Harvest-HaAsif 2008

Harvest-Ha’Asif- Temple Emanu-El-Beth Sholom’s Literary Anthology Fourth Edition 2 0 08–5 7 68

Fourth Edition

Harvest-Ha’Asif

✡ Temple Emanu-El-Beth Sholomʼs Literary Anthology

Harvest-Ha’Asif

CONTENTS4th EDITION5768--2008

A WORD FROM THE EDITORS 1

Jennifer Shugar Is This Clone Jewish? 2

Barry Merson Four Year-Old Logic 3

Wendy Reichenthal When Three's Company 4

James Sherman HU'S ON FIRST? 5

Marcia Goldberg The Pepper Shaker Poem 6

unattributed coke for breakfast 7

Vivianne m. schinasi-silver the pocketwatch 7

unattributed jewish actors 8

esther dagan the marriage proposal 9

Marc da silva photos from portugal 11

harry rajchgot marching naked towards jerusalem 12

anita bensabat india journals 13

diana mingail evolution of a jewish grandmother 14

claire lenOir lunch in heaven 16

zav levinson but he had a hat 16

marcel braitstein still hidden 17

harry rajchgot genesis 18

Harvest-Ha’Asif- Temple Emanu-El-Beth Sholom’s Literary Anthology F0urth Edition 2 0 08– 5 7 68

Harvest-Ha’Asif ✡ Temple Emanu-El-Beth Sholom’s Literary Anthology 5768- 2008

Dear Readers,

Harvest–Ha’Asif finally emerges from its overlong sleep, late, very late, but, we hope, not forgotten. But just in case, may we remind you that Harvest is an anthology of writing, by (and for) Temple members on Jewish themes, broadly defined. The anthology consists primarily of memoir, poetry and fiction and is illustrated with a mixture of photographs, cartoons and drawings. From time to time we expand our circle of writers to include submissions from Temple members on behalf of extended family or friends. Harvest is published once a year around the time of Sukkoth. That, at least, is our goal, and we hope to get back on schedule with next year’s edition. To that end submissions may be sent, at any time, online to the editors at [email protected] If you don’t have access to e-mail or a word processor, a paper copy may be left for us at the Temple office, addressed to Anita Bensabat, ℅ The Editors of Harvest–Ha’Asif

This year, as in past years, we have printed 400 copies of the anthology. These will be distributed, without charge, at various Temple functions, including The Book Lovers’ Forum,”, and, for as long as copies last, at the Oneg Shabbat following Friday night services. In addition, individuals may request

a copy at the above email address or by leaving a message with Anita Bensabat, Temple’s Program Director. A copy will be left for you at the Temple office. It is also our practice to leave a number of copies at the Jewish Public library, for general distribution, and two copies in their archive.

As an instrument of Temple life the Harvest–Ha’Asif Anthology can serve to enrich our Temple and Jewish experience. Synagogues are communities of study. By exposing hitherto unseen dimensions of ourselves to one another we open new doors of insight and conversation with each other. For some, Harvest–Ha’Asif Anthology may provide a channel of self-expression not previously exercised. This new step can be quite daunting but also, potentially, we hope, very rewarding. Elie Wiesel reminds us that as witnesses to history as it unfolds around us, each with our own personal point of view, it is our duty to remember and to retell it. To transmit truth, in its broadest sense, is the essence of writing and story-telling, and to bring these to a wider audience is the duty of publishing. We hope Harvest–Ha’Asif, in some small way, meets these challenges.

In this year’s edition of the anthology you will find humour added to the mix of memoir, poetry and fiction that has previously filled our pages. We hope this new concoction will please and entertain you, and, if some readers are inspired to join the

discussion in future editions, Harvest–Ha‘Asif will have truly fulfilled its mission.

Zav Levinson and Dr. Harry Rajchgot,Co-editors of Harvest-Ha’Asif

mailto:[email protected]



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Is This Clone Jewish?Jennifer Shugar

A clone whose blood is quite bluishA phenomenon wealthy and newish,With no mother cell,How can anyone tell,If, indeed, he really is Jewish?

Is it responsa's dominionTo deliver a kosher opinionAs to whether a clone Has a soul all its ownOr can even be counted for minyan?

Lastly, but surely not leastly,If this child's father is priestly,and the clone is a KohenSo very well known,Our dilemma becomes rather beastly.

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Four Year-Old Logic By Barry Merson

When I was four years old I had my own understanding of the world. I found it incomprehensible that not everyone was able to understand things the same way. After all, I was being logical.

Whenever there was a fog I looked out the window into the street. I was looking for the frog that was in the fog. Nobody told me that there was a frog in every fog, but I just arrived at that conclusion myself. After all, it was perfectly logical for similar sounding words to have some connection. In every fog there was a frog. Perfect four year-old logic. When the fog lifted the frog went with it. I never saw the frog in the fog but I accepted it as a fact that it had to have been there. I just never saw the frog because of the fog. One day a woman in the neighborhood asked me "Little boy, do you have good habits or bad habits?" What a ridiculous question. I answered "I don't have any rabbits." She looked at me in a very strange way. I thought that she must be weird. Not only did she ask me if I had any rabbits, but she called them habits. Not only that, but she appeared to be surprised that I didn't have any. Did she think that children in the city should be expected to have rabbits?

Children in front of St. John, NB harbour 1949. From photo archives of Sam Perl, Montreal 20th Century photographer.

