These are the people ...
Everlasting Stuff I learned from my Father, who, at 86 years of age, is a practicing dentist and grandpa in Chicago, IL.
1. Whichever teeth you do not wish to retain in your latter years, do not floss them.
2. If and when your kids have tossed your hat out of the window on the interstate, do not become angry.
3. No matter how old and grown up your children are, kiss them.
4. What you wish for your grandchildren do so for their parents.
5. Encourage your high schoolers to read lots of books over summer break.
6. The police officer is your friend unless he's thrashing you with his schtekl.
7. Do not walk down Michigan Ave. dressed like a "zhlub".
8. Call your kids even if and especially if they don't call you.
9. Talk to your mother regularly.
10. It's okay for a man to be sentimental, even weepy when appropriate.
11. Inquire after the well-being of an "ex" for (s)he is a parent of your grandchildren.
12. Look illness in the eye and tell it to "piss off"!
13. Smile a lot and not just because your father is a dentist.
Alan D. Busch
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Thursday, November 8, 2007
Reflections on the People Who Have Touched My Life
These are the People ...
Harold Grossman: My Stepfather
He relished telling the story of how his mother would hang kosher salamis
to dry them out on the back porch, but that he and his brother Jack would
invariably eat them before they ever finished aging.
Harold Grossman was a gutte neshuma, a good soul. He was my mother’s
second husband and a good provider under whose roof I lived for a longer
period of time than I had with my dad.
Of his many attributes, there was one in particular that left me
with an abiding affection. Harold never sought to usurp my father's
role. Even though I lived in Harold’s house together with my brother Ron and
my mom for more than ten years, he respected the fact my dad was
just a short drive away in Chicago and with whom my brother and I maintained
a close relationship. Though I do not know what child support arrangements my
dad and mom had worked out, I do know that Harold supported me in countless
ways over the years.
He was a generous man by nature, soft-spoken and very dignified.
What Yiddish I know I owe to Harold. Of greater importance
than the words I have retained is the appreciation for the colorful
expressiveness of the mamaloschen Harold imparted to
me. What he remembered from his boyhood he recalled with genuine
glee and gladly shared with me.
Harold, his brother Jack, sisters Dorothy and Jane were blessed with
beautiful and wonderful parents: Morris and Eva Grossman, truly lovely and
gracious people, whom I was privileged to know as a boy. A tiny twosome,
Mr. and Mrs. Grossman were a handsome couple-one might even
describe them as “quaint”- each crowned with snow white hair. Their language
was a dialect of “Yinglish,” neither Galician nor Litvish. They sounded like
Myron Cohen. (Do you remember him from the Ed Sullivan Show?) It was exceedingly
difficult not to love them.
I believe it was Erev Shabbos when Harold, my mom and I stopped by to visit
the Grossmans in their apartment on Briscoe Court. The hour was after sundown when
we arrived. Harold’s parents would not have answered the phone had we called
them or, I suspect, invited us over that night because-much to our dismay-
their apartment was enveloped in pitch darkness.
Naturally curious why all their lights were out, we noticed them sitting quite
comfortably on their plastic cover-fitted sofa as if nothing were amiss. Not one
ray of light could be had. To this day some forty years later, I do not know if
the Grossmans had their lights on timers but had neglected to set them in time
before sundown or forgotten to turn on their Sabbath lights, but a fond albeit
befuddled memory it remains to this day!
"Pa," said Harold, always the dutiful son but who had forsworn observance
when he enlisted in the Navy after Pearl Harbor, "you're ‘gonna’ sit here in the
dark?! Just lemme tu ..."
"Zol zein shtil, Herschele! 'Don' touch!” barked Zayde who did not
pronounce the 't' in ‘don't’.
"But, but ... " Harold blurted out.
"But, but 'nuting'! Shah!" Zayde let forth.
"Ma!?" pled the son.
"It'll be fine tatele. Listen to your father," she counseled.
"Mom, why are we sitting in the dark?" I asked.
"Shah! Listen to Bubbe."
If only Mel Brooks had seen this.
We did not stay much longer. Leaving behind the magical, albeit dark
wonderment of Erev Shabbos in the apartment of Morris and Eve Grossman, we
returned home to a Friday night, however well-lighted.
Harold and his brother Jack were fine men, founders and owners of Jarold
Manufacturing in St. Louis, Missouri, who provided steady employment to many
men over thirty years in business. I worked there too during summer vacation
and came to know many of the employees whom I knew to be sincere in their
devotion to Harold as a man and employer.
It was my privilege to memorialize Harold. We are diminished now that he’s
gone, but the world is a far better place for his having been here!
