web analytics
September 1, 2014 / 6 Elul, 5774
At a Glance

Posts Tagged ‘grandfather’

Leo Schreiber… From the Ashes of the Holocaust to a Beautiful, Loving, Life.

Monday, November 14th, 2011

Cousin Leo Schreiber was the son of my grandfather’s brother David.  He came from a family of Rabbinic giants of Europe; the Europe that does not exist anymore.  His family was loving and righteous and they were destroyed by Hitler, yimach shemo.  But Leo survived.  He was only 13 when he was separated from his family, and they were all murdered.  Leo survived as part of Oscar Schindler’s people.  He worked in the hellhole of humanity, but his life was spared.   As his daughter Michelle related, “My dad was a survivor.  He survived on Schindler’s list, because he said he could work as a blacksmith.  I asked him how he knew about being a blacksmith before the war and he told me he didn’t.  But understanding that it was a skill that could save his life at the moment, he said he could do it.  He learned by carefully watching everything the man next to him did.  He was a quick study and must have been the best since he was chosen to make a table for Hitler.”

 

Leo met Miriam after the war and fell in love with her.  She too was a survivor, a hidden child, and knew the horrors of World War Two.  To quote Leo’s daughter Susan,

“Their’s was a powerful love story, born out of the agony of the Holocaust.  It was love at first sight for both, although my mom was the one who initiated the contact and proposed marriage.  ‘Will you marry me’, she asked?  ‘But you are just a kid’, my dad said (she was only 16 when they were married).  ‘I’ll grow up’, she said.  ‘If it doesn’t work out we’ll get divorced.’  My father said, ‘I will marry you, but no divorce.’  I don’t know how he could have known that he had found his soul mate, but somehow he did.”

 

After the war, my grandfather, Rafael Schreiber searched for any survivors of his once large family.  The few he found, he brought to America.  When Leo and Miriam came to America, they came to our house to live for a brief time.  I was a child of about seven at the time, but I cannot forget those days.  Miriam was the most beautiful young woman I had ever seen and I followed her around every minute that I could.  Leo was tall and handsome and looked so strong.  I thought that he could do anything.

 

They stayed with us until they found a place to rent but they came back for visits and how I waited for those visits.  Grandfather took Leo to work in my father’s newspaper printing place and Leo was a very quick learner.  He wasn’t afraid of hard work.  What was hard work to Leo after all that he had been through?  He watched and learned and became a pressman, eventually starting his own printing company.  Michelle says, “He built the company from scratch and made every decision that made it a successful business.  But if you walked into Amsel Litho you wouldn’t know that my dad owned the company.  He put on a uniform and ran his own press every day.  He was such a wise man and yet so humble.  In his business, long before it was a popular subject, my dad made sure that every employee had an incredible pension plan and health benefits.  He did it not because it was mandatory, but because it was the right thing to do for his workers.  Having worked for him myself one year, I can tell you he was an amazing boss.”

The Cure Is In The Pot

Wednesday, October 26th, 2011

Levana Kirschenbaum, restaurateur, master chef, cooking teacher and author, has just published the ultimate cookbook, The Whole Foods Kosher Kitchen: Glorious Meals Pure and Simple. This is her magnum opus, a book that takes kosher cooking to a whole new level; with everything we ever needed to know about preparing healthy cuisine from soup to nuts.

Written clearly and concisely with Lisa R. Young, PhD, RD, a nationally recognized nutritionist, Levana’s new book guides you to eat your way to health with recipes that help you achieve a healthy weight, boost your energy level and keep you looking and feeling youthful.

In the spirit of full disclosure I must confess that in addition to being a good friend, Levana is also my culinary savior.   In the midst of writing her new book she learned that I was diagnosed with a serious medical condition and graciously interrupted her busy schedule to turn my kitchen into a classroom, teaching me to cook delicious meals that were free of those dietary culprits– sugar, salt and fats.

How? By substituting healthy alternatives and incorporating often ignored natural ingredients like root vegetables into my culinary repertoire.  Or as Levana describes them, “all those ugly, grimy, bulbous, monolithic roots–rutabaga, celery root, and turnips…what need do they have of looking pretty?  They contain endless reserves of inner beauty and flavor and produce dishes much superior to the prosaic and humble sum of their parts.”

