Judah Nadich: Rabbi, Military Chaplain, and Community Builder at the library at the Jewish Theological Seminary

The entire Nadich extended family is immensely proud and grateful tonight. This exhibit is the culmination of a process that began some three and a half years ago, when our family decided to donate our father’s voluminous papers, records and documents from over fifty years in the active rabbinate to the archives of the Jewish Theological Seminary.

His precise and thorough notes, journals and records reflected his personality, but also his keen sense of history. He was well aware that he was witness to cataclysmic events in Jewish history, both during WW II and afterward, events that he had responsibility to record for future generations. His record-keeping included not only journals, sermon-notes (from every single sermon spanning 60 years!), clippings and professional correspondence, but also, during the war, almost daily letters to his sisters in Baltimore describing the daily challenges of chaplaincy during those tumultuous and often tragic days. He asked them to save the letters for his return; we found them in chronological order among his papers. Later on, he recorded, in daily letters to his then-fiancé, our mother, the daily challenges of a grueling speaking tour throughout South Africa to raise funds for WW II survivors.

When our family considered what to do with this treasure-trove of historical material, we knew that the Seminary was just the natural place for them. Our father had studied here with the  הדור   גדולי(the great scholars of his generation) who influenced him throughout his career (and handwritten notes from their courses are included in the archives); our mother, Hadassah Ribalow Nadich, graduated from the TI and worked here as Executive Secretary of the Rabbinical Assembly. Our parents’ romance and 60-year partnership began in this building during a Rabbinical Assembly convention, when our father was just out of military uniform. Our father served on the Seminary board for many years. Both our parents were deeply and passionately devoted to the Seminary, its mission and its values.

So you see, the Seminar is “home” for these archives. Thanks to an agreement between the Seminary and the US Holocaust Museum in Washington DC, the materials related to his service during World War II also reside at the US Holocaust Museum in Washington, but the entire archival collection is at the Seminary.

We want to express our appreciation to everyone at the Seminary involved in this project: to Chancellor Arnold Eisen for getting the process going: to Dr. David Kraemer, Director of JTS’s library for his ongoing support, to Michala Biondi for her very skilled and devoted work on the archiving process, to Sarah Diamant who curated the exhibit with such care and to Naomi Steinberger at the Seminary library for shepherding the work, overseeing this evening’s event and keeping us posted every step of the way. We also want to express our heartfelt thanks to those who helped make this archiving process possible, and many of you here tonight are counted among them. תודה מקרב לב (thanks from the bottom of our hearts.)

We hope that, beyond those who come to view this wonderful exhibit, researchers and scholars will mine these archives for what they can tell us about the survival and flourishing of the Jewish people from its darkest days to the bright promise of a thriving global Jewish nation that we hope will be fulfilled במהרה בימינו. Our אבא ואמא, סבא וסבתא (Aba, Ima, Saba, Savta) would be truly proud tonight.

At the beginning of this summer Hadassah and I did something we had been wanting to do for a long time, to tour the National Parks.  We saw such great breathtaking beauty.  One of the English-men in our group turned to us and said, “Why do Americans come to Europe?  We have nothing in Europe to compare with what you have here.”  Indeed, the beauty is incredible.  Yellowstone Lower Falls, the water plunging far down into the deep canyon with its orange, yellow, and brown sides.  Zion National Park with its majestic tall red sandstone pillars.  Monument Valley, its buttes and pinnacles, mesas and monoliths, rising mysteriously out of the sanded desert.  The grand Tetons, towering snow-covered mountains so foreboding.  Cedar Breaks, 11,000 feet high covered with a blanket of pure white snow, its thousands of fingers of high stately snow-covered Douglas fir reaching out toward the dark blue heavens, while you gaze at far distant peaks and below you a steep canyon dappled with patterned colors of red and black.  The sometimes playful, sometimes frightening magic  of the underground in the Carlsbad Caverns.  The Grand Canyon, awe-inspiring, and yet filling you with a sense of wild joy.  Mark Twain said, “When God created the Grand Canyon he failed to create the adjective to describe it.”