"Zichron l'vrocha" ... May his memory be for a blessing!
Alan D. Busch
11/2/07
Harold Grossman: My Stepfather
He relished telling the story of how his mother would hang kosher salamis
to dry them out on the back porch, but that he and his brother Jack would
invariably eat them before they ever finished aging.
Harold Grossman was a gutte neshuma, a good soul. He was my mother’s
second husband and a good provider under whose roof I lived for a longer
period of time than I had with my dad.
Of his many attributes, there was one in particular that left me
with an abiding affection. Harold never sought to usurp my father's
role. Even though I lived in Harold’s house together with my brother Ron and
my mom for more than ten years, he respected the fact my dad was
just a short drive away in Chicago and with whom my brother and I maintained
a close relationship. Though I do not know what child support arrangements my
dad and mom had worked out, I do know that Harold supported me in countless
ways over the years.
He was a generous man by nature, soft-spoken and very dignified.
What Yiddish I know I owe to Harold. Of greater importance
than the words I have retained is the appreciation for the colorful
expressiveness of the mamaloschen Harold imparted to
me. What he remembered from his boyhood he recalled with genuine
glee and gladly shared with me.
Harold, his brother Jack, sisters Dorothy and Jane were blessed with
beautiful and wonderful parents: Morris and Eva Grossman, truly lovely and
gracious people, whom I was privileged to know as a boy. A tiny twosome,
Mr. and Mrs. Grossman were a handsome couple-one might even
describe them as “quaint”- each crowned with snow white hair. Their language
was a dialect of “Yinglish,” neither Galician nor Litvish. They sounded like
Myron Cohen. (Do you remember him from the Ed Sullivan Show?) It was exceedingly
difficult not to love them.
I believe it was Erev Shabbos when Harold, my mom and I stopped by to visit
the Grossmans in their apartment on Briscoe Court. The hour was after sundown when
we arrived. Harold’s parents would not have answered the phone had we called
them or, I suspect, invited us over that night because-much to our dismay-
their apartment was enveloped in pitch darkness.
Naturally curious why all their lights were out, we noticed them sitting quite
comfortably on their plastic cover-fitted sofa as if nothing were amiss. Not one
ray of light could be had. To this day some forty years later, I do not know if
the Grossmans had their lights on timers but had neglected to set them in time
before sundown or forgotten to turn on their Sabbath lights, but a fond albeit
befuddled memory it remains to this day!
"Pa," said Harold, always the dutiful son but who had forsworn observance
when he enlisted in the Navy after Pearl Harbor, "you're ‘gonna’ sit here in the
dark?! Just lemme tu ..."
"Zol zein shtil, Herschele! 'Don' touch!” barked Zayde who did not
pronounce the 't' in ‘don't’.
"But, but ... " Harold blurted out.
"But, but 'nuting'! Shah!" Zayde let forth.
"Ma!?" pled the son.
"It'll be fine tatele. Listen to your father," she counseled.
"Mom, why are we sitting in the dark?" I asked.
"Shah! Listen to Bubbe."
If only Mel Brooks had seen this.
We did not stay much longer. Leaving behind the magical, albeit dark
wonderment of Erev Shabbos in the apartment of Morris and Eve Grossman, we
returned home to a Friday night, however well-lighted.
Harold and his brother Jack were fine men, founders and owners of Jarold
Manufacturing in St. Louis, Missouri, who provided steady employment to many
men over thirty years in business. I worked there too during summer vacation
and came to know many of the employees whom I knew to be sincere in their
devotion to Harold as a man and employer.
It was my privilege to memorialize Harold. We are diminished now that he’s
gone, but the world is a far better place for his having been here!
"Zichron l'vrocha" ... May his memory be for a blessing!
Alan D. Busch
11/2/07
Monday, November 5, 2007
"The White Rose"
“The White Rose”
Wherein the Enlightenment had so radiantly shone ...
descended a darkness o'er the land,
a blackening,
not of locusts sent by God ...
but of a more stubborn Pharoah
whose heart was even harder ...
whose command over masses numbing,
but which failed to blot out the light of day.
Had there been no foreshadowing of the darkness?
When the land forgot Moses Mendelssohn,
and bore Adolph Eichmann?
Had not Heine known wherein books are burned,
so will humans eventually be?
Where the din of the mob drowned out
the admonitions of the few prophetic voices
and cynical lawlessness foreshadowed transcendent evil.
When the fearful apathy of a once upright citizenry
began to terrorize living space and individuality's resistance little remained.
Where Jewish blood-letting became a national pastime, an opiate to
drug the masses and passive stupidity replaced the spirituality of free thought.
Not all debauched themselves on the altar of this golden calf.
