Part I
Frieda (pseudonym), who grew up in Communist Russia, found
her way back to Torah as a result of a number of amazing
miracles. In the following monologue, she describes the rocky
road she traversed before reaching home.
*
I am Jewish and so is my husband. Both of us knew absolutely
nothing about our religion. Nonetheless, various impressions
which our grandparents had etched upon our minds motivated
certain aspects of our behavior. Thus, when I first got
married, my husband bought me a second kitchen sink as a
wedding gift. He had no idea why such a sink was necessary,
nor did I. All he knew was that his grandmother had had two
sinks.
I was born a year after Stalin's death, in an era when
Russians still cowered at the mere mention of his name. My
grandfather, who was an observant Jew, went to synagogue only
one day a year -- on Yom Kippur. Apparently, he kept other
mitzvos, too, but undercover. At that time, one
couldn't rely on children, who might innocently describe
strange or illegal manners and customs they observed by their
relatives, even as close as parents -- to dangerous elements.
Nonetheless, Grandfather let us know that he was a Jew, and
his behavior instilled in us a certain awareness of our
Jewish roots.
I particularly recall him standing beside the sink,
alternately pouring water over his hands. Now I know what he
was doing, but at the time, I didn't understand the meaning
of this strange practice, nor did my father, who would always
comment, "Papa, is that the way to wash hands?! Soap them
down and then rinse them. Why pour water over them?"
My grandfather regarded two codes as inviolable, and
indoctrinated us with them strongly. The first was that a Jew
may not marry a gentile. The second was that a Jew is
obligated to circumcise his male infants. These two rules and
their implementation were the catalysts which motivated my
eventual chazora b'tshuva.
I married a Jew and when our first son was born, I knew
beyond a doubt that we had to circumcise him. Despite the
difficulties and risks involved in holding a bris in
Soviet Russia, my husband agreed to perform this
mitzva.
There was only one mohel in all of Moscow, an elderly
Jew whose services had to be booked eight days before the
bris.
The preparations for the bris were made in roundabout
and clandestine ways so that the neighbors wouldn't suspect
that our `party' in honor of the birth of the infant was
really a circumcision. But all these complications did not
deter me, a weak but determined new mother, from performing
the ceremony whose importance my grandfather had so
stressed.
A few days before the bris, the mohel asked us
to organize a minyan.
"What's a minyan?" I asked naively. "Where can I buy
one?"
When I realized that I had to assemble ten men who would
participate in the bris feast, I was a bit relieved.
However, I also knew that this wouldn't be an easy task,
because the men had to be trustworthy people who could be
relied on not to report us to the authorities. In the end, we
located ten reliable friends and they gathered in our home on
the eighth day after the baby's birth. Before the feast
though, the mohel, his assistant and my husband, the
baby in his arms, retreated to a room and shut the door.
Moments later, they emerged with a tiny, wailing, yet
bonafide Jewish child.
After the ceremony, the mohel called me aside and said
that he would visit us an additional time in order to examine
the baby. He also warned me under no circumstances to go to
the hospital, even if something happened to the baby, since
that would endanger my life, my husband's and the baby's, as
well.
"Pray that all goes well," he told me.
Now I know that I demonstrated tremendous faith and self
sacrifice. I jeopardized my baby and myself for a purpose
whose importance I didn't understand, only in order to
fulfill the request of my deceased grandfather.
After the bris, the mohel and his assistant,
also an elderly man, joined the minyan around the set
tables. In Soviet Russia then, and today as well, securing
products for such a repast was quite a feat. Everyone savored
the delicacies, which they knew graced only the tables of
high-ranking Communist leaders. Although I noticed that the
mohel and his assistant weren't partaking of anything,
I was too excited to pursue the matter further.
The baby recovered quickly, and I remained with a memory of
an inspiring yet enigmatic experience.
Three years later, I gave birth to another boy. This time, I
already knew that I had to book the mohel eight days
before the bris, and assemble a minyan. Again,
the ceremony was held behind closed doors, with a feast
afterwards. And once more, I noticed that the mohel
and his assistant, this time a young man, weren't eating.
When I asked him why, the assistant explained, "There are
many answers to your question, and I can't explain them on
one foot, certainly not in the presence of this crowd. But I
give a lecture every week and would be happy if you attended
it. By the way, do you have a can of sardines in the house?
We can eat that."
My curiosity was aroused and I decided to attend the lecture
which was really a fascinating Torah class, the first in a
series which held me spellbound. I came every week afterwards
and excitedly began to observe mitzvos according to my
ability and at my own pace.
Before Pesach, the instructor invited me to a seder he
planned to conduct for his students. At the mere mention of
the word Pesach, memories of my wonderful grandfather, who
used to eat matzos in my parents' home while we ate bread,
flooded my mind.
One day, when we met for a class, the instructor cautioned
us: "Be careful. Today someone followed me like a shadow, and
didn't lose sight of me for a second. He's lurking nearby. We
won't study today, and will meet somewhere else tomorrow."
Being a bit naive and uninvolved in politics, I didn't
understand what he was talking about. Why should someone
want to follow us? There was nothing wrong with studying from
an ancient text! But the other students explained that
the government regarded us as subversives, threats to
Communism, and we could be severely punished if caught.
These warnings didn't dampen my spirits and the more I
learned, the happier I felt. I also wanted to share my
knowledge with my children, and when my oldest son had grown
up a bit, I began to teach him alef-beis. Later, when
we made aliya, this knowledge facilitated his acceptance to a
chareidi Talmud Torah.
After attending a number of classes, I began to observe the
laws of Kashrus. Although there were no kosher butchers in
Soviet Russia, kosher chickens were distributed in the main
synagogue throughout the year, as were matzos on Pesach.
While I was still in Russia, my children attended the public
kindergarten on Pesach. I sent them to school with matzos,
dreading the possible consequences. I briefed them on what to
tell the teacher: "My mother said that we are Jewish and may
eat only what she gives us."
The children were eager to follow my instructions, but I
didn't know how the teachers would react. My older son's
kindergarten teacher was sympathetic, and he returned home
proud and happy. The younger one's teacher, though, shouted
at him and he came home depressed. I bolstered his spirits
and sent him to school with the matzos the next day, too.
When my oldest son was nearly seven, I was faced with a
dilemma. At that time, the Compulsory Education Law in Russia
applied to children as they approached their seventh year.
The authorities notified me a number of times that I had to
begin sending him to school, but I would put them off with
various excuses such as, "He's not feeling well now," or
"He's afraid of school."
Actually, I was the one who was afraid -- not of the
authorities but, rather, of the heresy taught in those
schools. From the moment I drew closer to my Jewish roots, I
began to instill him with emuna and didn't want to
expose him to noxious doctrines.
Observing the mitzvos was a complicated affair for me,
especially because I still knew so little. It was difficult
for me to expand my Torah knowledge in Russia so the obvious
conclusion was to make aliya as soon as possible.
To be continued...
