Zelda: Remembering an Israeli Poet

  |   By  |  One Comment

Among the poets in Israel’s literary circles, many quietly remembered Zelda Schneurson Mishkovsky on Tuesday (April 18) 27 Nissan. That Zelda, as she was simply called, died (in 1984) on the same day designated by the state of Israel as Holocaust Remembrance day, is in itself poetic; her poetry, for which she received the Bialik and Brenner Prizes in literature, speaks of death and darkness but also of renewal and transcendence.

Born in Ukraine in 1914, Zelda was the daughter Rabbi Sholom Shlomo and Rachel Schneurson. Her father was a brother of Rabbi Levi Yitzchak Schneerson, father of the Lubavitcher Rebbe, Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneerson, making Zelda first cousins with the Rebbe.

Zelda’s mother Rachel, was the daughter of a distinguished Chasid, Rabbi Dovid Tzvi Chen, who also descended from a long line of Chabad rabbis. In 1928, she immigrated with her family to Israel. Her father died shortly afterwards. In 1950, at age 36, she married Chayim Aryeh Mishkovsky.

Zelda’s students, translators and critics of her work discerned influences of her Chasidic background in her poetry. Indeed, one reviewer described her work as “a poetic expression of the tenets of Chabad, to which the poet was linked by family ties and spiritual leanings.”

Her poems, all in Hebrew and now widely translated in numerous languages, are filtered through a uniquely Chabad spiritual perspective that manages to startle readers—no matter their orientation. Contemplative as they are, they shatter fixed ideas yet find their footing at the kitchen table, making her—poet, woman, Chasidic Jew–an anomaly both within and outside of the literary world.

In her introduction to The Spectacular Difference (HUC PRESS), Marcia Falk, author and translator of Zelda’s poems recalls her first visit to the author’s Jerusalem home in the 1970s:

“I showed up at her doorstep in a knee-length skirt and a sleeveless blouse, a kerchief on my head. I had debated with myself about the skirt and blouse, knowing that the very religious do not approve of women revealing bare arms or legs; but the heat was oppressive that day and I had heard that Zelda was tolerant by nature. I didn’t give a thought about the kerchief, which looked, I later realized like the traditional tikhl worn by some Orthodox married women to cover their hair in public. I had worn it only as protection from the beating sun.

When Zelda opened her door to me, a bemused smile spread across her face. “You have a secular body,” she commented wryly, “but a religious head.” Her poems had not prepared me for her sense of humor. . . Little about Zelda turned out to be predictable. In that first visit I found her to be soft spoken, unassuming and even shy. But more than anything else, she was utterly original. I’d never heard anyone speak quite they way she did, and I was almost in awe of her for this . . .”

Amos Oz, Zelda’s student in second grade, recalled his teacher fondly in one of his recent books:

“Teacher Zelda also revealed a Hebrew language to me that I had never encountered before … a strange, anarchic Hebrew, the Hebrew of stories of saints, Hasidic tales, folk sayings, Hebrew leavened with Yiddish . . . But what vitality those tales had! … As though the writer had dipped the pen in wine: the words reeled and staggered in your mouth.”

Imagery and concepts from Jewish traditional and mystical sources abound in Zelda’s work, prompting readers to linger over her lyrical allusions to the infinite, the supernal, the otherworldly, as in this excerpt from A Sabbath Candle, translated by Varda Koch Ocker:

The candle’s sparks are palaces,
and in the midst of the palaces
mothers sing to the heavens
to endless generations.
And she wanders in their midst
toward God, with a barefoot baby
and with the murdered.
Hurrah!
The soft of heart comes in dance
in the golden Holy of Holies, inside a spark.

In one poem, named My Mother’s Room Was Lit, Zelda mentions the distinguished Chabad scholar, Rabbi Shlomo Yosef Zevin, who was editor-in-chief of the Talmudic Encyclopedia and a prolific author of many works, among them the classic Sippurei Chasidim.

 And on the table, through the tales of the righteous, the golden
tales,
(that Rabbi Zevin gathered, collected),
a mountain breeze leafs slowly slowly,
mixing snowy landscapes with an arid landscape.
My mother is praying–on her head, silken checkers.

An only child, and childless herself, Zelda was broken by her husband’s death, and would continue to grieve for him for the rest of her life. She kept up a long correspondence with her cousin, the Lubavitcher Rebbe. Some of his letters to her have been published in various volumes of his Igrot Kodesh. Though her letters to the Rebbe remain unpublished, it is possible to infer some of what she must have written by his responses to her.

In one particular letter to Zelda following the death of her husband, in the summer of 1970, the discussion turns to coping with loss, the ascent of the soul and the imperative upon the survivors for life. The Rebbe urges his cousin not to become resigned to loneliness, and insists that the experience of the death of a loved one should rather stir a desire to live more intensely in a social environment.