Next door to my father's store was a laundry outlet. This was one of many storefronts where Paul's laundry would receive and return the clothes of their customers. As my mother looked on, the woman running the place showed me around. I noticed that there were no washing machines and I asked where they were. I was told that they were not there but somewhere else and that every day the man with the truck would pick up the clothes and return them. I understood. I also immediately figured out where the washing machines were. In Washington, of course. One day we had some visitors at our house. When the doorbell rang I went to see who was there. It was Bess and Leo, a couple who were friends of the family. Since Leo was noticeably older than Bess I arrived at my own conclusions. I announced to my parents "It's Bess and her daddy Leo." Bess thought that was quite funny. Leo was not amused. From then on he didn't like me. I couldn't imagine why.

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photo courtesy of Wendy Reichenthal

When Three's CompanyWendy Reichenthal

I once read that more than half of China's elderly people would rather live alone than with their children. According to this report, the traditional ideal of family life in China - with up to four generations living under one roof appears to be disintegrating. In North America, the statistics reflect a similar trend. I could not find any accurate statistics on the number of grown children taking their elderly parents into their homes. Could it be that these exceptional adult children who are willing to take in parents and offer them an alternative to a senior residence are keeping quiet out of fear? After all, we remember poor, misunderstood Norman Bates in Psycho and what became of his efforts to harbour a parent.

No wonder this group isn't speaking out. Until now .... Why don't we see more elderly parents living with their adult children? I mean of course if they would like to and the conditions are convenient for everyone involved? Those of us over 40 belong to a generation of caregivers sometimes referred to as the Sandwich Generation (or if you're Jewish like me, the "Let-me-make-you-a-sandwich" generation). Either way, it represents adult children squeezed between the needs of an aging parent and their own needs. I am such a "sandwich," filled with guilt and peppered with conflicting loyalties. I find myself in the precarious position of wanting simultaneously to please both my husband, best described as Darren on Bewitched, and my mother, a hybrid of a sweet Mr. Magoo and the fiery-tongued Sophia character from The Golden Girls. At times I find both relationships quite challenging. Who comes first: the husband, whom you vowed to honor and obey (well, okay, that one is a bit of a stretch, more like "listen to" occasionally) or the parent who gave you life? After my father's death, I developed an overprotective relationship with my mother. I find myself wishing we could all just live like the TV Waltons, our home nestled in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains (most probably so no one could hear the kvetching), a collection of grandparents, parents, and children, living under one roof and eating dinners around a long wooden table, serving up heaping portions of mashed potatoes, love, and wisdom. To create my own version of such multi-generational household harmony, rather than

have my mother move in full-time (which she really does not want to do), I have come up with a compromise: I invite her for sleep overs on weekends, holidays, and whenever I can swing days off from work. What was once called the guest room I now secretly have termed "my mom's room." It's definitely an adjustment when she's here. Whether it's adjusting the TV to a volume that she–and the neighbors several houses away–can hear or adjusting the thermostat to warmer in the winter and still warmer in the summer (because she does not like air-conditioning), adjusting our lives when she is here is what we do. I would not have it any other way. I welcome mom's company and cherish this time we spend together. She, my husband, and I form a familiar threesome at local movies, malls, restaurants, and even resorts. This situation may be far from ideal; we do, after all, occasionally get on each other's nerves. But the bottom line is that we can offer my mother a welcome change in scenery and routine and our companionship. And if this means making some changes on our part, so be it. To borrow a title from my mother's favourite funny movie, you won't see me "throw mama from the train" any time soon.

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This article originally appeared in the September-October 2007 Editions of The Jewish Magazine (www.jewishmag.com) and Surewoman (www.surewoman.com)

http://www.jewishmag.com

http://www.jewishmag.com

http://www.surewoman.com

http://www.surewoman.com


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photo courtesy Cheryl Everett-Rajchgot

For those who saw Rabbi Leigh "Blues Brother" Lerner doing this skit with a Hebrew twist in the last 2 Purimspiels at Temple, here is an international version, taking a poke at everyone else.

HU'S ON FIRSTJames Sherman*

(We take you now to the Oval Office.)George: Condi! Nice to see you. What's happening?Condi: Sir, I have the report here about the new leader of China.George: Great. Lay it on me.Condi: Hu is the new leader of China.

George: That's what I want to know.Condi: That's what I'm telling you.George: That's what I'm asking you. Who is the new leader of China?Condi: Yes.George: I mean the fellow's name.Condi: Hu.George: The guy in China.Condi: Hu.George: The new leader of China. Condi: Hu.George: The Chinaman!Condi: Hu is leading China.George: Now whaddya' asking me for?Condi: I'm telling you Hu is leading China.George: Well, I'm asking you. Who is leading China?Condi: That's the man's name.George: That's who's name?Condi: Yes.George: Will you or will you not tell me the name of the new leader of China?Condi: Yes, sir.George: Yassir? Yassir Arafat is in China? I thought he was in the Middle East.Condi: That's correct.George: Then who is in China?Condi: Yes, sir.George: Yassir is in China?Condi: No, sir.George: Then who is?

Condi: Yes, sir.George: Yassir?Condi: No, sir.George: Look, Condi. I need to know the name of the new leader of China.Get me the Secretary General of the U.N. on the phone.Condi: Kofi?George: No, thanks.

Condi: You want Kofi?George: No.Condi: You don't want Kofi.George: No. But now that you mention it, I could use a glass of milk. And then get me the U.N.Condi: Yes, sir.George: Not Yassir! The guy at the U.N.Condi: Kofi?George: Milk! Will you please make the call?Condi: And call who?George: Who is the guy at the U.N?Condi: Hu is the guy in China.George: Will you stay out of China?!Condi: Yes, sir. George: And stay out of the Middle East! Just get me the guy at the U.N.Condi: Kofi.George: All right! With cream and two sugars. Now get on the phone.(Condi picks up the phone.)Condi: Rice, here.George: Rice? Good idea. And a couple of egg rolls, too. Maybe we should send some to the guy in China. And the Middle East. Can you get Chinese food in the Middle East?

