Stav Tolbert teaches dance and is learning Hebrew letters
An appetizer with sweet mango, spicy jalapeño and fried chips
The Auschwitz survivor who was an American hero
Our humorist turned 40 and is already aching
Community unites following graffiti on historic Chabad Tucson-Young Israel
The Jewish outreach and education network of Southern Arizona
2443 E 4th Street, Tucson, AZ 85719
EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR
Rabbi Yossie Shemtov
REBBETZIN
Chanie Shemtov
OUTREACH DIRECTOR
Rabbi Yehuda Ceitlin
PROGRAM DIRECTOR
Feigie Ceitlin
Affiliates: Congregation Young Israel, Chabad at the University of Arizona, Chabad on River, Chabad of Oro Valley, Chabad of Sierra Vista, Chabad of Vail and Lamplighter Chabad Day School of Tucson
EDITOR
Rabbi Yehuda Ceitlin
COPY EDITOR
Suzanne Cummins
CONTRIBUTING WRITERS
Sy Brody, Feigie Ceitlin, David Graizbord, Judith Manelis, Menachem Posner, Mordechai Schmutter, Benjamin Weis
PHOTOS
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Note: “G-d” and “L-rd” are written with a hyphen instead of an “o .” This is one way we accord reverence to the sacred divine name. This also reminds us that, even as we seek G-d, He transcends any human effort to describe His reality.
By Rabbi Yehuda Ceitlin
Sometimes, a hostile act meant to intimidate and dishearten its target can unexpectedly and almost miraculously lead to beautiful results. Our community experienced this in the aftermath of our discovering antisemitic graffiti defacing the wall of our historic synagogue, Chabad Tucson–Young Israel, on Tuesday, April 22, 2025.
Those who scrawled the words “End Apartheid” and “Abolish Israel” beneath a large Star of David on our wall could not have known that their hateful message would spark a wave of heartwarming gestures and community unity.
Here is what transpired — and the five lessons I’ve taken from it.
1. Antisemitism doesn’t shock us anymore.
After discovering what occurred, I couldn’t help but compare it to an earlier incident: Three years ago, another Chabad center in Tucson was vandalized with a swastika and a hateful slur. That attack made national news and drew widespread condemnation. This time, there was anger and sadness, but not surprise. Antisemitic incidents in the U.S. have now broken records for the fourth year in a row. According to the ADL, there were more than 25 targeted antiJewish incidents per day in 2024 — that’s
more than one every hour. It’s become all too common.
2. We found unlikely allies.
Antisemitism has risen sharply since the Hamas attack on October 7, 2023, and Israel’s war for defense and hostage rescue. We find little common ground with organizations like the Council on American-Islamic Relations (CAIR) and their anti-Israel stance. However, when our synagogue was attacked, CAIR Arizona’s Executive Director, Azza Abuseif, issued a strong statement of support: “We condemn this act of vandalism targeting a house of worship and express our solidarity with the Arizona Jewish community. No faith community should face such inexcusable harassment or intimidation.” Additionally, a local Christian woman as well as a Muslim man from Austin, Texas, sent flowers to our synagogue. This shows that even in divided times, we can share common values.
3. Covering up a crime doesn’t solve it.
Shortly after the graffiti was discovered, a well-meaning man taped white garbage bags over the messages to hide them from view. But the police, who were still investigating, quickly removed the bags. The Torah teaches, “You shall not hate your brother in your heart. You shall surely
rebuke your fellow” (Leviticus 19:17). We are commanded to confront difficult truths head-on — not to suppress or avoid them. We chose to expose the damage so that we could remove it properly, with intention and care.
4. The hate brought people together.
Helping to remove the graffiti were an eclectic mix of people — Jewish and nonJewish alike. They brought a ladder, paint rollers and brushes, ScrubDaddy sponges, power tools, cans of paint, and even industrial-strength graffiti remover. “Our peoples have a shared history of suffering,” a Black man commented as he got to work. Among the volunteers were members of the AEPi Jewish fraternity at the University of Arizona. I overheard one of them speaking with a commercial real estate broker who was also there. The conversation ended with the broker offering the student a summer internship.
5. Hate was answered with kindness.
In our statement to the media, we called on the public to rise above hate by increasing acts of goodness and kindness — mitzvot that spread light in dark times. The response exceeded expectations. Jews who have not been religious came to wrap tefillin, pray with us, study Torah, and donate to charity. One of them was a man named Alex. He told me, “If anything is needed, always feel free to reach out.” A few days later, we had a funeral for an elderly woman at a remote cemetery and needed a tenth man to form the minyan to say the Kaddish memorial prayer. I called Alex, and he showed up. The grieving family was deeply grateful.
The hateful graffiti is long gone, but the ripple effect of kindness, solidarity, and action continues to shine—just like the clean white wall that now stands in its place.
