Memory and tomorrow

shoa

This is Betty Schimmel’s story. Her crossing with bare feet the iced land of Hungary during a snow storm. Her arrival to Buchenwald, a place which her enemies hoped she will never survive. This is her mother’s story. A woman whose nostrils were full of ash coming from burn souls and whose mouth did not stop to repeat every night, through lices, illness, murders and death, the words of the Shema Israel. This is Emma Tedeschi’s story. An Italian Jewish lady who took pen and paper during October 1943 and wrote. “Dear children, consider these words as my last will. I beg you, all of you, please, do not surrender. I know, there is dark and pain there outside. But if you let go everything, if you don’t hold strong to your faith, you will help our enemies achieving their goal. Don’t forget our traditions, don’t stop leaving as Jews. This is the only way we can survive this hell.” This is Elie Wiesel’s story. A man who lost all his family between Auschwitz and Buchenwald. The story of a person who denied G-d’s existence with all his anger and tears. A man who, full of his disbelief, decided to circumcise his son. Months and years brought him to decide. “I will never deny my forefathers heritage. I am not allowed to break the chain transmitted by one of my ancestors, Rashi, Rabbi Shlomo Itzchaki. And I cannot betray the trust my forefathers put in me. I will go on complaining against G-d, as Jeremiah in his pages, but I will also call Him and love Him”. This is the story of a nation that was tested by story more than any other one. People who dag secret tunnels six hundred years ago and prayed to G-d from the depths of earth. Lost souls who during 1942 went around looking desperately for potatoes. They were intended to become food for empty stomachs which hardly received one or two breadcrumbs a day. They were meant to engraved. In order to become the right place for Chanuka lights. This is the story of men, women and children, who, during history span, did never desist. But went on fighting against dark and evil through circumcisions, the observance of shabat and prayers to G-d. Ani Maamin, I believe in you, were their last words. Jewish eco can be heard through eternity only in one way. Going on in the same thoughts, actions and words that our proud and stubborn forefathers tried with all strengths to transmit to us, today.

Gheula Canarutto Nemni

Since I saw you the first time

Since I saw you the first time, during those short but long instants when you were learning to tell between water and air I knew I would have changed my belief system. I stopped complaining with G-d about the clear and understandable miracles He used to create for His nation while crossing the Red Sea. While in our times you should be able to remember His hand looking at the perfect syncronization of moon and sun. It’s unfair, I used to complain. How can we go on and proclaim all the world You are there, without having concrete proofs at our hands. Some secret cards to throw on that table game that is life, when everything seems to go against your convictions. Then you arrived.With that reddish color and slow voice. With pain mixed to joy, tears to hope, a new world compared to the existing one. A new creation born from prayers and love. You were there. With a white wrapping which reminded an envelope. On which there could be a stamp. Miracle on its way. And you, my little baby, arrived in my arms. Now, after two months, when you are embraced from your mummy far away from me, your grandma, and I can still smell the trace of your presence in my kitchen. After you left and the signs of the wheels of your carriage are still on the floor of my dining room. Now I find the brightness of ideas to declare to myself and the world that yes, you are the proof that open miracles are still happening every single instant and day. From the height of your infancy, like you were sitting on a throne made of breaths and voice which did not exist a few minutes earlier, you were a great teacher. Thank you my little Baby. I love you with all my heart. Oma

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A sanctuary, though hard, even there…

