Dear Rabbi Hochberg,

My parents never had the greatest marriage, and now that they’re getting older, things are getting progressively worse. I am often at the receiving end of their gripes about each other, and I’m never quite sure how to respond. I tend to sympathize with my father’s complaints about my mother, which are usually well founded (“She yells at me” or “She criticizes me publicly”). I tend to find my mother’s complaints ridiculous (“He always buys the wrong brand of coffee” or “He leaves his newspapers open on the couch all the time”). Both my parents are equally bitter in their complaints, and I don’t know how to answer in a way that is respectful and also helpful.

There is no chance that they would discuss their issues with anyone outside our immediate family, so going to counseling or a Rav is not an option. Should I empathize with the suffering parent? Try to defend the parent being complained about? Change the subject? And should my reaction depend on whether the complaint is valid?

Not Sure

“So what is a shpahtsir?” you may ask. Perhaps you remember the song, “Let’s Take an Old-Fashioned Walk.” In Yiddish it would read, “Let’s Take an Old-Fashioned Shpahtsir.” Nu, maybe it sounds better in English.…

So who wrote such a song? you may again ask. Iz der enfer (the answer is), Irving Berlin, a Yiddel, of course. He composed many other American melodies, including “G-d Bless America.” Surely you have noticed from my articles that many Yidden have written popular tunes. (You also surely know that Yidden have contributed in many fields. Nu, that’s a topic for another article.)

*  *  *

With the onset of the Corona pandemic, we have been served a bit of history. By now, everyone knows that almost exactly 100 years ago the infamous Spanish flu pandemic swept the globe, killing 50 million people worldwide. Less well known is the fact that outbreaks of disease cropped up in various localities in other years. Around 1915, my Uncle Joe, all alone in Troy, Alabama, came down with typhus.

As many of you know, our family’s American journey began in 1914, when Uncle Joe Weinstock got off the boat at Galveston, Texas. Like thousands of other young, Russian men brought over by the generosity of the financier Jacob Schiff, he was greeted at the port by Reform Rabbi Henry Cohen and taken to a hostel, where he was put up for the night, given a kosher meal, and then sent to a destination chosen by others. Their plan was to distribute the immigrants around the center of the country, away from the teeming slums of New York.

Thinking back to the days when I was a young mother surrounded by my little children, I remember sometimes wishing I had live-in help. I even thought about how nice it would be to just wiggle my nose and make everything clean and sparkly. Don’t get me wrong; I loved being a full-time mother. I enjoyed taking care of my children, spending time with them, teaching them, playing and reading to them. It was the household details I found never-ending and exhausting: the endless dishes to wash and the loads of laundry to do. It seemed like I was always washing dishes. Apparently, my children thought so too. I remember one day when we were going out together as a family and my young son informed me that I couldn’t join them because I had to wash the dishes!

My life began in Poland during the Holocaust. Born in March 1940, six months after the German invasion, I lived “hidden on the surface” in Warsaw. My mother and I posed as Catholics 1942 until 1944. My father joined us after he escaped from the ghetto.

It’s the fall of 1944, and we are in a transit camp. Here, men are separated from women and children. Mother sends me to the men’s side to give Father something. The German guard waves me through. Once, twice, the third time, the guard yells at me, “If you go again, I will not let you return to your mother!” I am terrified. I run and huddle next to my mother, afraid to move.

People are fascinating. Each human being has his or her own story, one that is not always well known. Interviewing members of our community is a privilege and always reveals surprises. Writing for the WWW gives me that opportunity – and the excuse to ask questions without feeling that I am being nosy.

I had the privilege of talking to Avi Emuna of Promised Land Landscaping. I am sure many of you have used Avi’s services, as he has been working as a landscaper in Baltimore for many years. I know that Avi has helped me; he planted some shrubs in the front and side of my house that give me pleasure every year when they bloom again without any effort on my part.

But there are parts of Avi that most people in the community probably do not know. There are aspects of his life that have nothing at all to do with landscaping.

Rosh Hashanah is less than three weeks away. No doubt, you’ve been wondering how this year’s Yamim Nora’im (High Holidays) will play out. What social distancing and other precautions will be taken in various shuls? Will there be a women’s section? If I don’t go to shul, how will I hear shofar blowing? Is hearing the standard number of shofar blasts even a requirement this year?

Our concerns and questions are shared around the world. It seems certain that fewer people will be attending shul this year, and the typically overflowing shuls grapple with adapting their services in this uncertain COVID era. Planning can’t help but be fluid up until Kol Nidrei and beyond as restrictions are constantly changing.

I just read an article in the Jerusalem Post mentioning the Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur plans of the Ramban synagogue, located in Yerushalyaim’s Greek Colony neighborhood. Since the maximum number of people in an indoor space is currently limited to 20 in Israel – and only 30 in an outdoor space – the shul is preparing for two minyanim – one indoors and one outside in the courtyard. To accommodate their usual crowd of 300 to 400 men and women, additional space may be used in the gardens and courtyards of various members.

(Excerpted from Tfutza Publications’ upcoming book, World in Lockdown by Chaya Sara Ben Shachar)

“Felicidades, Senora! Es un nino.”

Un nino. A boy!

Mazal tov! A boy – a  bris.

But Buenos Aires is in lockdown. How will we be able to have a bris with all the halls closed down? With all the stores closed down?

My heart pumped a strange rhythm. A rhythm that hadn’t been present when my previous children had been born. This was a beat of apprehension, of fear of the unknown.

What would my precious new boy’s bris look like with the entire country under lock and key? People weren’t venturing out of their homes, either due to fear of the Coronavirus, or fear of the government’s strict fines and penalties. What would a bris look like under such circumstances?

I walked into a doctor’s office recently for a routine appointment and felt like I had landed on a different planet. My temperature was scanned before I even set foot inside. I looked around to see all the doctors, secretaries, and patients wearing masks that would have marked them as bandits just a few months ago. There was nothing to read in the waiting room since all the magazines have been removed. Even scheduling my appointment for next year was done on the phone from home so that I wouldn’t have to stay in the office one minute more than necessary. Was it weird? Yes. But I appreciated the thought and care that the practice had put into creating a safe environment for me and all the patients.

Warning! This article is about statistics. As a grants and systems specialist, I work with numbers and statistics all day long, but I have noticed that statistics causes many people’s eyes to glaze over. (Some of them even fall asleep.) Yet statistics are important to the understanding of complex social realities. It is only when we know the facts and the numbers that we can plan for the future and decide on policies that will be beneficial to the community. I hope in this article to present a fascinating glimpse into the Baltimore Jewish community by way of the numbers.