Ellen Brazer's Blog
May 24, 2021
Review Times of Israel
I am so excited. I found this at 5 am this morning!
I Am Meir’s Brother � Biography of A Family Separated by Destiny by Ellen Brazer � A Review
I Am Meir’s Brother � Biography of A Family Separated by Destiny by Ellen Brazer � A Review
February 11, 2021
I Am Meir's Brother
Allow me to introduce you to the parents that birthed two remarkable sons, whose efforts in life changed the world. To do this I am enclosing Chapter 1 in this blog. Read and enjoy. There is so much more to experience and I hope you will join me on the magnificent adventure.
Chapter 1
193S6, Lukow, Poland
Sixteen-year-old Mina Slushni was quiet and a bit shy. But beneath that exterior facade laid an obstinate streak of resolve that was focused on Shmuel Huberman, the young man she intended to marry. Three years her senior, Shmuel was friendly, outgoing and magnetically charismatic. Only 5' 6", he had a presence that seemed to take up more space than he actually did. Dashing and handsome, his face was shaped like a gentle “U,� accentuated by intense dark eyes, a prominent nose and a contagious smile that radiated warmth.
Mina was short and compact with thick wavy raven-colored hair that cascaded down her back, wide set dark eyes, a straight nose and a pretty mouth that all seemed to fit perfectly on her oval-shaped face.
Mina’s parents, Sara and Berl Slushni, were the proprietors of a successful dry goods store. And Mina was the niece of Rabbi Aaron Freiberg, a rabbi in the shetetl town whose Jewish population neared ten thousand. Rabbi Freiberg’s influence as a spiritual leader was so profound his entire extended family was considered yichus nobility. As a sign of respect, Berl was known by the honorific name Reb (Rabbi) Slushni. Proud to be observant Jews, they did not even comb their hair on the Sabbath, for fear it might be considered working.
On the other hand, the boy was openly and proudly non-religious. To make matters more intolerable, he was an outspoken leader in the socialist-Zionist group known as Hashomer Hatzair, The Young Guard.
His mother, Rachel, had lost her husband to typhoid. Widowed, she had supported her young son and daughter by selling lamp kerosene from a pushcart. A beautiful woman with luxurious blond hair and penetrating blue eyes, she remarried after ten years of widowhood to Levi Shulshtein, a successful owner of a bakery. She no longer worked but that changed nothing. Shmuel’s family would always be thought of as socially beneath the Slushni family.
The very idea that their daughter, Mina, would even be seen in public with Shmuel Huberman was outrageous. Consequently, Mina was absolutely forbidden to see Shmuel. She begged her parents to reconsider, but her entreaties fell on deaf ears.
Refusing to turn away from each other, the young couple did the unthinkable. They eloped. Mina’s parents were brokenhearted and furious, believing that Mina had dishonored their traditions and their name in an unforgivable act of disrespect. The result was a decision too often observed in orthodox religious homes: they declared their daughter dead and sat shiva, seven days of mourning.
Three Years Later
It was a bitterly cold winter day, the wind howling and icicles hanging in claws from the roof eaves, the streets and sidewalks slick and treacherous. Yet, tucked inside a stove-heated cozy room in the shetel of Lukow,
Mina Slushni Huberman gave birth to a son they named Eliezer. It was February 8, 1939. Exactly eight days after the birth, as commanded in the Torah, a circumcision ceremony was per- formed. In attendance were both sets of grandparents.
The birth of their first grandchild obliterated the idealistic declaration Berl Slushni had made that his daughter was dead.
That proclamation was reversed by the obligation he had to make sure that his grandson Eliezer, nicknamed Eli, would study Torah and Talmud and that he would be raised as an observant Jew.
Seven months later, on September 1, 1939, one and a half million Nazis under orders from Adolph Hitler invaded Poland. The attack was brutal and all-encompassing as the Luftwaffe bombed Polish airfields, and the German warships and U-boats decimated the Polish naval forces. In a series of cataclysmic and catastrophic events, bombs were dropped over Lukow, and dozens of innocent civilians were killed. Fear, panic and shock set in with the invasion.
The hopes and dreams of a generation imploded in grief. It was a nightmare that would for- ever scar the soul and the conscience of humanity.
