I Want to Tell Your Story in My Next Book
Friends, today is International Holocaust Remembrance Day, and I could not think of a more appropriate moment to present my next book project to you and solicit your assistance.
Mrs. Chaja Goldfischer’s Candlesticks
Mrs. Chaja Ginzburg Goldfischer, ~1911-1972, Poland, Germany, Belgium, France, UK
Mrs. Feiga Goldfischer Storfer, 1972-2018, UK
Mrs. Naomi Storfer
Bodek, 2018-A’MUSH, USA
The candlesticks that adorn our dining room every Shabbat and Chag have taken a long and tortuous road to finally rest where they are, bathed in the glory of their gorgeous, skilled craftsmanship and effulgent splendor.
They are beautiful because of their physical imperfections, and they are cherished by my wife, Naomi, and if they could speak, they would relate the following story:
I am a candlestick and candelabra. I’m tall and majestic. I’m noticed when I’m in a room, even if I’m in a corner. My components are florally ornate, and you can see the talented hand of my craftsperson on every inch of me.
An unnamed artisan intricately fashioned my parts in the aughts or teens of the 20th century, nearly 120 years ago. In the 1910s, I found myself in a shop in Lesko, Poland, when a young gentleman by the name of Juda Isak Goldfischer – the son of Markus and Malka Kalter Goldfischer - purchased me, and brought me to his home, and gifted me to his new, young wife, Chaja Ginzburg Goldfischer, the daughter of Moshe and Yenta Gleich Ginzburg.
Mrs. Goldfischer made use of me all the days of her life – 60-plus years in total – but there was a time where my ability to stay with the family was brought into peril and question. I did manage to remain within the family’s care despite this war period, and this is the story behind that, which I’m eager to tell you.
I moved peacefully together with the Goldfischers in the late 1920s to Antwerp, Belgium, but in 1940, the family felt the threat of oncoming, impending war. They had endured The Great War and were familiar with the signs. The German march on Belgium was the last straw. It began on May 10, 1940. Mr. and Mrs. Goldfischer hastily sought refuge in the West, and desiring, if possible, to cross the English Channel to reach the United Kingdom, to avert familial catastrophe. The Germans were coming, fast, and they were stretching the Belgian Army to its limit..
The Goldfischers, along with many other families, packed up whatever they could carry on their shoulders, and began a walk west towards freedom with the children sojourning with them: Tauba, 22, Feiga, 18, Menachem Mendel, 15, and Henrietta (Yetti), 9. It was hard on the young ones; it was hard on everybody.
I joined them for this journey, along with other valuables, and we all marched together for two long weeks as the Belgian Army held the line behind us. We walked by day and we walked by night. I was wrapped lovingly in rags and towels and placed in a sack, and the family members would use me as a pillow when they rested. We slept in farms, in barns, in halls, in huts, and other forms of shelter.
I was brought along because of my ritualistic importance and sentimental value, but I could also be bartered for money or for kindness, whichever would be necessary.
When we arrived in Boulogne-sur-Mer, France, after traversing 224 kilometers, we had shed most of the belongings we had brought with us. We had traded them in for cash or food, or having used the item to its completion. I was one of the few items still left in the family’s possession at the end of the two-week journey across the extreme northern parts of Belgium and France.
On May 23, 1940, when we arrived on the shore and looked across the English Channel towards our refuge, there were boats there, but they were not for us. The evacuation of Dunkirk had begun, and the Battle of Boulogne was commencing as we arrived. There was chaos all over the shores. The Goldfischers begged to be allowed on board any of the vessels, and they received mercy.
Enemy planes appeared. The Germans had learned about the evacuation site and had arrived to thwart the operation. They began bombing and strafing our position, and amidst the fright and confusion and raining fury from above, tragedy struck the Goldfischer family.
Mrs. Goldfischer was with the girls, and I was in my sack with them, and we jumped onto one boat amidst all the panic.
