Baalebusta vs. relaxed mother on Erev Shabbos is an issue
we have dealt with recently, with champions for both sides.
And this how it rests, as you will see in the charming story.
The only point we would like to stress concerns a letter sent
in regarding candlelighting time in Jerusalem, an ancient
custom firmly established at forty minutes before sunset by
our gedolim.
Miriam Friedman from Beitar writes:
"Lighting candles is one of the three special mitzvos given
to women. Chazal say: `Be careful with the candles!' They
didn't say it is a free-for- all. Your article, in which a
reader states that candles are lit `more like 18 minutes
before sunset' is a Chillul Hashem. Anyone who makes any
aspect of `avodas Hashem' lighter in another Jew's eyes is
causing that."
We truly hope this rectifies the wrong impression.
Considering the circumference of this planet Earth, each of
us agree that it must have been more than mere coincidence
that made Rivky Perfectstein and Henny Amerifeld next door
neighbors. Both had come to Israel shortly after Succos and
were busy unpacking their belongings before they got a good
look at one other. After which, culture shock set in. Make no
mistake, both were chareidi. It was just the different places
their ancestors had resided in during this long and painful
golus that made these two good women look so different
from the outside. But since the outside is what we see, that
is what we judge.
Rivky Perfectstein hailed from a small religious settlement
outside of New York City. Although she was an intelligent
woman, she didn't have much contact with other kinds of Jews.
Henny Amerifeld came from a city in mid-western USA and while
she had been to many places and seen many kinds of Jews, she
had never been to Bedford Hills, N.Y. They both spoke
English, yet these two good women did not understand one
another. A typical conversation between them would start out
in a friendly manner, yet it didn't take long for them to be
staring at each other in total bewilderment.
"Hi! Good morning! How are you?" Rivky, dressed in a tie-by-
yourself kerchief and matching housedress greeted Henny.
"Good morning!" Henny was bouncing about in her white
joggers, full length skirt, striped shirt with tails out.
"How did the unpacking go at your place? Are you all
done?"
Henny and Rivky were both picking up their daily supplies of
groceries at the local supermarket.
"I already unpacked everything. I still have to find the
right niche for certain items and haven't gotten around to
arranging the soaps and bows in the linen closet."
"What bows are you talking about?" asked Henny.
"You know the way they do at the linen stores."
"You mean you actually bother with such things?"
"Oh, yes!" answered a puzzled Rivky. "Why not? It makes such
a difference."
"Well, don't you have more important things to do?"
"My home is a very important priority for me. And how about
you? All done?"
"More or less, though I couldn't promise the children we'd go
to the zoo today."
"Go to the zoo TODAY? But it's Friday!"
"So what? The day is long enough. Before we moved, we always
went on trips Fridays and we hope to start again very soon.
The children love it and we all look forward to family fun on
Erev Shabbos," ended Henny with finality.
"But what about all the cleaning and cooking?" asked Rivke
with piqued interest. She had certainly never heard of
anything so outrageous. Why in her apartment, it seemed
almost as if Shabbos had already come. They certainly
wouldn't travel anywhere unless it was of utmost
importance.
"The cleaning," explained Henny, totally unaware of the
turmoil she had created in Rivky's order of priorities, "gets
done on Thursday. I don't make too much of a fuss with it,
and the cooking is really no big deal. I make a
cholent casserole by just throwing some things
together like chopped meat, vegetables and tomato sauce. On
Friday night we have chicken soup with the boiled chicken and
lots of vegetables as one course. I put everything into pots
as soon as we get back and both meals are cooked by the time
we're all bathed and dressed for Shabbos."
Rivky was almost besides herself. "What about fish and kugel
and dessert? And cake?"
"Oh, no problem. I buy jars of fish. Sometimes we'll have
tuna salad or herring. Kugel is just for Yom Tov and dessert
is also usually store bought, like parve ice cream. And the
bakery does a better job than me."
"I would never do such a thing!" Rivky was convinced that
Hashem made her live next door to Henny in order to teach her
how to be a real Yiddish Mama, the way it was meant to be.
Henny, on her part, wanted to know when the Perfectsteins
ever had family fun.