Peppered throughout the easy to follow and beautifully photographed recipes are “Lisa’s Tips.”  Drawing on her vast expertise as a nutritionist, Miss Young weighs in on the medicinal and nutritional benefits of various ingredients including the common parsnip, rich in vitamins B and C and dark chocolate, a surprising source of antioxidants and polyphenols.

Levana traces her devotion to whole foods to her mother whose mantra, “The cure is in the pot,” fueled her philosophy of cooking as a means to healing. The operative word here is delicious as Levana proves that healthy never means boring or bland with recipes that the entire family will enjoy.  Along with numerous sample menus including Asian, Latin, and Vegan dinners and a Dairy-free dessert party, she has included a valuable index of both gluten-free and Pesach recipes.

Here is one of our family’s favorites.  Although I have been cooking chicken soup for over 40 years, it has been displaced by Levana’s Moroccan pea soup, the new Jewish penicillin.  We all love it– from our granddaughter to her grandfather and everyone in between.

 

*Moroccan Pea Soup

Ingredients

2 large onions quartered

8 ribs celery, peeled and cut in large chunks

3 large carrots, cut in large chunks

1 pound bag green or yellow split peas, picked over and rinsed

1 large bunch flat parsley, stems and leaves

1 bunch cilantro, stems cut off

½ cup olive oil

1-teaspoon turmeric

3 quarts (12 cups) water

Salt to taste

Pepper to taste

 

Directions
Put all but last ingredient to boil in a wide heavy pot.  Reduce the heat to medium and cook covered for about an hour or a little longer until the peas are very tender.  Add pepper to taste.  Cream with an immersion blender.  Adjust the texture and seasonings.  Makes a dozen ample servings.

The Romanian Gaon

Wednesday, November 17th, 2010

This article was written by Rabbi Yechiel Yaakov Weinberg, z”l, the Seridei Eish, about my grandfather, the Gaon Rabbi Bezalel Ze’ev Shafran, z”l, of Baku, Romania, author of She’elot U’tshuvot R’BAZ. He died on the 14th of Kislev 5690 (1930).

The essay was originally published in different form in the volumes Otsar Hachaim and Kibutzei Ephraim, and translated in 1932 in the local Romanian Jewish publications Tribuna Evreska (issue 22) and Bakuvel (issue 203). It was included in Rav Weinberg’s collection of essays L’Prakim.

I offer this revised version in my grandfather’s memory for his yahrzeit.

- Rabbi Eliyahu Safran, vice president of communications and marketing, OU Kosher.

To be called “gaon” is a mark of distinguished honor, one bestowed only upon the most grand of the grandest Torah luminaries; it is a title granted by historical Jewry that imparts special love and admiration on its bearer by every Jewish heart.

Although derived from and related to the Germanic term meaning “genius” – a person of prodigious talents – mere genius falls far short of all that is meant by the honorific gaon.

The Jewish gaon is greater, more elevated, more holy than any “genius.” Upon him and within him resides an echo of distant, nearly mythic worlds.

A European “genius” is fully a member of his society; he is of his time and place. While the Jewish gaon exists in his time and place, he is more than his time and place.

To attempt to describe what a gaon truly is would be like trying to describe the majesty of the Swiss Alps to a youth who knows only the unending flatness of the Kansas plains. Rather than description, the youth needs to visit the Alps themselves, to observe their greatness and absorb their beauty and majesty.

In the same way, one must be in the presence of an old-world gaon to fully understand what is meant by this high honor. By doing so, he will stand in the true light which shines from a human soul when it reaches its full stature.

The gaon brings together the full range of human attributes – a unique composition of fierce spirit and gentle soul; a prodigious mind and the delight of a child. He is restless and stormy internally, but calm and peaceful externally. He combines the vigor and intensity of a warrior with the soft wonderment of a dreamer.

A gaon aspires for the loftiest of accomplishment and conquest, yet is accepting of concession and humility. Mentally, he is the consummation of human aptitude. Morally, he is a faithful guardian of the spirit of man as created in the image of God.

He is, when all is said and done, the personification of the triumphant spirituality of man. Fortunate is the man who merits being in the presence of a Jewish gaon.

* * *

We ask that God give us strength.

The Hand of God has afflicted the congregation of the rabbis of Israel in the Diaspora. We find it to be more diminished and impoverished from one day to the next. One by one, its principal luminaries are fading away.

