Shemot: 25:15
It was a solid turnout for a rainy Thursday night. Almost every seat in the men’s section of the sanctuary was full. Some people had dressed up in their Shabbat finest, like it was a special occasion, while others had come in their everyday garb. But there was no question that it was a special night. You could feel the electricity in the room.
The new Aron Kodesh was covered with a white cloth that could be removed when the appropriate rope was pulled. No one had seen it since it was installed on Tuesday, and clearly people were excited. Until it had been moved to its new resting place at Ohav Tzedek, the newest shul in Livingston, it had been at Adat Chesed, an old synagogue in Union City for 60 years, and before that it had been at Bnei Yeshurun, a synagogue in Chernivtsi, a small shtetl in the Ukraine for hundreds of years. No one was certain exactly how old it was.
The décor of the new sanctuary of Ohav Tzedek was relatively modern. Yet the design committee assured the shul board that the old Aron would fit in wonderfully. It was a classic. It would light up the room. The head of the synagogue interior design committee was Arielle Susman-Dansky, and she had such impeccable taste that everyone trusted her judgment. Well, as much as any shul board trusted anyone’s judgment. Still, until now all her decisions had been spot on. The sanctuary was beautiful, from the understated wood pews to the elegant brass lighting fixture above the bimah.
On this rainy February night, there were two centers of attention in the room. One was the Aron itself, hidden behind the cloth in front of the bimah. The other was Rabbi Chezki Susman, who sat in the front row between his daughter Arielle and his granddaughter Tal. He had been the rabbi of Adat Chesed before it closed, and he had been born in Chernivtsi before his parents had moved to the goldene medina. Rabbi Susman sat beatifically in the front row, staring up at the Aron. The rest of his extended family took up the remainder of the row from aisle to aisle. They were a large group.
Tal looked over at her grandfather and eyed him curiously. Behind semi-closed doors, her mother and father had been whispering about how they thought he must be depressed. His old shul was shuttered and the wrecking ball was only days away. All his old congregants had either moved to Florida or gone on to that great synagogue in the sky. Those who departed were all parked in the same cemetery plot in Ridgefield Park, and Rabbi Susman had presided over too many funerals to count. He often joked that he had a reserved seat at the Gutterman Musicant Memorial Chapel in Hackensack, but it wasn’t really too far from the truth.
The ceremony began, and the shul president got up to speak. He tended to be a rather long-winded speaker, so everyone settled into their chairs. You could almost hear the collective sigh in the room.
“Zayde,” Tal called to her grandfather in a loud whisper.
Rabbi Susman ignored her.
“Zayde,” she called louder.
“I heard you the first time. I’m trying to listen to the speech.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean why? The man wrote a speech, I think we should at least pretend to listen to it. I’ve spent an entire career at least appearing to listen to people’s speeches, as they have been pretending to listen to mine, so why should I stop now?”
Tal loved her grandfather madly.
The shul president went shorter than expected, and Tal’s mother, the interior designer of the sanctuary, was called up to say a few words.
“I just want to know if you’re OK,” Tal said to her grandfather.
“Of course I’m OK Why shouldn’t I be OK? Are you OK?”
“I’m fine,” Tal said.
“So then everybody’s OK.”
Arielle Susman-Dansky glared down at her father and daughter in the middle of her speech, and a few people shushed loudly.
“It’s just that I thought this might be a bit hard for you.”
Rabbi Susman smiled. “I’m fine.”
“Really?”
Rabbi Susman leaned over and pinched Tal’s cheek. “Really. Thanks for worrying.”
Rabbi Susman was a big cheek pincher. He pinched hard, too, like he was trying to take a biopsy. Tal hated when he did that.
Tal’s mother finished her speech, evoking her childhood in Union City, her father’s life in the old country and the history of her family. Then she called up Rabbi Silverstein, the rabbi of Ohav Tzedek, to say a few words and to introduce her father. If the shul president had been uncharacteristically brief, Rabbi Silverstein’s reputation for verbosity was sure not to disappoint.
Tal continued. “It’s just that I would understand if all this was a bit hard for you.”
“Talital, everything is great.”
Tal may not have liked the pinching, but she loved the nickname her grandfather used for her. It brought her back to her days as a small child, scampering around the apartment in Union City, with the walls of decaying books on floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and the ancient velvet furniture. She could still recall the smell of that apartment: lilac and dust.
A few minutes passed as Rabbi Silverman spoke of tradition and the great town of Livingston.
“It’s just that I would understand if this whole thing made you feel a little blah, Zayde. Moving the Aron here is like the end of an era. I mean, how many Jews are there still left in Union City, if you think about it.”
Rabbi Silverman ignored the conversation in the front row and droned on.
“Talital, my wonderful granddaughter, thank you for worrying, but I promise you, I’m as happy as can be.” He reached to pinch her cheek again, but this time she was too quick for him and blocked his hand. Tali looked over at her grandfather skeptically.
At that moment Rabbi Silverman called on Rabbi Susman to say a few words. Rabbi Susman winked at Tali and then slowly climbed the stairs. He stood at the pulpit and looked out at the crowd with a big smile on his face.
“Thank you, Rabbi Silverman, for that wonderful introduction. It is so nice to be here and see my old Aron Kodesh find such a wonderful new home.
“In Parshat Teruma, when the Israelites were instructed to build the Aron, the Ark that would carry the Luchot, the Ten Commandments, Hashem lays out the construction very specifically. He tells them how to build it, soup to nuts, every detail. The one unusual thing about the Aron, as opposed to the other parts of the Mishkan, the Tabernacle, is that the poles used to carry the Aron are left in the rings that hold them, even when the Aron is at rest. Bataba’ot ha-Aron yihiyu habadim, lo yasuru mimenu. The poles shall remain in the rings of the ark; they may not be removed from it. The poles even stick out after the Aron is appropriately draped. No other item in the Mishkan receives similar treatment, even though each was designed to be easily transportable.
Now, why is that? I believe it’s because the Aron, and the tablets within it, represent the Torah in the Mishkan. It is portable and can always move with us, wherever we are. You leave the poles in because the Torah is ready to go on a moment’s notice. If you have Jews, whether in Chernivtsi in the Ukraine, in Union City, or in Livingston, then you will have Torah. It moves with us.
“So when I see my beautiful, old Aron Kodesh in a wonderful new sanctuary, it pleases me greatly. I see the Torah traveling to its next place. It’s with us, no matter where we are. And let me tell you, New Jersey sure beats the Ukraine. Take my word for it.”
By Larry Stiefel
Rabbi Susman turned toward the Aron Kodesh and pulled the string. The cloth dropped and everyone gasped and broke out in applause. It truly did look beautiful in its new home, as Rabbi Susman knew it would all along.