Rabbi Yehuda Ceitlin is the Outreach Director of Chabad Tucson, the Jewish network of Southern Arizona
Chabad centers across Southern Arizona will host festive Lag BaOmer events on the evening of Thursday, May 15, 2025, bringing Jewish families together for celebration, unity, and joy.
Lag BaOmer, the 33rd day of the Omer count, coinciding this year with May 16, is a beloved day on the Jewish calendar marked by outdoor festivities, bonfires, music, and community spirit.
The holiday commemorates the life and
teachings of Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai, a 2nd-century sage and mystic who revealed the inner dimension of the Torah and authored the foundational Kabbalistic text, the Zohar.
Lag BaOmer traditions include outdoor gatherings, music, bow-and-arrow games for children, and bonfires symbolizing the light of Jewish mysticism. In Israel, tens of thousands gather at Rabbi Shimon’s resting place in the Meron town in the
north. In line with a decades-old tradition initiated by the Rebbe, Chabad centers bring the spirit of celebration to every corner across the globe.
In Southern Arizona, the celebrations will be held on Thursday, May 15:
6:00 PM at Chabad Tucson-Young Israel, 2443 E 4th Street. Featuring a kosher BBQ, drinks, a musical kumzitz around the bonfire, and a bounce house. RSVP required at 520-881-7956 or info@
ChabadTucson.com
6:30 PM at Chabad of Vail, 10447 S Keegan Ave. Featuring hot dogs, s’mores, and music. RSVP required at 347-372-3092 or rabbi@jewishvailaz.com
7:00 PM at Chabad Oro Valley, 1171 E Rancho Vistoso Blvd. Featuring a bonfire, and lively Jewish music. For more, call 520-477-8672 or visit jewishorovalley.com
By Prof. David Graizbord
Shortly after a Shabbat last month, I deleted some 300 antisemitic messages that my academic unit received in response to a video posted about my upcoming lecture on the legal definition and misuse of the term “genocide.” The next morning, I opened my Facebook feed to find a photo of a secondplace Swiss fencing team on a medal podium, turning theatrically away from the first-place Israeli team while the latter’s anthem, Hatikva, played in celebration of Israel’s victory.
The Swiss fencers would never have
insulted Americans, Russians, Chinese, Iranians, Sudanese, English, Pakistanis, Lebanese, or any others in the way that they chose to insult Israelis. The Swiss team would argue it was merely objecting to “indiscriminate Israeli bombing.” That argument is specious, as are most accusations against Israel’s efforts to defend its people against Hamas and other proximate hostiles.
Israel’s enemies have hurled the canard of “genocide” at Israel on a yearly basis at least since the 1960s, despite the
exponential growth of Arabs in both Israel and in the territories. The number of civilian casualties that have emanated from Gaza since late 2023 does not, according to any legal or other rational definition, describe a “genocide.”
Fanned and spread through social media, anti-Jewish hatred is exploding across the United States. Animosity emanates from both the Right and Left of the political spectrum. Neo-fascist types like Steve Bannon openly brandish the Nazi salute. Others claim that Jews wish to “control,”
“exploit,” and “replace” other ethnic groups.
Here in Tucson, the recent defacing of Chabad Tucson-Young Israel tells us something important regarding a mutation of the anti-Jewish virus: the notion that Israel and its foundational ideology, Zionism, are racist and genocidal. The hateful speech on the synagogue wall said, “End Apartheid - Abolish Israel.” It is not by chance that “Progressive” anti-Israel protests do not merely call for an end to violence in Gaza; they call for an end to the State of Israel.
Anti-Zionist discourse distorts and demonizes to make its points. For example, a monument in Nogales, Sonora, that was once dedicated to a teenager who was shot to death by a U.S. Border Patrolman has recently been covered in Palestinian flags. It thus has become a shrine to Palestinian nationalism, rather than an accusation of brutality against Mexican migrants.
In college campuses, as elsewhere, a key to the dual strategy of lying and co-opting other causes to condemn “The Zionists” is defamation by way of moral inversion. Thus, contemporary anti-Jewish hatred brands people who support a democratic, Jewish nation-state that is fighting a difficult defensive war after suffering a horrendous massacre as irredeemable “racists,” “Nazis,” and the like. One hears no sympathy for the Bibas children or for any of the other 1,400 people or so whom Hamas tortured, killed, and kidnapped on October 7, 2023, or for the Palestinian non-terrorists who protest living under Hamas’ yoke. Meanwhile, thousands of “Progressive” trend-followers cheer Hamas (“Sinwar Lives!”) and urge the success of a fundamentalist, autocratic regime founded on an ultra-sexist, Islamist suprematism.
