Israel

07/29/2022

Growing up in small apartments in Brooklyn after the war, first Williamsburg and then Crown Heights, our family of 5 did not have much of anything, small rooms nor any real storage space. But one special suitcase went with us everywhere we moved;it was a big silver metal suitcase that had written in bold black ink our family name, Hoffert.

It also had an address and the country destination, Israel, was written in bold script on the front.

For years whenever I would see that suitcase, I wondered why we kept it and why it was marked up in that way. When I finally thought to ask, I was told that after the war we were all packed and ready to move to Israel. Letters from Israel warned us to stay away; the missives were filled with news of food shortages. hunger, rats, danger and fear.

“Don’t come, it’s terrible here, go to America!”

And so we did.

The first time that I came to Israel, I was in my mid twenties and pregnant with our second child. Our parents encouraged us to make the trip and offered to babysit. We booked an Emunah Tour and prepared to be away for two weeks without our baby boy.

There is so much to say about that but I’ll save it for another time.

When we woke up that first morning in Jerusalem, it was to the sounds of a wedding being celebrated right outside our window at the fountain in front of the Kings Hotel on King George Street. There was dancing, music, horn honking and a glowing couple.

We had never seen anything like it.

We soon came to realize that this fountain formed the centerpiece of many a Jerusalem wedding; this scene would be re-enacted daily by many a Chattan and Kallah. Our mornings in Jerusalem marked a time of hope and celebration for couples and tourists.

All these many years later when I walk by the fountain, I smile at the memory.

From Jerusalem, our tour took us to the historical landmarks that call every Jewish person back to our homeland. Being witness to the places discussed in the Torah, made us realize how much there is to see, learn and experience in this bountiful land we call home.

After about a week, we made our way to Tel Aviv, where parts of my family had settled after the Holocaust. The same family who had cautioned us to stay away. We called my grandmother on my father’s side, to set up a first time meeting.

In Yiddish, I greeted her. “Hi Bubba, this is Barbara, your granddaughter from America”, I said. I had never spoken to her, had no real name for her and no relationship; to me, she was a figure in a picture .

Those were the days of no internet and cell phones. The calls were very expensive and spotty. I knew that my dad wrote long blue letters in Yiddish to her and in the few times a year that they spoke, his voice was loud.

In his mind he could only be heard if he shouted into the phone. After all, Israel is far , far away.

I was not really sure that “Bubba” knew that I was planning to visit; I soon found out from the content of her response. “Finally, did you come to see the land or did you come to see me?”

Certainly not the most welcoming of greetings.

Growing up in a survivor family, most of my friends were like me, second generation, with no grandparents who survived the war. I was lucky to have spent time with my mother’s mom “the Bubba Tzivia”; she lived not too far away from us in Brooklyn.

My dad’s mom, Rochel/Bubba, lived in Israel; this visit would turn out to be our first and only in person encounter. Our second daughter Rachel, who lives in Israel with her family, is named for her.

After almost fifty years, the question Bubba asked that day still resonates with me. With families living in Israel, many not being seen for many years, how does one divide the time spent in Israel on an always too short visit?

Do we come to see the land or to visit relatives?

When we first got to Israel on this visit, we needed to first fill our lungs with the magnificent life affirming smells, sights and sounds of Jerusalem. We savored the opportunity to slow down and take a moment or maybe even two. With a whole month in front of us, we wanted to take it slow and so we filled our time with long walks, lazy breakfasts, local tours, shiurim and getting reacquainted with our grandchildren and their parents.

The days turned into weeks and too soon we realized that we needed to make time to see “the relatives”. One might wonder that being with our kids is in fact `seeing relatives’ but for those who know, they understand the difference.

And for those who don’t, well that’s not for this reflection.

We made our calls to set up the times that would work best and made our plans.

My mother was one of 9 with 7 who survived the war; two died in infancy. The family consisted of 4 brothers and 3 sisters. The sister closest to her in age and the one who looked the most like her was Tante Raizel.

This sister was also the one who warned us to stay away and go to America.

Raizel’s family grew up and prospered in Tel Aviv as chiloni Jews; not one member of her extended family is observant; actually the opposite.

I grew up knowing her son, my cousin Natan, and his wonderful wife Penina. It was Natan who gave my son in law his first job in Israel and set the stage for their alyah(I have a lot to say about that!). This trip’s visit would include his two sisters, Bella and Tzivia(familiar names). We were very excited to finally see our cousins, his sisters, after more than 20 years.

When we got to Petach Tikvah, and walked into their penthouse apartment overlooking Tel Aviv, we were overjoyed at his apparent financial successes but shocked at both Natan’s and Penina’s aged and frail appearance. We are the same age and could not believe the change in them in the four years since we had seen them last.

When Natan’s sisters walked into the apartment a few minutes after us, we had no comparisons to make about them as we had not seen them in over 20 years. Blessedly, they look strong and well.

We spent a wonderful day together filling each other in on our families, our work and the direction of our lives. Would we be observant had we not listened and come to Israel when they did?

We laughed over shared memories of the family; our moms, aunt, and cousin who grew up as family in Poland.

I cried and cried overcome with memories of our loss.

One of Natan’s sisters, shocking to me, looks exactly like our Aunt Esther; Esther’s own children don’t like her. For me, it was like Aunt Esther stopped by to greet us all these years after her death.

Soon it was time to go back to Jerusalem; we left with pledges of keeping in touch and hugs. It was wonderful and precious. Tante Raizel, Aunt Esther, Tante Laya and cousin Toby are smiling as they sit drinking tea with a ‘kletzel tziker’ (sugar cube)in their mouths.

As I write this, tears are filling my eyes at the memory of their soft laughter and sisterly love. May their Neshomas have an aliyah.

I think about how to answer my Bubba, I find myself wanting to say, “Bubba, I don’t know the answer, perhaps to see both.”

As we approach Tisha B’av and remembering the destruction of the Beit Hamikdosh, we must make the most of every opportunity to visit Israel, fight for its existence and never take for granted the people who fought so hard to preserve its existence.

We go to Israel, to see the land and the people.

Shabbat Shalom.