*Chicago playwright James Sherman wrote this in 2002 after Hu Jintao was named chief of the Communist Party in China. It is based on the famous comedy skit Who's on First by Abbott and Costello.


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The Pepper Shaker PoemMarcia Goldberg

At this small, distinguished gathering, I'm askingwhile the central suspect, sometimes muse can hearand since my search behind the stove as soon as the menorahhad been set in place to wait another year: who tookthe pepper shaker from my kitchen that complements the salt?

I've swept and searched for it all week, tried to keep some order in the mess, but now I've met the mystic who compares the yods in Hebrew letters with the sperm of G-d and said we have to see themas the scattered sparks of all creation, so I'm asking youto bring it back. It's your kind of tact, this taking of a little thingthat holds degrees of order and to move it, destabilizingmy whole universe with a Missing pepper shaker, the pairfrom Pfaltzgraff, made in Mexico, meant to serve at dinner,bring the pepper with the salt like an answer Wittgenstein would get-pepper the egg; salt it next: voila

Birth And the idea of abstractioninspired by Kurt Godel coupled with Alan Turing's basic communication notionsabout story telling, imagining a machine that can think, sogive it back, Burt. Did you take the pepper shaker and when?Is it hid like a Purloined Letter in my cupboard? Stashed in the wheeledbutcher block cart? How unlike you to throw it away; thenthere would be no play, no philosophy, no gathering of the sparks.Or else. There could be sequelae, you know, even another poem

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7

Coke™? for Breakfast-unattributed-

"I had the strangest dream last night," a young Jewish man was telling his Jewish psychiatrist. "I saw my mother but, when she turned around to look at me, I noticed that she had your face. And you can imagine, I found this very disturbing. In fact, I woke up immediately and couldn't get back to sleep. I just lay there in bed waiting for morning to come. Then I got up, drank a Coke™, and came right over here for my appointment. I thought you could help me explain the meaning of this strange, unusual and inexplicable dream." The psychiatrist was silent for a full minute before responding: "A Coke™? ! You call that a breakfast?"

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THE POCKETWATCHVivianne M. Schinasi-Silver

My father was in a hurry that day. As always, adjusting to a new country, new people, new customs, presented its daily challenges. He was also feeling a deep sense of sadness; his father had passed away, back home in Egypt. My father's dream of sponsoring his own father to come to Canada had vanished. He now knew that he would never again see the man he loved so much.. In the taxi which his employer, Mr. Hyman Pascal had provided to go see clients, he sat back and reflected for just a little while. Caught up in all his thoughts and preoccupations, he had automatically caressed his late father's pocket watch that was his last physical connection to him. It had become his talisman, a link to his father's spirit, strength, to his own roots. The watch had given him some comfort and courage. Moments before our ship was to depart from the port of Alexandria, my grandfather had insisted he take it with him. My father, always hopeful and optimistic had responded that he would accept it when he joined us in Canada. That dream was not to be realized. My grandfather, Albert Sr., died a few months before his own scheduled departure for Montreal. It was my aunt Solange, seeing to her father's last wishes that brought the treasure for my father. My Dad was an extremely hard worker, ambitious, anxious to please his new employer and keep up his reputation of being an excellent right-hand man. Throughout his long, demanding day, he would pause to touch his good luck charm; it gave him strength and inspiration.

It was only late at night, weary, as he undressed in the quiet of his bedroom, ready to place the pocket watch in its place of honour that he noticed that it was missing. Panic-stricken, he dressed quickly again and tried to retrace all of his last steps. The watch was nowhere to be found. He called the taxi company, nothing had been reported. The next day he went back to each of the clients he had seen. There may have been at least a dozen. To no avail. His precious memento was lost, never to be found again. That night, sitting at the kitchen table of our small apartment on Dupuis Ave. (what was then referred to as "immigrant's row.") I heard my father sobbing uncontrollably. I had seen him cry before, but never so poignantly. It's as though he was reliving saying goodbye to his father all over again. As always, time can indeed be a healer. My father continued to rebuild his life to the best of his ability once again, always a model of hard work, ambition, and courage. Years later, I married, had three beautiful sons, and on my father's 65th birthday, along with everyone's complicity, we gave him a beautiful pocket watch which bore the inscription: "To Grandpa, with love, June 1982." A token of our admiration for him, a tribute to the new life he had so courageously rebuilt.

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Jewish Actors-unattributed-

Dov is a Jewish actor, so down and out he's ready to settle for any acting gig that he can find. Finally he gets a lead, a classified ad that says: "Actor needed to play ape." "I could do that, " says Dov. To his surprise, the employer turns out to be the local zoo. Owing to mismanagement, the zoo has spent so much money renovating the grounds and improving the habitat, that they can no longer afford to import the ape they needed to replace their recently deceased one. So until they can, they'll put an actor in an ape suit. Out of desperation, Dov accepts the offer. At first, his conscience keeps nagging him, that he is being dishonest by fooling the zoo-goers. And Dov feels undignified in the ape-suit, stared at by crowds who watch his every move. But after a

few days on the job, he begins to be amused by all the attention, and starts to put on a show for the zoo-goers: hanging upside-down from the branches by his legs, swinging about on the vines, climbing up the cage walls, and roaring with all his might whilst beating his chest. Soon, he's drawing a sizable crowd. One day, when Dov is swinging on the vines to show off to a group of school kids, his hand slips, and he goes flying over the fence into the neighboring cage, the lion's den. Terrified, Dov backs up as far from the approaching lion as he can, covers his eyes with his paws, and prays at the top of his lungs, "Sh’ma Yisrael Ado-nai Elokeinu Ado-nai Echad!" (Hear O Israel, the Lord is our G-d, the Lord is one!) The lion opens its powerful jaws and roars, "Baruch shem k'vod malchuto l'olam va'ed!" (Blessed is the name of His glorious kingship forever and ever! "Shut up, you schmucks," a panda bear mutters from a third cage. "You'll get us all fired!"