The irony of this is, of course, that in supporting Hamas, Hezbollah, and the Houthis, they are supporting regimes that would abrogate all “gender rights,” and have no empathy for “environmental justice” or “people power.” George Orwell could not have imagined a more grotesque scenario. To the drones, “War is peace,” he wrote; “Freedom is slavery”; “Ignorance is strength”; and Zionism is racism.
groups. mutation said, not the
“But it’s not antisemitism, it’s only antiZionism!” the Jacobin apologists say. If these claims were true, anti-Israel protestors would not yell such things as “Go back to Auschwitz!” and “You are not real Jews!” to pro-Israel counter-protestors and passers-by. A group of Jews and I had these very words hurled at us while we were walking to the conference of a Jewish organization. By the same token, the phrase “Free Palestine” would not have become a kind of verbal swastika, shorthand for “To hell with the Jews and their rights”—or
worse. Even those pro-Palestinians who say they are for inter-ethnic peace and love do not deny that what they seek is the erasure of Israel and, along with it, Jewish political sovereignty.
Is it any surprise that the slogan “Free Palestine” has been scrawled across countless synagogues, Jewish-owned businesses, civic organizations, and Jewish homes? Selective “righteousness” is a reflex for ideological radicals. Jews are being dehumanized based on distortions of what is happening in Gaza. The path has been opened to those inclined to antisemitism to cheer the death and harming of Jews, not because of what Jews have done, but
because of the category that hatred has preassigned and “substantiated” with a slew of hysterical distortions and lies.
Anti-Jewish factions habitually associate Jews and Jewish culture with Israel, and vice versa. “Palestinian liberation” is, in effect, a Western, Orwellian code for a “license to hate Jews.” So, too, “From the River to the Sea, Palestine will be Free” and “Intifada Forever” are only a short skip away from more traditional, Arab slogans that drip with an explicitly anti-Jewish bigotry and violence.
The latter have been heard and seen at protests on American campuses: “From the
Water to the Water [i.e., from the Jordan River to the Mediterranean Sea], Palestine is Arab”; and the Houthi favorite, “Allah is great; death to America; death to Israel; curse be upon the Jews; victory to Islam!” Imperialist variants abound; for instance, “Palestine is our homeland, and the Jews are our dogs!” and “Khaybar, Khaybar, oh Jews! The army of Muhammad will return!”
But here is some perspective: To the chagrin of Jew-haters and Jewish assimilationists since the 1800s, nationality has been central to Jewish culture for millennia. That nationality will continue to thrive, not because Jews have many friends, but because the Jewish people—Israeli Jews, at any rate—have learned to stand firm.
Today, Israel, the internationally recognized, democratic nation-state of the Jews, is the chief political, social, and cultural expression of Jewish nationality. That there are Jews in the diaspora who object to Jewish nation-statehood (and usually to no other state, in practice), and who would rather ally themselves with other “useful idiots” of Islamists and Islamic suprematism’s western launderers, does not make this any less true. It is precisely that value, Jewish nationality, that so many of the enemies of Israel—the state and the people—loathe, fear, wish to besmirch, and overturn.
Just as the graffiti on the wall of Chabad Tucson-Young Israel disappeared quickly under coats of benevolent paint and wilted under the shadow of a lovely bouquet that a church-going neighbor offered to the congregation, so too, the Jewish nation and its nation-state will prevail.
- David Graizbord is the Curson Professor of Judaic Studies and Director of The Arizona Center for Judaic Studies at The University of Arizona. His publications include Early Modern Jewish Civilization (2024) and The New Zionists (2020). He will be lecturing on “Is Anti-Zionism Antisemitism?” on Sunday, May 18, at 3:00 PM at Congregation Anshei Israel in Tucson. Register at tinyurl.com/GraizbordTal
By Menachem Posner
In the old cemetery in Krakow, right near the burial place of Rabbi Moshe Isserles, there stood a great tree. Its large branches seemed to have borne the weight of centuries, and were laden with the heaviness of time. Descendants of that tree, or the tree itself, may still stand.
This is the story of that tree as it was told on Lag BaOmer, the day when Rabbi Moshe Isseries (known by many as the Ramah), passed away in the year 1572 (5332).
* Before Rabbi Moshe’s time, Rabbi Yaakov ben Asher, a great Talmudist, flourished in the 13th and 14th centuries. His most
lasting contribution to Jewish life may have been his book Arba Turim (Four Towers), a comprehensive compendium of Jewish law and tradition as applied to all areas of life in his time.
As the centuries passed, however, more questions were asked and more answers were provided. Circumstances continued to evolve, and scholars dug yet deeper into the well of Torah.
Two great scholars took it upon themselves to compose commentaries on the Arba Turim.
In Poland, Rabbi Moshe wrote a commentary known as the Darkei Moshe (Ways of Moses). Far away in the mystical
city of Tzfat, another scholar by the name of Rabbi Yosef Karo wrote a commentary, which he named the Beit Yosef (House of Joseph).