These days, when the Jewish rabbinate is changing so dramatically, as it becomes modernized and diminished, there is a special charm that imbues those few remnants carrying the flag of Torah, religious teachers of the speedily diminishing old school.

Such ancient glory, reflecting the noble spirituality of a world that will never return, rests upon these unvanquished spiritual heroes; great scholars and souls who are defeated only by life itself.

They call to mind the days when our spiritual lives were whole, unaffected by external and internal wars; when Judaism sang with a single voice, one that called both back to the past and forward to the future, forming an unbroken continuation of our ancient culture.

As these great remnants die out, we are left to face an unclear and clouded future. They carry with them to their eternal rest the security and the faith that seems lost to the young generation, a generation scattered on uncharted paths.

From among the few there towered a Jew of physically modest stature – weak, thin, adorned in worn clothing, with a crushed hat upon his head – the rabbi of Baku, z”l, bearer of the totality of the beautiful rabbinic ideology of the old generation, devout in his beliefs, guileless in his character, guardian of ancient traditions, and brother to everyone whose path he crossed.

Would the Real (And Kosher) Sukkah Installation Please Stand Up?

Tuesday, September 28th, 2010

About half a year ago, my friend Miriam asked if I knew of any artists or architects whose repertoires included sukkahs. My thoughts immediately turned to the gorgeous sukkah my grandfather designed and built every year and to the retractable roof in the dining room at the Bostoner Rebbe’s synagogue, Congregation Beth Pinchas. But for the life of me, I couldn’t think of any artist who had developed an interesting aesthetic approach to the sukkah, which is the only Jewish experience (save mikvah perhaps) that completely surrounds us.

 

Although I remembered potentially playful fodder for aesthetic sukkahs from the Mishnah and the Talmud – with the pillars from a bed holding up the sch’ach, on the deck of a boat, on a wagon or on the back of a camel – I couldn’t think of a single artist, Jewish or otherwise, who had taken the legal questions of the Mishnah as a design challenge.

 


Log

 

I asked myself if artists had decided the sukkah, which commemorates the clouds of glory that protected the Israelites in the wilderness and thus symbolizes impermanence and vulnerability, was an object that one couldn’t beautify without making it too permanent – even though noi sukkah, decorating the sukkah, is one of the rabbinic commandments of the day.

 

Then I read about Sukkah City. The international contest, sponsored by the non-profit Reboot and author Joshua Foer, called upon contestants to “re-imagine” the “ancient phenomenon” of the sukkah and to “develop new methods of material practice and parametric design, and propose radical possibilities for traditional design constraints in a contemporary urban site.” The 12 finalists exhibited their designs Sept. 19 and 20 in Union Square Park.

 

The Sukkah City website has a rotating header that reveals that the sukkah: must admit more shade than sunshine, must have a roof that doesn’t obscure views of the stars, needs at least an incomplete third wall, must be 10 handbreadths tall, must not be made of utensils or “anything conventionally functional” when it’s not part of the sukkah and must have a roof made of something that grew in the ground but is currently detached from the earth.

 


In Tension

 

 

But however halachic the Sukkah City website’s conditions are, many of the finalists opted to take artistic liberties, to say the least.

 

“Repetition Meets Difference,” by German artist Matthias Karch, is not the sort of sukkah one could ever actually use, and it is not immediately clear that it would satisfy the Mishnaic requirements for walls. Karch modeled the structure on an invention by German-Jewish architect Konrad Wachsmann and the structure is made of a mixture of wood from American walnut and maple trees and olive trees from Israel.

 

Henry Grosman and Babak Bryan’s “Fractured Bubble” looks a bit like a cross between a haystack and Carrot Top’s hairdo. Though the marsh grass is affixed to plywood and bound in twine in a manner that evokes the lulav, the structure itself, which contains sch’ach which comes from marsh grass harvested from Corona Park in Queens, might require a creative interpretation of the notion of the diagonal wall – dofen akumah­ - to actually validate it as a kosher sukkah.

 


Fractured Bubble

 

 

SO-IL’s design, “In Tension,” could double as a sukkah and a screened-in tent to repel mosquitoes. The structure gets extra points for its portability – one person can carry it – which would certainly be useful for a desert wanderer, but the minimal foliage on the roof precludes the requirement to have more shade than sun.