When the German’s invaded Lukow, the resistance fighters of the Polish Home Army fought back and managed to kill several German soldiers. In retaliation, the Germans rounded up every Jewish man in the shtetl. They chased them through the streets, beating, maiming, shooting and setting Jewish buildings and homes afire.
During the chaos, Mina was shoved into the synagogue along with hundreds of other women, weeping and screaming for their fathers and husbands, their sons, and their grandsons. She clutched her little boy Eli to her chest, terrified, trembling and in shock.
Hours and hours passed before the doors of the synagogue were finally unlocked, and the women were allowed to leave. Mina ran through the streets, sheltering her son from the searing heat of the rag- ing fires. Arriving home, she and Eli were greeted with wailing cries of joy, hugs and tears by her miraculously unharmed parents and husband.
Chapter 1
193S6, Lukow, Poland
Sixteen-year-old Mina Slushni was quiet and a bit shy. But beneath that exterior facade laid an obstinate streak of resolve that was focused on Shmuel Huberman, the young man she intended to marry. Three years her senior, Shmuel was friendly, outgoing and magnetically charismatic. Only 5' 6", he had a presence that seemed to take up more space than he actually did. Dashing and handsome, his face was shaped like a gentle “U,� accentuated by intense dark eyes, a prominent nose and a contagious smile that radiated warmth.
Mina was short and compact with thick wavy raven-colored hair that cascaded down her back, wide set dark eyes, a straight nose and a pretty mouth that all seemed to fit perfectly on her oval-shaped face.
Mina’s parents, Sara and Berl Slushni, were the proprietors of a successful dry goods store. And Mina was the niece of Rabbi Aaron Freiberg, a rabbi in the shetetl town whose Jewish population neared ten thousand. Rabbi Freiberg’s influence as a spiritual leader was so profound his entire extended family was considered yichus nobility. As a sign of respect, Berl was known by the honorific name Reb (Rabbi) Slushni. Proud to be observant Jews, they did not even comb their hair on the Sabbath, for fear it might be considered working.
On the other hand, the boy was openly and proudly non-religious. To make matters more intolerable, he was an outspoken leader in the socialist-Zionist group known as Hashomer Hatzair, The Young Guard.
His mother, Rachel, had lost her husband to typhoid. Widowed, she had supported her young son and daughter by selling lamp kerosene from a pushcart. A beautiful woman with luxurious blond hair and penetrating blue eyes, she remarried after ten years of widowhood to Levi Shulshtein, a successful owner of a bakery. She no longer worked but that changed nothing. Shmuel’s family would always be thought of as socially beneath the Slushni family.
The very idea that their daughter, Mina, would even be seen in public with Shmuel Huberman was outrageous. Consequently, Mina was absolutely forbidden to see Shmuel. She begged her parents to reconsider, but her entreaties fell on deaf ears.
Refusing to turn away from each other, the young couple did the unthinkable. They eloped. Mina’s parents were brokenhearted and furious, believing that Mina had dishonored their traditions and their name in an unforgivable act of disrespect. The result was a decision too often observed in orthodox religious homes: they declared their daughter dead and sat shiva, seven days of mourning.
Three Years Later
It was a bitterly cold winter day, the wind howling and icicles hanging in claws from the roof eaves, the streets and sidewalks slick and treacherous. Yet, tucked inside a stove-heated cozy room in the shetel of Lukow,
Mina Slushni Huberman gave birth to a son they named Eliezer. It was February 8, 1939. Exactly eight days after the birth, as commanded in the Torah, a circumcision ceremony was per- formed. In attendance were both sets of grandparents.
The birth of their first grandchild obliterated the idealistic declaration Berl Slushni had made that his daughter was dead.
That proclamation was reversed by the obligation he had to make sure that his grandson Eliezer, nicknamed Eli, would study Torah and Talmud and that he would be raised as an observant Jew.
Seven months later, on September 1, 1939, one and a half million Nazis under orders from Adolph Hitler invaded Poland. The attack was brutal and all-encompassing as the Luftwaffe bombed Polish airfields, and the German warships and U-boats decimated the Polish naval forces. In a series of cataclysmic and catastrophic events, bombs were dropped over Lukow, and dozens of innocent civilians were killed. Fear, panic and shock set in with the invasion.