The commentaries were well-received, but Rabbi Moshe felt there was room to do even more. The time had come for a new work, a text that would provide guidance for Jewish people all over, encompassing the works of Rabbi Yaakov, but incorporating other voices and traditions as well. His goal was to combine all this guidance in a clear and concise manner, eliminating the meandering conversation that sometimes obscured the Arba Turim and its commentaries.
Without fanfare, Rabbi Moshe set to work
on the monumental text.
One day, after the work had neared completion, he received a prized visitor: a messenger of the Jewish community in the Holy Land.
This visitor was especially welcome because, among other things, he was what we would call today a “fundraiser.” Though that title does not draw huge admiration in our current times, in those days, there was precious little industry in Israel, and the Jews there relied on their brethren in the diaspora for crucial financial support. Only the most special individuals were entrusted with the task of raising funds. The roads and waterways were fraught
a the what Though admiration in was the the funds.
with danger, and the fundraiser needed to travel. Therefore, he needed to be resourceful and hardy. In addition, as a representative of the residents of the holiest place on earth, he needed to be learned and pious, a stellar example for all. And last but not least, he needed to be trustworthy and honest.
As soon as Rabbi Moshe learned of his guest, he called for a sumptuous feast to be prepared for him, and the two men soon found themselves deep in Torah discussions.
“Since you have set out such a fine table for me,” said the visitor after the meal was concluded, “I wish to leave you with a ‘set table’ as well. Here is a set of Shulchan Aruch (literally “Set Table”), which was recently completed by Rabbi Yosef Karo.”
Rabbi Moshe eagerly perused the books. He could hardly contain his emotions as he realized that his peer from the Holy Land had done almost exactly what he had set out to do, creating a terse and easily applicable code of Jewish law.
He spent the entire night poring over the work. By morning, he concluded that although it was similar to his work, there were many critical differences. While Rabbi Yosef relied chiefly on the great Sephardic decisors of previous generations, he did not cite the more recent rulings, particularly those of the leaders of Ashkenazic Jewry. What was he to do? Should he publish his work, competing directly with the alreadypublished treatise by the sage from Tzfat? That would not do. No, he would need to hide his work, ensuring that it would never see the light of day.
The following night, after the town was asleep, Rabbi Moshe crept out of his house and made his way to the Jewish cemetery, which was nearby. There, under a tree, he buried his manuscript and stole back to bed.
No one knew of his noble deed, except for the caretaker of the cemetery, who had seen the rabbi bury the manuscript.
Rabbi Moshe then began a new task, writing glosses that would accompany the Shulchan Aruch, allowing all of Israel to study a single, unified code, which he called the Mappah (Tablecloth). The Sephardim could rely on the words of the original author, and Ashkenazim could study the glosses that Rabbi Moshe artfully inserted.
Years later, the same visitor from the Holy Land once again visited Krakow. This time,
Rabbi Moshe joyously presented him with his latest work.
“Please take this back with you to Tzfat and present it to Rabbi Yosef Karo,” he asked the guest. “Tell him that the tablecloth had been prepared before the table, but it was then tailored to fit after the table had been crafted.”
When the unified work made its way to the holy city of Tzfat, Rabbi Yosef Karo, who was then elderly, was pleased by what had been done. Full of gratitude to his humble, junior peer in faraway Poland, he purchased 100 dinars worth of parchment and wrote a Torah scroll to be given as a gift to Rabbi Moshe.
*
Meanwhile, the tree under which the manuscript was buried continued to grow. Its strong arms spread in all directions, and it produced lush leaves year after year.
Before he passed away, Rabbi Moshe asked that he be buried under the tree’s ample branches. And so it was.
Years passed, and the tree grew ever bigger, and closer to the grave. One year, on Lag BaOmer, when thousands of pilgrims streamed to the resting place of Rabbi Moshe, the congestion became so severe that there was talk of uprooting the tree to create more space for visitors.
Despite the caretaker’s objections, the men arrived with their tools and were about to set to work. Suddenly, a great storm began brewing, and the men felt themselves being blown in all directions. It was then clear to all that the tree was special, and no one dared touch it again.
Years turned into centuries, and the Nazis swept into Poland, bringing destruction and devastation in their wake. In the ancient Jewish cemetery of Krakow, the Nazis tore down the walls and hauled away tombstones to be used as paving stones.
The tombstone of Rabbi Moshe Isseries was one of the few that remained undisturbed. It’s said that the tree’s boughs bent down to shelter the tomb from the Nazis and their henchmen.
When the city’s few, broken survivors returned home from the camps, they made their way to the desolate cemetery, where they were greeted by a lone tombstone, that of Rabbi Moshe Isserles, sheltered by the tree that had borne witness to the rabbi’s selfless contributions to Jews everywhere.