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Harvest-Ha’Asif- Temple Emanu-El-Beth Sholom’s Literary Anthology Fourth Edition 2 0 08–5768

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A Marriage Proposal100 Head of Cow for Dowry

Esther Dagan

In the last Temple Emmanuel newsletter, the inspiring word Ha'asif, "harvest," captured my attention. Harvesting funny stories with a Jewish twist is a brilliant idea. I have plenty-especially about marriage proposals in Africa. I received one in 1961, when I was already happily married. I visited many African countries during the 60s and 70s, including Côte d'Ivoire. In Korhogo, the northern commercial and spiritual centre for the Senufo people, a tall, handsome man in his 40s welcomed me. "Madame! I am Bamara Kulibaly, secretary of our governor. He is waiting." While driving, he told me that after meeting our host, we would visit the Djigodugou village chief Terrega Kulibaly, who had promised to gather all the village diviners for me.Terrega was tall and slim, wrapped in a large, brown gown. He had a wrinkled face, and a short, greying beard and hair. Highly respected, fluent not only in French but also in six local languages, he welcomed us excitedly. "On the radio they announced your arrival as a guest of president Houphouet Boigny's–to see dances?""Yes."Bamara immediately asked, "Where are the diviners you promised?" "I did not invite them," Terrega said without explanation. Apparently, he had his own agenda. He began to show us around, and and I saw something unexpected. I counted eleven huts in Terrega's compound. "Unusual," I said.

"What do you mean?" "The number of huts indicates how many wives you have. Don't you have ten?" "Yes," he said. "I have nine wives, each in a hut with her children. The large hut is mine, and this locked one is for my soon-to-be tenth wife."Children followed Terrega everywhere. Apparently, he wanted to make sure that they would not follow us. He pulled kola nuts from his bulging pocket, giving one to each child."Go home," he told them. "Chew this and clean your teeth properly. When they are milk white, come back to show me."They took the nuts and scattered."Aren't they beautiful? They are all mine.""Do you remember their names?""Oh, yes! Their mothers make sure I do!"He unlocked the door of his tenth wife's hut with a large, heavy key."Come in," he said, leaving Bamara outside. Suspiciously, he locked the door from the inside. "How is it to have nine wives?" "Ha! This is a white people's question. It is heaven. Each wife provides something special. I am the best-treated husband in the world.""I wonder if the only reason men have many wives is to satisfy their own needs?""Not at all. Extended families serve many purposes.""Like what?""First, they show wealth. The more wives a man can afford, the richer he is. Men anywhere would envy me. Also, it is not natural for a man to have only one wife. That's why the divorce rate in the West is so high. And one woman can bear only one child per year, right? I can have nine children every year." "How many do you have in total?"


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"Honestly, I am not sure. But last year, my 60th was born. By now I probably have close to 70." Like a victorious warrior he declared, "Three of my wives are pregnant. Look, large families like mine are also more secure and protected.""Secure?""Of course. A child with nine mothers is better protected than a child with a single mother working all day. Each wife takes care of all my children. If one is sick, she gets all the support she needs from the others. It is unwritten law." Terrega reminded me of Ben-Gurion, who in the mid-50s offered awards to Israeli families with many children–Ben-Gurion believed that to secure people and land, we needed a large, strong army. He would probably have envied Terrega. While showing me the furniture that his tenth wife had chosen, Terrega said softly, "You know, you could stay here as long as you want." "Thank you," I said. "But I have a room in the governor's house." He came closer, whispering, "I will come to visit you at night." I backed up."What?" "Make love to you. Here. Hee! Hee! Hee!" "Terrega? To me, this means cheating, not only on one, but on all ten of your wives."His face stiffened. "You are right," he said. "But remember, I am from the best Senufo stock." "What?""I am a descendant of the Kulibaly royal family."

Back outside, Bamara warded off flies with his chasse-mouche. Terrega rushed toward him."Bamara! Bamara! You are my witness!" Terrega seized Bamara's shoulders."Witness?"Terrega grew serious. He raised his hand as if summoning a witness from Beyond. "I am ready to pay your father 100 heads of cows."Baffled, I stood silent. Terrega turned to Bamara, who turned to me."Listen," he said. "In our tradition, the maximum price for a young wife is 10 cows. He is offering you 100. Extraordinary!""What?" "This is our traditional marriage proposal. As your father is not here, he is offering the dowry to you." "C'est une blague?!""Pas du tout. Je suis très sérieux," "Let me tell you." I began.Terrega interrupted, "I will build a special, modern house for you.""Let me."He showed no sign of listening."Your home will be in this compound or wherever you choose.""Please let." "I could give you a plot of land to cultivate like all my wives, but. I have a better plan for you.""Plan?""Yes! Yes! You could teach all my children, advise my wives, and become my counsellor. I need one." His sincere excitement flattered me, and for a moment I was tempted to accept. "Terrega! Listen. My father lives in Jerusalem."

