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Hirsh Goodman: My Yiddishe Brother
Hirsh Goodman

�Reform!� he said, spitting on the ground as he said it. �Oi va voi, worse than goyim, worse than heathens,a creation of Satan,� he screeched.

ONE DAY THIS MONTH, ON THE EVE OF LAG Ba�omer, I had to change a tire on our car after the Better Half destroyed it by driving on a flat for who knows how long. I drove down to a gas station at the bottom of Emek Refaim Street in Jerusalem and patiently waited my turn for service, in what seemed to be one of the few thriving businesses in Israel these days.

Standing at the counter, furiously writing something, was a thirtysomething Lubavitcher hasid, thin as a rake with peyot down to his shoulders. Seeing me waiting, he engaged me in conversation, informing me that he�d been around the world for Chabad, frequently to Goa, India, trying to save lost Israeli souls; one of these was the owner of the tire place, whom he had failed to convert but with whom he remained friendly.

"You have children?" he asked. I replied in the affirmative and he promptly invited us all to a Lag Ba�omer parade Chabad was holding in Katamon the next afternoon. There were going to be clowns, bands, dancing -- one whale of a time. He put his arm around me, telling me how all Jews are brothers and that though we think we are different we aren�t and that if I came along with the kids I would not feel out of place "even though you are secular."

"First we�ll get you to dance, then sing, then come to shul," he said with a huge, warm smile on his face, calling me "ahi" -- "my brother" -- a popular Israelism, particularly among soldiers.

"I go to shul," I replied, pointing in the direction of Kol Haneshamah, my congregation, just over the road.

"Kol hakavod," he said which loosely translated means "good for you" or "hats off." "Do you go often?" he asked.

"Every Friday night," I answered, bending the truth just a little bit.

"Excellent," he said, adding "and what synagogue is it? Sephardi, Ashkenazi?"

"No," I replied. "Reform."

"Reform!" he said, spitting on the ground as he said it. "Oi va voi, worse than goyim, worse than heathens, a creation of Satan," he screeched, eyes turned heavenward, hands outstretched, palms up as if appealing to God himself.

"I bet the Litvaks consider Chabad reform," I said to him, referring to the anti-hasidic wing of the ultra-Orthodox.

Hands now at his temples, eyes closed, body bobbing back and forth as if in prayer. "A curse, a scourge, a plague, an abomination."

"Look," I said. "You know nothing about Reform, nothing about our shul and nothing about the people in it. For example, many Israelis who are secular, who would never step inside a shul, have joined our congregation and are at least getting some yiddishkeit."

"Oi va voi, oi va voi," he chanted, "Oi va voi. Better they know nothing, than go into that place," he said. Two stern men with yarmulkes, one crocheted and one black, nodded in agreement. "Better they never hear the Torah than hear it there. Better never hear a prayer than one from a woman rabbi. Oi va voi, oi va voi."

"What happened to the ahi, ahi?" I asked. "A minute ago we were all brothers and now I�m the plague. I�m proud to belong to Kol Haneshamah," I said. "The shul does excellent things in the community, helps the poor and the needy, looks after families and even has adopted a hostel for people with Down syndrome who come to shul and take a full and active part in the community," I said.

A moment of silence and then looking me directly in the eye, all warmth gone from the face that a few minutes back had been so welcoming. "Rather they should die than the Reform look after them," he said.

I shook my head and turned away shrugging my shoulders. "What do you think?" I asked the two with yarmulkes on their heads. One turned away, making out as if he were very busy looking at a tire catalogue, the other smiled. "We are all God�s creatures for good and for bad," he said ambiguously, leaving it to interpretation if he was referring to the Reform, or the Chabadnik who preferred the Down syndrome congregants dead, as the "bad" part of the equation.

There must have been about 10 other people around who heard the exchange. Not one of them said a word. The only person to speak and break the uncomfortable silence was an Arab from neighboring Beit Safafa who has worked at the tire shop for a decade.