Hans and Sophie Scholl refused to forsake the ageless distinction between right and wrong,
the primal lesson from the innocence of mankind.
The Gestapo executed Hans and Sophie Scholl
whose parents had taught them diligently and ...
spoken to them of good and evil at home.
Nurtured these young people on individuality's inquisitiveness,
enough so that when almost all had become bad,
Hans and Sophie believed in the courage of adherence to good.
When the many hysterically applauded tyranny's hypnosis,
this brother and sister had the presence of mind
to stand up and proclaim freedom's stubborn persistence.
while the deluded majority clung to falsehoods tenaciously.
Hans and Sophie held that living a lie was a betrayal of life.
Our sages knew few are the righteous who defy evil
across death's yard to the guillotine.
Blossoms push out the rot of weeds and beauty overtakes ugliness.
For who could have foreseen that a WHITE ROSE ...
would burst forth naturally in a land where the ashes of
auschwitz,
dachau,
buchenwald,
treblinka
fertilized
Berchtesgaden.
Where the presumption of guilt
became the obscene standard of perverse justice.
Good people ... tried and condemned perfunctorily
who had managed to remain human in a country
where despotism reigned not because
there were no good people left,
but that there remained so few.
Alan D. Busch
11/5/07
Wherein the Enlightenment had so radiantly shone ...
descended a darkness o'er the land,
a blackening,
not of locusts sent by God ...
but of a more stubborn Pharoah
whose heart was even harder ...
whose command over masses numbing,
but which failed to blot out the light of day.
Had there been no foreshadowing of the darkness?
When the land forgot Moses Mendelssohn,
and bore Adolph Eichmann?
Had not Heine known wherein books are burned,
so will humans eventually be?
Where the din of the mob drowned out
the admonitions of the few prophetic voices
and cynical lawlessness foreshadowed transcendent evil.
When the fearful apathy of a once upright citizenry
began to terrorize living space and individuality's resistance little remained.
Where Jewish blood-letting became a national pastime, an opiate to
drug the masses and passive stupidity replaced the spirituality of free thought.
Not all debauched themselves on the altar of this golden calf.
Hans and Sophie Scholl refused to forsake the ageless distinction between right and wrong,
the primal lesson from the innocence of mankind.
The Gestapo executed Hans and Sophie Scholl
whose parents had taught them diligently and ...
spoken to them of good and evil at home.
Nurtured these young people on individuality's inquisitiveness,
enough so that when almost all had become bad,
Hans and Sophie believed in the courage of adherence to good.
When the many hysterically applauded tyranny's hypnosis,
this brother and sister had the presence of mind
to stand up and proclaim freedom's stubborn persistence.
while the deluded majority clung to falsehoods tenaciously.
Hans and Sophie held that living a lie was a betrayal of life.
Our sages knew few are the righteous who defy evil
across death's yard to the guillotine.
Blossoms push out the rot of weeds and beauty overtakes ugliness.
For who could have foreseen that a WHITE ROSE ...
would burst forth naturally in a land where the ashes of
auschwitz,
dachau,
buchenwald,
treblinka
fertilized
Berchtesgaden.
Where the presumption of guilt
became the obscene standard of perverse justice.
Good people ... tried and condemned perfunctorily
who had managed to remain human in a country
where despotism reigned not because
there were no good people left,
but that there remained so few.
Alan D. Busch
11/5/07
Monday, October 29, 2007
Up Heaven's Slope/Revised
"Up Heaven's Slope"
Dedicated to Our Kedoshim
Up heaven's slope wearily trod
stooped figures transparently grey,
memories of long before had been …
For them we clamor that this day
shall happen Never Again!
Why wrenched from hearth and home
O'er hills and fields whence they came
while dreaming did thus freely roam
Awaken morn cold and lame
Unlike Goliath in days of old,
A dark travail numbed,
that even David who fought so well
soon that night succumbed.
Prayerful hopes shoes be found
for souls bereft and torn,
a moment to rest, a breath to breathe
for spirits dulled and worn.
Should there not have been the one
for whom faith steadfast but rare,
that his would be ennobled by Thee
to seek his just and fair?
Who glimpsed the light but touched it not
whose spark had begun to wane
next day ere long gathered clouds again
for fewer who remain.
Bowed under lash by day,
by night a storm did rage
Why had He not shown His way
a war He would have waged?
Still in death's kingdom reigned
a way, a light, a day,
when dawn’s rising would eyes see
of whom did faith sustain.
Aside bodies on planks they lie
whose heat what little remain,
dreaded welcome soon might bring
next to whom they had just lain.
The world we choose can point the way
down paths long sought by peace,
in whose gardens we plant the seeds
lest memories tragically cease.
