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Aish2d ago

The first trapdoor was hidden in the floor. In 2012, Dutch corporate attorney Roxane van Iperen bought a secluded nine-room house on a quiet forest path and began to renovate it. The house started giving up its secrets almost at once. There were more trapdoors, secret rooms, and double walls. Then came stranger finds: old resistance artifacts, sheet music, candle stubs, and faded photographs. These were the remains of lives lived in hiding. The house, she would learn, had once been called the High Nest. During the darkest years of the war, two sisters turned it into a haven for up to 25–30 Jewish artists, resistance fighters, and their families. Under its thatched roof they printed resistance papers, staged operas, and taught Yiddish, while three-quarters of Dutch Jewry was being sent to its death. And one of those sisters would become one of the last people to see Anne Frank alive. The house was located at #2 Driftweg in Naarden, in the region of ’t Gooi, about 20 km (12.4 miles) east of Amsterdam in the Dutch countryside. The three-story building, with its high, steep thatched roof, stood hidden among tall trees. Van Iperen, a part-time writer, began to investigate the history of her house. She uncovered its remarkable past and the story of the Brilleslijper sisters. Her book about the house, known in Dutch as ’t Hooge Nest (the High Nest), told of its history of resistance and bravery and of the sisters at its heart. It became an international bestseller. The sisters were intellectuals from a Liberal Jewish family. Both were born in Amsterdam: Lien on December 13, 1912, and Janny on October 24, 1916. On their father’s side they descended from “a circus family of traveling, Yiddish-speaking musicians,” and on their mother’s from “devout Frisian Jews; tall, sullen people.” The two girls were raised in Amsterdam’s Jewish Quarter in a close-knit, music-loving family. Their temperaments were very different. Lien was spontaneous, outgoing, and light-hearted like her father, and a dreamer. Janny was down-to-earth, at times reserved, and strong-willed like her mother. Long before the High Nest became a refuge, Janny and Lien were already active in the Dutch resistance. They refused to wear the mandatory Jewish star and slipped into the underground network that forged papers, passed illegal messages, and sheltered people on the run. A few years earlier, during the Spanish Civil War, Janny Brilleslijper organized political and humanitarian aid from the Netherlands to support anti-fascist combatants. As the Nazis tightened their grip on Amsterdam, she fought back. She refused to get a Jewish ID card and went to work for the resistance. She stenciled messages on pillars and posts and moved illegal parcels and documents, often hidden under the mattress of the pram that carried one of her children. Both sisters carried a fierce political conviction into the Nazi occupation. Together they helped anyone they could and became trusted figures inside the resistance. In February 1943, seven months after the Nazis began mass deportations from Dutch cities, the Brilleslijper sisters rented the house from two Amsterdam women who had used it as a summer retreat. They and their families secured the property using fake names and falsified papers. “And so the extraordinary Brilleslijper enterprise at the High Nest begins – host family of ten, hiding place, underground center. Since July 1942, trains to the area have been running without a pause and, everywhere in the country, Jews are looking for places to hide. In this third year of German occupation, aggression stops at nothing and Nazi ideology is practiced even without German pressure. As a young Dutch police officer says, ‘it’s no proper Sunday unless we beat a couple of Jews to a pulp.’” For roughly 18 months, the High Nest was one of the most important Jewish hiding places in the Netherlands. It served two purposes: it sheltered partisans and members of the arts community, and it functioned as an underground resistance center. As three-quarters of the Netherlands’ Jewish population was being systematically murdered, resistance papers were printed, opera nights were staged, Yiddish classes met, and a vibrant cultural world flourished. Keeping Jewish music and art alive was a central goal. “They continued to make music and art, producing their own performances of major operas as well as the Yiddish songs which are Lien’s profession. It’s a place where all kinds of endangered people [were] welcome… a place where toddlers and young children can play outside from dawn to dusk if they wish[ed].” Continue reading: https://aish.com/the-hidden-refuge-of-two-jewish-sisters/

