Yom Kippurs Past (And Present)
Title
Yom Kippurs Past (And Present)
Identifier
YOM_KIPPURS_PAST
Creator
Jacob Schlitt
Description
"I may have written about some of this before."
Date
2016-10-19
Format
application/pdf
Type
text
Text
YOM KIPPURS PAST (AND PRESENT)
I may have written about some of this before. At 88, I can’t remember all my scribblings. I am entitled to repeat myself.
While attending Hebrew School at the Fox Street shul, it was impressed upon us that Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kjppur were the holiest days in the Jewish calendar. This is when it seemed “everybody” went to shul. (I did not learn about the Bundists who ate ham sandwiches in front of shul on Yom Kippur until years later.) Before Bar Mitzvah, most of the kids my age would to go to our respective shuls and hang out. As we got older, the hanging out was expanded to include several neighboring shuls.
Despite (or possibly, because of) the depression, shuls would compete with one another, featuring big name cantors (chazonim) and impressive choirs for the High Holy Days. Ticket sales were clearly linked to the prominence of the cantors. And the shul’s survival was dependent on ticket sales for the High Holy Days, as well as pledges before Yizkor. Membership dues did not do it. And certainly not Hebrew School tuition. (An aside: One year, Moishe Oysher had been hired as chazan at Rabbi Katz’s, (a neighborhood shuul) and someone apparently saw him drive to shul and park a few blocks away. A scandal! I assume he was supposed to have been given a place to stay nearby.)
The game for kids was to try to sneak into shul when the cop who was hired to check tickets was not looking. I did not buy a ticket until I entered college. And then I bought a ticket for the “Bais Medresh,” the downstairs auditorium which had no cantor and choir. I would still try to make it into the main sanctuary. If the cop asked me for my ticket I would show it to him, but most of the time, he knew the difference between the tickets for downstairs and the main sanctuary.
One RH-YK, when I was in college, I bought a ticket for my friend Bob’s shul and went with him and his father. It was a good feeling, because up to that time, I always went to shul alone, very self-conscious of my status as a child without a father. The feeling of being a “yosim” was especially keenly felt when Yizkor was said. All the congregants whose parents were alive fled the sanctuary, and I was left there with all the old people. As soon as the Yizkor prayer was being said, there was wailing, crying, sobbing, moaning from the women in the balcony. And tears from some of the men. It continued until the end of the prayer. I began to think that there was something wrong with me, that I did not cry. I tried to imagine my father. I couldn’t do it. I never knew him. I could not remember any interaction. All I could visualize were a few pictures of him. I did not even know where he was buried.
In 1945, my cousin Gabie was killed in the war, and in 1951, my mother died. Those deaths affected me deeply. From 1945 on, I no longer said Yizkor dry eyed. Thinking about Gabie, then my mother, I was overcome, saying their names. Saying Yizkor made me think about all those who meant so much to me. And as the years passed, and friends passed, I found myself overcome with sadness at their loss.The Yizkor prayer enabled me to be with them again.
My mother insisted that I go to shul on all the Jewish holidays. (My mother never went to shul. The only time she was in shul was for my Bar Mitzvah.) She also insisted that I dress up, and that I wear a “kupelidsh,” a fedora. The fact is, everyone dressed up for the high holiday, especially the older women, many wearing fur coats. My mother believed that for all Jewish holidays we wear something new. It could be a pair of sox, but usually, it was on a Jewish holiday that I received new clothes.
Over the years, I picked up customs and traditions, some I adopted and some I did not. From Aaron Silbermintz, a Yiddish speaking Orthodox Jew working at the Jewish Labor Committee I learned to wish people before Yom Kippur, “A laykhtn tanis,” an easy fast. I began wearing sneakers on Yom Kippur, not my best shoes. I saw people wearing white, and if I had one, I would wear a white yarmulke (which I pronounced “yarmikeh.” I did not have, nor would I have worn, a “kittel,” symbolizing the white shroud.
I have fond memories of the scene when everyone was leaving the Fox Street shul at the end of Yom Kippur. The shofar had been blown and as the crowd poured out onto the sidewalk, we were engulfed in a haze of smoke. All the men were smokers, and the greatest deprivation they all claimed to have had was refraining from smoking on Yom Kippur. The day of fasting was over but clearly, to my fellow congregants, going without a cigarette was worse than going without food.
