The 'strange' people among us

When I saw, and unfortunately also heard, the boy talking to his mother in line at the grocery store, I was horrified. No less. And since I assume that there are those who are horrified by my horrification, I will try to explain to them the reason behind something that burned in me when I was the age of the boy who bothered his mother to the point of adding white hairs to her only after the last minute.

And this is how my late father told me: "It was when I was on my lunch break, when I used to visit my sister and mother and eat with them. I was sitting in the corner of the dining room and my mother, who was sitting next to me, put her feet on a low chair next to me, so that my path was blocked. If I wanted to get up, she would have to put her feet down. My free time for lunch was up. And I'm still sitting. Priorities. The clock knows nothing about honoring father and mother, it doesn't stop and it doesn't care that I'm stuck in the corner.

After a while, when my mother calmly put her feet down and stood up, I jumped up from my seat and rushed to work. I was late. But do you understand where I gained?" At the time, I thought it was beautiful. Honoring father and mother supremely. A mitzvah. Only much later did I understand. It was the passing on of a tradition. Fixing a genetic chain. Education. As a regular procedure, on Shabbat, when the adults retired to rest, we would enjoy our Shabbat. Playing outside. Quietly, so as not to wake anyone, God forbid.

If my learned uncle is around, we are around him. He never rests. He always preferred our company to that of his peers. He attracts us. Maybe because of his extensive knowledge. Maybe because of the interesting stories, from which there is always something to learn. He even knew jokes. And there was a lot to learn from them too. And maybe it is because of the constant, welcoming smile, which never proves anything, always brings us closer.

He never talked about his studies. But we knew he was on his way to a "doctorate." When we asked him, he replied with a searching smile, "I'm just a 'doc.'" When he saw that we didn't understand, he would say: "I'm halfway there. Half a doctorate."

Casual words – not in our school

Among other things, he filled in for us what was lacking in our knowledge of the correct and precise Hebrew language. He commented, corrected and explained. If we introduced foreign words or any slang into our speech, he would stop us, smile and convince us that "it is a shame to replace meaningful, precious and deep-rooted speech with something trivial." "And in general," he interpreted and explained, "the Hebrew language is a sacred language and its discourse is accordingly. Even everyday speech is not similar to foreign languages ​​and is far from their ways." And he would give examples:

• In the world, when you want to comfort someone who has lost a dear relative, you say: "I share in your sorrow," or "May you know no more sorrow." And does your sorrow comfort him? And how can you step into his shoes? In his personal grief? Words that have nothing in them.
• If, mercifully, we heard about someone who had passed away from this world, we would justify the judgment and say, "Blessed is the judge of truth." After all, his thoughts are not our thoughts, and what do we have to do with heavenly considerations? But we know that his seal is "truth" and there is no injustice before him.
• And if we enter to comfort the mourners, we say, "From heaven you will be comforted." For with what can we comfort? What real tools do we have? Whoever is able will comfort. Therefore, "the place will comfort them [...] and they will not add to the grief any more."
• And to differentiate. When you meet a friend after a while, you will bless him: "The Lord is with you," and he will answer you, "The Lord bless you."
• When you receive something, express gratitude by saying: "May nations serve you." And the giver will return, "May nations bow down to you."
• And if your friend sneezed, bless him with a "good life" and he will thank you - "and add years to your life."
• When you sneeze and no one is with you, you will say – "I have hoped in the Lord for your salvation."
• And when you see a good majority, you will wish "Ben Porat Yosef".
• When you say goodbye to your loved ones, after you have taken care of them for the night, you will bless them: "We hung up in good." And they will answer you - "In salvation and mercy you will rise." And there is more. Jewish speech.

Sometimes, we played on the old asphalt field and it was time for the afternoon game, or in the evening we ran in our short playing clothes and entered the house of prayer, panting, puffy-faced and dripping with sweat. We were never warned about an inappropriate performance. Close.

He doesn't smoke, Hitler does.

And so I heard: A very short time after the terrible Holocaust, when the rabbi went to synagogue with his son on Shabbat, he saw a young Jewish refugee, a shrunken, bone-crushing refugee, sitting on the corner of the street. The rabbi warmly invited him to the synagogue. The boy shrugged, "I'm not interested," he said.

The rabbi pleaded, "Come. Sit next to me, listen to beautiful melodies." The boy struggled and finally trailed off with the Rebbe. Every now and then, the rabbi glanced at the boy. He examined his reactions. After the prayer, before saying goodbye, he asked: "Well?"
"That's nice," the young man replied. The following Sabbath, the rabbi met the boy again, standing in the same place, a cigarette in his mouth. The rabbi's son pulled his father's arm. "Look, Dad, he smokes on Sabbath." The rabbi stopped. He stared at his son and said, "No, he smokes. Hitler smokes." The rabbi hugged the young man and asked, "Will you come with me?"

"I don't think so," was the answer.
"You're welcome. You'll be the cantor," said the rabbi. In the end, he relented and went with him. The next Shabbat, on the same street corner, they met again. The shriveled boy seemed to be smoking with great desire. "Come, my son," said the rabbi to the young man. "You're the cantor today too." He went with him. The son pulled his father's arm and whispered in his ear, "But father, he desecrates Shabbat in public, he smokes on Shabbat, how can he be a cantor?"

The rabbi looked at his son and said: "No, he smokes. The Gestapo smokes." After that Shabbat, the boy was no longer seen.

From those who love – bring close

Decades have passed since then, and an elderly man entered the elderly rabbi's room. He wore a large kippah on his head and his turbans were dangling from his sides.
"Peace to the esteemed rabbi. I would like to invite him to bless my grandson's wedding."
"Peace and blessings," the rabbi replied. "Who is his honor?"
"Don't you know me? I'm the skinny, bone-crunching guy you hugged and sat next to in the synagogue. Before, maybe,
"Forty years."
It took the rabbi some time to digest. "Yes, yes, of course I remember," he said. And after a few seconds he added, "I won't be able to make it."
"For the wedding, but for the seven blessings, God willing, I will make it."
When he arrived at the Seven Blessings, he was greeted with a cheerful face by the grandson of that same young man.
"I am the grandson," he said to the old rabbi. "The grandson of the grandfather you saved. But look, Your Honor, what you saved. Grandpa has nearly a hundred descendants here, all of them Jews who love people and fear God, and they are all here thanks to you, thanks to the opportunity you gave the guy who smoked on Shabbat to be a cantor in the synagogue." The rabbi bowed his head slightly, and whispered to himself, "No, he smoked." From loving - bringing closer.