 

“LOG,” by Kyle May and Scott Abrahams, takes the exact opposite approach. Lugging this sukkah through the desert would be like traveling with a suitcase full of rocks. As the name suggests, the sch’ach covering “LOG” is a large log from a cedar tree. The walls of the structure are glass – no stone throwing from this sukkah.

 


Repetition Meets Difference

 

Other finalists interpreted the sukkah in even more theoretical ways. Ronald Rael and Virginia San Fratello’s “Sukkah of the Signs” responds to the artists’ interpretation of the commandment to eat and sleep in the sukkah for a week as a political statement. Rael and Fratello built their submission out of cardboard signs they purchased from homeless people and they see it as a project that relates to homelessness. (Interestingly, there is no specific requirement on Sukkot, as there is on Passover, to invite the needy to a holiday meal.)

 

“P.YGROS.C” (Passive Hygroscopic Curls), by THEVERYMANY, is sort of the Shabbat-clock of sukkahs. As it gets more humid outside, parts of the wooden structure move and create curly shapes. It’s hard to imagine that such a natural process would be a violation of the spirit of the holiday, but a sukkah that is perpetually in motion could either be an ingenious response to the nomadic experience in the Sinai desert or dangerously close to a violation of the laws of the holiday.

 

It will always be an uncomfortable aspect of Jewish art criticism to require functionality – that is adherence to halakhic requirements – of ritual objects, particularly because many artistic projects are intentionally resistant to being practically usable. But many of the Sukkah City submissions try to align themselves with halacha.

 


Sukkah of the Signs

 

Volkan Alkanoglu’s egg-shaped “Star Cocoon” purports to exhibit the Talmudic minimal requirement of two-and-a-half walls. But the requirement – which can be seen in the typography of the Hebrew word sukkah – is classically formulated with respect to a rectangular sukkah. If the structure is rounded, as “Star Cocoon,” who is to say that it actually has two-and-a-half walls?

 

Looking through the submissions that didn’t make it to the final round one is struck that most of the artists focused their attention on architecture and only considered halacha as an afterthought – “Adam’s House on Union Square” by Alexander Gorlin and Daniel Schuetz is one of several exceptions. That artists are so publically engaging a holiday like Sukkot is undoubtedly great for Jewish art and for Judaism.

 

But one wonders if artists who also take the halachic side of their projects seriously couldn’t be impressed upon to tackle this Jewish aesthetic design challenge.


 


Menachem Wecker, who blogs on faith and art for the Houston Chronicle at http://blogs.chron.com/iconia, welcomes comments at mwecker@gmail.com.

A Treasure To Keep

Wednesday, September 1st, 2010

When my neighbor asked me if I was missing any jewelry, I immediately thought of the gift my husband gave me 25 years ago at our wedding. In the yichud room, he presented me with a beautiful three-tone gold bracelet with diamond chips. I treasured that gift until I lost it.

For many years, I searched for that bracelet until I finally gave up. I accepted the loss, yet in the back of my mind, I always had faith that the bracelet would turn up.

My neighbor went on to explain how her children had shown her a bracelet. They were playing in her storage room with some boxes and found the jewelry. My neighbor, who does not know the difference between real and costume jewelry, gave the assumed fake bracelet to a single 33-year-old woman who cleans the neighborhood kindergarten. The woman lives with her parents in a low socio-economic neighborhood in Israel.

The young woman was thrilled to receive such lovely costume jewelry, and immediately became attached to the gift. One day, her grandfather noticed the bracelet and asked her how she came upon such an expensive piece of jewelry. When she explained that this was a gift from the mother of a kindergarten student and that the bracelet was surely not genuine, the grandfather insisted that they check with a jeweler. Sure enough, the jeweler ascertained that the bracelet was authentic and expensive. The family insisted that the young woman return the gift. The young woman found it very difficult to do so and called my neighbor.

My neighbor started to think about where she had found the bracelet and whose it could be. She then remembered those boxes in her storage room. Years ago, while cleaning my house for Passover, I came across some empty, multi-colored boxes and offered them to my neighbor as toys for her children. She took them off my hands, and I was happy to part with the clutter. The bracelet was in one of those boxes.