A little about yourself:
I was born and raised in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, and have lived in Philadelphia, New York, and Pittsburgh. I hold a Bachelor of Arts in Dance and have been teaching for nearly 15 years. My teaching highlights in Jewish settings include Bnai Emunoh Chabad, Yeshiva Girls School of Pittsburgh, and The MVP Camps at Camp Seneca Lake. I now teach dance full-time at Gallego Intermediate Fine Arts Magnet School in Tucson.
Moving to Tucson:
My husband and I moved to Tucson last year for work... and the weather! Tucson is very different from any other city I’ve lived in, and in a good way. I love the laid-back feel of Tucson and the weather. We moved here in July, so we always say that if we could survive moving here in the heat, we can make it through the year-round.
Currently learning:
I’m listening to Rabbi Avraham Arieh Trugman’s Secrets of the Hebrew Letters on YouTube. I love his commentary and insights.
Favorite mitzvah or Jewish holiday:
One of my favorite Jewish holidays is Rosh Hashana because I love the symbolism, reflection, and sense of starting anew. I also enjoy Tashlich and connect with it on a very spiritual level.
One mitzvah you would like to strengthen in your life: Weekly Torah study.
Cherished Jewish memory:
Shabbat and other holiday dinners shared with family and friends.
Go-to Yiddish or Hebrew word: Shalem (complete, safe, whole).
Jewish app on phone: I’d love some recommendations!
If you could have Shabbat dinner with
any historical figure from the past, who would it be?
Queen Esther.
How has your life changed since October 7?
I am more aware of my surroundings. I am lucky to be healthy and live in safety and peace. I pray for Israel. Am Yisrael Chai.
Define Chabad:
To me, Chabad is about bringing people back to their Judaism, connection, and gathering a community together.
Define happiness: Love, friends, family and Hashem.
Hobbies and interests: Nature, exercise, interior decorating, and cooking.
Comfort food: Sweet potato fries.
Kvetch: Rude people.
Kvell / nachas: My students.
Your claim to fame: I love interior decorating and design.
Something you’re looking forward to: My summer break from teaching!
- Stav Tolbert will lead dance classes for girls and mothers during the summer (May-July). For more info, call: 717-341-4664
By Feigie Ceitlin
10 oz tuna steak
1/2 mango
1 jalapeño (or serrano pepper, for more heat)
1 shallot
Juice of 1 lime and half a lemon
3 tsp toasted sesame oil
2 pinches of Maldon salt
Eggroll or wonton wrappers
Oil for frying
DIRECTIONS:
1. Heat the oil in a pan until it is very hot.
2. Cut the eggroll or wonton wrappers into triangles.
3. Fry the triangles in hot oil until they are
golden brown. Set aside.
4. Cut the tuna into small squares (it’s easier to do while still slightly frozen).
5. Finely chop the mango, pepper, and shallot. Add them to the tuna.
6. Add the lime juice, lemon juice, and toasted sesame oil.
7. Season with most of the Maldon salt and mix well.
8. Sprinkle with the remaining salt before serving.
9. Serve with fried wonton crisps.
— Rebbetzin Feigie Ceitlin is the program director of Chabad Tucson and head of school of Lamplighter Chabad Day School.
By Judith Manelis
For as long as I can remember, the portrait of my mother hung on the living room wall. First, it graced our apartment on the top floor of a two-family house in New Bedford, Massachusetts. Then, in fifth grade, we upscaled and moved into a one-family house. The painting went with us and once more took a place of honor in the living room.
Years later, after my father died, my mother moved to Florida, the painting in tow. When she relocated to a life care
facility in Boston in her late 80s, the painting traveled with her. Of all her possessions, the painting seemed to be the most precious.
But this would not be a story unless it included where the painting came from and who painted it.
Let me start at the beginning.
My mother, Mildred Harris (known as “Millie”), came from a religious, Jewish
immigrant family that settled in the small New England town of Melrose, Massachusetts. She was the youngest of four children. The family, one of only five Jewish families in town, kept a Torah in the front hall closet and a kosher kitchen.
While my grandfather davened every morning with tefillin and a kippah on his head, he nevertheless opened his store on Shabbat. It was hard for him to integrate successfully into American life while maintaining the orthodox Jewish rituals of
our faith. Over the years, my grandfather owned a bicycle shop and then a hardware store in his adopted community.
My mother, the only one of the four children who wanted a college education, completed a two-year teacher’s certificate at Bridgewater State Teachers’ College. Her best friend there was Phoebe Summers, a young, non-Jewish woman from Cape Cod. After graduation, my mother became a first-grade teacher in Fairhaven, Massachusetts, near New Bedford, and Phoebe became an English teacher on Cape Cod.
In the summer of 1932, after their first year of teaching, Phoebe invited my mother to spend the summer with her in Provincetown, or P-Town, as it was and is still called by those in the know. It was already a “go-to” location for artists and writers. Phoebe convinced my mother that they could enjoy the cultural ambiance and work as waitresses at a local restaurant to earn money after the school year.