"When I peel vegetables for soup or potatoes for the kugel,
we have family fun. Everyone pitches in. I also clean like
that. Everyone gets a shmatte and a pail of soapy water and
we all have lots of fun. Of course, I do the refrigerator and
windows on Thursday but the kids do walls, doors and any
washable surface. They're so content in their busyness and
feel so accomplished afterwards."
"What? You do the refrigerator and windows every single
Thursday?" Henny was really getting perplexed. "My windows
get done twice a year, or three times max!"
For the life of her, Henny couldn't understand Rivky. Henny
started a secret campaign to normalize her neighbor. To get
her to see the light. Families were meant for fun.
Togetherness, that's what counted.
And so, with calculated nonchalance, the agenda would be
pushed.
"Hi, Rivky!" Henny was in the hall of their building,
shlepping a picnic hamper, surrounded by her children, each
carrying various containers, games or drinks. "We're headed
for Ganei Yehoshua this time. See ya later."
*
A different day, it would be Rivky's turn.
"Hi, there, Henny. Come see my huge challa. I baked it for a
bris. It has 3 kilo of flour and 150 grams of yeast. I
made the brocha and the kids were thrilled. It's a
real beauty!"
Henny entered the kitchen reverently. A challa of such
proportions deserved the proper respect. It was really
magnificent.
"How did you get such a beautiful shape?"
"I braided it with twelve strands." Rivky proudly gloried in
her handiwork.
On different occasions throughout the year, they would
quietly press their respective issues. All in the best of
spirits -- and intentions.
"Would you have an extra package of tissues?"
"Yes, of course. Here you are." Rivky graciously handed them
over. Henny was on her way out when she stopped short.
"Oh, isn't that gorgeous!" she said.
She was staring at the drapes which covered the huge living
room windows. The couch was upholstered with the same
fabric.
"Thank you," Rivky beamed. "I did this myself. I worked on it
for the past three months in the evenings."
A different time Henny offered to take Rivky's children to
Park Gilo. That Friday night Rivky sent Henny a delicious
Schwartzwald, complete with cherries, home baked, of
course.
Things would've continued like that for as long as none would
see a change in the other. But something happened which
taught both of them a lesson. They each learned that all Jews
are the same. If all paths lead to fulfilling our mission of
bringing Hashem's Torah into our daily lives, it really
doesn't make a difference how one goes about it.
It happened on an Erev Shabbos. Erev Shabbos of Parshas
Zochor, to be exact. The metamorphosis came about by an old
Hungarian custom with which food is used as a way to
eradicate the name of Amolek.
In two kitchens in the same building on the same floor, two
women were preparing to send a platter to their neighbor.
Henny put a finishing touch on the tray and handed it to
Yenti. "Here you are, Yenti. Be careful and don't let
anything fall off. Knock on the door, then lay this paper on
top of the tray." Henny handed her daughter the paper she had
prepared the evening before. "That should bring the point
across about family fun," she thought smugly.
At the same time in Rivky's apartment, the same scene
repeated itself with variations: Rivky dusted some
confectioners sugar over some parts of the tray. "Here you
are, Zeldy, Take this next door and then give them the
card."
At precisely the same moment, both doors opened and out
marched two little girls headed in opposite directions. They
crossed paths midway in the hall, smiled bashfully, and
stopped to stare at each other's tray.
Henny's tray was covered with a big colorful paper on which
were the words, "Mocho timche..." Amolek was spelled
in large letters, under which was added the name of the
corresponding food on the platter. Ayin was for
adashim, or chocolate lentils, mem for
marshmallows, lamed for licorice and kuf for
kiwi. Rivky's tray had beautifully arranged pieces of
different pastries: Apple kugel, Mushroom turnovers, Lokshen
kugel and Custard tartlets.
The card Zeldy held explained that each of these pastries
began with a letter of AMoLeK's name, prepared especially for
this Shabbos when we obliterate his memory -- in this
instance, by consuming all of these tasty treats.
Both little girls proceeded on their way and knocked at each
others' doors. At the exact same moment, they announced: "My
mother sent this . . ."
That evening, while enjoying each others' treats, both women
reached a unanimous decision: "My neighbor's family is really
just as Jewish as my own."