Revised 10/29/07
Alan D. Busch, copyright 2007
Dedicated to Our Kedoshim
Up heaven's slope wearily trod
stooped figures transparently grey,
memories of long before had been …
For them we clamor that this day
shall happen Never Again!
Why wrenched from hearth and home
O'er hills and fields whence they came
while dreaming did thus freely roam
Awaken morn cold and lame
Unlike Goliath in days of old,
A dark travail numbed,
that even David who fought so well
soon that night succumbed.
Prayerful hopes shoes be found
for souls bereft and torn,
a moment to rest, a breath to breathe
for spirits dulled and worn.
Should there not have been the one
for whom faith steadfast but rare,
that his would be ennobled by Thee
to seek his just and fair?
Who glimpsed the light but touched it not
whose spark had begun to wane
next day ere long gathered clouds again
for fewer who remain.
Bowed under lash by day,
by night a storm did rage
Why had He not shown His way
a war He would have waged?
Still in death's kingdom reigned
a way, a light, a day,
when dawn’s rising would eyes see
of whom did faith sustain.
Aside bodies on planks they lie
whose heat what little remain,
dreaded welcome soon might bring
next to whom they had just lain.
The world we choose can point the way
down paths long sought by peace,
in whose gardens we plant the seeds
lest memories tragically cease.
Revised 10/29/07
Alan D. Busch, copyright 2007
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Dedicated to the Kedoshim ...
"Up Heaven's Slope"
Wearily they trod up heaven's slope,
fatigued, in pain, forlorn
awaiting freedom desperately
that soon it might be born.
Prayerful hopes shoes be found
for souls bereft and torn,
a moment to rest, a breath to breathe
for spirits dulled and worn.
A moment’s dark travail numbed
Goliathan was the fight,
even David who had fought so well
soon that night succumbed.
Why wrenched from hearth and home
O'er hills and fields whence they came
while dreaming did thus freely roam
Awaken dreaded morning cold and lame
Marched back and forth thin and wane
stooped figures transparently grey,
next day ere long gathered clouds again
for fewer who remain.
Should there not have been
the one for whom faith
steadfast but rare,
that his would be enobled by Thee
to seek his just and fair?
Who glimpsed the light but touched it not
whose spark had become so dim,
for them we say such a day,
Never Again! Never Again!
Bowed under lash by day,
by night a storm did rage.
Why had He not shown His way,
A war He would have waged.
Still in death's kingdom reigned
a way, a light, a day,
when dawn rising would eyes see
of whom did faith sustain.
Aside bodies on planks they lie
whose heat what little remain,
dreaded welcome soon might bring
next to whom they had just lain.
The world we choose can point the way
down paths long sought by peace,
in whose gardens we plant the seeds
lest memories tragically cease.
Alan D. Busch, copyright 2007
"Up Heaven's Slope"
Wearily they trod up heaven's slope,
fatigued, in pain, forlorn
awaiting freedom desperately
that soon it might be born.
Prayerful hopes shoes be found
for souls bereft and torn,
a moment to rest, a breath to breathe
for spirits dulled and worn.
A moment’s dark travail numbed
Goliathan was the fight,
even David who had fought so well
soon that night succumbed.
Why wrenched from hearth and home
O'er hills and fields whence they came
while dreaming did thus freely roam
Awaken dreaded morning cold and lame
Marched back and forth thin and wane
stooped figures transparently grey,
next day ere long gathered clouds again
for fewer who remain.
Should there not have been
the one for whom faith
steadfast but rare,
that his would be enobled by Thee
to seek his just and fair?
Who glimpsed the light but touched it not
whose spark had become so dim,
for them we say such a day,
Never Again! Never Again!
Bowed under lash by day,
by night a storm did rage.
Why had He not shown His way,
A war He would have waged.
Still in death's kingdom reigned
a way, a light, a day,
when dawn rising would eyes see
of whom did faith sustain.
Aside bodies on planks they lie
whose heat what little remain,
dreaded welcome soon might bring
next to whom they had just lain.
The world we choose can point the way
down paths long sought by peace,
in whose gardens we plant the seeds
lest memories tragically cease.
Alan D. Busch, copyright 2007
Sunday, October 14, 2007
I Look at You ...
I look at you
Quietly thinking,
Words so many dare I speak.
Return my stare,
Hear you wondering …
Worrisome concerns, burdens linger
Many the questions still unuttered
Hints of solitude do I seek?
None I say but truth be told,
Fears are mine I’ve become too old,
Though age, its distance not yet torn
plagues me, hopelessly forlorn.