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Aish2d ago

A Jew from Poland named Oswald Rufeisen converted to Christianity and became a Carmelite monk, taking the name Brother Daniel. Despite his conversion, he continued to identify as a Jew and in 1958 applied for citizenship in the State of Israel on the basis of his Jewish birth. One of Israel’s central doctrines is the Law of Return, guaranteeing the right of every Jew to immigrate to Israel and to become a citizen. The Israeli Ministry of the Interior, uncertain how to proceed, referred the matter to the Israeli Supreme Court. The Court faced a profound dilemma. If it were to rule that Brother Daniel was no longer Jewish because he had abandoned Judaism, it would effectively declare that Jewish identity depends upon observance of Jewish law and belief. Yet most members of the Court—and a substantial portion of Israeli society—were secular and did not themselves observe Jewish law. On what grounds, then, could they deny Brother Daniel’s Jewishness? On the other hand, Brother Daniel had fully embraced Christianity, adopted a new religious identity, and lived as a Carmelite monk. It was difficult to see how someone so thoroughly identified with another faith could still be regarded as a Jew in the civic sense. Ultimately, the Court ruled that Brother Daniel could not be recognized as Jewish for the purposes of Israeli citizenship and the Law of Return. Crucially, the justices emphasized that they were not judging him according to Jewish law. Indeed, they explicitly acknowledged that according to Halakhah, Jewish law, Brother Daniel was entirely Jewish: born to a Jewish mother, he remained Jewish despite his apostasy. Their decision rested instead on secular Israeli law, under which the term “Jew” could not apply to someone who fully identified as a Christian. This incident raises a fundamental and fascinating question: Are Jews a nation, a family, or a religious community? Continue reading to find out 👉https://aish.com/are-jews-a-nation-a-family-or-a-religious-community/

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Aish@aishjewish

For decades, rocket attacks from Gazan terrorists have disrupted daily life in Israel, sending families rushing to bomb shelters and leaving entire communities living under constant threat. A full year without a rocket from Gaza reaching Israel is a significant milestone. The

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Aish@aishjewish

You're a grown man with a respectable career. People come to you for advice, you take your responsibilities seriously, and you try hard to live the way a good Jew should. And yet, all through the day, thoughts barge into your mind uninvited. Improper ones. The kind you would be