An Englishwoman in our midst, greatly moved, whispered, “You must believe in God!”  Reminiscent of Jacob’s words when he awoke in the desert after his dream of the ladder stretching from heaven to earth and said, akhen yesh Adonai bamakom hazeh ve-anokhi lo yadati, “Surely the Lord is present in this place and I did not know it.”  As for me, I thought of the rabbinic comment on the verse in Psalms, en tzur ke’elohenu, “There is no Rock like our God.”  With the slight, revision of the word zur, rock, to zayar, artist, painter, the rabbis understood the verse to mean, en zayer k’elohenu, “There is no artist like our God.”  What we saw during those two weeks convinced me, if I ever needed convincing, that indeed en zayer ke’elohenu, “There is no artist like our God.”

But I thought to myself, you have visited most European lands from the fjords to the Alps, from Finland to the Greek Islands and from Ireland to Poland.  Across all of Africa you have gone, from Cairo to the Cape, and literally all around the world, including Hawaii and Japan, Vietnam, Thailand and India – but all of this inspiring beauty is right here, in your own backyard!  Just a few hours away, but you have to see what is near you and you have to open your eyes to look. 

Strangely enough, the Torah readings for both days of Rosh Hashanah emphasize the same message.  In today’s reading from the Torah, Sarah pressures Abraham to expel Hagar and her son Ishmael from their home.  The hapless mother and son wander in the hot desert until their water is spent.  Weak from thirst she places the child under a bush so that she will not look upon his dying, and she goes off a short distance and weeps.  God reacts to the pitiful scene: va-yifkah elohim et eineha va-teire be’er mayim, “Then God opened her eyes and she saw a well of water.”  Mind you, Scripture dos not say that God performed a miracle and created a well of water for her where none existed before.  The well was there all the time but she did not see it.  She did not look for it; it was there nearby, close to her, va-yifkah elohem et eineha, “God opened her eyes,” and for the first time she saw it.  

Tomorrow on the second day of Rosh Hashanah, the Torah tells the well-known story of the test of Abraham’s faith, when he is asked to sacrifice his son Isaac.  Abraham and Isaac and their servants were on the way to the place where the sacrifice was to be.  Abraham peers into the distance and he sees something.  He halts the procession and he asks his servants, as the Midrash tells it, roim attem mah she-ani roeh, “Do you see what I see?”  The servant answers, “We see only the trackless wastes of the desert.”  Abraham then turns to Isaac and asks, beni roeh attah mah she-ani roeh, “My son do you see what I see?  Do you see anything?”  And Isaac answers, har naeh u-meshubah ani roeh ve-anan kashur alav, I see a mountain, majestic and beautiful, with a cloud of glory hovering over it.”  The servants and Isaac are staring in the very same direction, they both have 20/20 vision.  The servants only see the empty stretches of sand, while Isaac sees a scene of inspiring beauty.  Because you have to see what is near you and you have to open your eyes to look.  Surprising it is not that the Scripture readings of both days of Rosh Hashanah should deal with the importance of developing the art of vision.

Soon the annual cycle will bring cooler days and nights, and the leaves will turn color in nature’s most spectacular show.  And we do not have to travel far to feast our eyes on the riot of color as the leaves dance in their raiment of yellow and gold, orange and red, green and brown.  Of course, we can drive to Vermont, or to the Adirondacks to enjoy the magnificence.  But that is not necessary; we are fortunate and we can spend an hour or two in sheer delight right here in Central Park.  But how many of us will do that?  How many will see and drink in the beauty, the beauty of God’s creation and be thankful? 

In her book, The World I Live In, Helen Keller, who achieved so much despite her blindness, wrote those poignant words, “I have walked with people whose eyes are full of light, but who see nothing in woods, sea or sky, nothing in the city streets, nothing in books.  What a witness masquerade is this seeing.  They have the sunset, the morning skies, the purple of distant hills, yet their souls voyage through this enchanted world with nothing but a barren stare.”  Her words ring true.  For you have to see what is near you and you have to open your eyes to look.  You have to see, you have to appreciate, and you have to act.  To open your eyes to the beauty of nature, to be grateful that such beauty exists, should lead to action to preserve that beauty for future generations.