The hopes and dreams of a generation imploded in grief. It was a nightmare that would for- ever scar the soul and the conscience of humanity.
When the German’s invaded Lukow, the resistance fighters of the Polish Home Army fought back and managed to kill several German soldiers. In retaliation, the Germans rounded up every Jewish man in the shtetl. They chased them through the streets, beating, maiming, shooting and setting Jewish buildings and homes afire.
During the chaos, Mina was shoved into the synagogue along with hundreds of other women, weeping and screaming for their fathers and husbands, their sons, and their grandsons. She clutched her little boy Eli to her chest, terrified, trembling and in shock.
Hours and hours passed before the doors of the synagogue were finally unlocked, and the women were allowed to leave. Mina ran through the streets, sheltering her son from the searing heat of the rag- ing fires. Arriving home, she and Eli were greeted with wailing cries of joy, hugs and tears by her miraculously unharmed parents and husband.
January 28, 2021
WHY HEARTS OF FIRE IS BEING REBORN
My hands are trembling as I write this blog. It seems so surreal that after so many years, I am making Hearts of Fire, my first book, available as a re-edited e-book.
I AM GIVING AWAY 100 E-BOOKS ON GOODREADS. REGISTER TO WIN FROM JANUARY 31, 2021 THRU FEBRUARY 25, 2021
This book took ten years to write, even though it spent much of that time under my bed. Agents sent me detailed rejection letters, praising the book as they pointed out that in the year 2000 the book was too long, 518 pages, and that people were no longer interested in Holocaust novels. Never mind that it was a backstory of that period. Heartbroken, I dusted myself off and decided to self-publish in a print version only. I began doing speaking engagements and to my delight, I actually sold books. An agent suggested that I do a rewrite, using the same storyline, but focusing on a different time period and a different character. I am proud an honored to say that the book I wrote, Clouds Across the Sun became an award-winning novel soon to be a major motion picture. Because of its similarity to Hearts of Fire, I decided to take Hearts out of publication. Recently a professor friend, that I highly respect, read Hearts of Fire and encouraged me to bring it back into publication. And so, I have! For the first time, the book is now available on Amazon for $6.95:
The print version will follow soon.
Summary: Shadowing the lives of two families, Hearts of Fire begins with the Milch Twins. Raised in Berlin, Germany, they are classic products of poverty and abuse. Brilliant, handsome and despotic, one twin maneuvers his way into the twisted bowels of the Nazi inner circle. Simultaneously, we follow the life of a girl born into a pious Jewish family in Vilna, Poland. Gifted, beautiful and determined to become an actress, she makes the momentous decision to break with the traditions of her faith to pursue her dream. From pre-war Paris to post-war Russia, from the malaria-infested swamps of Israel to the greed-filled corridors of modern Washington, this historical saga is a story of duplicity and outrage, courage, termination, love and triumph.
Hearts of Fire is available on Amazon in an e-book
Clouds Across the Sun is available on Amazon in e-book and print
I AM GIVING AWAY 100 E-BOOKS ON GOODREADS. REGISTER TO WIN FROM JANUARY 31, 2021 THRU FEBRUARY 25, 2021
This book took ten years to write, even though it spent much of that time under my bed. Agents sent me detailed rejection letters, praising the book as they pointed out that in the year 2000 the book was too long, 518 pages, and that people were no longer interested in Holocaust novels. Never mind that it was a backstory of that period. Heartbroken, I dusted myself off and decided to self-publish in a print version only. I began doing speaking engagements and to my delight, I actually sold books. An agent suggested that I do a rewrite, using the same storyline, but focusing on a different time period and a different character. I am proud an honored to say that the book I wrote, Clouds Across the Sun became an award-winning novel soon to be a major motion picture. Because of its similarity to Hearts of Fire, I decided to take Hearts out of publication. Recently a professor friend, that I highly respect, read Hearts of Fire and encouraged me to bring it back into publication. And so, I have! For the first time, the book is now available on Amazon for $6.95:
The print version will follow soon.
