, I have my passport in my sock drawer,” that he got my attention. I told my dad it might be helpful for the project if Dani could add a picture of the passport to his report. My father returned from his bedroom and placed the three passports – his and his parents – on the table in front of us.

There are moments in a person’s life that are so jarring that they become seared in your memory forever. Looking at the front cover of his passport with its big swastika, I could not wrap my head around the fact that I never knew these existed. “Dad, did you ever think, at some point over the past 50 years, you could have found a minute to say something like: ‘Chaim, can you please pass the salt and ‘Oh, by the way, I have a Nazi passport in my sock drawer’?” My father responded in his usual casual fashion, “I didn’t think it was important.”