Judaism is a religion of action.  It emphasizes not believe alone, but mitzvoth maasiyot, the doing of practical deeds, translating faith and gratitude into action.  God’s beautiful earth is deteriorating in our day, despoiled and ravaged by human hands.  The oceans, lakes and rivers are polluted so that people can no longer enjoy them.  The ozone layer is being rapidly depleted.  We are filling the air with poisonous gases which absorb the heat radiating from the earth and prevent it from escaping into space.  That is called the greenhouse effect, and some scientists say it is already here and this summer’s heat was no accident.  And future summers will be even hotter.  Seeing the earth’s beauty and being thankful for it should lead us to raise our voices to protest, to join those pressuring  government to act and to act fast, to clean the air and the water and to preserve our planet.  So we shall fulfill the mandate of our tradition to be a shutaf le-hakadosh barukh hu be-maasei bereishit, a partner to God in the creation of the earth and its preservation.

The family has come in for much attention this summer.  A bright spotlight has been focused on the family, I am sure you have noticed it.  The Democrats set off the celebration of the family at their convention of July.  So the Republicans had their candidates bring more members of their families to their conventions in August.  Candidates’ wives were speaking, and daughters were nominating, and sons were introduced, and brothers were being interviewed, and parents were beaming, and children were waving.  Both the principal candidates and everybody else in sight were running for or with or on the family.  The kiss before the television cameras and the playful pat that became de rigeur.

It is encouraging to know that the family is now receiving good notices.  But one cannot help but question the genuineness, the sincerity.  Is it all being orchestrated by campaign planners?  Are effusive “impromptu” words written beforehand by professional speech writers?  Is it for a political purpose, to be brought front and center at the right time?  Our Rosh Hashanah’s Scriptural readings remind us to open our eyes and to see what a life sustaining treasure we possess today and every day as well in our wife, in our husband.  To strengthen today and every day the bond that unites us in an ahavah she’einah teluyah be-davar, a love that is not dependent on a reason or an occasion or a purpose.  A display of affection not because we want others to notice but because it wells up from our innermost being and is blended with gratitude for our good fortune.

Too many like Hagar do not see the well of refreshing water that the family can be.  They think that having a husband or a wife is a matter of convenience, having someone who is a provider and an escort or one who is an arranger of meals and a decorator of the home.  They assume that their children can be raised exclusively by others and can learn reading in school, religion, in the synagogue and life from their friends, with nothing at all for parents to do. 

I feel sorry for them.  Not only because they do not see the problems they are creating that will come home to haunt them some day, but even more because they are denying themselves the greatest happiness that life can bring – to develop a close personal relationship with your children and your grandchildren.  How rewarding that is!  To learn with them, to play with them, to go to the circus with them, to put something of yourself in them.  What great joy that brings.  To Adam paradise was home.  If we work at it, home can be paradise.  But you have to see what is near you, you have to open your eyes to look.

But it is not enough to see the joy a family can be and to be very grateful for it.  You have to work at it.  Success in marriage does not come just through finding the right mate, but by being the right mate.  To share responsibility and work in building a happy home, a Jewish home.  To help each other, husband and wife, parents and children and sisters and brothers.  To try even when it may be difficult, to understand your children.  The Hebrew word roeh means to see, but when you say ani roeh et devarav, it does not mean, “I see his words.”  It means, “I understand him.”  To not only see your children but to understand them, to change and grow with your children and certainly not to expect them to be your clones.  And to encourage them, to give them a pat on the back. 

Kirk Douglas, the movie star, published his autobiography several week ago called The Rag Man’s Son.  He tells how difficult it was for a poor Jewish boy, growing up 60 years ago in Amsterdam, New York.  Coming home from Hebrew school he was so often beaten by young Christian ruffians because he killed their God.  And he was so lonely.  But what created the anger that has been with him all his life?  He describes it, “The real motivating feeling is that I never got a pat on my back from my father.  He important it was for me to get his approval, and he never gave it to me.”  Rich, successful, a great career, all that Kirk Douglas has, but what still remains with him to this day is his anger because his father never gave him his approval.  So you see you have to work at building a happy family every day.