Summary: Shadowing the lives of two families, Hearts of Fire begins with the Milch Twins. Raised in Berlin, Germany, they are classic products of poverty and abuse. Brilliant, handsome and despotic, one twin maneuvers his way into the twisted bowels of the Nazi inner circle. Simultaneously, we follow the life of a girl born into a pious Jewish family in Vilna, Poland. Gifted, beautiful and determined to become an actress, she makes the momentous decision to break with the traditions of her faith to pursue her dream. From pre-war Paris to post-war Russia, from the malaria-infested swamps of Israel to the greed-filled corridors of modern Washington, this historical saga is a story of duplicity and outrage, courage, termination, love and triumph.
Hearts of Fire is available on Amazon in an e-book
Clouds Across the Sun is available on Amazon in e-book and print
December 16, 2020
Fabulous News to Share
This has been such a difficult year for all of us. And so it is with great joy that I am able to report some happy news! First, I want to tell you that Clouds Across the Sun
is being made into a movie by Film Bridge International. Clouds was a preproduction selection at the Cannes Film Festival in France.
I am Meir's Brother will be released in the coming months. It is my first biography and it is one of the most challenging, exciting and life-changing events in my writing career. As creative non-fiction that reads like a novel, I Am Meir's Brother unravels the true story of why the threat of assassination forced two brothers, one a renowned cancer researcher and the other head of the Israeli Mossad, to keep their familial relationship a secret. This book will take you to the freezing tundra of Siberia during WWII to the creation of the State of Israel. In America you will be introduced to our guarded government research facilities and have the opportunity to peer into the private life of a renowned cancer research scientist, and his revered brother known as the king of shadows.
But I am not done! I am working on re-releasing Hearts of Fire. This was my very first book, and my husband's favorite. Hearts of Fire is the prequel and extended version of Clouds Across the Sun. If you liked Clouds you will have the opportunity to revisit the story in a much deeper version. Shadowing the lives of two families, Hearts of Fire begins with the Milch Twins. Raised in Berlin, Germany, they are classic products of poverty and abuse. Brilliant, handsome and despotic, one twin maneuvers his way into the twisted bowels of the Nazi inner circle. Simultaneously, we follow the life of a girl born into a pious Jewish family in Vilna, Poland. Gifted, beautiful and determined to become an actress, she makes the momentous decision to break with the traditions of her faith to pursue her dream. From pre-war Paris to post-war Russia, from the malaria-infested swamps of Israel to the greed-filled corridors of modern Washington, this historical saga is a story of duplicity and outrage, courage, termination, love and triumph.
is being made into a movie by Film Bridge International. Clouds was a preproduction selection at the Cannes Film Festival in France.
I am Meir's Brother will be released in the coming months. It is my first biography and it is one of the most challenging, exciting and life-changing events in my writing career. As creative non-fiction that reads like a novel, I Am Meir's Brother unravels the true story of why the threat of assassination forced two brothers, one a renowned cancer researcher and the other head of the Israeli Mossad, to keep their familial relationship a secret. This book will take you to the freezing tundra of Siberia during WWII to the creation of the State of Israel. In America you will be introduced to our guarded government research facilities and have the opportunity to peer into the private life of a renowned cancer research scientist, and his revered brother known as the king of shadows.
But I am not done! I am working on re-releasing Hearts of Fire. This was my very first book, and my husband's favorite. Hearts of Fire is the prequel and extended version of Clouds Across the Sun. If you liked Clouds you will have the opportunity to revisit the story in a much deeper version. Shadowing the lives of two families, Hearts of Fire begins with the Milch Twins. Raised in Berlin, Germany, they are classic products of poverty and abuse. Brilliant, handsome and despotic, one twin maneuvers his way into the twisted bowels of the Nazi inner circle. Simultaneously, we follow the life of a girl born into a pious Jewish family in Vilna, Poland. Gifted, beautiful and determined to become an actress, she makes the momentous decision to break with the traditions of her faith to pursue her dream. From pre-war Paris to post-war Russia, from the malaria-infested swamps of Israel to the greed-filled corridors of modern Washington, this historical saga is a story of duplicity and outrage, courage, termination, love and triumph.
September 1, 2015
I am Jewish. Now What?
I have spent the last twenty years of my life writing Jewish Historical Fiction. I have researched and written about the gut wrenching subject of the Holocaust. That research took me to Vilnius, Lithuania, Israel and Russia. My most recent book is set in the second century in Ancient Roman and Israel.