Needless to say, when my neighbor described the bracelet, I was overwhelmed that my treasure had been found. My neighbor called the young woman and explained that the bracelet was mine and how it had been lost. So returning the bracelet was a mitzvah. The young woman spoke to her rabbi, who told her that she must return it. Yet she was not prepared to do so. She had become so attached to the gift that she felt it was her own, and, based on the fact that I had given up searching for it, she felt that I had accepted the reality that my bracelet was gone.

I finally called this young woman and explained that the gift had come from my groom on our wedding day. She sympathized, yet went on to say that she was an older single woman who did not know when or if she would ever receive a piece of jewelry from a groom. Despite her hesitations, she finally sadly returned my bracelet.

I blessed her that one day soon, she would meet her husband in the merit of the mitzvah of returning a lost item, a mitzvah that had been especially difficult for her to do.

Last week, I received a phone call from this young woman. She had just gotten engaged to a fine young man. Her gift from her future groom was a gold bracelet.

She now had her own treasure to keep.

Blood Money

Wednesday, August 25th, 2010

I recently received an envelope from Belgium, with legal documents informing me that I was found eligible to receive Holocaust compensation. I saw this as a symbolic rectification of a bitter injustice that seemed to represent the very essence of my life. As I flipped through the pages, my mind wandered back to my childhood.

I cannot remember the first time I heard my grandmother tell the story of how my family had fled from Belgium during the Holocaust. But I heard her tell this story so many times that it became deeply etched into my consciousness. My grandmother told the story from many angles, as if to purge her system of it. She never succeeded, for she continued to retell the same traumatic tale to the end of her life. I always hoped for a happy ending, knowing bitterly it would never be. The story still haunts me.

My grandparents lived with my grandmother’s parents in Belgium. My great-grandfather, Yossel, was a generous man who owned and operated the town’s kosher bakery. He made his fortune supplying the surrounding towns with hand-made matzahs for Pesach. He also owned property and businesses that provided jobs for family members and friends, and he funded a shul that was open to one and all.

When the war broke out, rumors began to circulate about Nazi atrocities. People heard about murder and destruction. Men, women and children were being herded into cattle cars, never to be seen again. Everyone was terror- stricken. My grandparents feared that their town would be next, so they began packing to leave for the south of France. My grandmother was very close with her parents, and she urged them to join them in the escape. However, my great-grandparents stubbornly refused to consider the idea.

The day of departure came. My grandparents and their son, my Uncle Maury, got ready to leave. They brought very little with them. They sewed money and jewels into the seams of their clothes. This would eventually purchase their survival.

A horse-drawn wagon was waiting to take them to the train station. My grandmother would tell me the next part of the story with glassy eyes that pooled with tears streaming down her cheeks.

“We climbed onto the back of the wagon with Maury between us, our bundles tightly clutched in our hands. My parents stood crying, giving us blessings for safety, and I kept thinking that if they didn’t join us, I might never see them again. I begged my father once more to join us. He replied that he was too old to leave, that he would remain with his books. How could he leave them to be destroyed?

“I will not leave my books,” he cried.

“Then the wagon began to move. My mother cried, and my father began to hobble after us with his cane, yelling that he loved us.

“I never saw them again,” my grandmother would finish with a heartrending sob.

My great-grandparents died sometime later that year in Auschwitz. When they were taken away, all of their money, properties and bank accounts were stolen by the Nazis and the Belgian government.

My grandparents, their son Maury, and their two daughters born during the war – one being my mother – miraculously survived. They overcame great hardships that haunted them throughout their lives.

As a young child raised without Torah, I couldn’t understand what was so special about those books for which my great-grandfather died trying to protect. What sort of books was worth dying for?

Years later, after becoming observant, I had an epiphany. The books that my great-grandfather died trying to save were holy Torah sefarim. My grandfather, who owned a shul, thought that by staying, he could protect the Sifrei Torah and other holy books from destruction. He died for the Torah he loved so dearly.

Recently, I filed a claim with Belgium’s government for compensation of my family’s losses in the Holocaust. My extended family members, all of them secular, filled out the forms and we all waited. The family speculated how much money we would get, and some talked about what they’d do with the money. I felt resentment. This was blood money, certainly not “let’s-take-a-vacation-money.”

We were all surprised at the outcome. I was the only great-grandchild found eligible to receive compensation because I’d filled out the most specific information. I quickly got messages from relatives that this was unfair, and that I should share my money with them. Instinctively, I felt that if Hashem had seen it just for me to receive this money, I was destined to do something sacred with it.