Mr. Goldfischer was with Menachem Mendel, and the young man managed to get on another boat, but his father misstepped as he leapt onto the departing vessel. His rucksack - filled with family photographs, documents, and keepsakes – weighed him down so much, that he never resurfaced. At 53 years of age, he was lost forever.
When the family first arrived at Boulogne, they were together as one, embarking hopefully across the Channel, but as they made their way to the opposite embankment, Mrs. Goldfischer was now a widow, and the children were fatherless.
I wish I could relay to you what Mrs. Goldfischer was thinking and feeling at this time – would that I was the sort of creation who could ask such questions of her – with a husband suddenly deceased, a child torn away, and bullets and bombs raining down, but perhaps she might have been thinking something akin to Genesis 32:7-8: “Then Jacob was greatly afraid and distressed: and he divided the people that was with him…and said, “If Esau come to the one company, and smite it, then the other company which is left shall escape.”
We arrived on the shores of the United Kingdom the next day, on May 24, 1940, but Menachem Mendel’s boat went to Liverpool, and the ladies went to London. Mrs. Goldfischer secured lodgings for us, and the family was reunited – through not inconsiderable investigative effort - with Menachem Mendel a short time after.
I remained in the care of Mrs. Goldfischer all the rest of the days of her life - through happiness and sadness, marriages of the children, and the joy of grandchildren – until her passing in 1972 at the age of 79.
Mrs. Goldfischer’s second oldest daughter, Feiga, inherited me. She had married a Viennese scholar and gentleman named Joseph Alfred Storfer AKA Freddy – son of Samuel and Evelina Rachel Storfer – 27 years prior to her mother’s passing. Feiga and Freddy’s three children – Leon, Michael, and Hazel – were well into adulthood, but Feiga was nevertheless overjoyed to have received me.
I remained with Mrs. Storfer in London through the highs and the lows and the joys and the sorrows and all of life itself until her passing in 2018 at the age of 96.
Who would now inherit me? Well, Mrs. Storfer had eleven grandchildren: nine boys, and two girls. Mrs. Aliza Storfer Baum, daughter of Michael and Susan Blinder Storfer, was well pleased with the candelabra she lit every Shabbat in her home in Ramat Beit Shemesh in Israel.
Mrs. Baum politely declined me for interesting reasons: both sets of her grandparents had contributed to the purchase of her candlesticks when she got married, and so they were very sentimental to her. Generations were represented in them, and they were dear to her as a part of every Shabbat. She felt that her cousin should have a sentimental part of her grandmother as well.
Therefore, the beneficiary became Naomi Storfer Bodek, daughter of Leon and Rochelle Weinstein Storfer. She adored her grandmother, and she wanted to possess something that was a part of her. I was an ideal object of desire that could fulfill that hope.
Once this decision was made, I waited patiently in the breakfront for Naomi to pay a visit from the States to the UK, so she could collect me and bring me to my new home. I didn’t have to wait too long, and I’m thankful for that.
It fell to the author of this book, Naomi’s husband, to transfer me from the UK to the USA. He was exceedingly nervous about this. He thought my shape, by touch or by X-ray, could easily be misconstrued as the muzzle of a weapon.
When preparing for the trip home to the US out of Heathrow Airport, Martin wrapped me affectionately and carefully and placed me in his backpack – I seem to do that often, don’t I? He then made a contingency plan for a Storfer family member to come retrieve me, in the event that security did confiscate me, for whatever reason.
Security did lay their hands on me to determine what I was – and you should have seen the look on Martin’s face when this happened – but ultimately they let me pass, and I made it onto the airplane.
Martin only partially exhaled once we landed in the US, because I wasn’t home for good just yet. I needed a bit of repair, and I had to be trusted to a stranger before I could be settled in my new home, in my new continent.
You see, unbeknownst to Naomi at the time, I am actually made of two parts. One is the tall, ornate candlestick, engraved with Mrs. Goldfischer’s initials. The other is an elaborate floral candelabra that inserts into the top of the candlestick. Naomi was surprised when presented with the insert part – Mrs. Storfer had never used it - and she loved her inheritance even more.
Now the candelabra was in a state of a bit of disrepair. It had three arms coming off the center, and one had broken off. I needed a silversmith to weld me back on so that my new owner could use me.
Martin’s mom, Chantze, knew just the person for the job. There was a silver store across the corner from the Boro Park block her parents lived on, and inside was a skilled silversmith.
We visited the store, and when Martin engaged with the silversmith, he carefully explained my entire history, and the devastation that would occur if I was harmed or lost.
I needn’t have worried. I was in good hands, and the smith took care of me professionally, reminiscent of the care I received from my original creator.
In the end, I was neither harmed, nor lost. Instead, I was repaired to close to my original form, with all my perfections and imperfections, and I found a permanent place in the corner of the dining room, atop a tall radiator register, in the Bodek household in Passaic, New Jersey. They’re a fun bunch who like to play board games on Friday nights.
We moved in 2021 to Teaneck, New Jersey. I occupy my little space, atop a lovely silver oval tray, atop a handsome piece of corner furniture, every Shabbat and Chag. My owner lights six lights every such occasion, even though her household is five individuals. The one extra light is for her grandmother, Mrs. Feiga Storfer, in loving memory of her.
I like that. I like that a lot, and I continue to enjoy the family’s Friday night board games.
I hope that Mrs. Bodek lives a long, full life, and uses me for a long, full time.
I
also look forward to the love of whomever inherits me in the family. They have poured
their love and light upon me for generations, ever as much as I have done the
exact same for them.
Young Israel of Passaic Clifton’s
Holocaust Torah
Memorial Scrolls Trust #1056
Travelogue:
The Bečevskolipnica Synagogue, Czechia, 1825-1942
The Jewish Museum, Czechia, 1942-1948
The Michle Synagogue, Czechia, 1948-64
The Westminster Synagogue, c/o The Memorial Scrolls Trust
United Kingdom, 1964-1968
US Veterans Administration Center, US Military Marine Corps, Jewish Chaplains Council Office, USA, 1968-2018
Young Israel of
Passaic Clifton, USA 2018-∞
Your Humble Curator was directly involved in the inauguration of this sentimentally valuable, well-traveled, beautiful Torah scroll at its current home at the Young Israel of Passaic Clifton in New Jersey. I did so with a bit of flair, based on my wife’s clever and endearing suggestion. I’m therefore proud to have the Torah scroll speak for itself, and tell its wide-ranging life story.
I am a Torah scroll. I’m old, but I’m made of good stock. I’m large, strong, and heavy. The wood I’m made of is solid. The parchment I’m made of is visibly weathered, but I’m sturdy, legible, and kosher after some repair. A lovely blue cloth covering adorns me. I’m stately. I would humbly submit that I’m rather handsome.
I made it to my current home via an unconventional and curious, but well-received, serenade. My history is nearly two centuries long, however, and I’d like to tell it to you before I get to the story of my arrival in my present-day dwelling.
Let’s wind the hands of time all the way back to approximately 1825. That’s when I was created by a dutiful scribe whose name I cannot remember. At the writing of this essay, I’m 200 years young, but my memory is not what it used to be.
Lipnick is the small town into which I was born, in the eastern part of what is today Czechia, and I was placed in the care and service of a small house of worship there called The Bečevskolipnica Synagogue. It was the second oldest synagogue in what was then known as Czechoslovakia. I was brought in when the population of the community was the highest it ever was in its history, a fact that remains to this day. At peak population, about 1,600 Jewish souls resided here.
I remained in this beautiful synagogue, which came to be known as The Lipnick Synagogue, for quite a long time. Even though the population kept shrinking, my synagogue remained, and I remained.
This status changed in 1942 – after I’d spent 117 years in my dear synagogue – in the most terrible way: deportation of my people.
I saw it coming, however. We all did.
The Germans invaded Bohemia and Moravia - both lands were inside Czechoslovakia - in 1939. My synagogue was in the Moravia part. At this time, the invaders didn’t truly destroy anything, but instead, confiscated all of it. Jewish businesses and properties were seized, and the synagogues were shuttered. I was left alone in the ark for three long and dark – in every sense of the word - years.
In 1942, the Nazis forced the good people of the community to pack up all their religious artifacts, their ritual items made of valuable metals, and other such items, and bring them to The Jewish Museum in Prague for careful cataloguing and storage. I was one of over 200,000 items that were placed in the museum’s warehouses, which included 1,800 Torah scrolls like me.
Debate rages as to why they ordered this, but the end of the matter is that upon conclusion of this program, the Jewish community was deported to the Theresienstadt Ghetto. From there they were sent to concentration and death camps. Few survived. Fewer returned.
World War II ended in 1945, but I remained hidden away in all that darkness for another three years.
I was liberated in 1948, or so I thought. A communist regime had taken over the area, removed all items in the museum warehouses, and transferred me, and my Torah scroll colleagues, to a damp warehouse just outside of Prague. I languished there in silence, unused, unlooked after, unread from, unloved for 16 years.
Interestingly, and sadly, also in 1948, the Jewish community I once called home ceased to exist due to the devastation of the war. Many Jewish properties were sold. My old synagogue became a Hussite Church (and remains so). I could not go back home, even if I wanted to.
In 1963, the new Czech communist government sought to make a profit from all the religious ceremonial items in storage. They tried selling the collection to Israel; they tried art dealers and collectors; finally, after significant conversations among notable philanthropists and political figures, the collection caught the attention of Mr. Ralph Yablon, who agreed to fund the purchase of 1,564 scrolls that were deemed still viable.
Off we all went to London in 1964, and we landed in The Westminster Synagogue, where the administration set up something called The Memorial Scrolls Trust (MST).
This new organization was created to organize the scrolls, restore them, and distribute them to synagogues and Jewish organizations around the world. The purpose was for all of us to serve as a living memorial - and “silent witness” - to the Jewish communities that no longer existed.
I was given a name as a result of this. I am MST #1056. I received a little certificate and a plaque detailing my authenticity and history. This is not a common thing for creations like me, but it is more than welcome.
In 1968, I shook off the dust and arose. I was freshened up and made fit for use. I then began something of a zigzag adventure sojourn across the United States.
First stop: I was sent to a US Veterans Administration Center in Martinsburg, West Virginia.
Second stop: I was sent to the west coast of the US. This time I found myself in the chapel of a US Military Marine Corps training base.
Third stop: Back to the east coast. I was sent to the main Jewish Chaplains Council office in New York City for purposes of sending me back to the Memorial Scrolls Trust in the UK. At this time, the US Military was transitioning to smaller, lighter Torah scrolls for ease of travel and storage. I’m a fairlsy big Torah scroll.
Fourth stop: However, I received a stay, of sorts, because the organization had received the application for a Holocaust scroll from the Young Israel of Passaic Clifton (YIPC), in New Jersey. MST thought it would be an excellent idea if I could be examined to see if I would be fit for purpose.
So, in 2018, Rabbi Zerach Greenfield inspected me, and found me worthy of continued use. Mr. Avrami Groll, representing YIPC’s abiding interest in possessing a Holocaust Torah, visited the Chaplains Council Office. He reviewed my beauty and integrity, signed off on YIPC’s intent to serve as my new home, and The Memorial Scrolls Trust granted authorization to take possession of me as a “permanent loan.”
There I rested in the ark, alongside several other lovely, younger scrolls while the YIPC administration pondered a creative, punctuated way to introduce me to the public.
The board decided that I would be introduced to the congregation during Simchat Torah – how appropriate is that? – 2019.
It happened to be that the author of this book was the auctioneer for the “Kibudim,” or religious honorifics, allocated on the occasion. He was asked to play up for the crowd the importance and significance of my introduction, as I would be used for the first time for “Kol Hanearim,” or “voice of the children,” a special and emotional Torah reading event.
Your Humble Narrator came home and told his wife about the specialness of this iteration of the annual program. She responded that my story sounded much like the one in the song “The Place Where I Belong,” by Abie Rotenberg. Mr. Auctioneer should transform the lyrics to be relevant to the situation at hand, and sing it to the congregation as part of the auctioneering.
“As you wish,” is what both recall that his response was, and he began writing.
And so, on Simchat Torah evening I was introduced to the community by being an active participant during the sixth “Hakofo,” or dancing circle. This particular dancing circle is devoted, at YIPC, to the current youth and to future generations. What an endearing, wonderful event this was. I hadn’t been enjoyed by youth in nearly a century.
The next day, during the auctioneering segment, your narrator delivered as promised. He gave a brief introduction to my history, and he sang the following song, anthropomorphizing me, just like in the original song:
I hope to Stay, by Martin (Mordechi) Bodek
T.T.T.O. The Place Where I Belong, by Abie Rotenberg
I
was made way back in 1825.
200 years now that I've been alive.
I started life in Lipnick, then the
war brought me to Prague
With 1,800 others, stacked like many
logs.
We
were rescued by a philanthropic man
Who brought us to London, quickly as
he can.
He found homes for all of us, and
sent us on our way.
And I made my path to the grand ol'
U.S.A.
I
spent some time on an east coast army base,
Then traveled to the west coast, my
next place.
Then the chaplain's office in New
York, where Avrami Groll found me,
And permanently loaned me for YIPC.
So
open up your hearts and you will see
our children glow when they look into
me.
I haven't been in a proper shul, for
three-quarters' century.
And I hope to stay for all eternity.
And I hope to stay for all
eternity."
Well I just think that was the loveliest. We broke all kinds of records with the bidding, and several members of the synagogue joined together to purchase the Kol Hanearim “aliyah,” or torah call-up, for Avrami Groll, who made all this happen.
So here I am in the holy ark at YIPC in my old age, treated like I’m brand new. I spent a century in the light, decades in the dark, and I’m back in the light again.
The light is much better.
Mrs. Chantze Malik’s Pendant
Mrs. Chantze Malik, 1909-1944, Romania
Mrs. Brana Stein Malik, 1946-2004, Romania, Israel, USA
Mrs. Chantze Malik Wicentowsky, 2012-2019, USA
Mrs.
Naomi Storfer Bodek, 2019-A’MUSH, USA
The pendant that my wife wears brings a smile to my face daily. It’s not merely a gift from my mother to her daughter-in-law. It feels like a gift proffered from generations past. I see its entire history when I see it, and it is therefore very dear and endearing to me. This is the beautiful history, as told by the pendant itself:
I am a simple, but elegant, diamond pendant. I’m a single pretty diamond, set inside a small silver sphere, attached to the humblest of silver chains, worn by the kindest young lady who wears me proudly every day.
I was once part of a diamond-bedecked ring that was fashioned by a craftsperson in the late aughts of the 20th century. The ring was gifted to a young lady named Chantze Ganz Malik – daughter of Yosef Yom Tov and Malka Rosenberg Ganz – by her young husband, named Aharon Malik, son of Eliezer and Sura Malik.
They lived in a village called Viseu de Jos, in Marmarosh County, in the Transylvania region of Romania, and for a quarter-century, life was peaceful and simple for Mr. and Mrs. Malik and their four children: Yente, Eliezer, Benzion, and Sara.
The good things gave way to the harsh things, however, and the Malik family began to endure the tightening noose that Nazi Germany placed around their lives and their people.
In 1939, 21-year-old Benzion was sent off to war, and he did not return from wherever he was. He was believed to be gone forever.
Shortly thereafter, their rights began to be taken away, systematically.
In 1944, the order came to the Malik family, and all their neighbors, to report to the nearby ghetto. When that happened, Mrs. Malik immediately did something drastic: she placed me, other family jewels, important documents, cherished photographs, and heirlooms in a small box, and she buried it in the backyard of the house.
While I was underground, waiting and hoping to be unearthed, devastation fell upon the Malik family.
On May 25, 1944, the entire family – eighteen members in total - was placed on the trains to Auschwitz.
Only two souls from the family – Eliezer and Sara – survived the first day. Everyone else was murdered upon arrival. Sara died some time later from starvation and despair.
Eliezer survived Auschwitz. He then narrowly survived Buchenwald. After these nightmares and his subsequent liberation, he made his way home.
When he arrived, however, he found nothing there, as the home was completely leveled during the family’s absence, and all that remained was the corner wall of his father’s study.
He knew I was in the backyard with the family’s valuables – he had witnessed the burial of the box - but he did not bother with the matter at this time. He must have felt that unearthing memories alone was too painful an experience. I would remain in the earth until he could resolve his troubled emotions.
Eliezer found lodging with his surviving cousin, Aiber Ganz, in another part of town.
Several months later, Benzion arrived at home as well to find the same destruction – he had survived the front lines of Operation Barbarossa, multiple bullets and bombs, 3.5 years in a Russian military camp, a narrow avoidance of cannibalism due to unimaginable starvation, the final battle of WWII, a 1,600-mile walk home from the Arctic Circle, and near poisoning – standing in front of him.
A kind neighbor noticed Benzion slumped in front of his house in despair – he had survived so much to come home to find nothing – and told him that his brother was alive, and back in town. She sent her son to fetch Eliezer, and the two were reunited. They were the last remnants of their family.
It was only upon their reunion that Eliezer decided to unearth the few family treasures that remained from the entire life that the family had built though the times of simplicity and happiness.
Eliezer and Benzion placed the box in a safe place while they began to rebuild their lives. I was not free yet.
I finally emerged from this box on a beautiful day: Benzion had met a lovely young lady named Brana Stein – daughter of Wolf and Rachel Scharfstein Stein – at a singles event staged by the community. He betrothed her with his mother’s ring, and I remained in her possession and loving care until her passing in 2004, a few weeks shy of her 79th birthday.
Between her engagement and her passing, Brana had three children: Aharon Zev, Laizer Moshe, and Chantze Rachel.
We were together for 58 years, through moves to Israel, and to the United States.
After her passing, Brana’s husband Benzion, placed me and Brana’s jewels in an Anchor Bank safe deposit box for about a decade. Once again, I waited and hoped to see the light of day.
A few years before his passing, Benzion decided to bequeath the contents of the bank box to his daughter,
Chantze Malik Wicentowsky inherited me and the rest of her mother’s jewels. Admittedly, I am, in my fullness, a bit too baudy for this era. Mrs. Wicentowsky kept me in her home, but wondered perpetually what practical use she could make of me.
Time moved on; Mr. Malik passed away in 2014.
Now Mrs. Wicentowsky was always thinking of ways to express her appreciation for her daughter-in-law, Mrs. Naomi Storfer Bodek. She was struck by an idea: the ring she had in safekeeping that she had received from her mother and her late father. What if she plucked one of the diamonds, gifted it to Naomi, and asked her to make something beautiful for herself?
That’s exactly what she did. I emerged once more from a sealed box, surrendered a single, gorgeous diamond from my whole, and was presented to Naomi.
Naomi, in turn, had me embedded in a pretty pendant, attached to a lovely silver chain, and reintroduced to the world in my new form. She absolutely loves it and wears it every day.
I wish both Mrs. Wicentowsky and Mrs. Bodek long, healthy lives. It’s good to be out here in the daylight.
posted by Me @ 7:44 AM
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