Writing the books is the artistic part of the endeavor. Business is what happens once the books are published! Marketing comes next and that means a very different mindset. I worked very hard to identify and then contact what I saw as my potential readers. It has paid off: Over the past three years I have spoken to over five thousand people in over a hundred venues throughout the country. Any writers out there reading this, please contact me and I will be honored to share how I made this happen.
I am now doing something very different. I am writing non-fiction for the very first time. I am going to post chapters from my new book. I am hoping that you enjoy my writing and will follow me as I go along. More importantly, I pray that you will want to read my other books: Clouds Across the Sun, And So It Was Written.
Chapter 1
The DNA of Judaism
I was a twice-a-year Jew: I attended synagogue on Yom Kippur and Rosh Hashanah. Out of a strong feeling of obligation, we always belonged to a synagogue. My sons had a Bar Mitzvah and my daughter a Bat Mitzvah. That was the extent of my Judaic participation.
Then, dramatic events in my life led me back to Judaism. I say back because as Jews, none of us are ever really that far away. The fog may have set in, and we may have looked elsewhere for answers, but in the end, we begin to remember that we all stood together at Mt. Sinai and that Judaism is in our DNA.
I am on a quest to simplify the understanding of this complicated religion. In doing so, I am reaching my hand out to you, asking you to join me. If you are wondering what I believe, here goes—at this moment I embrace the Reform and the Conservative movements and the teachings of Chabad. In other words, I take what I like from each. Some would say that makes me a hypocrite and a heretic. I would say I am just a searching Jew.
Just like we put one foot in front of the other to walk forward, I want to tell you how this journey began for me. At 92, my father was still driving at night and was a fabulous golfer. When my brother called at two in the afternoon on my sister-in-law’s birthday to say that daddy had not called her, I knew we were in trouble. I had tried to call him several times earlier in the day but he had not answered. I thought he was probably out for a walk or doing errands from the running list he always kept. Please indulge me. If what comes next makes you sad, I am sorry. But I see now that day was the beginning of it all—not the end.
I was working with my writing group when the call came from my brother. The person who lived closest to my father’s townhouse was my beloved former daughter-in-law, Randi, the mother of my two granddaughters. I called Randi and pleaded, “Please just drive over to Papa’s house to see if his car is in the driveway.� I could hear her fighting back the terror as she said, “Oh no! What will I do if it is there?� Ten minutes later my cell phone rang. Randi was weeping. “The car is here.� She adored my father and I was and still am so sorry that I put her through the ordeal that ensued. Yet, there is not another person in the world who could have shown the dignity and grace that she displayed on this horrific day.
She stayed on the phone with me until the police arrived and broke in the door. From the moment they entered his two-story townhouse, they knew my father was dead. She stayed outside relating everything that was happening. I was forty-five minutes away! I knew I could not drive. I called my husband, making up an excuse for him to pick me up without telling him what had happened. My father was my husband’s best friend.
I am not sure how we managed to drive to the house. The traffic was a nightmare, just like the nightmare we were in. My brother and sister-in-law and my daughter were already at the house when my husband and I arrived. My daughter was seven months pregnant. When I walked up the stairs, she was alone in the room with my father. Daddy was on the floor in his boxer shorts. He had passed away as I hope I will—lying on the floor doing exercises. My husband stayed a few minutes and then he went downstairs.
I sat beside my father on the floor: staring, talking to him, touching him. With death, his sun-lined face was smooth. He had a band-aid on his toe. The band-aid looked so incongruous, so ridiculous: he was dead! My daughter, Carrie and I just sat with him. His body had begun to decompose but neither of us was aware of anything but our great loss. In that few hours as we waited for the funeral home driver to arrive, I could feel his soul hovering over us. I wasn’t afraid—just so sad. The only person left in the world who would ever love me unconditionally was gone. He was my hero and my heart was broken.
Some would say I was so lucky to have had him for so long, and that is so true. But he was always there and now he was gone. I would not trade those three hours that I sat with him for anything. My daughter stayed with me. I think it brought us closer than we had ever been. It made me see death in a different way. I understood that he would always be with me just as my mother has always been with me. My father wore a mezuzah around his neck, and I remember taking it off his cold heavy body and putting it around my neck. I later gave it to my eldest son; he has never taken it off.