The ancient rabbis had an expression for Torah, for Judaism.  They called it be’er mayim hayyim, “a well of living waters.”  Certainly the life-sustaining waters of Judaism are close at hand.  No right-wing tyranny, no left-win dictatorship interferes with the full exercise of our right to explore and cultivate Judaism to the fullest.  America encourages religious participation.  We Jews have never before lived in a land so friendly to Jewish religious life, where living a Jewish life can come so easily.  Yet like Hagar so many Jews do not see the well, the be’er mayim hayyim, the well of life-sustaining waters.  And that is certainly too bad, for Judaism can enrich their lives, can give their lives meaning and purpose.  We live in a world of ever greater perplexity with technology replacing the individual.  Judaism tells you, “You matter.  You are of the greatest importance.  What you do counts.”  Moreover, Judaism gives us a sense of belonging to a community, an association with an extraordinary people that has not only lived a long time but a people that has given so much to human values – to the civilizing values.  It was George Bernard Shaw who said, “The Jew is born civilized.”  And the Christian theologian Carl Cornill wrote, “Israel” – that is the Jewish people – “gave the world the sense of true humanity.”

But being a Jewish is something more than a matter of sociology.  We are a faith community, a community that believes, a community that lives by what we take to be God’s law, that tells us what is moral, what is ethical, what is right and what is wrong.  It is our values that connect the mundane to the majestic.  We take seriously the  teachings of our prophets and our Tradition, regarding freedom and law and justice and compassion – to say yes to life and to say no to every form of injustice.

Many of us have forgotten the glory of being a Jew.  We are strangers to a heritage that sustained our parents and our grandparents and our ancestors before them.  So we are without help in confronting the existential anxiety of human mortality.

So many are afraid of dying, and so many are afraid of living, living from day to day without hope, without fulfillment, without meaning in their living.  And the well is right there, the be’er mayim hayyim.  But you have to see what is near you and you have to open your eyes to look.

It is not enough, however, to pledge your allegiance to Judaism, to affirm that you are proud to be a Jew, not enough even to express your gratitude for being a Jew.  Remember, to be a Jew means to act, to apply Jewish values to the world’s problems, to the ills of society.  We say, do we not, that Judaism stands for freedom and law and justice and compassion.  How do these relate to what is happening in Israel?  Can Israel dominate another whole people?  And if it can, should it wish to, if it be true to Jewish teaching?  Are beatings and freedom the answer?  The Jewish answer?  Yet, yet my friends, never to lose the sight of the preciousness of Israel – never to turn our backs on Israel – never to forget what Israel has achieved and what is continues to achieve. 

Where else should Jewish values of justice and compassion move us to action? Do we see the homeless sleeping in our streets?  Men and women created in God’s image as we are, reduced to such degradation, to such dehumanlization, and we walk right past them, without turning our eyes to see.  The plague of drugs sweep through our nation, and think not that it affects only the others, only the strangers.  In this richest country there is the callous rejection of the mentally ill and their expulsion into the streets of our cities.  Racism too is growing afresh, even among Jews, lit by new fires.  And how little compassion there is for the victims of the newest disease of AIDS.  Where there should be compassion and encouragement and support for research leading to a cure.  So many areas in the world where Jews should be involved in putting their values to work, beginning with the Synagogue, the mother institution of Judaism and its values.  If our eyes be opened to see, to appreciate, and to act.

There is a story that is told by Rabbi Bunam and retold by Martin Buber about a Jew named Eisik ben Yekel who loved in great poverty in the city of Cracow in Poland.  One night he had a dream that there was a great treasure awaiting him buried under the bridge in Prague that leads to the royal palace.  After the dream occurred a second time, and then a third time, he went off to Prague with his shovel in his hand, but the bridge was guarded, so Eisik kept walking back and forth on the bridge every day waiting.  Finally one day the captain of the guards, having noticed this man for such a long time, asked whether he was looking for something or whether he was waiting for somebody.   Eisik mustered up all his courage and he told the captain of the guards about his dream, but the officer burst into laughter, saying, that he too had such a crazy dream once, telling him to go to Cracow to dig for treasure under the stove in a room that belonged to some Jew by the name of Eisik ben Yekel.  The officer laughed again, “What a crazy dream!”  Eisik bowed, hurried home, and dug up the treasure from under his stove, and he built a Beth Midrash in Cracow which is called Reb Eisik Yekel’s shul.  When we were there a few years ago I saw it still standing in Cracow.