Those moments when closeness none more
Beseeching you in words unspoken
Whether you, I, we will be as time before …
It’s not my fault life’s changes did befall
My body shakes, my speech stumbles,
Hard to say and for you to hear,
What hope is there to come this year?
I think back to touches when
In hours abandon,
Gaity, laughter,
Together we spent
Now our posture is so different
My life as is I resent.
Passionate kisses, bodies aflutter,
holding you then as mine alone,
When we were is no longer,
So many questions yet to utter.
Alan D. Busch
10/14/07
Quietly thinking,
Words so many dare I speak.
Return my stare,
Hear you wondering …
Worrisome concerns, burdens linger
Many the questions still unuttered
Hints of solitude do I seek?
None I say but truth be told,
Fears are mine I’ve become too old,
Though age, its distance not yet torn
plagues me, hopelessly forlorn.
Those moments when closeness none more
Beseeching you in words unspoken
Whether you, I, we will be as time before …
It’s not my fault life’s changes did befall
My body shakes, my speech stumbles,
Hard to say and for you to hear,
What hope is there to come this year?
I think back to touches when
In hours abandon,
Gaity, laughter,
Together we spent
Now our posture is so different
My life as is I resent.
Passionate kisses, bodies aflutter,
holding you then as mine alone,
When we were is no longer,
So many questions yet to utter.
Alan D. Busch
10/14/07
Friday, October 12, 2007
Lamentations
“Lamentations”
The pain of a broken heart is reminiscent of
bereavement. My marriage to Kallah ended after a brief fifteen
months, a mournful experience not unlike the personal grief from which
I have suffered since November of 2000 when my first-born child
Benjamin died.
The three weeks prior to the Tisha b' Av is a period of time when we
purposely deny ourselves many enjoyments and comforts culminating
in this solemn fast day characterized by the reading of the
Book of Lamentations, communal mourning for the destruction of the
Beis Ha Mikdash and a heightened awareness of our Jewish
national identity. Our tradition holds that many other historical
tragedies befell the Jewish people on this joyless day.
It happened toward the end of the “Nine Days.” Minyan was scheduled
for 8:00 that evening. Arriving about fifteen minutes early, I saw
an elderly man sitting in the social hall. He appeared to be preoccupied though
patiently awaiting Mincha. He looked sad, so I approached him with a smile.
"Good evening, Sir,"
"Good evening," he responded, seemingly happy someone had come
by to chat with him.
“I was worried we would not have a minyan. It's nearly 8:00 o’clock
now, and I've yahrzeit for Maariv.”
"Oh," I sought to quickly reassure him. "We'll have a minyan.
Guaranteed. Please do not worry about that. Your name is, Sir?” I
asked.
"Talisman, Irving Talisman," he said.
I saw he had almost said "Yitzhak," his Hebrew name, but chose not
to do so. I looked at him intently. He was dressed in casual slacks, a pale yellow
golf shirt and a perspiration stained cap, his focus on
my words suggested that he was a bit hard of hearing.
"Reb Talisman," I addressed him. "For your wife, your parents,
you have yahrzeit?” Twisting his left forearm over with the
assistance of his right hand, he revealed the six green
numbers. I was speechless. I had seen such tattoos before, but the manner in which
he exposed it staggered me. His quiet dignity left me unsure if he bore the tattoo
as a badge of honor or shame. He looked up at me with glistening eyes
and whispered "my parents.” His eyes, sunken and sallow, were
underscored by dark rings-an image almost as indelible as his
horrific tattoo. I just wanted to take care of this man.
"This way, Reb Talisman," inviting him toward the Rabbi Aron &
Rebbitzen Ella Soloveitchik Beis Ha Medrash. I accompanied him
down the hallway. Together we opened the door. Reb Talisman
paused. "Should we enter? There seems to be a bar mitzvah lesson
going on." Indeed there was.
Looking quite grumpy after a typically long day of meetings,
Rabbi Louis was finishing up with the bar mitzvah bocher after
discovering that a ceiling ballast had blown out. It was an especially
busy night at shul. The sisterhood was holding a program and the
junior minyan was learning with Rabbi’s son. Seeing that I was
escorting an elderly gentleman to minyan, Rabbi saved his upset for
the next two hapless fellows who followed us in after we had shut
the door.
"Close it!" Rabbi barked.
"Abba, it’s 8:05, time for Mincha. We have a minyan," announced
Rabbi’s older son who, as it happened, was one of the two who came
in after us.
I directed Reb Talisman slowly toward the one chair unlike any
other in the beis medrash, a comfortable seat though not of the
stackable variety, well-cushioned and distinctively but peculiarly
pink in color. It had been the favorite of Reb Helman, the late father
of Rabbi Louis's wife Saretta. When I turned to check on him
however, he had chosen to sit by the “omed” opposite the Ark.