I mentioned “pledges.” It was the custom for the more well to do members of the congregation to lead the fundraising part of the service which preceded Yizkor. (It wasn’t until years later that I realized the Yizkor prayer states that we pledge charity on behalf of the deceased.) The “makhers” would give the pitch, explaining how the shul was in desperate straits, and that if it was to continue to exist, the congregants had to contribute. They started the ball rolling by making what, to most of us, were remarkably generous gifts for the times—1930s and early 40s: as much as $100. Then came a few $75 contributions, and a flurry of $50 gifts. The contributor would stand up, a volunteer would rush to stand next to him, the contributor would say his name and the amount, the volunteer would repeat his name and the amount, and the leader on the bima would also repeat his name and the amount. Isaac Ginsberg $36. Mr. Ginsberg $36. Mr. Isaac Ginsberg $36. Occasionally, a contributor which most everyone knew, would get up and say, “Un a numen” (without a name) $25. He is making his contribution anonymously. For the next half hour, dozens of smaller donations were offered: $18, $15, $10. Each contributor was acknowledged and thanked. All in Yiddish. When the leader felt that they had raised all they could, Yizkor would begin.
Fasting was a challenge that most of the kids in my Hebrew School took up as we were approaching Bar Mitzvah age. At 12, some of us did it to the end; others gave in by late afternoon, mothers plying them with milk and honey cake. I believe I fasted from my Bar Mitzvah year on. But there was one transgression which I vividly remember. It was about 3 or 4 pm. on Yom Kippur. I was 18 or 19, visiting my friend Irving Plotnick. Everybody gathered in front of his house at 736 Fox Street, including a young woman who I had a crush on. She offered me a piece of fruit. Without thinking, I accepted, and after eating it, I realized it was Yom Kippur. I was very upset with myself. Not with Eunice Danzig. (I amaze myself when I remember a name I haven’t thought about in almost 70 years.) I still fast and do not find it a hardship. A few friends have given it up for medical reasons. Taking a mid-afternoon nap helps.
Though all shuls had machzorim, (RH-YK prayer books), I noticed that many people brought their own. One day, in the early ‘50s, before the holidays, when I was browsing in the book department of Macy’s, I was surprised to see a section with machzorim. On impulse, I decided to buy one. It never occurred to me that there might be differences in the various prayer books. The only difference I could imagine was that one was only in Hebrew, and another had English translation of the Hebrew prayers. I bought one that had both Hebrew and English. I was oblivious to denominational differences. Those were the days before shuls that I went to used all the same editions of prayer books, and the page numbers would be announced. I have previously noted that when I was young, I would turn to an older person to ask the place. Now that I am old, I turn to a younger person to ask the place.
In 1954, I had been drafted, completed Basic Training at Fort Dix, and was assigned to Camp Rucker in Alabama. Sylvia had joined me, we found an apartment, and we made friends with other Army couples. One was the Floumenhafts, and they were Orthodox. The high holidays were coming, and the only shul in the area was a Reform Temple in nearby Dothan. The Floumenhafts rented a room in town. Sylvia and I drove back and forth. We were very warmly received by the congregants. The Rabbi was imported from Brooklyn for the holidays. It was good to be in shul and I enjoyed “davening.” But what really impressed me was the shofar blower. He was the best shofar blower I had ever heard. At the end of Yom Kipper I went up to congratulate him, and to express my admiration. He smiled and told me he is a professional trumpet and bugle player. Then he sighed and said that despite his skill, he is not good enough for his son’s shul. He explained that his son belongs to a Conservative congregation in Montgomery, but because he is Reform, they would not have him blow shofar.
In 1956, I was back at the Fox Street shul, and in 1957, we moved to Brooklyn. One year, I went to the imposing Brooklyn Jewish Center on Eastern Parkway. I believe the Rabbi was Benjamin Kreitman. What shocked me was when Rabbi Kreitman was to deliver his sermon, the sanctuary doors were locked. No one could go in or out. I was amused by the contrast with the Fox Street shul. When Rabbi Schoenfeld delivered his sermon, people walked up and down the aisles, chatting, entering and leaving the sanctuary.
I went to shul every Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. From the Bronx, to Alabama and Georgia, back to the Bronx, to Brooklyn, to Washington DC, to Boston. When I met Fran, it was the fall of 1979 and I asked her where she went to shul for the high holidays. She said Brandeis, and we went to Brandeis together. My Boston Workmen’s Circle had secular high holiday services which they cleverly called “Hi-Ho.” It filled a need for some 500 members and friends. By this time, Fran, David and I were members of the Newton Center Minyan. I should note that I have always pronounced the holiday Rosh HaSHAna and Yom KIPer, not Rosh HashaNA and Yom KiPPUR.