My Mother, who was an independent young woman, still deferred to her father for big decisions. Her mother had died at the young age of 44, and my mother was still feeling the loss. Grandpa Harris tried to fulfill his youngest child’s wishes and agreed to it.
So the two young women spent the summer of 1932 as planned, working each day as waitresses in a luncheonette on the main drag in Provincetown.
Every day, a young man with a mustache and Harry Potter spectacles came into the restaurant for lunch. He sat at my mother’s table. He said he was teaching at a local art school and was always very polite, my mother remembered. What set the young man apart from my mother’s other patrons, however, was that he never left her a tip. That is, until the last day of the summer session when he came into the luncheonette with a large package under his arm. It was the painting of her in this article, capturing her at 23 years old in her favorite green cotton dress, hair pulled back, looking tentatively out at the world. His name was John R. Frazier.
I’m sure my mother was flattered that
someone would create a painting of her - a child of immigrants who had lost her mother and was living away from her family in a strange new town.
In the following years, with no internet, my mother had no way of finding out about her benefactor, who he was, and what he had become. As for Phoebe and Provincetown, my mother returned to Provincetown only once to visit Phoebe, both of the women now middle-aged mothers.
It was only when I inherited the painting in 2020, almost 100 years after its creation, and had the painting in hand that I was able to decipher the signature in the upper right-hand corner: “Millie, John Frazier, 1932.”
Needless to say, I went directly to the internet. So, who was John Frazier and why was the painting so important to my mother?
What I discovered was that John Frazier wasn’t just painting at any art school in Provincetown; it was his art school, which he founded in 1930. Frazier, a graduate of the Rhode Island School of Design (RISD), also studied at New York’s famous Art Students’ League. (Among the many famous artists who studied there were Georgia O’Keeffe, Jackson Pollock, Mark Rothko, Willem de Kooning, Louise Nevelson, and Winslow Homer, to name but a few. Not a shabby lot).
Although Frazier was a respected artist, his most important contribution is said to have been as a teacher and mentor. Frazier
taught at RISD for many years and rose to become its president in 1955. Today, his work hangs in the Smithsonian and at Brown University, among other venues.
In addition to learning about John Frazier, I learned that Phoebe Summers, now Phoebe Rogers, had retired as an English teacher at Provincetown High School. I always knew from my mother that she was married to William Rogers, the Chief of Police of Provincetown.
With each new discovery, it seemed that the oil painting should find a home in Provincetown. Initially, I contacted the editor of The Provincetown Independent newspaper for advice. He wanted an article, so he sent a reporter to interview me in Jamaica Plain/Boston, where I was visiting at the time, and photographed me with the painting.
The article “Portrait of a Provincetown Summer” about John Frazier, my mother, and me appeared in the June 8, 2022 edition. Following its publication and at the editor’s suggestion, I contacted the Art Association of Provincetown to offer them “The Millie painting” for their museum. They were thrilled.
And so, on a hot July afternoon, in the parking lot of a South Shore mall, halfway between Jamaica Plain and Provincetown, I met a museum trustee for the handoff. The oil painting of my mother, painted in the summer of 1932, returned to the site of its creation. It was last exhibited in the spring of 2023 among the museum’s new acquisitions.
Why was the painting important to my mother? I can only conjecture. Perhaps it represented her youth, independence, and feeling of specialness after the loss of her mother. Maybe she had a crush on John Frazier. I never asked her, and I will never know, but I believe it was all of the above.
Judith Manelis, a seasoned Jewish communal professional and journalist, holds graduate degrees from UC Berkeley and Hunter College. After a distinguished career in New York and Boston, she relocated to Tucson. This article was originally published in the Arizona Jewish Post.
By Chabad.org Staff
Klutz (rhymes with “what’s”) is Yiddish for “piece of wood,” and refers to a person who is clumsy. Beyond a lack of physical dexterity, it can also refer to a fool or “blockhead,” as the word literally implies.
In its English adaptation, but not in the original Yiddish, klutzy can be used as an adjective, so you can say, “that klutz was so klutzy.” (Even though you can say that, you obviously should not because it is redundant and verbally “klutzy.” - Also it could be hurtful or constitute lashon hara - forbidden “evil speech.”)
The connection between a block of wood and blockheadedness is not unique to Yiddish. In Russian, too, dubina (“block of wood” or “club”) can be used the same way.
Klutz Kasheh
In Yiddish, a question that is somewhat simplistic can be referred to as a klutz kasheh (kasheh is Hebrew/Yiddish for “question”).
Now, whenever you are considering asking a question and are afraid that someone might consider it a klutz kasheh, and even see you as a klutz, remember that what appears to be a klutz kasheh can sometimes be the most difficult question to answer. (Think “Daddy, why is the sky blue?”)