Dad was a religious man, going to the conservative synagogue every Saturday. He was blessed to have my brother and me, seven grandchildren and five great grandchildren. After services every Saturday, he would call each of us to wish us a Shabbat Shalom, never pushing his ritual on any of us. When I would call him later in the day, on the Sabbath, and ask what he was doing, he would always say the same thing: “My Shabbas thing. I am reading and relaxing.�
As I write this, I can still envision my family sitting in a circle in the rabbi’s study the day after my father passed away. As is the custom in Judaism, we took turns talking about my father as the rabbi listened. When it was my turn, I told the Rabbi that my father used to tease me and say, “I want you to say Kaddish for me when I die.�
Kaddish for the dead entails eleven months of going to synagogue every day to say a prayer that does not even mention death or the departed. It is a prayer of thanksgiving, praise of G-d, and concludes with a prayer for peace. Let me also add that throughout the book I will write the word G-d with a hyphen. The reason: to show respect for the Creator.
I would retort to my father by saying, “You are not going to die� and then added, “Please don’t lay that on me!� We would laugh. I really expected the rabbi to say, “That’s very nice. I think it would be lovely if you went every Saturday.� What I did not know was that the Conservative Movement had changed. Women were now counted in that minyan of ten Jews needed in order to recite the blessing aloud. The rabbi looked at me and smiled. He loved my father. He said, “I think that it would be wonderful for you to fulfill your father’s wishes.�
I know you are beginning to get the picture. I left that circle knowing that my life was about to change. I also knew that my father knew it needed changing. I write historical Jewish fiction. My last book, And So It Was Written, pretends a Third Temple was built during the three years when the Jews defeated Rome and ruled Israel. This took place in the year 131 of the Common Era. My father, thank G-d, had lived to read the first draft of that book. I believe in miracles, not coincidence. So many things have happened over the years, so many messages that I recognized and then rationalized away. So, I believe that my father knew I needed to be a better Jew if my book was going to be successful. He was right.
The Cuban Hebrew Congregation was the only conservative synagogue, near my condominium on South Beach that had morning services. Services were at 7:30 AM. I remember that first day as if it were yesterday. The doorway into the building, during the week, is around the back, and I could not find my way in or a place to park my car. By the time I figured it out, I was already late and crying. Shoving the tears from my face with an angry swipe, I found my way in. I had my father’s tallit, prayer shawl, and his yarmulke with me in the frayed blue velvet bag he had used for over fifty years.
I brought the yarmulke to my mouth to kiss it before putting in on my head. I could not believe it! The little round gold embroidered head covering still smelled like my father. I could sense him through his scent. I wrapped that tallit around my shoulders, feeling as though my father was hugging me as I sat down.
Something magical was taking place but it didn’t last long. By the time I figured out what book to use and what page they were on, I was frantic—a stranger in a strange land. The Hebrew looked so foreign it might as well have been written in Chinese. To make things worse, I did not know that on Monday and Thursday they read the Torah, which added a half hour to what I considered an already too-long service.
So now here I was, my sentence to attend seven days a week for eleven months. When the Torah was carried down the aisle, I knew enough to use my prayer shawl to kiss the scroll. A man about my father’s age, a man I later learned was called Rav Malka, began reading the designated weekly portion from the Torah. After he finished reading, the old rabbi turned to me.
“You are here to say Kaddish?�
I nodded.
“Come,� he said, beckoning me forward. “What was your father’s name?�
“Irving Glicken,� I replied.
“What was his Hebrew name?�
I was horrified as I shook my head, and my eyes filled with tears. I didn’t know.
“Shh. It’s okay,� he whispered. “You can find out. What is your Hebrew name?�
That one I knew, and I told him. Then he said a prayer over me, just words in Hebrew that I didn’t understand. But those words swirled around me as if he were taking me into his arms.
It was now time to say the Kaddish prayer. When my mother passed away eight years earlier, I said the prayer everyday by myself in my home, just Mom, me, and G-d. Rav Malka led me in prayer, saying each word slowly, allowing me to grieve. When I went back to my seat, I knew I was in the right place.
Before I go on, I want to share the words said by my six-year-old granddaughter when she was told of my father’s passing. Randi told her that Papa had died because his heart was tired, and it broke. My little Emma said: but my heart was not ready for his heart to be broken.