Vigil For Victims Of Sandy Hook School Shooting - WashingtonIt arrives. Punctual as a Swiss watch, as the sunset in the morning and hunger after a long fast, with the first discovery of evil. That sentence. “The world is not nice as you wanted me to believe”. It’s my child who is growing up. And I shut up. Hit by the deepness of his thought, by his fear of evil, by his dropping down of trust in tomorrow, I stop and think. I think about how we sorrounded him only with kosher animals in the crib. I think how his lullaby was composed only by Jewish words and chassidic notes. I think about the strictly kosher food which we allow to enter in his mouth. About the pictures with Jewish images hanging on his bed. I think how we tried our best, since the first day of life, to surround every child with Torah words. How we do our best to make them chew only good, positive, light and love. How we shut up our mouths preventing bad news to reach their ears, hoping they do not loose their faith in this world. How we hide newspapers with cruel images in the first page, hoping that they will go to sleep thinking this life is nothing but a marvellous trip. How we whisper and share through codes, sad events, justifying our unhappy eyes with a terrible headache due to a heavy day. But then, during time, the unavoidable happens and the magic gets broken. News about another tragedy run faster than our trials to hide them once again. Those tiny faces of children unaware of the shortness of their lives, bring to the arousal of the deep sentence. “The world is not nice as you wanted me to believe.” My dear love, that sanctuary I tried to build around you during all these years, is not always there outside. Sometimes there are events we cannot change or influence at all. When these happen we just have to look for enough strenght to go on and pray. Other times even a tiny gesture can change all the scenario bringing back hope. That tiny gesture is able to remind us we have the braveness after all. My dear love, that sanctuary can be found even there outside. In the midst of horror, of a tragedy without any reason, in the screams due to pain. That sanctuary is there, in that teacher, Victoria Soto, who gave up to her own life trying to save her little students. That sanctuary is there, in those Sandy Hook school teachers, who lost their lives in the trial to make their students go on and believe in them. My dear love, that sanctuary will be even there. If you and me and everyone else, will not give up and will go on and believe. That with responsibility and commitment of all of us, even from the deepest dark, a perfect sanctuary can arise.

Gheula Canarutto Nemni

may your soul be bound up in the bond of eternal life

We are here again. For the 14th time. Since that Nissan 3rd during which it was decided from Above, your life was at its end. How could I imagine the kiss I received from you was forever the last one? How could I know I would not feel your strong arms around me before leaving my home? How could I foresee that one day I would have found myself  thinking of you as a light ray, a soul staying under the Heavenly throne, a person who comes to visit his dears only during night and dreams? For every tear I am sheding for you today, I have a special memory to think inside me. As those hot days spent in the Jewish Cemetery of Venice, washing and cleaning tombal stones of Jews dead five hundred years ago. Because you were scared that, one day, nothing will last of those precious engraved words. Discovering the symbols of ancient Jewish Italian families, as the two hands for the kohanim, the lion for the famous Leon da Modena, the eagle for the nobles. Or those endless journeys to Stasbourg to buy  kosher food and meat when you decided it was worthy to travel one and a half hour more in order to go and see the beth hamidrash of Rashi, where he used to study and bring down to this earth heavenly words and explanations. And that Menorah Lego shape. Which you proudly showed me after having worked on it for nigths and days. It should have been the realizzation of your dreams. The Menorah was a miniature plant of the Italian Jewish Museum you were dreaming to build. But in Heaven there was a different plan. And it was decided you were desired there, directly under the Celestial Throne. During this day in which it seems to me I can still hear your voice and not  the kadish said in your memory, I wish you look from above and you smile. Because you are proud of your children. Whom, in every moment of their life, try to go on with your interrupted job spreading and showing the only thing will last after we are not here anymore, is our good deeds and beliefs. Your love for Judaism, for its roots, for its ancient messages perfectly fitting future generations, is always with us. As you are. My dad, my dear papi. May your soul be bound up in the bond of eternal life (as you taught me to say for those who were not with us anymore)

Gheula, Aviva, Ronnie, Gady and Naty

 

A new page in lifebook…

Today I changed the sheets of the beds. I looked for the most comfortable pillows. I opened the new bed covers I was keeping for a special occasion. I cleaned the floor, I finally moved from its unnatural place the picture of the children. In the old frame. It was standing in the corner of the room for more than three months. Waiting for a special guest to come. I removed all the papers from the desk, I cleaned the dust of two weeks on the printer. I moved the curtain, making it appear as a hotel piece. I sprayed roses parfum in the room. I switched off the light. I locked the door. And I breathed deeply. I am ready, spiritually and materially, to be a real mother in law. In my home. Suddenly I feel as I am my mother. The way she uses to welcome us in her home is always so unique, making you feel as somebody was really waiting for you. And as this somebody is really, really happy to see you. So, with G-d’s help, in a few hours I will open a new page in my life book. A page that speaks about grown up children and their new way of being part of the family, a page relating a story of history. And how it repeats itself. From generation to generation, from mother to daughter, from daughter to grandaughter. To son in law. Welcome to my life new old members of my family. I hope that though immersed in a new life, here, in your old room and with the new sheets, you will always feel home.