Perhaps responding to one of her thoughts on the metaphysical, the Rebbe rejects the notion that physical illness affects the soul and its eternity:

“The change [in death] is only in terms of the connection between the soul and the body which restricts the soul, and when that association ends [with death] so do the constraints upon the soul, and the positive actions [in this world, by survivors of the deceased] are immediately known to the soul, as it is no longer confined.”

The Rebbe addressed his letters “To my cousin Shaina Zelda,” and concludes this one with a postscript:

“Obviously, I hope you will let me know how you are faring, especially with respect to your finances, and I trust that you will tell me things as they are—being that we are family, and especially as only very few remain among our surviving relatives.”

Appreciating her artistic achievements which no doubt derived largely from her identity with darkness, the Rebbe was nevertheless was pained by her angst, and often implored his cousin to turn her focus to the brighter side of life. In one letter, dated 1974, he chides her good naturedly, saying, “From the spirit of your letters, I get the impression that though I keep writing you to take a more joyful perspective . . . my words have made no mark . . . But I will persist, and repeat myself even 100 times, and you will forgive me . . .”

Maybe, the Rebbe’s words did leave their mark on his cousin’s poetry. That same year, Zelda published this poem—one of the few in her volume, Be Not Far (in the collection translated by Marcia Falk) that ends on a brighter note:

Enchanted Bird

When the feeble body
is about to fall
and reveals its fear of death
to the soul
the lowly tree of routine,
devoured by dust,
suddenly sprouts green leaves.
For out of the scent of Nothingness—
the tree blossoms—
glorious, beautiful.
and in its crown—
an enchanted bird.

Statement By Chabad Lubavitch World Headquarters On Thwarted Attack In Greece

  |   By  |  One Comment

We are grateful to local authorities in Greece who thwarted a recent terror attack aimed at various Jewish targets in the country, among them Chabad of Athens. Rabbi Mendel Hendel, Chabad representative in Athens, has confirmed that Passover plans are continuing in Greece as usual with additional security precautions in place and in tandem with local authorities.

“We are as well grateful to law-enforcement authorities who work with the Jewish leadership in hundreds of cities around the world to ensure the safety of their communities all year-round,” said Rabbi Yehuda Krinsky at Chabad-Lubavitch World Headquarters.

“Events like these should strengthen our resolve to stand strong in our Jewish identity. I urge Jews everywhere to celebrate our heritage, and enhance their Passover celebrations with pride and joy. 

“Passover marks our exodus from enslavement and the beginning of our phenomenal and miraculous peoplehood. Let us all experience the richness and meaning of this historic tradition. Chabad-Lubavitch wishes Jewish people everywhere a redemptive, healing and joyous Passover. May this Festival of Freedom bring blessings of peace and unity to all of Am Yisrael, and to the world at large. 

A League of Their Own

  |   By  |  0 Comments

As the Supreme Court prepares to issue decisions in two cases challenging affirmative action, a flurry of articles, podcasts, and op-eds have looked back at the Ivy League’s history of excluding Jews. Less attention has been paid, however, to what Jewish life in the Ivies looks like now, and what it tells us about the Jewish future—on campus and off

Continue reading...

Make Her Name Great

  |   By  |  2 Comments

My world turned upside down in the early hours of Monday, February 6th.  The time of the call—3:00 am—and the caller—my mother’s nursing home—telegraphed the news before the words were spoken. An unfamiliar voice told me that my mother, 87 and in poor health, had passed away.

 “How do we proceed,” I replied in a voice that sounded far away. Later, replaying that brief exchange, I suspect that I was asking about something larger than funeral logistics.  How do we move forward without parents? Having lost my father in 2013, my mother’s passing felt as if the “N” had fallen off the compass face, leaving the magnetic needle swinging this way and that, unable to settle in its customary position.

I am not young. I have lived an independent, flourishing life for decades.  And yet, without parents I often feel shorn of rootedness and direction.  Their love shaped and guided my sister and me.  With every act and word they built us up, impressing on us that our lives are precious. Where would we be, what would we be, without them? In the beginning, our parents give us our names.  The Sages teach that parents receive a touch of prophecy when choosing names, and so the given name influences the child’s character and destiny. 

As a little boy, I asked my mother about my name, which stood out among the Joes and Bobs and Billys who were my playmates. She told me about Alexander the Great sparing the Temple and treating the Jews with respect. That “teachable moment,” likely my first Jewish history lesson, came back to me while mourning her.  The recollection seemed to hold some spiritual message which required decoding.

