Based on the Life and Legend of Rabbi Yosef Shlomo Kahaneman (1886 – 1969)
 

Swinging my feet beneath the pew, I catch the yawn that threatens to expose my boredom. I furtively glance past the other children to Sister Olga further down the aisle. She is staring reverently at the sanctuary praying along with Father Dmitri.

My best Sunday clothes are stiff and itchy, and my tightly pinned golden curls tug at my scalp. I wonder if Sister Olga wears her headdress because, over the years, the tight pins tore all her hair out. Biting my tongue, I barely contain my giggle. I sigh and succumb myself to the remainder of mass by continuing the rhythmical motion of my legs.

The pungent incense penetrates my senses. Father Dmitri lights the multitude of candles in the front of the sanctuary. His black robes flow around him as he treads over the stone floor. His deep and droning voice chants the endless ritual of prayer.

 

Sister Olga pulls out her prayer beads, and her spindly fingers lovingly caress them. Her eyes flash to the children around her warning us that we had better do the same. As a result, the entire sanctuary bustles as we reach for our rosaries. My awkward adolescent fingers fiddle with the wooden beads meaninglessly.

In the sanctuary, a brass cross thinly frames the distorted body of a pierced and beaten Jesus. Mother Mary stands detached, gazing without emotion, while many scenes of Biblical people and events are played out in stained glass behind her. The lifeless figures are irrelevant; I prefer to talk directly to Jesus in Heaven.

Jesus, I want to ask you for a favor. You know that I usually don’t ask for myself, but there are some things I really want to know. Who is my family? Where do I come from? Father Dmitri says I was brought to them for protection from the Nazis during the war many years ago. However, I don’t think I belong here now. Please, help me find who I am!

I lift my head and face Sister Olga’s threatening glare. The other children are lining up to go back to the living quarters. Sister Olga points one pale brittle finger to the forming line and clears her throat.

“Eliana,” she barks in a husky voice as she stares down her nose at me, “get in line now!”

In haste, I slide off the firm bench and take my position in line as Sister Olga strides to the front next to Father Dmitri. They march us through the dark hallways and into our school room. A loud knock abruptly diverts Sister Olga’s attention to the orphanage entrance.

“Children, please meditate on the sermon and peruse your Bibles,” Father Dmitri instructs before he settles into his favorite chair in the far corner of the room. We obediently bring out our Bibles from within our desks.

 

I gently stroke the gold embroidery of my Bible - my one treasure in this place. Father Dmitri had given it to me at my very First Communion. During the last few years, I have cherished every word. I flip through the worn pages and stop at a favorite verse in Deuteronomy 31:6. “Be strong and of a good courage, fear not, nor be afraid of them: for the LORD thy God, he it is that doth go with thee; he will not fail thee, nor forsake thee.” Taking the words to heart, I fervently continue to read through the chapter.

The door latch lifts with an unexpected sharp click. Everyone in the room halts their breath. The large door swings open, and Sister Olga enters followed closely by an unfamiliar man.

The stranger has creases in every shadow on his face. Beneath his chin, and from shoulder to shoulder, stretches a mass of thick whiskers. The man wears a small cap on the crown of his head over wisps of white hair. My eyes widen and my hand quickly covers my gasp. He’s Jewish!

“Sister Olga, I see we have a visitor.” Father Dmitri’s voice booms as he stands up to greet the guest.

“Let me introduce Rabbi Yosef Shlomo Kahaneman.” Sister Olga briskly gestures to the man behind her. “He is on a mission to seek out the Jewish children strewn from the war and take them to Israel.”

“Is that so, Rabbi?” Father says, apprehensively.

The Rabbi nods his head and confidently responds, “I have discovered that many Jewish children have been graciously protected within Catholic churches throughout the diaspora. They have survived the atrocious war, but they have lost their parents and their faith. It is my deepest desire to restore their Hebrew heritage to them.” His compelling voice echoes in every mind.

Father Dmitri scoffs, “Well, you will not find your kind here. As you can see, these children are Catholic.”

 

 

Pursing his thin lips, the Rabbi wrinkles his shadowy brow and slowly scans each young, curious face. The Rabbi casts his head down and appears to be praying. He then raises his right hand over his eyes. Rocking himself, his lips part, and he begins to calmly sing:

“Shema Yisrael

Adonai eloheinu

Adonai echad.”

Memories, previously suppressed, suddenly flood over me.

 

***

 

“Mamma, Mamma!” I call out, rushing to the fence that is separating us.

“It’s all right,” Mamma reassures, hushing my cries, “It’s all right, Eliana.

“Mamma, I don’t want to go with him! I don’t want to leave you!” I choke on a sob.

“Eliana, listen to Mamma.” Through the openings of the fence, she cups my toddler face within her icy fingers. The barbed edges cut her arms causing her to bleed, but she does not loosen her grasp.

The man in the black robes paces anxiously.

“Eliana, listen to me. This man,” Mamma nods her head beside me, “is going to lead you to a safe place. You’re going to grow up happy, away from the Nazis and their destruction.”

I pull myself closer to her. She wraps her arms tightly around my slim shoulders. “Even though I am not able to be with you,” Mamma gazes heavenward and then shifts her inspired eyes back to me, “Hashem will never leave you. Do you remember what I taught you, Eliana? Come now; sing it with me, one last time.” Mamma lifts her right hand over her eyes. Trembling, I do the same. Without looking at each other, pushing closer through the fence, we sing the words inscribed within our hearts.

“Shema Yisrael

Adonai eloheinu

Adonai echad.”

I sniff and look one last time into Mamma’s gentle eyes. Stained with tears, they shine above her tender smile. “Eliana, remember these words, remember your people, and remember your faith.” Mamma rubs my cheek restoring warmth from the bitter cold. I urgently press into it knowing that it will be her final touch.

The man in the black robes immediately whisks me away. The last sound I hear is Mamma singing the Shema softly to herself.

***

 

“Mamma, Mamma!” I cry as the vivid memory subsides into the school room of the orphanage. The room echoes with the weeping of scattered children. They raise their right hands to their eyes and remember, as I had, the words of their past. My tears stream ceaselessly. I’m Jewish!

I look to the Rabbi. His whole being is illuminated. He stares toward the ceiling, rejoicing. “Thank you, thank you, Adonai!”

 

I slip out of my desk and race to Rabbi Yosef who gathers the dispersed children around him. We embrace the Rabbi in tears of elation.

He gazes at me with compassion and asks, “Do you want to go home, home to Israel?”

 

I cast a glance to Sister and Father retreating in the doorway. Then, I close my eyes letting the warmth of joy surge out. I am reminded of Isaiah 11:12 about the regathering of His children in His land. “And he shall set up an ensign for the nations, and shall assemble the outcasts of Israel, and gather together the dispersed of Judah from the four corners of the earth.”

Clenching my treasured Bible, I whisper, “Thank you, Jesus.”

I meet Rabbi Yosef’s eyes. “Yes, I want to go home.”

Restoration
By: Heather Bachman