“As long as he’s comfortable,” I thought.
Rabbi Louis gave a klop on his shtender. "Ashrei yoshvei
v'secha,” we davened Mincha after which Rabbi lectured about
the laws of Tisha B’ Av. Several minutes later, we prayed the Maariv
service, but, by which time, I had lost all my concentration. Now I
know one should look to the heavens should he feel his devotion
waning, but I simply could not. I was thinking of Kallah. She filled my
head, and I knew she'd not be there when I arrived back home. I closed my
siddur and stared out the window.
"Maybe she'll pass by," I mused, "or drop in to see me." I turned to
the doorway thinking I had heard a feminine voice.
“Oh … just one of the younger guys,” I muttered to myself.
"Amen. Yehey shmey rabba ..."
The beis medrash emptied. I escorted Reb Talisman to his car.
"Good night, Sir," I smiled.
"Good night," he said. I touched his arm comfortingly.
I watched as he got in his car and drove away. I fumbled for my keys.
"There surely has to be a lesson here," I reflected, turning on the
ignition. During the minute that it took me to drive home, I
fantasized about seeing her car in the driveway, but realized
The One Above had sent Reb Talisman to remind me others are
grieving too. An act of chesed brought a smile to an elderly Jew.
How I would have liked to share this story with her … perhaps tomorrow.
Alan D. Busch
Revised 10/12/07
The pain of a broken heart is reminiscent of
bereavement. My marriage to Kallah ended after a brief fifteen
months, a mournful experience not unlike the personal grief from which
I have suffered since November of 2000 when my first-born child
Benjamin died.
The three weeks prior to the Tisha b' Av is a period of time when we
purposely deny ourselves many enjoyments and comforts culminating
in this solemn fast day characterized by the reading of the
Book of Lamentations, communal mourning for the destruction of the
Beis Ha Mikdash and a heightened awareness of our Jewish
national identity. Our tradition holds that many other historical
tragedies befell the Jewish people on this joyless day.
It happened toward the end of the “Nine Days.” Minyan was scheduled
for 8:00 that evening. Arriving about fifteen minutes early, I saw
an elderly man sitting in the social hall. He appeared to be preoccupied though
patiently awaiting Mincha. He looked sad, so I approached him with a smile.
"Good evening, Sir,"
"Good evening," he responded, seemingly happy someone had come
by to chat with him.
“I was worried we would not have a minyan. It's nearly 8:00 o’clock
now, and I've yahrzeit for Maariv.”
"Oh," I sought to quickly reassure him. "We'll have a minyan.
Guaranteed. Please do not worry about that. Your name is, Sir?” I
asked.
"Talisman, Irving Talisman," he said.
I saw he had almost said "Yitzhak," his Hebrew name, but chose not
to do so. I looked at him intently. He was dressed in casual slacks, a pale yellow
golf shirt and a perspiration stained cap, his focus on
my words suggested that he was a bit hard of hearing.
"Reb Talisman," I addressed him. "For your wife, your parents,
you have yahrzeit?” Twisting his left forearm over with the
assistance of his right hand, he revealed the six green
numbers. I was speechless. I had seen such tattoos before, but the manner in which
he exposed it staggered me. His quiet dignity left me unsure if he bore the tattoo
as a badge of honor or shame. He looked up at me with glistening eyes
and whispered "my parents.” His eyes, sunken and sallow, were
underscored by dark rings-an image almost as indelible as his
horrific tattoo. I just wanted to take care of this man.
"This way, Reb Talisman," inviting him toward the Rabbi Aron &
Rebbitzen Ella Soloveitchik Beis Ha Medrash. I accompanied him
down the hallway. Together we opened the door. Reb Talisman
paused. "Should we enter? There seems to be a bar mitzvah lesson
going on." Indeed there was.
Looking quite grumpy after a typically long day of meetings,
Rabbi Louis was finishing up with the bar mitzvah bocher after
discovering that a ceiling ballast had blown out. It was an especially
busy night at shul. The sisterhood was holding a program and the
junior minyan was learning with Rabbi’s son. Seeing that I was
escorting an elderly gentleman to minyan, Rabbi saved his upset for
the next two hapless fellows who followed us in after we had shut
the door.
"Close it!" Rabbi barked.
"Abba, it’s 8:05, time for Mincha. We have a minyan," announced
Rabbi’s older son who, as it happened, was one of the two who came
in after us.
