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The ESP of the
Jewish Way of Life

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Our classes, held once a week in the rabbi’s study, were informal. We clustered around the rabbi’s desk, Elsa with her faithful guide dog at her feet, Iris and I with notebooks in hand. It took some time to convince the rabbi that in spite of our many collective years of synagogue attendance, none of us could read Hebrew, we knew little of the ritual, and our strongest point was humming familiar melodies. But we faithfully did our assigned homework and made satisfactory progress using tapes the rabbi prepared for us as we practiced for our appearance on the bimah.  

I am a typical first-generation American of my era. My mother was born in Poland, my father in Russia, and they met at a Zionist meeting in New York in 1905, shortly after each came to America. Following their marriage and with the help of HIAS (Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society), they left the sweatshops and crowded tenements of the Lower East Side and moved west to California. There they opened a little grocery store and raised their four children in a town that had notably few Jewish residents.  

Religion, as such, played a superficial role in our lives. Although my parents had each been raised in deeply religious households, in their enthusiasm for shedding their "greenhorn" image they set aside some aspects of observance: we didn’t keep kosher, didn’t light Shabbat candles, Saturday was not distinguished from the rest of the work week, and only Yom Kippur was marked as a special day, when they closed their store. We rarely attended services — even if they had been so inclined — I think my parents were physically too tired.  

But their eagerness for assimilation did not extend to depriving their children of their heritage. We were sent to the nearest Sunday school in a Reform temple in a neighboring town, where my brothers were each Bar Mitzvah and we all were duly confirmed. In 1932, when I was 13 years old, we had never even heard of a Bat Mitzvah.

Every year our family shared a Seder that included my grandparents, aunts and uncles, and twelve first cousins. I was the only Jewish child in my elementary school and I remember the ordeal of taking matzoh sandwiches for lunch during Pesach. During Chanukah we gathered with our extended families for joyful parties at the home of one relative or another.  

Although I remember all of the above, including the things we did not do, more importantly I remember the ways my parents lived Jewish lives of compassion and tzedekah — and inspired us to do the same. I remember the daily ceremony of dropping coins in the Blue Box.  

I remember Papa walking to the post office, schlepping boxes of clothing to send to relatives in Russia. I remember Mama, on her precious Sundays when she didn’t have to work, taking shopping bags of food to a friend across town (transferring from streetcar to streetcar to get there), and cleaning and cooking for the children so their sick mother could stay in bed. I remember my brothers, ages 11 and 14, playing baseball in front of our house during vacation and breaking a window in the school across the street — and then wedging a note in the locked door telling the principal what they had done and offering to pay for repairs. We may not have had a kosher kitchen and may not have lit Shabbat candles, but Mama and Papa instilled in us values that remained ingrained in us for a lifetime.  

When my husband and I became the parents of identical twin sons we raised them in a household much like the ones in which he and I had grown up. Although religion still played a limited role in our family’s life, our boys became the first twins in the United States to earn the Ner Tamid awards for their Eagle Scout badges. We were happy when they married lovely Jewish girls. One son and his wife are active members of a Conservative synagogue while my other son and daughter-in-law lead an ardent lifestyle as Orthodox Jews (so much for being identical).  

In Modesto, where I live, in California’s Central Valley, there is only one Jewish house of worship, a Conservative synagogue. When we first moved there I readily transitioned from Reform to Conservative, although I rarely attended services. But when I decided to become a bat mitzvah all that changed.  

My classmates and I eagerly looked forward to the weekly study sessions, including the rabbi’s digressions into Jewish history that proved to be an engaging part of our course. Regular attendance at Shabbat services strengthened our enthusiasm for the year-long learning process. To the rabbi’s credit he merely lifted an eyebrow but offered no criticism when he read an advance copy of our feminist approach to the commentary on our Torah portion, which dealt with Adam and Eve.  

We conducted both the Friday night and Saturday morning services. The B’not Mitzvah of "three ladies of indeterminate middle/older age" attracted overflow crowds and became a community event attended not only by Jews but by many non-Jews as well. Occurring just weeks after the first anniversary of the September 11 tragedy, one guest poignantly observed, "I think we all have been waiting for something to celebrate. With all the war talk and recent 9/11 observances, we have been looking for a joyous occasion and this is certainly it."  

Learning to read Hebrew was a gratifying accomplishment, and now I light candles every Friday night and attend services more frequently than I used to, but more important is the strengthened connection I feel between just being Jewish and my religion as a Jew. The journey was far more meaningful and rewarding than I ever anticipated. My parents would be proud, my brother kvelled, and my children gave me fountain pens.  

Martha Loeffler is an 84-year-old retired social worker living in Modesto, California, where she is the author of three books (two dealing with Jewish subjects); the first was published when she was 79. She also writes a column for her local newspaper, gives talks to high school students and organizations about the Holocaust, and has written for Being Jewish before (if you would like to read that piece go online to www.beingjewish.org/magazine/fall2004/article6.html). You can reach Martha online at Martwrite@ aol.com.  

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