Writing the books is the artistic part of the endeavor. Business is what happens once the books are published! Marketing comes next and that means a very different mindset. I worked very hard to identify and then contact what I saw as my potential readers. It has paid off: Over the past three years I have spoken to over five thousand people in over a hundred venues throughout the country. Any writers out there reading this, please contact me and I will be honored to share how I made this happen.
I am now doing something very different. I am writing non-fiction for the very first time. I am going to post chapters from my new book. I am hoping that you enjoy my writing and will follow me as I go along. More importantly, I pray that you will want to read my other books: Clouds Across the Sun, And So It Was Written.
Chapter 1
The DNA of Judaism
I was a twice-a-year Jew: I attended synagogue on Yom Kippur and Rosh Hashanah. Out of a strong feeling of obligation, we always belonged to a synagogue. My sons had a Bar Mitzvah and my daughter a Bat Mitzvah. That was the extent of my Judaic participation.
Then, dramatic events in my life led me back to Judaism. I say back because as Jews, none of us are ever really that far away. The fog may have set in, and we may have looked elsewhere for answers, but in the end, we begin to remember that we all stood together at Mt. Sinai and that Judaism is in our DNA.
I am on a quest to simplify the understanding of this complicated religion. In doing so, I am reaching my hand out to you, asking you to join me. If you are wondering what I believe, here goes—at this moment I embrace the Reform and the Conservative movements and the teachings of Chabad. In other words, I take what I like from each. Some would say that makes me a hypocrite and a heretic. I would say I am just a searching Jew.
Just like we put one foot in front of the other to walk forward, I want to tell you how this journey began for me. At 92, my father was still driving at night and was a fabulous golfer. When my brother called at two in the afternoon on my sister-in-law’s birthday to say that daddy had not called her, I knew we were in trouble. I had tried to call him several times earlier in the day but he had not answered. I thought he was probably out for a walk or doing errands from the running list he always kept. Please indulge me. If what comes next makes you sad, I am sorry. But I see now that day was the beginning of it all—not the end.
I was working with my writing group when the call came from my brother. The person who lived closest to my father’s townhouse was my beloved former daughter-in-law, Randi, the mother of my two granddaughters. I called Randi and pleaded, “Please just drive over to Papa’s house to see if his car is in the driveway.� I could hear her fighting back the terror as she said, “Oh no! What will I do if it is there?� Ten minutes later my cell phone rang. Randi was weeping. “The car is here.� She adored my father and I was and still am so sorry that I put her through the ordeal that ensued. Yet, there is not another person in the world who could have shown the dignity and grace that she displayed on this horrific day.
She stayed on the phone with me until the police arrived and broke in the door. From the moment they entered his two-story townhouse, they knew my father was dead. She stayed outside relating everything that was happening. I was forty-five minutes away! I knew I could not drive. I called my husband, making up an excuse for him to pick me up without telling him what had happened. My father was my husband’s best friend.
I am not sure how we managed to drive to the house. The traffic was a nightmare, just like the nightmare we were in. My brother and sister-in-law and my daughter were already at the house when my husband and I arrived. My daughter was seven months pregnant. When I walked up the stairs, she was alone in the room with my father. Daddy was on the floor in his boxer shorts. He had passed away as I hope I will—lying on the floor doing exercises. My husband stayed a few minutes and then he went downstairs.
I sat beside my father on the floor: staring, talking to him, touching him. With death, his sun-lined face was smooth. He had a band-aid on his toe. The band-aid looked so incongruous, so ridiculous: he was dead! My daughter, Carrie and I just sat with him. His body had begun to decompose but neither of us was aware of anything but our great loss. In that few hours as we waited for the funeral home driver to arrive, I could feel his soul hovering over us. I wasn’t afraid—just so sad. The only person left in the world who would ever love me unconditionally was gone. He was my hero and my heart was broken.
Some would say I was so lucky to have had him for so long, and that is so true. But he was always there and now he was gone. I would not trade those three hours that I sat with him for anything. My daughter stayed with me. I think it brought us closer than we had ever been. It made me see death in a different way. I understood that he would always be with me just as my mother has always been with me. My father wore a mezuzah around his neck, and I remember taking it off his cold heavy body and putting it around my neck. I later gave it to my eldest son; he has never taken it off.