I directed Reb Talisman slowly toward the one chair unlike any
other in the beis medrash, a comfortable seat though not of the
stackable variety, well-cushioned and distinctively but peculiarly
pink in color. It had been the favorite of Reb Helman, the late father
of Rabbi Louis's wife Saretta. When I turned to check on him
however, he had chosen to sit by the “omed” opposite the Ark.
“As long as he’s comfortable,” I thought.
Rabbi Louis gave a klop on his shtender. "Ashrei yoshvei
v'secha,” we davened Mincha after which Rabbi lectured about
the laws of Tisha B’ Av. Several minutes later, we prayed the Maariv
service, but, by which time, I had lost all my concentration. Now I
know one should look to the heavens should he feel his devotion
waning, but I simply could not. I was thinking of Kallah. She filled my
head, and I knew she'd not be there when I arrived back home. I closed my
siddur and stared out the window.
"Maybe she'll pass by," I mused, "or drop in to see me." I turned to
the doorway thinking I had heard a feminine voice.
“Oh … just one of the younger guys,” I muttered to myself.
"Amen. Yehey shmey rabba ..."
The beis medrash emptied. I escorted Reb Talisman to his car.
"Good night, Sir," I smiled.
"Good night," he said. I touched his arm comfortingly.
I watched as he got in his car and drove away. I fumbled for my keys.
"There surely has to be a lesson here," I reflected, turning on the
ignition. During the minute that it took me to drive home, I
fantasized about seeing her car in the driveway, but realized
The One Above had sent Reb Talisman to remind me others are
grieving too. An act of chesed brought a smile to an elderly Jew.
How I would have liked to share this story with her … perhaps tomorrow.
Alan D. Busch
Revised 10/12/07
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
The Essence of Sukkot
Writer's note:
Dear Readers,
Many years ago, I read a story line not unlike the one that follows: that of a poor Jew who learns the lesson of Sukkot through his travails and devotion. Therefore, while I do not claim the story line as mine, the body of the tale, its characters and content, I did author.
Alan D. Busch
The day of Erev Sukkot, 2007
Long ago-when our grandparents' grandparents lived in tiny villages-was there one called "Bissele." Therein lived a certain simple Jew, a "shlepper" by trade, a pious but unlearned man who did as best he could with what little he had.
For the better part of the preceding winter, spring and summer, he had worked doggedly, scrimped and saved enough money with which to purchase a fine lulav and esrog.
His efforts were blessed.
A day or two before the Eve of Sukkot, he, his one and only horse and cart set out for the provincial marketplace in which- among the myriads of general merchandise available-beautiful lulavim and esrogim could be had.
It was while traveling on a treacherously pitted and hazardous dirt road that the simple Jew's horse lost its footing by the edge of a precipice, fell and broke two of its four legs.
Reb Schmeryl, whom bad luck seemed to pursue, was simply beside himself. Overwrought
by the accident that had befallen his faithful, hard-working companion, Reb Schmeryl-having no other choice- acceded to the offer of a passing peasant fellow to put his horse out of its misery.
Once one horse dispatched, another's necessity arose. Reb Schmeryl needed another horse in any event and, as it happened, said peasant, one Stavich, was more than willing and able to supply.
And the price, what of that?
Well, when the painful transaction was concluded, Reb Schmeryl retained but one-quarter of what he had so industriously squirreled away.
Down but not out, he, his newly acquired four-legged companion and cart proceeded forthwith to the provincial seat but-now with so little money left, how would he be able to purchase a beautiful set of the "arba minim," the four species?
Only hours before the eve of the chag, as merchants were closing their shutters, in schlepped Reb Schmeryl looking as worn and shriveled as the esrog he'd soon purchase.
Alas, one such storekeeper, a dealer of religious ritual objects, took pity on Reb Schmeryl and let him in though he had already closed.
"Sholem aleichem, Reb ... Reb ...?" his voice trailing off inquiringly.
"Schmeryl. Aleichem shalom, Reb ... ?"
"Geltmacher," responded the merchant, his chest slightly but certainly immodestly
puffed out.
"Reb Geltmacher, I have but these few coins with which to buy the four species," he
said, hoping perhaps that Reb Geltmacher might be a tzaddik-first impressions
aside.
"Over here Reb Schmeryl,look here," he motioned to his weary customer.
Inside the "discarded" bin Reb Geltmacher had placed some of the sorriest excuses for lulavim and esrogim anyone had ever seen. Reb Schmeryl examined a set carefully with an eye as discriminating as that of a jeweler. The lulav was bent and splintered, its willow leaves-many having already fallen off. Never mind that Hoshana Rabba was a good week away! And the esrog wasn't much prettier either. A snapped off stem was all that remained of its pittum.