I began my mission to right a wrong. My great-grandfather had died trying to save his beloved holy books, and I would use this money toward the purchase of sefarim to replace them.

Today, there are two bookcases filled with sefarim in the Khal Chassidim shul in Chicago. The plaque on the bookcases reads as follows: “In Loving Memory of Yossel and Rifka Czwern, a”h, pious people who loved their fellow man, and valued family, all living creatures, and Torah above all!”

Some sense of restitution had finally been achieved.

Reconnecting After 70 Years

Tuesday, May 18th, 2010

Finding a classmate has never been easier, with online tools rekindling long-lost childhood friendships. For those whose last school exams took place more than 70 years ago, only to be followed by the ravages of the Holocaust, a long-distance reunion leads to an outpouring of emotion.

My great-grandfather Hersh Vaysbukh was the principal of the Tarbut school in the Moldovan shtetl of Zguriţa. The son of a Hebrew teacher, Hersh led the small school, instilling a love of Zionism and fluency in Hebrew, preparing his students for eventual aliyah to a future Jewish state.

The potential of Zguriţa’s Jews far outweighed their economically impoverished setting. Its residents had a taste of independence in 1853, when local authorities permitted the Jews to start an agricultural colony. At the time, most Jews in tsarist Russia did not have the privilege of owning land and growing their own produce. Though this lease ended in 1878, the village remained majority Jewish until the Holocaust.

Shalom Landes was born in 1922. A mischievous lad, he entered class by climbing in through the window. In contrast, my grandfather Zakhar Vaysbukh, the principal’s son, was the bookworm, taught to see a book as his best friend. At Tarbut, they both solved mathematical problems in Hebrew, and with fascination read Vladimir Jabotinsky’s latest speeches. Moldova avoided coming under the sway of communism when Romania annexed it following the collapse of the Russian empire.

My grandfather left Zguriţa at age 14 to work in his uncle’s workshop in Bucharest, supporting his parents, three sisters and a brother. The two classmates never met again. When the fascist government of Romania invaded the Soviet Union in June 1941, Zakhar and Shalom fled across the Dniester River into Ukraine, signing up for the Red Army. Their parents were not as fortunate. Rounded up by the Romanians, they were herded into the ghetto village of Bershad where they slowly starved to death.

Zakhar and Shalom returned to Zguriţa after its liberation in 1944. Finding only destruction there, Zakhar moved to Chernovtsy, Ukraine, where he later met my grandmother. Shalom found his childhood sweetheart, Tuba Kaplan. Together they fled to Poland, and then Israel, where Shalom became one of the early settlers of Kibbutz Nir Am, founded by fellow landsmen on the Gaza border.

Zakhar now lives in Flushing, Queens, leading a dwindling weekly minyan of observant Jews in a largely Chinese neighborhood.

I stumbled on Shalom Landes’s name while researching my family’s history. Though Zguriţa has exactly zero Jewish residents today, young locals Vova Lyakhovich and Oleg Shved created a detailed Russian-language website on the village’s history, (http://zguritsa.my1.ru) giving much credit to its Jewish past. Lyakhovich provided a page on Landes, who wrote a book in Hebrew on the prewar village, including the two-volume Pirkei Zguritsa, with sketches on life in the prewar village.

I contacted Avi Kadosh, the head of Kibbutz Nir Am, last March. Kadosh informed me that Landes was in a hospital. My grandfather and I were heartbroken to know we were so close to reconnecting with a fellow survivor, a landsman and classmate, just as he was struggling for his life.

We poured out prayers and contacted his daughter for information on his health. A month later, a phone call came to Flushing from Kibbutz Nir Am. My grandfather and Shalom spoke with each other in Yiddish. It was a long conversation.

Though my great-grandfather did not survive the war, the Tarbut of Zguriţa still stands today, as a non-Jewish elementary school. Since my great-uncle’s death in January, my grandfather stands as the last Holocaust survivor and war veteran in my family. Every Shabbat I gain new insights into the life story of this lone survivor.

My grandfather takes great pride in knowing that while most Zguriţa Jews perished, the small remnant that made aliyah was able to regroup, build a kibbutz, and pass on his father’s Zionist values to the next generation.

Printed from: http://www.jewishpress.com/indepth/opinions/reconnecting-after-70-years/2010/05/18/

Scan this QR code to visit this page online: