*** About two years ago, right before my husband and I made aliyah, I was paring down our library, using local Jewish online groups to advertise duplicate seforim. One particular response looked interesting given the lack of business generated: “We are a 501(c) [non-profit] organization. We’d love to have your books in exchange for a tax deduction.” I wrote back, “Sounds good to me.” Then I looked at the email address: CongMarpol. Congregation Marpol? Zoop. Antennae half-mast. I write back again. “On second thought, I’d like to know what exactly your organization does and who your rabbi is.” She writes back a terse, “We are a legitimate 501(c). If you donate your books we will give you a receipt for a tax deduction.” That’s an answer? Antennae full up. On a hunch, I quickly google Cong. Marpol. Up comes Cong. Marpol/MaryPaul. And missionary groups all over the place. Missionary, missionary, missionary. I google further and come up with “Rabbi E. Aaronson of Congregation MaryPaul.” I google the rabbi and his congregation and up comes “Pastor E. Ehrensohn, a.k.a. Rabbi E. Aaronson.” A Swede. An anti-Semitic Swede with a criminal record and mug shots to ice the blood. I google the congregation and its “rabbi” over and over again. Along with them pop up missionary group after missionary group. So I write back the following email: I spent two years fighting the Rabbi Aaronsons of the world whose mission is to pull unknowledgeable Jews into a religion (1) not theirs; (2) is based on deceit calling itself, G-d forbid, a kind of Judaism; (3) whose core belief is antithetical to our core belief, i.e., man as G-d. I’ll bury our precious books in my backyard before I allow them to be sullied on your library shelves. Do not contact me as I am marking your address as spam. I’m about to hit the send button when my husband walks in and peeks over my shoulder. “Wow. You’re really steamed.” “You bet I am. My blood is boiling. The guy’s a criminal!” I punch send. “Why didn’t you add ‘Passed any bad checks lately, Rabbi?’” (Good to have a funny husband in my corner.) *** I’m seated at the table when the phone rings less than a half hour later. “Chana? Chana…Rochel?” “Who is this, please?” “Is this Eller?” I’m suspicious. “Who is this, please?”
“This is Rabbi Aaronson.” “Ahhh!” I tilt my chair back with an expansive, “Rabbi Aaaa…ronson! What can I do for you?” “Is this Chana Rochel?” “Where did you get my number?’ “It was easy….” “So why are you calling me? “I’m a rabbi.” “Well! There are all kinds of…rabbis these days now, aren’t there? It didn’t take much to figure you out…rabbi. All I did was plug in the name of your so-called congregation, and… pay dirt!” “Chas v’shalom. I’m a rabbi, not a missionary.” “You certainly know how to pull out all the stops, although your ‘chas v’shalom’ could use a little work. How about throwing in a few chas v’chalilas or taka mamashes?”
I’ll bury our precious books in my backyard before I allow them to be sullied on your library shelves.
“What makes you think I’m a missionary?” “You know what? I’m going to send you, right now, while we’re on the phone, one of the many links that expose you.” I bang send. I get up and begin to pace, enjoying this confrontation. “Listen, Mr. Aaronson, or Mr. Ehrensohn, or whatever you call yourself these days. Your secretary wouldn’t give me a straight answer about you or your so-called congregation so I did a little search. Passed any bad checks lately, E. Ehrensohn? By the way, E. Ehrensohn, what kind of name is ‘Congregation MaryPaul’ exactly? Couldn’t you do better than that? You’re supposed to be a rabbi, remember?” “MaryPaul? No, no, no! Congregation Mariampol. It is often misspelled. Mariampol is the name of the town in Lithuania where my grandfather was born! The shul is named for the town.” I halt, mid-pace. Mariampol. My respiratory system hesitates. I feel for the chair in back of me and sit. “Mariampol?” “And this link! The one you’ve sent me with all the missionary groups coming up. It is a link to other
501(c) organizations. It so happens that where the name of my shul appears there are names of non-profit missionary groups that come up as well. You may find the name of your shul on the list as well.” Oh no. Oh no. I don’t know whether I’d prefer he be telling me the truth or lying. Not true. I’d rather he be lying. He says, “You’re now living in Pittsburgh, right?” “How… how do you know that?” My voice is hoarse from clawing its way around the brick snagged in my throat. “We answered the ad you posted on your local JewsOnline board, and since I had your name from our emails, I confirmed it with the Pittsburgh Yeshiva K’tana phonebook.” “Yeshiva K’tan…but why do you have…” My heart has slowed alarmingly and suddenly I’m asthmatic. “I’m in your neighborhood twice a day, dropping off and picking up my children at the day school. Do you know Rabbi Hirschenfeld?” I am now gravely ill, swimming in sweat, wheezing, trying to keep down the contents of my stomach. Rabbi Hirschenfeld. Principal of the boys’ Yeshiva K’tana. He lives four blocks away from me. The rabbi delivers his parting thrust. “He’s one of my best friends.” I can no longer feel my heart beat. Am I dying? Should I call 911? I whisper, “Rabbi. I am so sorry – it’s impossible for me to tell you how sorry I am.” (I’m choking. I am dying.) “I am so sorry. Please accept my apologies.” “There is no harm done. You believe me, don’t you? My wife and I are heavily involved in kiruv.” “Kiruv,” I repeat in a dead voice. He brings Jews back to Judaism. Please, G-d, let this be a bad dream. Breathe. Breathe! Inhale. Exhale. “Rabbi, see, my counter missionary…intuition… and a.k.a. E. Ehrensohn…a thief, a pastor… antiSemite.... Listen. I beg of you. Tell me where you live and I’ll deliver the books to you. My entire library. All my books. I don’t care where you live, I’ll get them to you, every one. Please let me do this.” “That won’t be necessary, Mrs. Eller. I’d be delighted to pick up the books you advertised. And Mrs. Eller, please don’t worry. I truly admire your fire. Keep it up. But perhaps it would wise to triple check your sources.” “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I mean Rab…Rabbi Aaronson. But…who is E. Ehrenson”? “Apparently some anti-Semitic criminal.” Next day. Flour o’clock. Bell rings. I open the door to a small, bearded man in a long black coat and curled peyos. Humiliating. His wife stands beside him, hair be-ticheled and three small, “gingi” children holding onto her skirt, two with peyos and the other a pink bow in her hair. “Please come in. Have something to drink.” They enter. “Funny,” I say, to break my tension. (They’re completely relaxed.) “Funny. You don’t look like missionaries…” I’m the only one to laugh. `Okay. So I’m paranoid. Fine. But wait. My paranoia doesn’t mean they’re not after us. Because they are. Sometimes.
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party?” “At my church. We lo-o-ove the Jewish people.” “I’ll just bet you do. You’d like to lo-o-ove us to death. What is it with you people? Why can’t you just leave us alone?” The answer is, of course, that they cannot. As long as one Jew remains Jewish, there is proof their “messiah” hasn’t come. They see it as a problem.