"So what?" he answered. "Jerusalem is a holy city, I always dreamt of visiting it. I'll travel wherever you say.""How will you deliver 100 cows to Israel?""Pas de problème," he said. "Put them on a boat directly to Haifa.""You know Haifa?""Yes. I am fascinated by your young country. One of my sons, studying in Paris, sends me books about Israel." My imagination went wild, totally out of control. A dream: Terrega knocking on my father's door in Jerusalem followed by 100 cows, spilling over the narrow alleys of Nahalat Zion. My father opens the door, stunned. "Who are you?""I am Terrega, the chief from Northern Côte d'Ivoire, descendant of the Kulibaly Royal Family.""What do you want?""To ask for your daughter's hand.""Those cows are yours?""Yes. One hundred of them. Dowry for your daughter.""I have never been a cow trader. You mistake me for someone else." He slams the door.Terrega angrily strikes the door with the bronze knocker. My father opens it."I am serious," snaps Terrega."Mister! I am only a synagogue Gabay. You cannot marry my daughter.""Why not?""Are you circumcised like us?" He slams the door again. Terrega knocks once more. My father opens it, fuming."Please leave me alone." The door slams again.


11

My dream ended. I found myself laughing. "Your laughter means that you accept my proposal?" Terrega asked happily."No. I was thinking about my father, who would not know what to do with 100 cows.""Pas de problème! I can send him a cheque." He turned to Bamara. "How much is a healthy cow?""About ten dollars," Bamara answered."Multiply by one hundred, you get a thousand?""Yes," said Bamara."Tomorrow, I will hand you one thousand dollars in cash for your father in Israel, but you have to promise to return.""Wait! Wait, Terrega!" I said. "No matter what my father says, I myself have not yet agreed to marry you.""Why not?""I am married.""Married? You never told me!""You never asked.""I don't see the problem. Just divorce.""I don't want to. I love him.""Love him?! What husband lets his only wife travel to Africa alone? In any case, before returning, get your divorce.""Terrega," I said softly. "I am ready to marry you, but I have my own condition.""Women cannot make conditions. We pay and they become our property.""I know, but if you accept, the deal is done.""I can handle anything. What do you want?" "Well, if you will be my second husband, and allow the other to join me."Puzzled, hysterical, Terraga turned to Bamara. "Did you hear what she said? Translate it!""Her condition is that you be her second husband, and let her bring her first husband along."

"No woman in the world would dare to ask that! I have never heard such a condition! Tell her-unacceptable!" From that moment, Terrega completely ignored me. "Why not accept?" Bamara asked, smiling.Terrega angrily explained. "Imagine what our people would think if my eleventh wife brought her first husband to my compound!" He looked around, examined his giggling wives, who were anxious to hear what would happen. "They would revolt! If one wife has two husbands, the rest will want the same. My paradise will turn to hell!"Sadly, my attempt to single-handedly create a unique family structure was doomed and I returned to Israel a woman married to just one man.

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Photos by Marc Da Silva

Sinagoga Beth Eliahu in Castelo de Vide, Alejantro, Portugal

Synagogue Ponta Delgada in Belmonte, in Alentejo, in the south of Portugal

Jewish Museum in Belmonte, in Alentejo, in the south of Portugal


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Marching Naked Towards Jerusalem Harry Rajchgot

I walk the silken road of joyNaked and radiant with delightTowards the loins of my patient lover

Towards the city Jerusalem The sacred city is a womanShe longs for me to enter her Her stone-ranged keep, her golden gateShudders with her wet desire

Submerged in the sweet spring of ShiloahBy the water tunnel hewn from Gihon's sourceI enter the citadel through her secret grottoAnointed before her with fragrant oils

I stand below you wanton and shameless Mother Eve before eating the fruit of knowledgeBeguiled by the promise of the tree of lifeTransformed by the touch of the hand of God

From Ur towards Zion I sang Your nameWas transformed by the vigour of Your wordsFrom Sinai's smoke, the great mountain trembling

My loins thrust outwards that fateful day My breast is dripping the milk of passionFeeding your thirst O my JerusalemSpeaking the poetry of your songSinging the music in your embrace

When Abram marched to God's great mandateTowards where Isaac would lie upon the rockAmazed by the splendour of his one son's submissionAbram held his breath and dreamt of hope

Walking the sweet path towards the stone of sacrificeI expose my soul to your desireI give myself to the grace that guides youI march naked towards Jerusalem

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13An excerpt of a journal kept by Anita Bensabat, Temple's Social Director, during her journey through India in 2005-6.

INDIA JOURNALS-THREE- PART ONE ANITA BENSABAT

From SHANTYTOWN to SHANTI-TOWN Shantytown - English term for slum Shanti - Hindu word for peace December 3, 2005 Early in the week Sue arrives to join Shubha and me, coming in very late via Atlanta and Milan, and going through the usual routine at the airport. We hire a car and driver to pick her up, than make our sleepy way back through hordes of trucks and cars to the guest house. Shubha bids us goodnight, and Sue and I repair to the small room we will share for the few days left in Delhi. We are both too wired to sleep and the usual night noises insist that we stay up and talk, so we share stories and marvel anew at our having made it to Mother India. After she has settled in, we hire a car and driver for a day of sightseeing around New and Old Delhi, which costs us around $12.00 each. We drive through several different neighbourhoods and briefly visit the historic Red Fort, which, as it happens, is closed to visitors on this day. We photograph each other in front of the huge structure. The Old Parliament Buildings, constructed during the British Empire, are huge and impressive, flanked on both sides by wide green parks the entire length of the very long main boulevard which leads to India Gate, a sort of terra cotta Arche de Triomphe. Every year on January 26th, the grounds fill with masses of people to celebrate India's Independence Day.