As with Eisik ben Yekel, so with us.  The treasures are nearby, in the beauty of nature, of art, of music, of the book, in the warmth and comfort, and inspiration and the joy of the family, in the riches of Judaism, the community and the culture of the Jewish people.  But like Balaam in the Biblical story who described himself as ha-gever shetum ha-ayin, “the man of the open eye,” so too must we open our eyes to see, to appreciate, and to act.

On Rosh Hashanah we ask God for so very much.  Perhaps if we were wise we should ask God not to grant us one more gift until we have learned to see what is already ours.  Sight we have, but we must pray for insight.  God opened Hagar’s eyes.  May He open ours.

Amen.

The crown of our head has fallen.

I never had the zechus to know either of Nommi’s parents, so I know them through her.  Through the stories that Nommi has been kind enough to share with me, yes, but that’s only part of it.  I also know them through the way that Nommi carries on their work, the way that she models who they are.  Talking to Nommi after her mother was niftar, I said that the more I learn about her parents, the more I understand where she came from.

As I thought about the things that Nommi told me about her mother and about the person we had lost, I remembered a number of hespeds for great rabbis in Masechet Moed Katan in the Babylonian Talmud.  The first two perakim of the masechet are about the middle days of Pesach and Sukkot, but the last perek is about death and funerals.  One especially stood out for me, on daf 25b:

קאת וקפוד הוכפלו, לראות בשוד ושבר הבא משנער. קצף על עולמו וחמס ממנו נפשות, ושמח בהם ככלה חדשה. רוכב ערבות שש ושמח בבא אליו נפש נקי וצדיק.

G-d snatches souls from this world, but rejoices in them, as at the coming of a new bride.  he who rides the skies rejoices, jubilates, when a pure and righteous soul comes to Him.

Chazal spent a lot of time thinking and writing about hespeds.  In part, that’s because there are halachos to figure out about them.  In part, that’s because the hesped is an opportunity, if we’re thoughtful, to crystallize what we hope to learn from that person so that we can become better people through their example.  I think it’s also because they couldn’t help asking, “how could this be?”  What can it mean when we can lose a righteous person in an instant and then be expected to continue?  How are we supposed to live when the world works this way, and how are we supposed to figure out what G-d wants from us and what G-d wants us to do when we so easily lose the righteous people after whom we can model ourselves?

In that vein, on the same daf, in a different hesped, they say:

אם בארזים נפלה שלהבת – מה יעשו איזובי קיר

 If mighty cedars were felled by a flame – what will hyssops growing out of the wall do?

 How do hyssops like us manage when we lose our cedars?

 It’s a common theme to compare people to trees, starting from the pasuk in Devarim, כי האדם הוא עץ השדה, a person is like the tree of the field (or, rather, is a person like the tree of the field).  Another hesped from Moed Katan states:

תמרים הניעו ראש על צדיק כתמר

 Palm trees sway their heads, (mourning) the righteous person who is like a palm tree.

Righteous people are especially likened to palm trees, as it says in Tehillim, צדיק כתמר יפרח, the righteous person blossoms like a palm tree.  The Meiri, the 13th century commentator from Provence, cites a common idea that the palm tree has one heart – unlike other trees, which have sap and seeds and what not in their leaves and other parts of them (I know pretty much nothing about trees), date trees  have one heart in their root.  The Meiri argues that this makes them like righteous people.  Date trees have one heart.  Extending from that one heart, their branches reach up towards heaven, towards what ultimately is most important.  Also extending from that same heart, their roots stretch into the ground, holding them steady and being part of nourishing the area around them.

One heart.  And that takes us back to Nommi’s mother.  My sense is that a good way to describe her righteousness would be One Heart.  All the stories I’ve heard, heart is at the center of who she was.  Love wasn’t only a clear and striking way in which she organized and dealt with her family – she actually was able to translate love into a political philosophy, into a way of being in the public world.  Her family was clearly her roots, and that family connected directly at all times to her heart – she dealt with her family with a love that was kind and gentle, but also overpowering, almost fierce.  At the same time, her public career drew directly from love of her people, and love of heaven.  Some people can do one well.  Few people can love the world, being busy with it every day, and still love their family to such an extent that there’s no world other than them.