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Dear H, our hearts are there with you…

Dear H.,
I am sitting here and thinking of you. I was planning to do something else, to use my time for the endless things I have to do before my children come home from school. But, as happened already in most of the times I tried to do things during the last days, my thoughts went to you.
To your changed life. To your morning, when you open your eyes on a new day and just pray in your heart “Please G-d tell me all this was only a nightmare”. Waking up, washing your face, looking in the mirror at your image and remembering those relaxed days in which you still had the will of being busy with green and grey, red and pink, the colors with which you should make up that day. Going to wake up your kids for school, asking G-d to give you enough strenght to smile as nothing changed. Receiving a tired hug from your sweet girls and trying to swallow those precious moments. That maybe, before all this happened, were as normal routine. And not as you can see them now. Small miracles. Dear H, what you are passing through is not only for you. it’s for everybody of us. it’s a lesson. Of life. Of apreciation. And love. It’s an opportunity for us, your friends, to close our eyes in front of all the mess our children are doing, To be less nervous if a file gets lost in our computer. Or the fridge breaks. Or the new oven, bought only a few months ago, decides it does not want to work anymore. These things have no power on us, are not able to change our mood. There are in life things that are much more important. and worthy to worry. And be happy for. May H’ listen to all our prayers, all the whispers of our lips while we pronounce the name of your baby uncountable times a day. May your life get back immediately as it was before the bad news of that day. May your biggest worry be about the skirt you will wear on the coming day. May we dance in your baby’s wedding remembering and laughing on those worrying days. We love you H. We are there with you, with all our hearts, souls, minds and prayers.

A dream shared by Pharaoh and many others

My name is Anna. I am twelve years old. I have brown eyes and hair. My youth has just started. But my life is going to end. My name is Rebecca. I am five years old. I have blue eyes and blond hair. I will never have a 6 years birthday party. My name is Isaac.  I don’t know exactly how old I am. Maybe one. Maybe two. The only thing I am sure about is that I have been separated by mother. And that I will never see her again. My name is Ruben. I would have been born in two months. My soul will never arrive in this world. Somebody decided we don’t deserve life. We are guilty of an unbearable fault. Language spoken by our parents is too differnt than the one spoken by native people of our place. Our Way of dressing does not always follow fashion style. Our names, when called in class by our teachers, echo as stanger sounds between school walls. Our identity is too deep. You cannot avoid noticing it. Our proudness as nation is too powerful for being silent. Those who denied us our future had one and unique plan in their minds. A dream transmitted by Pharaoh until 1938. A dream consisting in the total disappearance of the people to whom we belong. A dream based on the denial of our present in order to avoid your future. A dream that, thanks to G-d was never realized. You, who are there today, reading relaxed in a synagogue or among the warm walls of your home, you can choose. If to cry, remember and feel pity and sorrow for us. Or bring us to life again. When a girl named Anne will turn twelve and will decide to respect all mizvoth of G-d. When a girl named Rebecca will light a candle on Friday night. When a boy named Isaac will pronounce ‘torah’ between is his first words. When a boy named Ruben will come to this world and will have his circumcision on the eighth day of his life. Then the dream of our enemies will not have a chance to get realized anymore.  And you will be able to give us back our stolen life.

A dream, a knapsack and a shouting baby

Who could imagine your taste for nice clothes, that made us spend so much during the last 19 years, would have been one day so apreciated by someone?

Who could imagine your love for good food, that sometimes forced you to make rush diets, would have once transformed you in the best cook ever?

Who could imagine your dream of being dressed in a fluffy gown, that made you draw so many dresses on your schoolbooks, would have become real one day?

Who could imagine your special brown eyes, that made you call ‘princess’ after 10 minutes you were in this world, would have become one day so laughing and so charming?

Who could imagine our freedom lover, who was dreaming to cross all the world with a knapsack on her back, would have one day loved to stay home waiting for a phone call?