This sentiment was expressed by the Rebbe. A young student named Leibel
Bistritzky wrote a letter to the Rebbe, in which he asked several questions about Chassidic philosophy. The Rebbe replied (translated from Hebrew):
“Those questions that you asked are not— as you referred to them—”klutz kashehs.” On the contrary, they touch on the most fundamental issues. It’s only because we have become so accustomed to them that we don’t pay attention to their inner depth. The very fact that [the terms] are so often used makes it seem that they are
completely understood. However, even after study, it is clear that most of them remain too difficult to grasp.
“And so it is with every wisdom or science. The part that needs the most study and research is the one that contains its most basic elements.”
In the years to come, the “klutz kasheh” would become the cornerstone of the Rebbe’s signature analysis of Rashi’s commentary on the weekly Torah portion. Time and time again, the Rebbe would
begin by asking questions that are so simple they are hidden in plain sight, using them as a springboard for an indepth analysis of Rashi’s deceptively pithy explanations.
This predilection toward asking questions runs deep in Jewish tradition, where questioning is strongly encouraged— starting with the four questions that kick off the Passover Seder. Indeed, the sages of the Mishnah say that “the bashful one never learns.” So ask away.
By Sy Brody
In the quiet dignity of Tibor Rubin’s life lies a story almost too vast to tell — a saga that stretches from the death camps of Europe to the battlefields of Korea, culminating in the rarest American honor: the Medal of Honor. Through it all, Rubin’s Jewish faith and resilience were his constant companions.
Born in 1929 in Pásztó, a small town in Hungary, Rubin grew up the son of a shoemaker. His childhood, like that of so many European Jews of the era, was shattered by the Holocaust. At the age of 13, Tibor was interned in the Mauthausen concentration camp in Austria, where he endured unimaginable suffering. Against all odds, he survived until the camp’s liberation by American forces in 1945.
Rubin made a promise to himself during those darkest days — a vow that if he ever found true freedom, he would give back to the country that helped save him. In 1948, he immigrated to the United States, and shortly thereafter, he enlisted in the U.S. Army.
His journey was not without obstacles. At Fort Ord, California, Rubin struggled with English, and faced antisemitism from fellow soldiers and even some superiors. Nonetheless, he pressed on and committed to serving with honor.
He was sent to fight in Korea, and while there, he broke his leg and was shipped to an Army hospital in Japan. He persevered through.
His bravery during the Korean War became legendary among those who served with him. In one astonishing act of courage, Rubin single-handedly defended a hill for 24 hours against waves of North Korean soldiers, providing crucial time for his unit to withdraw safely. Fellow soldiers later attested that Rubin’s heroism saved many lives.
Later, when Rubin was captured and became a prisoner of war in a Chinese-run camp, his sense of duty did not waver. He risked his life repeatedly to steal food for other prisoners, nurse the sick, and boost morale.
Although several of his commanders had recommended him for the Medal of Honor during and after the war, Rubin’s
recognition was long delayed — in part because of antisemitism within the military at the time. It wasn’t until decades later, after a congressional review ordered investigations into racial and religious discrimination in military awards, that Tibor Rubin finally received his due.
On September 23, 2005, in a moving ceremony at the White House, President George W. Bush presented Rubin with the Medal of Honor, calling him “a shining example of the American spirit.” Rubin accepted the honor with characteristic humility.
Throughout his life, Rubin remained deeply connected to his Jewish identity. After his military service, Rubin lived with his wife and 2 children in Garden Grove, California, and worked in his brother’s liquor store in Long Beach. He was one of the Korean War heroes honored in the 2013 documentary Finnigan’s War, directed by Conor Timmis.
Rubin passed away in 2015 at the age of 86. In 2016, the Long Beach VA Medical Center was renamed the Tibor Rubin VA Medical Center, ensuring that future generations would know the name and story of this extraordinary man, an American Jewish hero.
I turned 40. This is not something I set out to do. No one asked me. It kind of just happened. In fact, a bunch of things kind of just happen to you when you get to 40.
Hazy memory -- My memory is NOT GONE. I’m at an age where I don’t forget things entirely; I just need reminders. Like, I’ll ask my wife why we’re doing a certain thing, and she’ll say, “Well, because of this,” and I’ll say, “Oh yeah; that’s right.” But she’s still talking for some reason. Like, I need a whole history lesson on the thing.
Stretching -- I also find that I have to stretch when I wake up in the morning. For a while. I’m thinking of getting one of those bed stretchers that they had in Sodom. I have to wake up a little early to stretch every day, when I’m still tired, so I fall back asleep stretching. And then, when I wake up from that, my body tells me I have to stretch all over again. Yes, my body talks to itself. At least I think that’s what those noises are.