Of the structures we visit, the two standouts for me are the modern Bahai Temple and the very old Humayan's Tomb. The Bahai Temple is a marvel of engineering; the exterior shell comprised of giant polished marble lotus leaves, soaring majestically to a height of at least sixty feet. The temple is surrounded by turquoise reflecting pools, acres of tranquil gardens, and a long terra-cotta walkway, leading to the main stairway, front glass doors and wraparound windows. We remove our sandals and pad barefoot into the temple with hundreds of other visitors. The walls soar dome-like above our heads, to where a pure gold sacred star radiates and gleams in the center of the ceiling. The interior is entirely made of white marble, including the many cold benches, elegantly arranged in semi-circular rows, and framed in polished hand-carved wood. We sit with the other visitors, including many Indians of the Bahai faith, and listen raptly to four prayers given by men and women. One particular song reaches deep into my heart and sends me into a swoon, my eyes prickling hotly with sudden tears. I marvel for the trillionth time at the similarities between Indian culture and my own Sephardic heritage, our shared Asian and African past of salt, spice and silk caravans. Our very different houses of worship are filled with similar sounding verbal utterances, keening voices and ululations, swaying bodies and covered heads during prayer. While we listen to the prayers, I recall my father's strong and passionate voice, singing the traditional Judaic liturgy, remember how I am deeply moved by it, even though the text remains a mystery.


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We all file silently out through the glass doors at the end of the ceremony, collect our sandals from the below ground locker, and talk briefly to a young and pretty American, who explains in a Valley Girl voice, that she is fulfilling her duty to the Bahai faith by volunteering for a few weeks at the temple. She is not sure where Montreal is located, though, when we tell her where we live. The Persian Humayan was responsible for bringing Islam to India in the 15th Century, and his remains now lie buried in a grand Moorish Mausoleum, surrounded by a large dry and dusty park. A series of stone canals sprout from a central fountain at the foot of the immense sandstone and marble building, which is decorated with classic trellis and filigree, columns and minarets. The clay red earth lies exposed in patches here and there, and high above, jewelled parrots flit, screech and grip their talons to cling on the very surface of the facade. No costs were spared by his grieving wife, who is entombed in a separate section with their children. I count several Stars of David inlaid high above the arching doorways, through which one can view the marble tombs, and wonder at the irony of it all. An old ground's keeper, holding a rustic straw rake, takes pains to explain the sacred reasons behind the size and placement of the tombs, and why certain paint colors had been originally applied. He uses a stick to draw lines and circles in the earth for emphasis. We head back to New Delhi to visit a couple of outdoor markets, where we ogle magnificent textiles, sequined skirts, patina scarves, woolen shawls, hand blocked fabrics, troves of gemstones and jewellery, folkloric handicraft, carved furniture, and brass statues.

My favourite pieces, though, are the heavy ornate tribal style jewellery made from white metal sometimes mixed with silver; the thick wide wrist cuffs, long, jingly necklaces, and impossible to wear earrings and nose clips. I call it "Tribal Bling.”

EVOLUTION OF A JEWISH GRANDMOTHER A MEMOIR

Diana Mingail*

I came to Canada in the spring of 1954 with my husband and two young children – Harry and Rachelle.

With blind faith and the optimism of youth, I faced each new Canadian day. If I could be said to be adapting to all the changes, I was doing so without a conscious strategy, working my way through homesickness, a suddenly limited budget, climate shock, and culture shock and trying to get through

the days without my trusty ayah, my cook, my sweeper and my dhobi.

Back in my Calcutta home the ayah used to come to us at six-thirty each morning. She'd get the kids out of bed, wash, feed, dress and amuse them until she put them down for their afternoon naps, when she would go home for a couple of hours. When she returned, this loving, childless woman looked after my children until she bedded them down for the night. All I had to do was sing with them, play with them, and read to them.

Our cook, the borchi, was indispensable. He'd do the marketing early in the morning, and then report for duty. He prepared and served porridge and eggs, soups, roasts, curries and Iraqi-style pillaus and koobas, and he washed the dishes.

The dhobi came once a week to take away our accumulation of soiled clothing and household linen. Exactly a week later he brought it all back, clean, starched and pressed. The sweeper came twice a day to chase the dust off the floors with a soft broom called a jharoo. Then he washed the floors, cleaned the bathroom, polished our shoes, and salaamed (saluted) as he departed.

But in Canada I had no servants to depend upon. Suddenly I had to take charge - to bathe, clothe, feed, amuse and watch over my two youngsters, shop and cook (and thereby hangs a tale), clean our basement apartment, and do our laundry. But I didn't know how to do any of that stuff!Willy nilly, I learned, but it was a slow and painful process. My kindly Jewish landlady came down to our basement apartment in her suburban bungalow to show me how to dust-mop the floor. I took my first trip to the supermarket with her.


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Talk about culture shock! Where were the squatting Indian vendors with their live chickens, which the shochet would efficiently dispatch? Where were the colourful heaps of exotic fruits and vegetables, the odorous fish market, the Moslem butchers presiding over joints of beef and mutton? Strolling the Toronto supermarket aisles, making choices from the bewildering array on display, I was thankful for the store,s fixed price-tags. I had hated the custom of bargaining over each purchase in India. Now I was relieved to be free of that time-consuming haggling.

My wonderfully kind landlady showed me how to cook hamburgers and scrambled eggs. At breakfast time, repeating each step she had taught me, I broke an egg into a bowl, whipped it with a fork, stirred it in the frying pan and dished it up. It took a long time to cook enough eggs for every member of the family!

Months later, I was complaining to an office colleague about the amount of time it took to cook enough eggs for my family. I told her that by the time I had cooked scrambled eggs for my husband, then my son and then my daughter, I was in a hurry to get ready for work and did not have time to cook scrambled eggs for myself.