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Aish3d ago

Born into a Chassidic family in Krakow, Poland, in 1883, Sarah Schenirer grew up in a society where girls received no formal Jewish education. For eight years, Sarah attended a Polish public school, as was required by the country’s compulsory education law. Once or twice a week, the school was visited by a rabbi, who gave the Jewish students some basic lessons in Judaism. This did not satisfy Sarah’s thirst for knowledge. Naturally inquisitive, Sarah read, in her native Yiddish, every Jewish book she could get hold of. Her father encouraged her learning and bought her a book of stories from the Talmud translated into Yiddish. As a teenager, Sarah, like most girls in her community, was faced with the necessity of earning a living. She became a seamstress and eventually started her own successful dressmaking business. In her personal life, Sarah did not see as much success. She remained single until age 27, when she gave in to societal pressure and married a local Jewish man with whom she did not have much in common. The marriage was unhappy from the start, and Sarah initiated the divorce proceedings a year later. The divorce was finalized when Sarah was 30 years old. As a seamstress, Sarah encountered many girls and their mothers. She wrote, “When I saw how concerned people were with the smallest detail when I was cutting and measuring their dresses, I would think to myself, ‘And what do the “garments” of their souls look like?’” This spiritual crisis unfolding in Poland was publicly discussed at the Rabbinical Congress in Krakow in 1903. Drawn to intellectual stimulation available in the secular world, hundreds of Jewish girls were leaving Judaism. Their connection to Judaism was so superficial that some readily converted to Christianity, whether for social acceptance or for marriage. In addition, too many Chassidic girls, lured by exciting promises, naively fell victim to human trafficking and were forced into prostitution. At the Rabbinical Congress, rabbis and community leaders bemoaned the plight of Poland’s Jewish girls. As a solution, they discussed opening Jewish schools for girls and providing them with authentic Torah education. They encountered some opposition, along with practical difficulties. Though the conversation continued in the ensuing years, no one actually took the first step of opening a school. As a woman, Sarah did not participate in any public discussion, nor did she have a husband to speak up for her. However, the disconnect she observed pained her immensely and she was eager to share her own love for Jewish texts with other women. In 1910, she wrote in her diary: "When I open my books on the Sabbath and discover there the words of Torah and Midrash and so on – I forget everything else in this world and float above it in a higher realm of pure delight… The hearts of young girls are captivated by propagandistic lectures on secular subjects… I doubt very much that any girl in the gymnasium could possibly be as happy as I am during those hours when I immerse myself in sacred books." At the same time, Sarah doubted that she could change anything. She wrote, “[M]aybe, at some point, I will have the courage to speak these thoughts aloud. But can this really happen? I, who am shy to let out a word…” In 1914, World War I broke out and Sarah fled from Krakow to Vienna with her family. The first time she attended a local synagogue, she was astonished to see the rabbi step up to the pulpit and address both men and women. Sarah recalled "Riveted to my seat, I listened with great fascination to the fiery, spirited words of the rabbi. "In his sermon, he depicted the greatness and sublimity of the historical figure of Judith, and through her, he eloquently and passionately called upon Jewish women and their daughters to act according to the model of this Jewish heroine… Even as I was caught up in the spiritual description of the character of Judith, it occurred to me: ah, if only all those women and girls in Krakow were here now to learn who we are and where we come from. The rabbi Sarah met in Vienna was Rabbi Moses David Flesch, who had studied in Frankfurt, where Jewish schools for girls already existed. He was accustomed to teaching women and was happy to recommend books by German Jewish thinkers to Sarah. Later, these books, along with the notes Sarah had taken at Rabbi Flesch’s weekday lectures, formed the basis of Sarah’s school curriculum. In the summer of 1915, Sarah returned to Krakow, determined to bring Jewish education for girls to her hometown. She recalled, “On my first day back I presented my proposal to a small circle of well-known religious women… who listened to me with evident joy.” But Sarah’s idea faced many practical challenges, from lack of a suitable location to skepticism from potential students. Sarah wrote, “Nevertheless, I persevered, and by that Sabbath had prepared a lecture for a gathering of 40 girls.” Despite Sarah’s eagerness and passion, the girls were not impressed. “I could see the ironic smiles on many of their faces, and without a fare-thee-well, some of them just disappeared,” recalled Sarah. Filled with self-doubt, Sarah had to persuade herself not to give up. She wrote, “I kept coming back to the same idea: We must open the eyes of our sisters, so they will see the great light of Israel! Forget any doubts, ignore all the obstacles! What do I care if people smile at me and mock my plan?... If the intentions are true and the goal is noble, will they not bear fruit?” Sarah continued teaching, slowly gathered an interested audience, and founded a Jewish lending library. But she found that inspiration did not last. Girls enjoyed her lectures but did not commit to Jewish observance. Sarah reflected, “[M]ost were young women already, and it wasn’t easy to persuade them to take on a new, truly Jewish life, with all its customs and traditions.” Thus, Sarah came to the conclusion that she had to begin educating Jewish girls at much younger ages. In November 1917, Sarah wrote in her diary, “Finally, finally, the goal has been reached! I’m sitting now in my very own schoolroom.” Her first class consisted of 25 girls, “most of them children I sewed dresses for, and now I ask their mothers, Will you also allow me to provide them with spiritual clothing?” wrote Sarah. Pearl Benisch, one of the early students, wrote that Sarah “resolved to start with these innocent little girls like me. She would tell them about the great love that our Father [God] has for His children, His concern for their well-being, the beauty of our heritage, Jewish history, and the truth of the Torah". Sarah’s tiny apartment served as the classroom. It had old benches and no blackboard, but the girls’ eyes sparkled, and Sarah was overjoyed. One of her first students, who came to attend the school from a nearby town, recalled: "We were crowded in that room during the day, but we were happy, indescribably happy, as our revered teacher opened new worlds for us… We prepared our simple meals in her kitchen… and ate at the same table… At night, we slept in the same room on the floor, and if we were lucky, we had a straw bed." Later, Sarah would define her school’s mission: “to educate Jewish girls so that, with all their strength and with every breath, they will serve the Creator and fulfil the commandments of the Torah with seriousness and passion.” She described the Torah as “a holy fire from the One God that gives sustenance to the Jewish soul.” Sarah’s own passion was contagious, and her students appreciated and absorbed it. The news of the school spread, and it grew quickly. By November, Sarah had 40 eager students. Others, especially parents of young girls, volunteered to help. Sarah found herself busier than ever. Continue to the article: https://aish.com/taking-responsibility-how-sarah-schenirer-revolutionized-jewish-education-for-girls/