And here’s the thing – if you just walked in, and you didn’t know who I was talking about, you’d think I was talking about Nommi.  All of us here, who know her, know that that’s who she is – it’s one of the many things we revere about her.  So now I know in part where that came from – now I see one way in which Nommi’s mother continues to live through her.

And as for me, my boys are so little.  I muddle around most of the time and have such a hard time figuring out what G-d wants of me.  So I look for people to model myself after.  If years from now, my boys look back on me with a tiny fraction of the love, respect, gratitude, and awe that Nommi, her sisters, and their children have for Nommi’s mother, I’ll have done very well.  And, if years from now, I can manage to have a small fraction of the positive impact on my boys that Nommi, carrying on her mother’s legacy, has had on her family, I’ll be grateful.  Even a small fraction for me would be enough to hope for.

—————————————————————

Dear Meirs, Levins and Belcourts,

It’s been hard to even gather my thoughts to write to you. Martha’s going seemed to take a part of me, as well; also, it deepened and reawakened the loss of my father. The two were so intertwined by love, history, respect: their bond was largely unspoken, but so palpable it had a life of its own. It was something with which I grew up, showing how deep and unwavering love can be. One of my more consoling thoughts was– now my father has company. They are together again, as they were in their small Bronx bedroom (where he told her a monster would eat her toes if they were uncovered, and she could never sleep with uncovered toes for the rest of her life).

I read the hespedim, which were truly lovely, and communicated the abiding love your mother had for you, and you for her. But I must admit, I cried at Alexander’s hesped, which was so tangible and so infused with the reality of what it meant to be in the circle of Martha’s love.

I also knew years of generosity, accomplishment, devotion, and just plain fun.  Although she was a superstar Rebbetzin: a woman of elegance and erudition: a monumentally devoted mother, daughter, sister and aunt–I remember a lot of giggling and an ability to let go and revel in the absurdity of things. I specifically remember a car containing Savta (Rose Ribalow), my mother (Shoshana Ribalow), Martha, a few of the cousins and myself, trying to cross a massive puddle on a road in Queens. Of course, the car got stuck, and we all had to wade through the waist-high water. Martha emerged, holding a bakery box aloft over her head, shouting, “I’ve got the cake”, whereupon she burst into giggles: this set off the rest of us, and watching her make her way through the water, cake above her head like a Jewish Statue of Liberty, transformed what might have been a traumatic memory into a warm and life-affirming one.

I feel your mother as the ultimate Jewish woman, who bound you with threads of love and would never let you go. She was, for myself and Meir, a root source of warmth and recognition throughout our lives.  She accomplished so much and was so much: but the ultimate accomplishment of Martha and Judah was the completeness and totality of the family they created. All of you– Leah, Shira and Nommi: Larry, Jimmy and David: and all the grandchildren, are a legacy which shines with their inner light. You all contain sacred fragments of their shattered vessel. All of them are here– Menachem Ribalow, Rose Ribalow, Harold Ribalow, Martha and Judah– in us and burn so bright, it feels as if they have not been extinguished.

The Sioux Indians say: “Count no man fortunate, until he has died a good death.” I think of your mother surrounded by every one of her children and grandchildren. I think of how Meir described a daughter holding each hand throughout those last days. I think of how you described to me the telling of stories, the singing of songs, having Tani speak Yiddish, and telling her she was going to her no-longer-lost-family. This is a death of the few, one in which blessings shine on your path into the dark. It is one she deserved, and one which could only transpire because she brought all that it embodies into the world, and blessed all of us with her very being.

With all my love,

Reena

Published in the New York Times on 3/26/2008.

NADICH–Hadassah. Our hearts are with Leah, Shira, Nomi and their families. We will miss her. Wendy and Judd Meltzer and family
Published in the New York Times on 3/27/2008.

NADICH–Hadassah. Park Avenue Synagogue mourns the passing of Hadassah Nadich, beloved wife of our late Rabbi Emeritus Judah Nadich. A great lady of dignity and warmth, especially to our congregants who greatly adored her. We extend to her daughters and the entire family our heartfelt sympathy. May her memory remain for a blessing. David H. Lincoln, Senior Rabbi Amy A.B. Bressman, Chairman of the Board Menachem Z. Rosensaft, President
Published in the New York Times on 3/26/2008.