I am aware that Yom Kippur really starts with an early supper, the lighting of Yahrzeit lamps, and then trying to get to shul in time for Kol Nidre. That prayer sets the tone for the next 25 hours. I have tried to find a deeper meaning in observing this holy Day of Atonement, with limited success. I am still caught up in the form-substance debate. I try to do what the day requires. I read the prayers, and attempt to relate them to my life. As I get older, I wonder if, on Yom Kippur, God is really deciding who shall live and who shall die. That on Rosh Hashanah “it is inscribed” and on Yom Kippur “it is sealed.” I am also never sure when we switch from saying Shana Tova to G’mar Tov. I stick with “A Git Yor,” and a “Zeeseh Yor.”
Davening at the Newton Center Minyan, I have come to love the melodies. They are joyous and rhythmic, in contrast to the words. But since I do not know Hebrew, it doesn’t make much difference. However, as I recite the list of “Al Hets,” the confession of our sins, I would read the English translation. I would also stand, even as it gets more difficult, and I would strike my heart, and say that we have sinned against you thoughtlessly, in idle chatter, through sexual immorality, openly and in private, knowingly and deceitfully, through selfishness and stubbornness etc. (From the Lev Shalem Mahzor.)
By praying, I am supposed to be asking forgiveness of God for the sins I have committed. It was the same friend with whom I went to shul one year when we were in college, who told me that on Yom Kippur, you should also ask forgiveness of the people you may have hurt or offended, knowingly or unknowingly. That certainly made a lot of sense. (For those reading this, though it is no longer Yom Kippur, if I have ever offended you, please forgive me.)
And as each Yom Kippur ended, I was always caught up in the powerful emotion of the final Sh’mah, then the recitation of one prayer three time, and the second prayer seven times, which I counted on my fingers, then the blowing of a long blast of the shofar “T’kiah G’dolah,” and finally the declaration, “Next year in Jerusalem!” Yom Kippur is a remarkable holiday! As we leave these days, there is now juice and honey cake to break the fast. No clouds of cigarette smoke any more. Just everyone wishing everyone again, Shana Tova.
10-19-16
I may have written about some of this before. At 88, I can’t remember all my scribblings. I am entitled to repeat myself.
While attending Hebrew School at the Fox Street shul, it was impressed upon us that Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kjppur were the holiest days in the Jewish calendar. This is when it seemed “everybody” went to shul. (I did not learn about the Bundists who ate ham sandwiches in front of shul on Yom Kippur until years later.) Before Bar Mitzvah, most of the kids my age would to go to our respective shuls and hang out. As we got older, the hanging out was expanded to include several neighboring shuls.
Despite (or possibly, because of) the depression, shuls would compete with one another, featuring big name cantors (chazonim) and impressive choirs for the High Holy Days. Ticket sales were clearly linked to the prominence of the cantors. And the shul’s survival was dependent on ticket sales for the High Holy Days, as well as pledges before Yizkor. Membership dues did not do it. And certainly not Hebrew School tuition. (An aside: One year, Moishe Oysher had been hired as chazan at Rabbi Katz’s, (a neighborhood shuul) and someone apparently saw him drive to shul and park a few blocks away. A scandal! I assume he was supposed to have been given a place to stay nearby.)
The game for kids was to try to sneak into shul when the cop who was hired to check tickets was not looking. I did not buy a ticket until I entered college. And then I bought a ticket for the “Bais Medresh,” the downstairs auditorium which had no cantor and choir. I would still try to make it into the main sanctuary. If the cop asked me for my ticket I would show it to him, but most of the time, he knew the difference between the tickets for downstairs and the main sanctuary.
One RH-YK, when I was in college, I bought a ticket for my friend Bob’s shul and went with him and his father. It was a good feeling, because up to that time, I always went to shul alone, very self-conscious of my status as a child without a father. The feeling of being a “yosim” was especially keenly felt when Yizkor was said. All the congregants whose parents were alive fled the sanctuary, and I was left there with all the old people. As soon as the Yizkor prayer was being said, there was wailing, crying, sobbing, moaning from the women in the balcony. And tears from some of the men. It continued until the end of the prayer. I began to think that there was something wrong with me, that I did not cry. I tried to imagine my father. I couldn’t do it. I never knew him. I could not remember any interaction. All I could visualize were a few pictures of him. I did not even know where he was buried.