Dad was a religious man, going to the conservative synagogue every Saturday. He was blessed to have my brother and me, seven grandchildren and five great grandchildren. After services every Saturday, he would call each of us to wish us a Shabbat Shalom, never pushing his ritual on any of us. When I would call him later in the day, on the Sabbath, and ask what he was doing, he would always say the same thing: “My Shabbas thing. I am reading and relaxing.�
As I write this, I can still envision my family sitting in a circle in the rabbi’s study the day after my father passed away. As is the custom in Judaism, we took turns talking about my father as the rabbi listened. When it was my turn, I told the Rabbi that my father used to tease me and say, “I want you to say Kaddish for me when I die.�
Kaddish for the dead entails eleven months of going to synagogue every day to say a prayer that does not even mention death or the departed. It is a prayer of thanksgiving, praise of G-d, and concludes with a prayer for peace. Let me also add that throughout the book I will write the word G-d with a hyphen. The reason: to show respect for the Creator.
I would retort to my father by saying, “You are not going to die� and then added, “Please don’t lay that on me!� We would laugh. I really expected the rabbi to say, “That’s very nice. I think it would be lovely if you went every Saturday.� What I did not know was that the Conservative Movement had changed. Women were now counted in that minyan of ten Jews needed in order to recite the blessing aloud. The rabbi looked at me and smiled. He loved my father. He said, “I think that it would be wonderful for you to fulfill your father’s wishes.�
I know you are beginning to get the picture. I left that circle knowing that my life was about to change. I also knew that my father knew it needed changing. I write historical Jewish fiction. My last book, And So It Was Written, pretends a Third Temple was built during the three years when the Jews defeated Rome and ruled Israel. This took place in the year 131 of the Common Era. My father, thank G-d, had lived to read the first draft of that book. I believe in miracles, not coincidence. So many things have happened over the years, so many messages that I recognized and then rationalized away. So, I believe that my father knew I needed to be a better Jew if my book was going to be successful. He was right.
The Cuban Hebrew Congregation was the only conservative synagogue, near my condominium on South Beach that had morning services. Services were at 7:30 AM. I remember that first day as if it were yesterday. The doorway into the building, during the week, is around the back, and I could not find my way in or a place to park my car. By the time I figured it out, I was already late and crying. Shoving the tears from my face with an angry swipe, I found my way in. I had my father’s tallit, prayer shawl, and his yarmulke with me in the frayed blue velvet bag he had used for over fifty years.
I brought the yarmulke to my mouth to kiss it before putting in on my head. I could not believe it! The little round gold embroidered head covering still smelled like my father. I could sense him through his scent. I wrapped that tallit around my shoulders, feeling as though my father was hugging me as I sat down.
Something magical was taking place but it didn’t last long. By the time I figured out what book to use and what page they were on, I was frantic—a stranger in a strange land. The Hebrew looked so foreign it might as well have been written in Chinese. To make things worse, I did not know that on Monday and Thursday they read the Torah, which added a half hour to what I considered an already too-long service.
So now here I was, my sentence to attend seven days a week for eleven months. When the Torah was carried down the aisle, I knew enough to use my prayer shawl to kiss the scroll. A man about my father’s age, a man I later learned was called Rav Malka, began reading the designated weekly portion from the Torah. After he finished reading, the old rabbi turned to me.
“You are here to say Kaddish?�
I nodded.
“Come,� he said, beckoning me forward. “What was your father’s name?�
“Irving Glicken,� I replied.
“What was his Hebrew name?�
I was horrified as I shook my head, and my eyes filled with tears. I didn’t know.
“Shh. It’s okay,� he whispered. “You can find out. What is your Hebrew name?�
That one I knew, and I told him. Then he said a prayer over me, just words in Hebrew that I didn’t understand. But those words swirled around me as if he were taking me into his arms.
It was now time to say the Kaddish prayer. When my mother passed away eight years earlier, I said the prayer everyday by myself in my home, just Mom, me, and G-d. Rav Malka led me in prayer, saying each word slowly, allowing me to grieve. When I went back to my seat, I knew I was in the right place.
Before I go on, I want to share the words said by my six-year-old granddaughter when she was told of my father’s passing. Randi told her that Papa had died because his heart was tired, and it broke. My little Emma said: but my heart was not ready for his heart to be broken.