NADICH–Hadassah Ribalow. Beloved friend, confidant for over 50 years. Deepest sympathy to Shira, and her entire family. Bernie Weiss and Family
Published in the New York Times on 3/26/2008.

the-jewish-woman-liberated-or-enslaved.pdf

As all of the cousins were sitting around the apartment, processing the sad news yesterday, we shared beautiful memories and stories with one another.  Who could complain when, immediately upon arrival to Saba and Savta’s home, the first question after a kiss and “how are you?” was “what would you like? Soda? Candy? Cake?”

Savta made each of us feel so special and loved in a personalized way.  She knew everyone’s culinary favorites, and she would always make sure to have prepared something special for each of us.  For my cousin Tani, it was chocolate mousse.  Until my brother Gideon was born, coffee cake was just called coffee cake.  But since that was the only sweet thing he liked, she renamed it “The Gideon Cake.”

When my brothers or I needed to go to Doctor Murphy when we were young kids, Savta would take us.  She made us feel safe in the doctor’s office, even while we were getting shots. She would race over to take care of us if we were home sick from school with black and white cookies, soups, coca cola and anything else that we needed.

When my brother Ben needed help with his Hebrew homework, he would call his best resource – our savta – who knew what every Hebrew word meant, while also suggesting beautiful idiomatic styles with which to improve our writing.

Adin and I talked about how special Savta made us feel during summers at Camp Ramah. Each year, our counselors would show up with enormous packages Savta bought, overflowing with snacks, games and other goodies with a note from Savta and Saba expressing their love, how much they missed us, and how they couldn’t wait to see us at the end of August.

On my cousin Vered’s tenth birthday, Saba took her to see the broadway show, Les Miserables.  Always planning in advance, Savta purchased the soundtrack and played it for her many times while driving her around in Atlantic Beach, trying to explain the history of the French revolution in a way that a young child could understand so that she would enjoy the musical even more.

After a trip to Atlantic Beach, my cousin Rosina made a big discovery.  Until then, her parents tried to steer her clear from any sugar-based desserts.  Trips to Atlantic Beach, on the other hand, were never free of such things.  After a visit to Saba and Savta’s, Nommi asked “What kind of fruit would you like tonight for dessert?” Rosina answered “a brownie.”

For all of our birthdays, Savta arrived either in Teaneck, the West Side or Boston armed with what seemed like hundreds of customized cakes and cupcakes with various kinds of frostings and fillings, accommodating everyone’s particular tastes.  She was even the theme of one special birthday, where she arrived on the scene to lead a group of eager kids in a cinnamon-twist baking party.

As a child, I was picked up from school every Friday by Savta so that we could spend time together.  Since I was so small, she gave me a stool to stand on in the kitchen and folded an adult-size apron in half for me to wear.  I would help her bake challah, pies and other desserts, as well as the many delicious dishes that made each Shabbat so special for the family.

Even though I was a young child and even though Friday afternoon was the busiest time of the week for her, she made time for me every single week.  She showed me how to make family and love the two most important priorities as we braided the challot and seasoned the soup.

I loved this time together so much, and over the years, cooking and baking became the foundation of our particularly close relationship.  In and out of the kitchen, Savta always treated me like an adult.  We found a common language that flowed over to all the other areas of relationships that make two people close.

Savta was always curious to know exactly what I thought about everything.  Whether talking about politics, recipes or family members, she had her opinions and she always wanted to know mine.  She encouraged me to think creatively in and out of the kitchen – don’t be afraid to try a new recipe – but don’t be afraid to change it around too if you have a better idea.

Isn’t that statement also true for life itself? She strengthened my self-esteem and made me realize that I could do anything if I put my mind to it.

When I spoke with Tani about one of his favorite childhood memories of Savta, he mentioned one very special one. When his parents had to work late a few nights a week, the sweet, young and vulnerable boy would call up Savta on the phone and whisper to her that he was lonely because his parents weren’t home.  She responded “You can always call me whenever you’re feeling lonely.”  And Tani felt immediately better.

We are all going to miss being with Savta so much now that she is gone.  I know that her memory will be a blessing for all of us.