In 1945, my cousin Gabie was killed in the war, and in 1951, my mother died. Those deaths affected me deeply. From 1945 on, I no longer said Yizkor dry eyed. Thinking about Gabie, then my mother, I was overcome, saying their names. Saying Yizkor made me think about all those who meant so much to me. And as the years passed, and friends passed, I found myself overcome with sadness at their loss.The Yizkor prayer enabled me to be with them again.
My mother insisted that I go to shul on all the Jewish holidays. (My mother never went to shul. The only time she was in shul was for my Bar Mitzvah.) She also insisted that I dress up, and that I wear a “kupelidsh,” a fedora. The fact is, everyone dressed up for the high holiday, especially the older women, many wearing fur coats. My mother believed that for all Jewish holidays we wear something new. It could be a pair of sox, but usually, it was on a Jewish holiday that I received new clothes.
Over the years, I picked up customs and traditions, some I adopted and some I did not. From Aaron Silbermintz, a Yiddish speaking Orthodox Jew working at the Jewish Labor Committee I learned to wish people before Yom Kippur, “A laykhtn tanis,” an easy fast. I began wearing sneakers on Yom Kippur, not my best shoes. I saw people wearing white, and if I had one, I would wear a white yarmulke (which I pronounced “yarmikeh.” I did not have, nor would I have worn, a “kittel,” symbolizing the white shroud.
I have fond memories of the scene when everyone was leaving the Fox Street shul at the end of Yom Kippur. The shofar had been blown and as the crowd poured out onto the sidewalk, we were engulfed in a haze of smoke. All the men were smokers, and the greatest deprivation they all claimed to have had was refraining from smoking on Yom Kippur. The day of fasting was over but clearly, to my fellow congregants, going without a cigarette was worse than going without food.
I mentioned “pledges.” It was the custom for the more well to do members of the congregation to lead the fundraising part of the service which preceded Yizkor. (It wasn’t until years later that I realized the Yizkor prayer states that we pledge charity on behalf of the deceased.) The “makhers” would give the pitch, explaining how the shul was in desperate straits, and that if it was to continue to exist, the congregants had to contribute. They started the ball rolling by making what, to most of us, were remarkably generous gifts for the times—1930s and early 40s: as much as $100. Then came a few $75 contributions, and a flurry of $50 gifts. The contributor would stand up, a volunteer would rush to stand next to him, the contributor would say his name and the amount, the volunteer would repeat his name and the amount, and the leader on the bima would also repeat his name and the amount. Isaac Ginsberg $36. Mr. Ginsberg $36. Mr. Isaac Ginsberg $36. Occasionally, a contributor which most everyone knew, would get up and say, “Un a numen” (without a name) $25. He is making his contribution anonymously. For the next half hour, dozens of smaller donations were offered: $18, $15, $10. Each contributor was acknowledged and thanked. All in Yiddish. When the leader felt that they had raised all they could, Yizkor would begin.
Fasting was a challenge that most of the kids in my Hebrew School took up as we were approaching Bar Mitzvah age. At 12, some of us did it to the end; others gave in by late afternoon, mothers plying them with milk and honey cake. I believe I fasted from my Bar Mitzvah year on. But there was one transgression which I vividly remember. It was about 3 or 4 pm. on Yom Kippur. I was 18 or 19, visiting my friend Irving Plotnick. Everybody gathered in front of his house at 736 Fox Street, including a young woman who I had a crush on. She offered me a piece of fruit. Without thinking, I accepted, and after eating it, I realized it was Yom Kippur. I was very upset with myself. Not with Eunice Danzig. (I amaze myself when I remember a name I haven’t thought about in almost 70 years.) I still fast and do not find it a hardship. A few friends have given it up for medical reasons. Taking a mid-afternoon nap helps.
Though all shuls had machzorim, (RH-YK prayer books), I noticed that many people brought their own. One day, in the early ‘50s, before the holidays, when I was browsing in the book department of Macy’s, I was surprised to see a section with machzorim. On impulse, I decided to buy one. It never occurred to me that there might be differences in the various prayer books. The only difference I could imagine was that one was only in Hebrew, and another had English translation of the Hebrew prayers. I bought one that had both Hebrew and English. I was oblivious to denominational differences. Those were the days before shuls that I went to used all the same editions of prayer books, and the page numbers would be announced. I have previously noted that when I was young, I would turn to an older person to ask the place. Now that I am old, I turn to a younger person to ask the place.
