blogs/rabbi-huberman

Once upon a time, in the tiny Jewish village of Tarnoruda, on what was then the border between Poland and Russia, there lived a couple who dreamed of one day having a child.

Sarah and Yehudah-Leib toiled six days a week, eking out a living as "outsiders" under Russian rule. But as the days turned into months and into years, it appeared that the couple's dream would never become reality.

What made it even more painful for Sarah was that on the other side of their village, her sister-in-law continued to conceive.

Five children had arrived before news reached the extended family that another child was on the way.

"How will we feed the new baby - we are barely surviving as it is?" asked Sarah's sister-in-law. And then the solution became obvious.

"Why don't Yehudah-Leib and I raise the new baby as our own?" Sarah suggested. "This would give us a child to rear, and we could devote the love and attention to this baby that may not be possible in a large family."

The women went to see village rabbi who concluded that similar to the biblical story of Sarah and Hagar, it was likely that "God wanted the pregnant woman to be a surrogate mother for her sister-in-law, Sarah." 

And so it was settled.

In a small stone house, in the village of Tarnoruda, one hundred and thirty years ago, Yankel Huberman was born, and immediately moved into the home of Sarah and Yehudah-Leib Huberman, my great-grandparents.

There is a saying in Yiddish: "Mann Tracht, Un Gott Lacht." It means "Man Plans, and God Laughs." Despite our most careful planning, the Road of Life is unpredictable.

Just weeks after baby Yankel's arrival, Sarah entered the dining room of their tiny home, and told Yehudah-Leib, "We are going to have a child of our own."

And that child, born in 1888, would eventually become my grandfather, of blessed memory: David Abbah the son of Yehudah-Leib, the Kohen.

The two boys, although technically cousins, were raised as brothers -- sleeping in the same bed, head to foot. Their profound connection continued until, at their respective times, they entered the world of souls.

All was well in the village of Tarnoruda until one day, in a scene almost identical to the fate of Anatevka, the Russian authorities announced the expulsion of the three hundred and twenty Jewish residents of this quiet little shtetl.

My grandfather David, who we called Zaidie Duddie, was not an emotional person. But in late 1971, we took him and my grandmother Rivka to a screening of Fiddler on the Roof.

As we watched the scene where residents of Anatevka leave their beloved village, I felt something wet dripping on my right wrist.

It was my grandfather, seated to my right, with tears rolling down his cheeks.

"It was just like that," he whispered in my ear.

The Huberman family, among about one hundred seventy others, dragged their way to Krakow, eventually made it to Liverpool, and boarded a vessel which landed in Halifax, Nova Scotia.

One hundred and forty-eight Jews remained behind. There was no sign of Tarnoruda's Jewish residents after September, 1942.

Upon arrival in Canada, in order to feed themselves, my grandparents pawned their samovar, their Russian tea maker. Weeks later, they reclaimed the samovar, which now sits in my parents' home.

Eventually, the family scattered throughout Montreal. I remember as child visiting Yankel and wife Charna, even though I really didn't understand the significance of who they were.

Over time, Charna and Yankel had three sons and a daughter; Tzvi, Miriam, Leon and Solly.

My grandparents, David and Rivka, had four children. Their two sons were also named Leon and Solly.

The two Leon's in turn each had two sons: Mark and Michael; Irwin and Ron.

As time marched on, those connections faded. They became the relatives you saw at weddings or bar mitzvahs, but really none of the third generation really understood the story.

And perhaps that's how it would have stayed until late 1991. More than a century had passed since the time Yankel and David lived side by side.

Patte and I had just moved to Edmonton, Canada, and one day, I received a call from Mark Huberman. "Welcome to Edmonton, Irwin."

And so, thousands of miles from Tarnoruda, the grandsons of Yankel and David became  

friends. I became active in the Edmonton Jewish community as a lay leader, a bar/bat mitzvah teacher, and, eventually, the synagogue president.

Mark was involved in the Talmud Torah Hebrew School, and as a consultant in Edmonton. A mensch in the truest sense.

It was a few years later that Mark called me and asked, "Would you consider preparing our son Kyle for his bar mitzvah?" And so it would be for Kyle, and eventually for his brother Jordan.

On the day of Kyle's bar mitzvah, I mused with great joy, that "what began one hundred and fifteen years ago continues to this day. The two brothers are glowing in the world of souls."

Time passes.

I left Edmonton and moved to New York to become a rabbi. Mark continues as an active member of the Jewish community.

And God willing, with great joy, we will travel to Edmonton this weekend, as I co-preside at the wedding of Kyle Huberman and Jessica Hogan.

We will stand under the chupah, more than one hundred and thirty years after the births of Yankel and David Huberman, and toast the longevity of not only our family, but of the Jewish people.

Friends, this week marks the thirteenth anniversary of the first Shabbat that I spent in Glen Cove. It is in many ways my own bar mitzvah in our congregation.

So much has happened.

But on this weekend, I will be thinking of a different passage of time -- that of the little shtetl of Tarnoruda -- of those who emigrated to the United States and Canada, and of those who did not survive.

And I will reflect that wherever there is love, and the bonds of family, and Jewish connections based on values and kindness -- there will be life.

I will think this weekend about those two sisters-in-law -- who selflessly combined destinies.

I will also think of the long and winding road that has led to this weekend in Edmonton, Canada.

And I will think of the future of a wonderful young couple, two people who may not have known until now all of the details of this incredible journey, but will continue its sacred path with love, kindness, spirituality, and mutual respect.

There is much concern these days about the future of the Jewish people. But indeed,

the more that I walk this walk, the more I believe that the collective survival of the Jewish people will not be focused primarily on fixed prayers and hard pews, but rather upon a tradition of love and selflessness, transmitted L'Dor V'dor, from generation to generation.

It begins at home, and extends through our families and into the world.

This Sunday, I will look to the heavens, and feel the smiles of two men long departed.

They were born as cousins, but raised as brothers.

I will be reminded that love rests at the core of our family, wherever fate takes us.

I will feel the glow of one hundred and thirty years, and I will smile.

For we are still together.

We are all together.

Forever.

Shabbat Shalom, v'kol tuv.

Rabbi Irwin Huberman