The fact that the father's business was open on Shabbos and
that the boys participated in various sports on that day was
an unfortunate reality among non-practicing Orthodox Jews in
South Africa...
"Moshe called today," I mentioned casually to my husband,
Menachem, at supper. "He's coming for Shabbos this week."
"Moshe Stein? He hasn't been here for a while. He must be
keeping busy in yeshiva." A few minutes later Menachem
excused himelf from the table to meet his chavrusa in
shul. "Be back later. Good night," he called as he
left the house. Sitting down at the table with a cup of hot,
fragrant tea, I reminisced about our years in South Africa,
where we had first met Moshe Stein and his family.
*
The Steins were a typical family in our community. The two
boys went to the local Jewish school and the family attended
services on Friday night. Their kitchen was basically kosher
and they considered themselves a traditionally observant
family. The fact that the father's business was open on
Shabbos and that the boys participated in various sports on
that day was an unfortunate reality among non-practicing
Orthodox Jews.
The older son, Michael, was a serious boy. He was a gifted
musician who spent much of his time playing the piano. He was
nearly thirteen and had been practicing his leining
with the retired Hebrew teacher who prepared the boys for
their Bar Mitzvas. It was the time-honored custom in our
shul for the boys to daven and to lein
the entire parsha on the Shabbos of their Bar
Mitzva.
One day, my husband received a distressed phone call from
Benny, the Bar Mitzva teacher.
"Rabbi, we have a problem with Michael," he confided. "He
lives very far from the shul. I explained to him that
he will only be allowed to daven for the omud
if he observes the Shabbos. But how will he be able to get to
shul without driving, both in the evening and the
morning?" The elderly man was distraught, "He's so keen, so
interested. With his ear for music, he picked up the
leining beautifully and he is very serious about it. I
don't want to disappoint him."
"Don't worry. We'll come up with a plan," my husband
reassured him confidently. Turning to me, he related the
dilemma. "Any ideas?"
I considered carefully. I knew that Rose, Michael's mother,
would want to prepare a lavish Friday night dinner for their
family and close friends in her home. On the other hand, she
knew how much it meant to her son to be able to lead the
prayers in shul.
"We could offer to host the Shabbos meals here and find
sleeping space for the family," I said slowly. "But I don't
think that the Steins would agree to that. Why don't you
discuss the whole issue with them and see if they can come up
with any solution?"
An elated Menachem returned from his meeting with the Steins.
"They were incredibly supportive of their son's desire to
keep Shabbos for his Bar Mitzva. They will spend Shabbos at
Rose's sister, who lives a short distance from the
shul. I could see that it was hard for them, yet they
didn't even hesitate."
Michael's Bar Mitzva was a genuine simcha. He
davened and leined superbly, with rare
confidence and poise. His mother's eyes glistened wetly with
tears as she proudly accepted the constant stream of Mazel
Tovs from the women in shul. Michael's father, arm
draped lovingly over his son's shoulders, pumped hands
joyously with the men after the service. Benny, the Bar
Mitzva teacher, beamed broadly, shepping nachas from
his star pupil.
The following Friday night, the Stein family was in
shul as usual: Mr. and Mrs. Stein, Michael, and his
young brother Kevin. As the congregation filed out of the
shul, my husband stood outside, shaking hands and
wishing everyone a Gut Shabbos. He then witnessed a
curious scene. While the rest of the Stein family headed
towards their car, Michael turned off towards the street,
walking determinedly. His stride was brisk and steady. A car
followed him slowly, headlights shining on the solitary
boy.
The next morning, Michael appeared in shul, flushed
and breathing heavily. He sat down unobtrusively and began to
daven.
"Michael, did you walk to shul this morning from your
house?" I asked. I accosted the boy on his way down to the
kiddush that followed the services. He smiled self-
consciously and looked down at his worn sneakers.
"Yes, I did. I decided that I wanted to keep Shabbos every
week, not just for my Bar Mitzva." He spoke the words with a
simple earnestness that touched my heart.
"I'm really proud of you, Michael. Why don't you stay and
have lunch with us before you head back home?" I offered. I
didn't want him to have to hike the almost two hours home
with just a piece of cake to sustain him.
"Thanks, but I don't want my parents to worry. I told them
I'd be coming back straight after the kiddush."
And so, week followed week, with the resolute teenager
marching to shul, despite the long distance. It
happened, perhaps two months later, that the first change
took place. It was a cool Friday evening, the stars shining
brightly. As Michael left the shul, this time he
wasn't alone. His father, Allan, was at his side. He grinned
sheepishly as he saw me.
"I saw how serious the boy was about keeping Shabbos. Rose
and I never liked the idea of him walking alone, so what
could I do?" He raised his palms in resignation. "If you
can't beat 'em, join 'em, right?" We both laughed.
From that week, Michael never had to walk home alone.
Accompanied by his father, and sometimes also his younger
brother, the Steins would hike home in comfortable
companionship. Michael continued to make the trek on Shabbos
mornings, but his parents allowed him to stay the day at a
friend, and would pick him up after havdola.
In his quiet way, Michael exerted a tremendous influence on
his family. As he learned more, he began adopting more
religious practices. Kevin, who admired his older brother,
tried to behave like him. The two wore their tzitzis
proudly hanging out, payos dangling conspicuously in
the modern society around them. They gravely insisted on only
using their Hebrew names, Moshe and Chaim. A metamorphosis
was occurring in our small town.
One day, an excited Moshe appeared in our home, bursting with
news.
"We're moving!" he whooped exuberantly. "My parents bought
the house next door to the shul and we're moving next
month!" It was true, the Steins were actually going to live
in the heart of the Jewish community.
Menachem and I watched the Steins progress with unconcealed
delight. The two boys transferred to the yeshiva in
Johannesburg, completing their transformation into genuine
yeshiva bochurim. Allan closed his shop on Saturdays,
out of respect for his sons' new lifestyle.
"You know the truly amazing part," Allan confided to my
hsuband, "is that my boys never once asked their mother or me
to change in any way. They never told us to keep Shabbos or
to dress differently. I started wearing a kippa
recently because I wanted to, not because Moshe told me I
should."
One Shabbos morning in shul, I noticed a buzz of
interest surrounding Rose Stein. Curiously, I peered at her,
wondering what the lively, whispered conversations and
smiling nods meant. A sheitl! Rose was wearing a
sheitl! This was certainly a bombshell in our
community, where even wearing a hat to shul was a sign
of frumkeit. It must have taken a tremendous amount of
courage for Rose to appear in shul, looking like a
rebbetzin (the ONLY other woman in the entire
community to wear a wig)!
*
A journey that had begun with the staunch young boy's Bar
Mitzva, was continuing in the transformation of an entire
family. A steadfast teenager was able to achieve with love
and respect, in a matter of months, what years of badgering
and criticizing would never have been able to accomplish.
Mazel Tov, Moshe!
