“My most precious child,” my father charged me, “this is your task now. Gather all the children on the block and invite them for a sukkah party.” For a moment I was astounded. Me? Me, who doesn’t know English, who lives in a cellar, who’s dressed in hand me downs, who’s an outsider and not accepted in the “in group”? I should invite the children on the block – children who live in beautiful homes, who wear beautiful dresses, who make fun of my English and my clumsy ways? Surely they will laugh at me. None of them ever heard of a sukkah. They would never want to come, I told my father. They’ll think I’m crazy.
“No, my child,” my father answered lovingly and patiently. “When you do Hashem’s work no one will ever think you’re crazy. At first they may be taken aback, puzzled, and wonder what it’s all about, but then the ‘Pintele Yid’ embedded in every Jewish heart and soul will flicker and before you know it become a flame that will burn brightly and show them the path to the sukkah.”
I had difficulty absorbing this. The detached way the children treated me testified to the contrary. In those days refugees arriving from Europe, especially from the concentration camps, were shunned. Mothers were concerned their children would catch lice from them and they feared their sons and daughters would hear nightmarish tales that would keep them awake at night. But just the same, my father said, “Go, invite the children.” And so I went.
To my great surprise, they all responded with a yes. They even came to help us decorate the sukkah. When the first night of Sukkos came there was a sense of excitement in the air. When you invest in something, when you work on something, it becomes that much more precious. You take pride in the accomplishment.
With a sense of anticipation the children on the block came to the sukkah. They pointed proudly to their contributions, their decorations that adorned the sukkah in every direction. When we sat down at the table my father started to sing in his sweet, holy voice. As if by magic the children were transformed.
Now it came time for the seudah, the meal, which presented yet another challenge. We were very poor. We didn’t have money to buy meat or even chicken. But somehow my mom managed to buy the feet and the bones of a chicken and made the most delicious soup as only she could. The children loved it, as did everyone who tasted Mama’s food. Mama also made her own cakes and challah. That meant more to the children than French fries or hot dogs or meatballs. It was a wonderful night.
When it was time to relate the story of Sukkos, my father had me tell it because I was the only one in the family who spoke English, even though the words were broken and mispronounced. If my Tatte asked me to speak, what else could I do?
Years went by and the connection became closer and closer; the boys and girls in the neighborhood became my father’s grandchildren. My father always had candy in his pocket but before he would give it to them he would ask for a berachah. In that way he taught them how to make berachos. Many of them went on to become rabbis and rebbetzins and even roshei yeshiva.
In a very real sense it was on those Yom Tovim that I received some early training I put to good use years later in establishing Hineni, reaching out to Jews all over the world.