But today we need to tell you about our Ema and Savta as she had been: a woman of regal bearing and sharp intellect, a woman of independent mind and spirit. She served as a leader in the Jewish community in a lifelong partnership with Judah, the love of her life. She was raised by parents who dedicated their lives to the renewal of the Hebrew language; her father and brother were both gifted literary critics and essayists. Her family was the “yichus” into which my father married.

Her leadership qualities emerged early: after receiving bachelor’s degrees from both Hunter College and the Jewish Theological Seminary’s Teachers’ Institute, she became the executive secretary of the Rabbinical Assembly. (When a man was hired for the position after her departure, the title was changed to “executive director.”) Through her work in this position, she met and married our father. As was customary at the time that they married, she took on the profession of “rebbetzin”, in which she took pride and excelled. At Kehillath Israel in Brookline, where she began her career at 24 as rebbetzin, she played a leadership role in the congregation even while she was raising the three daughters who were born there. But she needed even more intellectual challenge in her life, so she took courses toward a Master’s degree in Jewish studies at Brandeis University. She loved the courses – I remember her being especially enthusiastic about her Jewish philosophy courses with Professor Simon Ravidowicz.

And she grew even more fully into her leadership role after our move to New York and the Park Avenue Synagogue, to which she and our father devoted thirty years. Within the synagogue and its various organizations, she taught and lectured, she reviewed books, she provided a model of a Jewishly educated woman. She took on challenges outside the synagogue as well – she worked as research assistant to Professor Louis Finkelstein z”l, the Chancellor of the Seminary, comparing different versions of the Siddur. I remember our dining room table being covered with 10 or 12 different Siddurim, each open to the same tefillah, the same prayer, so that she could compare the texts. She loved that work – seeing the differences in language among the texts and being able to work in Hebrew – it was a dream assignment for her. Later on, she used her literary skills and creativity in developing the beautiful annual calendar diary for the Women’s League. She saw it as a perfect chance to transform a functional tool like a calendar and date book into an educational tool and an artistic keepsake.

She had a talent for transforming other seemingly mundane, functional events into educational and creative triumphs. Her culinary and baking skills made weekday family dinners (always with three courses) into precious times of family conversation and enjoyment. But these skills went much, much farther, as many of you know. Her marvels of varied Jewish foods, flaky pastries and yeast cakes, always presented elegantly, taught volumes about how Shabbat and Jewish holidays should be enjoyed. I’m convinced that the spaghetti and meatballs, cole slaw and brownies that she served to the teenagers who attended class with my father at our home in Brookline played a big part in firing up their interest in Jewish learning. The graduates of those dinners and classes became a “who’s who” in Jewish professional leadership in this country.

Like our father, she was a role model in the sphere that was most precious to her, that of family and loved ones. She showed us how it should be done. From caring lovingly for our father’s sister, Gertie a”h, while she lived with us during her cancer treatments in New York, to tending to her mother, Rose Ribalow a”h during 35 years of widowhood and her brother Uri z”l during his long illnesses, to spending a day every week helping our cousin Debby with her two young children, to providing for every need of mine and my sisters over our lifetimes, to lavishing (and I mean lavishing!) attention in every conceivable way on her grandchildren, she left absolutely no doubt about how extravagantly she loved her family. She was a professional at this as well.

And in her later years, when her physical limitations made it difficult for her to do for others, we, her children and grandchildren, have tried to live what she taught us. We were privileged to be able to do what we could to ease her life. And when mentioning this, I must pay tribute to the women who cared for our father and mother with unmatched dedication, skill and love, Joyce Miller-Gidden and Yvonne Wongsong. They attended to our father’s and mother’s needs with dignity and respect up until their very last moments. And our thanks as well to Sandra Nedd and Patricia Brown who also helped my parents with devotion. they have our everlasting gratitude and thanks.

I have one closing message for our mother. One of my early memories is of Ema at the age of 31, mourning the untimely loss of her father. I remember saying to her (in Hebrew, the language that we spoke at home): “Al tivki, Ema, al tivki” – Don’t cry, Ema, don’t cry. In the years since then, there have been many, many happy occasions, but grief as well for many lost loved ones. But nothing matched the terrible grief and loss that she felt for the last seven months. I can say to her now: “Sof labechi, Ema, sof labechi” – your tears are over.

Yehi Zichra Baruch.