My colleague was amazed. Didn’t I know, she asked that I could whisk all the eggs at one time and cook them all in the fry pan together? I was deeply grateful for that wonderful cooking tip. In the meantime, we ate scrambled eggs and hamburgers every day, until on Friday my landlady taught me how to cook a chicken. She came to my rescue in other ways as well. We had a shower stall but no bathtub, and it was this wonder-woman who

lived upstairs who showed me how to bathe the children in the kitchen sink.

Now that the accommodation question was settled, my husband, an engineer, went job-hunting. We were in difficult financial circumstances because the Reserve Bank of India had frozen our savings, permitting us to bring to Canada a little over two thousand dollars. They had promised that they would send us the same allowance once a year until the funds were exhausted. Meanwhile, we had to stretch that first installment from our own savings until the next one arrived in a year! It took a few years for us to get all our money from India. I adapted by learning to scrimp and save, questioning every purchase, buying secondhand beds, kitchen table, and icebox, (yes, an icebox, not a refrigerator) and storing our clothes in orange crates, which I prettied up with colourful plastic covers. After a desperate search for employment, in which his Jewish faith and the fact that he was from India were held against him, my engineer husband was relieved to get his first job, even though it was only as a draftsman. He went off to Brantford to become one of several temporary employees, keeping expenses down by sharing a YMCA room with a night-shift worker whose favourite literature was comic books.

To save money, my husband lived on bread and ketchup, and looked forward to weekends with us. Due to my inexperience with cooking, he fared only slightly better when he got home. It was a triumph when I learned to broil chicken livers, heat tinned soup, whip up instant pudding, make a good cup of tea, and boil an egg. You see, I thought that if I placed an egg in a cup, poured boiling water over it, covered the cup and left it for 20 minutes - I'd

produce a hardboiled egg. Surprise, surprise, that was not so. And as for tea - when the first wisp of steam escaped from the kettle's spout, I thought the water had boiled - and was very disappointed when the tea left a lot to be desired.

Yes, ultimately I did adapt, but along the way I made the sort of mistakes that the popular comedian, Lucille Ball, was paid big bucks to perpetrate on television. Only I wasn't laughing. Quite often I cried into my pillow at night.

It was not only on the domestic front that my learning experiences went forward. In time I added my own earnings to the family's budget, saw my husband's job opportunities improve, made new friends, brought another baby into the world, and kept everyone in my family reasonably healthy and well-fed, with only an occasional wistful memory of those long-ago days when I had an ayah, a cook, a sweeper and a dhobi.

First Harry, then Rachelle and Lillian fell in love and made kiddushin. My husband and I gained a daughter-in-law and two sons-in law, whom we love dearly. We have been hands-on grandparents their six offspring– two girls and four boys. We felt we were truly blessed.

I am busy and fulfilled, but once in a while Aaron and I wish we still had an ayah, a borchi, and a dhobi. However, if I could once again have their priceless help, would I be able in all sincerity to join my husband in singing Eshet Chayil on Friday night? Would my price be "far above rubies"?

✡*Diana Mingail is the mother of Temple’s music director, Rochelle Shubert


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Lunch in Heaven

as recounted by Claire Lenoir

(and embellished)

Morris dies and finds himself in heaven, but he's a long way from the main gate on a winding path. Seeing the gates in the distance, he sighs and starts walking. After a while, not being very strong anymore as he's dead, he finds a bench along the path paced exactly where he finds himself without any more strength. As he sits and then looks around him, he sees there's a gap in the clouds below him and sees he can see right into hell. He's surprised to see that there is a large crowd down there, milling around a barbecue, where he sees steaks sizzling and corn roasting. It all looks very inviting and he starts to be hungry. When he thinks that he can't bear the enticing smells any more, just then an angel

appears before him, wings and all, bearing a tray of food. "Finally," thinks Morris, "food." "Would you like something to eat?" asks the angel. "Yes, I sure would. What've you got?" "Cheese or tunafish sandwiches," the angel responded, and tea." The answer was clearly a big disappointment for Morris. "Cheese or tunafish sandwiches! Tea? How come? This is heaven, isn't it? Why, down there in hell, they're eating steak and roasted corn. They're drinking beer. Imported, yet! What gives?" "I'm sorry, Morris," answers the angel, her eyes fluttering upwards as if passing the buck to You-know-who up there somewhere, "it's just not worth it cooking for one."

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But He Had A Hat! as recounted (more or less) by Zav Levinson

A woman and her young son are in Florida for vacation. They are walking along the beach when suddenly a huge wave crashes down on them and carries away the boy. The woman begins to wail. "God", she says, "this is my only son. His grandmother, who always serves kosher in her home, when she hears that he's gone, she'll die of a heart attack. Oy vey!" The sea remains as it is, and the woman starts to cry. "God, his grandfather, who as you know prays to you every day, when he hears about this, he'll also die. Please bring my son back." Still nothing. "And my ex-husband, that swine, when he hears, he will stop paying me child support." No change. "And my lawyer, who always makes a big donation to the synagogue, when he hears, he'll stop giving so generously." Finally, God relents. With the next wave, the boy lands on the beach at the woman's feet, wet but none the worse for wear. The inspects her son, making sure that there are no broken bones or visible scars, and that all his teeth are still where the orthodontist put them. She turns her head to the sky and says: "Thank you, God. But one thing: he had a hat!"

