My mother-in-law, Sarah Einbinder was born in Winsted, CT in 1907, and nicknamed “The Yankee”. The youngest of six children, she was the only one of her Russian immigrant siblings so distinguished. A real American.
Her parents, Isaac and Bessie, spoke only Yiddish in the house. Bessie taught Sarah to keep a Kosher home, prepare the traditional foods, how to celebrate each holiday, and the Hebrew blessings for the Sabbath’s candle lighting, wine and bread. Sarah received no formal religious training, and could not read Hebrew. My husband, Sy, attended Hebrew school until his Bar Mitzvah, and then remained disinterested in religious dogma for the rest of his life. He maintains that he is agnostic. Not a believer and not an atheist.
After our marriage, we lived in Brooklyn for eight years. In all those years, we celebrated Jewish holidays at Sarah’s, but Christmas was still in our home in December.
America was in the midst of a social revolution. Major cities across the country were in flames, their streets full of crime, and schools and transportation services unsafe. So, in 1967, we left New York to raise our three small children in a safer environment.
When we moved to the City of Port Jervis, I found it amazing that the pace of life seemed unchanged from that which I remembered as a child. There was virtually no crime, doors didn’t need locking. People greeted each other on the street. Everyone knew everyone else, or someone in their family. We no longer had to fear the social violence of the times. It had not yet come “over the mountain” to this Delaware valley, and unfortunately, the enlightenment of big city diversity had not made it over, either.
With a population of 12,000, the city was mainly a blue-collar, railroad and factory town. In this American microcosm, our family’s life was visible to all our neighbors. Away from the anonymity of New York City, we had moved to the America where we were identified as Jews, first. Referred to as the “new Jewish doctor’s family”, we joined Temple Beth El soon after we arrived. As members of the Temple, the community at large knew that we knew who we were.
Again, I was living in a religiously charged atmosphere, but this time, the “world” was not far away in Israel or Nazi Germany, it was truly just outside my front door. Celebrating Christmas in my house was a thing of the past, as once again, I found myself defined as a Jew.
So, it seems that Young Judea and the exposure to Sarah’s Jewish home, had given me good skills for our life in Port Jervis. I prepared all Bessie’s recipes, and found satisfaction in this connection to Sy’s grandmother. Until they were thirteen, our children attended Sunday school, learned Jewish history, the meaning of the holidays, read basic Hebrew, and our sons were Bar Mitzvah. Temple membership numbered less than 100 families, so it was a place which offered many opportunities to give of ones time and energy. We served on leadership boards and committees, gave financial support, and at home we enjoyed Friday night Sabbath dinners and celebrated the holidays. These traditions were an important part of our family’s fabric and well-being. I learned so much, and for those years, I enjoyed the effort and the belonging.
Our children faced anti-Semitism from the time they were in elementary school; I faced it as an elected City official. It was there in Sy’s professional life at the hospital. We acknowledged this ugliness that is part of America. My children were stronger than I had been at facing intolerance, because it was not denied, not ignored. It was a family issue, a Jewish family issue.
Each year, one of the houses of worship hosted an ecumenical Baccalaureate Service honoring the graduating high school class. The clergy that ran the service was also rotated yearly. The Dutch Reformed Church was host, and the clergy was the Baptist minister for 1978, the year of Eric’s graduation. Cheryl was at the altar, part of the High School Chorus, and Adam and Jo-Ellen were there with us for this ceremony. After the opening remarks of the Baptist minister and a song done by the chorus, Sy stood up and nodded to me that we were leaving. The opening prayer was Christian, as were the songs, praising Jesus. All eyes were on us as we filed out, with Eric and Cheryl leaving their places to join us. I am very proud of Sy’s reaction to that affront. It caused a stir, but neither the school district nor the Clergy Association, of which our own Rabbi was a member, acknowledged the incident or subsequently changed the service to encompass diversity. They felt no remorse, and offered no apology. America is a Christian nation.
After eleven years in Port Jervis, we moved to a rural town across the border in New Jersey in 1979. Eric and Cheryl moved on to college, and our active membership was over at the temple; it was another “Young Judea” ending for me. My life was changing in many ways, and I had no need for religion, for group identification. The memories were warm, but a deep connection, commitment wasn’t there. I still didn’t “feel” it, still didn’t need to believe in God. We welcomed the isolation, the privacy of our four acres on the river