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Aish3d ago

While the Warsaw Ghetto is remembered for its armed revolt, physical resistance wasn’t the only way Jews fought back. In addition to spiritual resistance, Jews held onto their autonomy by taking ownership of their story. Leading this effort was Emanuel Ringelblum, a historian whose clandestine and illegal ghetto-based scholarly organization Oyneg Shabes defied unbelievable odds to record Polish Jewry’s final chapter. Oyneg Shabes was staffed by Ringelblum's hand-picked assistants, most of them secular and left-leaning intellectuals like him. There was, however, one notable exception: Rabbi Shimon Huberband, a pious and gentle hassid who took on the job of documenting religious life. Though he’d grow to become one of Ringelblum’s most valuable assistants, Rabbi Huberband was an unlikely choice. Unlike the others, he lacked university training. Before the war he had been a Torah scholar living at the home of his father-in-law, a Hassidic rebbe. A prolific writer, Rabbi Huberband wrote in a variety of genres, publishing essays, poems and articles on Jewish law, a biography of Talmudic sages, and one notable piece of historical research – an article about Jewish physicians in his home city of Piotrokov, which attracted Ringelblum’s attention. During the two years he spent working for Oyneg Shabes, Huberband proved himself an able historian winning the respect of other project members. “Huberband was a methodical collaborator… who carefully adhered to the guidelines worked out by Oyneg Shabes staff,” wrote Professor Samuel Kassow in “Who Will Write Our History” the definitive history of Oyneg Shabes. What makes this all the more remarkable were the conditions Huberband and the others worked under. In the overcrowded and disease-ridden ghetto, he lacked food, heating, even a place to work, and yet he carried on willingly and with remarkable diligence. For Rabbi Huberband, the work was therapy, his strategy for healing from his own devastating losses. During the war’s first week, his wife, young son and beloved father-in-law were killed in a German bombing strike in the small Polish village of Sulejow. Unable to remain in his now empty apartment, the Rabbi relocated to Warsaw where he remarried and joined Oyneg Shabes. Like other members he recorded most of his observations in his own neat handwriting in notebooks the organization gave out. Shortly before he and his second wife were deported to Treblinka, where they were murdered in August of 1942, Rabbi Huberband deposited his writings with other Oyneg Shabes members for safekeeping. They packed them into aluminum milk cans and buried them under the Warsaw sidewalk, informing colleagues in the US of their location. While some of his writing survived, a great deal was destroyed by water which seeped into the containers during the five years that they were kept underground. Though it’s commonly believed that Rabbi Huberband also buried the now famous writings of his cousin Rabbi Kalonymus Kalman Shapira, the Piaczener Rebbe, recent research debunks this. What is more likely is that Rabbi Huberband introduced his cousin to Oyneg Shabes’s work which may have spurred the Rebbe to write and edit his Sabbath and Holiday talks into the volume we now know as the Aish Kodesh. Rabbi Shapira’s writings were hidden in milk cans together with other Oyneg Shabes documents. Read the full article: https://aish.com/rabbi-shimon-huberband-preserving-the-truth-about-the-holocaust/

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