Random pains -- If something hurts for more than a day, I think, “I guess this is always going to hurt now.” Then, when it goes away, I don’t think, “Huh. I guess I was wrong.” I just forget that it ever hurt. That’s the upside of the memory thing, I guess. Until my wife asks, “Hey, how is that thing that was hurting you?” And I say, “That’s right.” I really didn’t want that reminder.
Sleeping wrong -- Yes, sometimes I hurt myself sleeping. And I have to tell people, “Oh, I slept wrong,” so they don’t just think that’s how I walk now. I slept just fine the first 30-something years of my life; all of a sudden now I’m making mistakes. I don’t even sleep that long. So sometimes I wake up and I think, “That hurts. Maybe if I go back to sleep, I’ll wake up feeling okay. Let’s roll the dice again.” But it doesn’t work.
By Mordechai Schmutter
And now I have to turn my whole body to look at you for the next week. And the whole week I think, “So this is always how it’s gonna be.” Until it goes away and I forget it was there.
“Sorry, I slept weird.”
“How weird did you sleep?”
“I don’t know; I thought it was pretty normal.”
It’s not like I fell asleep with the lower half of my body still in bed, but my head on the floor behind my bed. (“I just followed the yarmulke, I guess.”)
If somebody says, “I slept wrong,” I always picture them falling asleep with one foot behind their head.
“I was doing yoga and I fell asleep. I don’t know what happened.”
“Did you try stretching?”
“I fell asleep stretching.”
Back pain -- obviously. I manage it, but everything I do, I wonder what it will do to my back. Putting on socks in the morning is impossible too. I have to get both hands past my toes in a coordinated fashion. I have no idea how I do it. Half my daily stretching is just to be able to do that. They make slip-on shoes; why are there no slip-on socks? I can’t sit for too long either, because it will hurt my back. So about once every hour I get up and I hobble around on my bad knee so that my back will feel better.
But wait! There’s more!
- I also make a verbal noise when I sit down or stand up. Not every time, though. I think just in front of people.
- I’m always worried about keeping my weight reasonable. It takes an enormous amount of work and movement, and quietly feeling guilty about everything I eat all to just look slightly fat.
- I’ve also just realized that I’m older than every horse. They usually die by 30 years old. But I don’t really notice age on horses that much. I can try to guess their age, but I’m usually way off.
But there are good things about turning 40 too. For one, I hear it’s a special number. The number 40 comes up a lot in the Torah and in Talmud, to the point where some rabbis say that sometimes the number 40 is just shorthand for “a whole lot.” So that’s not disheartening.
Another great thing about turning 40 is that I understand that I’m finally going to be allowed to learn kabbalah. So stay tuned for some really weird articles coming up.
it in how just slip-on socks? it every feel time, people. look by notice comes just 40 is going stay
By Menachem Posner
1. Which month does Iyar follow?
A. Nissan
B. Sivan
C. Tammuz
D. Av
2. How is Iyar referred to in the Torah (5 Books of Moses)?
A. “The month of the ripening dates”
B. “The month-when-we-lose-weight-afterPassover”
C. “The second month”
D. “The chametz month”
3. What is the mazal (zodiac sign) of Iyar?
A. Shor—Taurus (“ox”)
B. Gedi—Capricorn (“goat”)
C. Aryeh—Leo (“lion”)
D. Tleh—Aries (“lamb”)
4. Which mitzvah do we do every day of Iyar?
A. Blow the shofar in anticipation of Shavuot
B. Count the Omer
C. Sell the chametz
D. Bless budding trees (Birkat Hailanot)
5. Which tragic event do we mourn during (most of) Iyar?
A. Jerusalem’s fall to marauding Babylonians
B. The great falafel-ball shortage of 1954
C. Moses’ shattering of the Tablets
D. The plague that killed Rabbi Akiva’s 24,000 students
6. What holiday is celebrated on Iyar 14?
A. Tax holiday
B. Pesach Sheni (“Second Passover”)
C. Chatzi Shavuot (“Halfway [to] Shavuot”)
D. Tu B’Iyar
7. Whose yahrzeit is on 18 Iyar - Lag BaOmer?
A. Rabbi Akiva
B. Rabbi Shimon Bar Yochai
C. Rabbi Akiva Eiger
D. Rabbi Yehuda Havasi (the Prince)
8. What holiday is celebrated on 21 Iyar?
A. Chag Ha’asif
B. Yom Tavoach
C. Tax holiday
D. No holiday
9. Which of the following isn’t a national holiday in Israel in Iyar?
A. David Ben-Gurion Day
B. Yom HaZikaron (Israel’s Memorial Day)
C. Memorial Day for Ethiopian Jews
D. Yom Yerushalayim (Jerusalem Day)
10. Which month follows Iyar?
A. Sivan
B. Tammuz
C. Av
D. Elul