Who could imagine a girl who loved to sleep and woke up for 19 years with an angry expression on her face, could one day wake up with a smile for the coming day?

Who could imagine that little girl cheating during the memory game, going under the glass table and looking at all the cards, would have one day become a woman as you are today?

Who could imagine we would have arrived to that day, during which we should  be preparing mentally to this, with G-d’s help, wonderful and happy life trip while still not able to believe our baby is already at this important step?

Who could imagine one day we will have to let our little shouting, always sleeping, smart, dreaming baby, become his beloved lady?

Will she keep that broken chair?

Please madam, on the next time don’t bring the children, says the dressmaker after her chair was half broken, her sofa tasted jumping feet for the first time and her mirror survived to the worst attack it had ever had in its life. No, I promise, I will not bring them anymore. I say to her while looking for the coat of the little one. ‘Mum, coat, coat’ he tells me. I look at him. He’s wearing his coat since one hour. He never removed it. Maybe he knew already this place wouldn’t be the most children-friendly in the world. It’s not because I don’t like children, madam, she goes on telling me while opening the door as a person who lets out from her house the worst creatures in the world.It’s simply that it is impossible to do something with these…always moving creatures around. One screams, the other yells, the third one jumps everywhere. Yes, you are totally right, I tell her and I give the hand to my three little devils. It is indeed really hard to do something with them around, I go on repeating while giving every child his/her opportunity to call the elevator and catching the little one while trying to go down by the stairs maybe knowing how he will be squeezed inside the elevator with all his brothers and sisters.. You are not offended, aren’t you? she tells me while looking at me with rigid eyes. If they could just sit down and stay calm, she adds, it could have have been much easier…and I know what she means. Beacuse trying to understand if the dress you are sewing fits you or not while three children create energy from nothing in a room that is big as the smallest toilet of your house, is really a challenge. They cannot sit for so long, I tell her while closing the elevator doors. I imagine she is reliefed. Or maybe she is not. Becuase there, in her tiny apartment, she had never had a baby hand spreading chocolate on a white chair. Or baby lips kissing her goodnight after a long day. And now that is is 75, she has all the time in the world to set up the house again. After the storm. Or maybe she will just sit down on the sofa and think where to keep. The broken chair. That will remind until her last day on this earth the big loss that she had. She had a carreer, she was very good in her job. And for the cause of her profession she didn’t want to have children. She is right. And I am so sorry for her. No one is more noisy than children at this age. But this noise, I can see in her eyes, is the leg of the chair she is missing so much. Unfortunately for her, it is too late…

back to the past…

Mum, if you could go back in time, would you get married so young again?
I pour the coffee on my skirt while the bride, after having thrown as a stone in the sea her philosophical question, is sitting in front of me writing on her bbm to a destination that is across the Ocean.
Well…I start thinking. This is a trap. Pay attention, I say to myself. Be calm, don’t answer too quickly. I breath deeply. I relax. And memories come back to me as birds going back to their nests. My first child as a baby, with her giant brown eyes, while pronouncing her first word, learning to read, hugging me on her way back from camp. My second neverstopping hunger, his haircut at the age of three, fighting with the sister. My third child opening her blue eyes for the first time, being defined ‘the sun of the class’ at the age of 5. My fourth child preferred video, his allergy to the detergent. My fifth child ceasarian, his being so small compared to my prevoius babies. My sixth child being the copy of the third one, her way of jumping while singing the Chanuka song about the doughnuts. My seventh child sleepless nights, his unique way of saying ‘amen!’ to every good thing we wish.
The coffee has dried on my skirt. The bride is still writing bbms maybe having forgotten the quetion she made some minutes ago. I wake up from my journey in the past. I take her hand and I tell her: You know what? I would never change one thing of my life. If I had the opportunity to start everything again, I would do all exactly the same. I would get married at 19, have you at the age of 20, go on studying in university, having your brothers and sisters, working, writing, sitting with you here in our kitchen trying to come out from this mad plan of getting married in five weeks…I would never change anything, believe me. Though it was hard, sometimes very tough. Becuase the amount of love I received every day in my life is the most precious thing I will ever own. And I would never give up to it for all the freedom in the world….