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photo by Antonin KratochvilSTILL HIDDENMarcel Braitstein

Her name was Arlette. She was well known around our town as "that mysterious Parisian lady who always hid behind large dark sunglasses". Only two people knew she was Jewish, and she liked it that way. I was one of the two people and her naturopath-care giver-close friend was the other. I did not know the details of her desire to remain anonymous or the full reasons for her fear of exposure.She died last year at home. Her friend who was also her executor brought me a box full of papers, asking me if I would have a look at them since they were written in French and she did not speak French. "If it is anything of importance" she said "please let me know, if not you can dispose of them as you wish."As I started going through these papers (some were typed, others hand written, with no page numbers which made the understanding of them rather difficult) I realized that this was the relating of her experiences when she was a teenager during the war. The story was told and retold, over and over, but in different words. She just could not put it out of her mind. She was born in France. She loved French culture and she was very proud to be French, "to live in a country that gave birth to the concept of human rights". It

was a shock for her to find that she had become overnight a "persona non grata". That was on a fine day in 1942. But worse was still to come. The French police came knocking at the door one night and her parents were told to pack a small suitcase because they were going to be resettled in some unknown location. As they were led to a waiting bus her mother gave her a push and told her to start running. One of the policemen shot at her and although she was wounded, she managed to escape by hiding amongst garbage pails in an obscure alley from which, a few hours later, she hobbled away and managed to go to her grandfather's apartment.She never saw her parents again. They were taken to the infamous camp of Drancy, and thence to Aushwitz where they disappeared like millions of others.Her grandfather was a Spanish national and thus was allowed to leave for Spain, but instead of doing so he went to see the Spanish consulate and, basing himself on an obscure law passed by the Spanish king in 1924, he demanded that his granddaughter be allowed to join him. It seems that the said law indicated that descendants of Spanish Jews who had been expelled in1492 were to be allowed, if they so wished, to be readmitted to Spain. Franco, the Spanish dictator, although allied with the Nazi Germany, claimed that he would respect the laws passed by the former late king.It took months and many visits to the consulate before he finally obtained the precious papers.In the meantime Arlette hid from one place to the other, worked as a maid in an Inn, as a cleaning girl in a butcher shop, went through a set-up conversion to Catholicism with a false baptismal certificate, all the time fearing the knock at the door in the middle of the night.Her grandfather went to get her at that butcher shop and to her great joy informed her that he had the required documents that would allow them to leave France. It still took many weeks before a train for Spain, carrying a number of other New Spanish immigrants, was allowed to leave. Arlette always felt very strongly, almost superstitiously, that three fateful dates, with the same numbers but in different order, had a role in her life: 1492, 1924, and 1942.Once in Spain, the reception was not quite what she expected. Instead of being allowed to settle down like normal citizens, they were shipped to a camp with other refugees, in Morocco, where life was extremely difficult, but they survived until at last the American troops eventually arrived.That whole experience was a traumatic event in her life, and to her dying day she hid it as best as she could, although she never forgot, the fact that she was Jewish. She just remained all her life a Hidden Child.

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Harvest-Ha’Asif- Temple Emanu-El-Beth Sholom’s Literary Anthology Fifth Edition 2 0 10–5770

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GenesisHarry Rajchgot

In the beginning, God created a particle of Time-Space. And He saw, it was good. And in the infinitesimally small particle, He created Matter and Energy. In this first moment of time, God said: "Let there be thing and process", and it was so. And God said, "Let Space expand away from all that I know, and let it manifest itself in ways I cannot determine, let the Laws that set these things into being govern their becomings as well.""Thus will I observe activity beyond this lonely event horizon." And it was so. And God saw that it was both good and bad, but He had ruled that the Law of matter and energy would prevail over his own, so that a Universe of peace and without contradiction might prevail. And so He allowed the Universe to expand and evolve as it should, without interference.And the forces of nature, which had once been one, as He was, became four. And so it happened, that on the first day, God saw that the light had divided itself away from the darkness. And in that light, the essence of particle-matter cooled and congealed, and the stars were born.And God saw that this also was good. And it was the second day and the second night.And God thought, what a loneliness I feel, for nowhere in this vast expanse is there any awareness other than My own.

And His thoughts manifested themselves, and the four forces became five.And Life was born on many small dark rocks, spinning around as many small, dull stars, in the far distances.And it was the third day.And Life became aware of itself. And it said: "What am I? And where do I come from?"And it said also: "I must grow, in knowledge and complexity, to come to know myself and my origins."And God looked on, and thought: "I hope this will not become a problem, for Me and this Universe."And the fourth day came and passed away again.And it was still good.And life evolved, in every way it could, and into every place and layer.And it was the fifth day. And then, on the sixth day, a talented bipedal creature, picking up a rock, broke it on another and made light.And she said to herself: "This is good.Now I will be able to carry warmth and illumination with me wherever I go."And it was so.And on the seventh day, God could see that His light had been remade in its own image by this creature. And God felt tired.And so He rested.

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Harvest-Ha’Asif- Temple Emanu-El-Beth Sholom’s Literary Anthology Fifth Edition 2 0 10–5770

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Editors:

Zav LevinsonHarry Rajchgot

Assistant Editors:

Cheryl Everett RajchgotWendy Thomas

Illustrations:

Harry Rajchgot and various other sources as attributed in the body of the anthology.

All copyrights remain the property of the authors and illustrators.

We wish to thank the following for their generosity in supporting the Harvest-Ha'Asif anthology:

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The Rabbi's Discretionary FundDavid AbramsonZav Levinson Dr. Harry RajchgotVivianne Schinasi-Silver

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Submissions for the next edition of Harvest-Ha'Asif can be made at any time c/o Anita Bensabat at the Temple office or by e-mail to:

[email protected]

A small number of copies of earlier editions of Harvest-Ha'Asif are still available, for those who may have missed one or more. For anyone wishing to receive a copy, please contact us at the same e-mail address and we will try to fulfil your request.



Harvest-HaAsif 2008

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