In 1954, I had been drafted, completed Basic Training at Fort Dix, and was assigned to Camp Rucker in Alabama. Sylvia had joined me, we found an apartment, and we made friends with other Army couples. One was the Floumenhafts, and they were Orthodox. The high holidays were coming, and the only shul in the area was a Reform Temple in nearby Dothan. The Floumenhafts rented a room in town. Sylvia and I drove back and forth. We were very warmly received by the congregants. The Rabbi was imported from Brooklyn for the holidays. It was good to be in shul and I enjoyed “davening.” But what really impressed me was the shofar blower. He was the best shofar blower I had ever heard. At the end of Yom Kipper I went up to congratulate him, and to express my admiration. He smiled and told me he is a professional trumpet and bugle player. Then he sighed and said that despite his skill, he is not good enough for his son’s shul. He explained that his son belongs to a Conservative congregation in Montgomery, but because he is Reform, they would not have him blow shofar.
In 1956, I was back at the Fox Street shul, and in 1957, we moved to Brooklyn. One year, I went to the imposing Brooklyn Jewish Center on Eastern Parkway. I believe the Rabbi was Benjamin Kreitman. What shocked me was when Rabbi Kreitman was to deliver his sermon, the sanctuary doors were locked. No one could go in or out. I was amused by the contrast with the Fox Street shul. When Rabbi Schoenfeld delivered his sermon, people walked up and down the aisles, chatting, entering and leaving the sanctuary.
I went to shul every Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. From the Bronx, to Alabama and Georgia, back to the Bronx, to Brooklyn, to Washington DC, to Boston. When I met Fran, it was the fall of 1979 and I asked her where she went to shul for the high holidays. She said Brandeis, and we went to Brandeis together. My Boston Workmen’s Circle had secular high holiday services which they cleverly called “Hi-Ho.” It filled a need for some 500 members and friends. By this time, Fran, David and I were members of the Newton Center Minyan. I should note that I have always pronounced the holiday Rosh HaSHAna and Yom KIPer, not Rosh HashaNA and Yom KiPPUR.
I am aware that Yom Kippur really starts with an early supper, the lighting of Yahrzeit lamps, and then trying to get to shul in time for Kol Nidre. That prayer sets the tone for the next 25 hours. I have tried to find a deeper meaning in observing this holy Day of Atonement, with limited success. I am still caught up in the form-substance debate. I try to do what the day requires. I read the prayers, and attempt to relate them to my life. As I get older, I wonder if, on Yom Kippur, God is really deciding who shall live and who shall die. That on Rosh Hashanah “it is inscribed” and on Yom Kippur “it is sealed.” I am also never sure when we switch from saying Shana Tova to G’mar Tov. I stick with “A Git Yor,” and a “Zeeseh Yor.”
Davening at the Newton Center Minyan, I have come to love the melodies. They are joyous and rhythmic, in contrast to the words. But since I do not know Hebrew, it doesn’t make much difference. However, as I recite the list of “Al Hets,” the confession of our sins, I would read the English translation. I would also stand, even as it gets more difficult, and I would strike my heart, and say that we have sinned against you thoughtlessly, in idle chatter, through sexual immorality, openly and in private, knowingly and deceitfully, through selfishness and stubbornness etc. (From the Lev Shalem Mahzor.)
By praying, I am supposed to be asking forgiveness of God for the sins I have committed. It was the same friend with whom I went to shul one year when we were in college, who told me that on Yom Kippur, you should also ask forgiveness of the people you may have hurt or offended, knowingly or unknowingly. That certainly made a lot of sense. (For those reading this, though it is no longer Yom Kippur, if I have ever offended you, please forgive me.)
And as each Yom Kippur ended, I was always caught up in the powerful emotion of the final Sh’mah, then the recitation of one prayer three time, and the second prayer seven times, which I counted on my fingers, then the blowing of a long blast of the shofar “T’kiah G’dolah,” and finally the declaration, “Next year in Jerusalem!” Yom Kippur is a remarkable holiday! As we leave these days, there is now juice and honey cake to break the fast. No clouds of cigarette smoke any more. Just everyone wishing everyone again, Shana Tova.
10-19-16
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Jacob Schlitt, “Yom Kippurs Past (And Present),” Autobiographical stories & other writing by Jacob Schlitt, accessed February 10, 2025, https://tsirlson.omeka.net/items/show/426.