A few days later an old friend, a rabbi, called me. When I told him that reciting the Kaddish was helpful, he responded with a question. (He is a rabbi, after all.)  “Who is the ‘great name’” mentioned in the prayer’s opening verse? The answer seemed so obvious that I prepared for the classic I-never-would-have-imagined answer that often follows a rabbinic question. Not this time: my friend said that of course “great name” refers to God. But then he offered a secondary interpretation. “You are keeping your mother’s name great by not letting it be forgotten.”  

In the first days after the news, I felt as though I stood at the bottom of a deep and dark pit.  The prayer’s Aramaic words, the guttural chets and hehs, the clicking nuns, acted like ropes and spikes, helping me climb upward, towards the light.  My friend’s insight connected my mother’s bestowing my name on me with what I could now do for hers by saying Kaddish. It seemed he had uncovered a hidden spiritual truth that I had only sensed.

This connection received swift confirmation when I told another friend I wouldn’t be able to get to services one morning. He offered to say Kaddish for my mother, and asked me her Hebrew name. Later he told me that when he was in mourning for his mother, he had developed the custom of saying his mother’s name to himself before reciting the Kaddish. 

As we say at the Passover Seder, dayenu, that should have been benefit enough from one prayer. But there is more. I am lifted up by the sound of the Kaddish. The steady, sonorous chant of many voices, the call and response between mourners and congregants, seem to tell the story of my people and of my mother.

Yit-gadel v’yit-kadash shmay rabo . . .

In the measured cadences I hear the steady march of the Hebrews through the wilderness, following the pillar of cloud by day and fire by night.  It keeps time as they walk between the parted sea, a wall of water on either side, through a harsh landscape, and over treacherous mountain passes.  Always, they keep moving forward.  The prayer’s beat conveys an unshakeable determination to continue, without faltering, to the Promised Land.  

That was how my mom lived her life. Born in humble circumstances, she worked tirelessly to better herself. I hear her footsteps too in the Kaddish, moving, always moving forward to escape the dreary Bronx apartment of her childhood, the one that lacked a room for her. The building had dark corridors, a slow, stuttering elevator, and only a fire escape to cool off on summer nights. It was also a place of cramped expectations.  Her parents encouraged her to be a secretary. Instead, she got a master’s in economics and became a university administrator. Like her ancestors who left Egypt, she followed a twisting path towards a better place, a place of promise.

And just as surely as she gave me my name, Alexander ben Aryeh Leib, so I will rise from my seat in the days ahead and recite the prayer that elevates, ever higher, the name Shulamit bat Moshe.

This column is devoted to the memory of Sandra Troy, Shulamit bat Moshe (June 24, 1935 – February 6, 2023).  May her memory be a blessing always.

The writer welcomes comments from readers, and invites you to comment below or email him at alex.troy@honestscholar.com

Alex Troy worked at two Jewish schools, teaching history at one and serving as head of the other. He has written a novel inspired by his time as an educator, which will be published in 2023. Alex also worked as a lawyer and investor. He and his wife, Dale, have three grown daughters. They live in Florida and Connecticut.

Purim Notes From The Chasidic Rebbes

  |   By  |  One Comment

Mordechai “The Jew”

Mordechai was a Benjaminite, but he is called “Yehudi,” literally meaning a descendant of the tribe of Yehudah. Likewise, the Megillah refers to the Jewish people as “Yehudim,” ignoring tribal differences.

Why Yehudi? Yehudi is of the same root as “hoda’ah,” meaning to acknowledge, or to accept. The essence of Jewish identity can be traced back to the unified response of the Jewish people at Sinai, where they expressed acceptance of G-d and His will.

Esther vs. the Maccabbees

The name Esther, from the Hebrew word for “concealment,” is intrinsic to the Purim story, one of disguise, masquerade and illusion.

Unlike the events of Chanukah—miraculous, extraordinary and clearly from “Above”—by which the Jewish people were delivered, on Purim a series of coincidences, none too dramatic at first, conspire to deliver the Jewish people. Camouflaged in the ordinary, the Purim saga is resolved from “below” as it were.

Chanukah celebrates the transcendent aspects in the relationship between Jew and G-d; Purim illuminates a relationship with G-d that pervades the most mundane, everyday details of our lives.

Hence the Chanukah dreidel or the “top” is spun from above; the Purim gragger is held, and cranked, from below.

Purim 

Pur is Hebrew for “lot” as in the lot cast before Haman (3:7)

Casting lots is a way of allowing “chance” rather than reason, to decide. By casting lots, Haman hoped to invest his scheme with the force of fate.

Indeed, it would take extraordinary efforts—of great repentance and personal sacrifice by the Jewish people—to reverse Haman’s lots. For the duration of almost an entire year (Haman’s decree was issued in the first month, Nissan, and reversed in the twelfth month, Adar) the Jews persisted and persevered in the face of looming annihilation, remaining steadfast in their adherence to Torah.

–Selections from Megillat Esther, Kehot Publication Society, New York