The mystery of siblings, raised by the same parents, who are different yet the same fascinates me. I observe my own grandchildren, raised by my son and daughter in law here in Jerusalem, and wonder at how different each is, although they share the same way of life and values.
The variations between myself and my brother, ten years my senior, may be easier to understand. His formative years were during the Depression when my parents were new Americans not long arrived from Palestine, having previously escaped from the turmoil of Eastern Europe before the Nazis initiated their crusade against the Jewish people and the world. Wandering Jews. I was raised in a home spiritually rich and economically struggling, but the refrigerator was always full.
After the First World War, my mother and father joined my gentle and kind grandfather in Brooklyn, a Grand Rabbi of Hassidim [I will explain this term in future entries] who had escaped Petlyura's gangs rampaging pogroms in the Ukraine during the Communist uprisings. My brother was privileged to know him well. My memories of our "zeida" are dimmer.
Born into the first elevator house in the Bronx, as soon as I knew myself my dream was to share in the adventure of the new Jewish State of Israel. The return of my people to our ancestral home. As a child, I sensed that the centuries of not belonging, of wandering and suffering had happened to me personally.
So I have built my life in Israel as my brother has in the United States. Two weeks ago I returned home to Israel from a long awaited visit with him and his family in Miami, and will share with you the thoughts that will arise in me as I digest this adventure.
Still the same but different, my handsome and funny brother and his family are the taste to me of our long departed parents.
And best of all, I gained a new friendship with a neice who also offered me an additional gift.
This blog for me to write my thoughts and poems to you.
So long and Lehit'
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