"This," thought Reb Schmeryl, "is a pri etz hadar?" overtaken momentarily by his own sarcasm.
Reb Geltmacher, impassive and becoming visibly anxious, began fidgeting lest he be
late for erev yontif.
"This will have to do," intoned Reb Schmeryl choosing the "best" of the
worst.
Too late to head home by horse and cart, Schmeryl looked tired, forlorn and quite
hungry.
"Have you a place for yontif?" asked Reb Geltmacher.
"No ... regrettably not," responded a very beaten down Schmeryl.
"Well, the public inn is around the corner. With what you have left, you can afford
two nights," Geltmacher informed Schmeryl. "Oh, and the shul is just opposite the
inn."
Paying Reb Geltmacher and wishing him a "gut Yontif," off he trod to the inn.
Once signed in, Reb Schmeryl fell asleep, missing erev yontif.
Next morning, he arose and with arba minim in hand, hastened off to shul. Taking a seat as far to the back of the shul as he could, Reb Schmeryl, feeling ashamed, wondered what he would do come time for hakafos.
Then a hush! Every last soul arose when the Rav entered, carrying ... well-you can imagine-the finest arba minim Reb Geltmacher had had to offer. Something though was amiss. The Rav did not know what it was at first. Stepping back from his shtender, his prayerful focus interrupted, he began to search, winding his way through the aisles until finally ... there was but one seat left, the very last one.
"Reb ... Reb ...?
"Schmeryl, Schmeryl, Rebbe," rose Reb Schmeryl, managing to respond, albeit
nervously.
"Reb Schmeryl, may I have the honor of using your arba minim with which to bentch
lulav and carry during hakafos, please?. Here you take mine."
Stunned but agreeable, Reb Schmeryl's lips turned up into a faint smile; the Rav's
wisdom, for which he was particularly renowned, demonstrated itself once again incomparable, and Reb Geltmacher, well ... Reb Geltmacher was nonplussed, his chest deflated, his eyebrows knitted in consternation.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Link to Aish.com
http://www.aish.com/spirituality/odysseys/Stepping_into_the_Sukkah.asp
Dear Readers,
Please copy and paste this link to read my newly published article in Aish.com.
Thank you,
Alan
Dear Readers,
Please copy and paste this link to read my newly published article in Aish.com.
Thank you,
Alan
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
"What are you doing?" Kallah grogily asked me at 4:35 a.m..
"Getting dressed for minyan at 5:00. Erev Rosh Ha Shanah Slichos begin in a few minutes and are rather lengthy."
She turned over in a moment of sleepy indifference as if to say:
"Given your year, you do have much to be penitential about!"
So ... I gathered my trusty bicycle, tucked my right pants cuff in my sock and raced off to shul just a few minutes before 5:00. My efficiency paid off because I was able to get in a few laps around the shul parking lot before joining the Slichos minyan. Nothing like a little sweat before standing before the Holy One, Blessed be He!
Came back from shul around 7:30 and began pulling all the last minute strings together for tonight, the evening that heralds the beginning of 5768. I've always`liked that term "heralds" but I never have heard those "much heralded" trumpets blow as they're supposed to when one says "heralds". Guess I have to be content with the blowing of the Shofar, 100 "kolos" (blasts) on each of the two days of yontiff.
It's just me and Kallah for dinner tonight though I will enjoy the company of my Dad
and younger son Zac tonight together with me at shul although Zac will drive his Grandpa home afterward and return himself to his new digs but not first without a take-home yontiff meal prepared by yours truly. Sorry but given my family's observance predelictions, it's the best I can do, but I make no apologies as we are who we are.
In these few thoughtful moments before I have to check the progress of the turkey breast yet again, I am reminded of a little speech I gave the morning of Zac's bar mitzvah ocncerning the legendary Rabbi of Nemirov who absented himself from Slichos because he was out performing acts of chesed in the wee hours of the morning, such as preparing some kindling for a widow's fireplace as there was no one else to do it.
Yes, of course, he disguised himself as a peasant woodchopper. In this way, he not only accomplished some much needed work but prepared the way for his own tshuva as well. The common folks of his town speculated as to his whereabouts but one thing was for certain he was not at his shtender in the beis medrash, but off in the heavens, folks eagerly said, chatting as it were with The One Above.
There was a skeptical fellow in town as it happened, a "pisher" one might say, who was determined to expose the Rabbi of Nemirov for the fraud that he, the young fellow, was certain that he was ... so he slipped into his house late one night, crawled under the saint's bed and awaited his awakening. And as you might imagine, the saintly Rav awoke, dressed himself as a woodcutter and off went he to prepare the kindling for the aged widow's fire.
The young skeptic followed him on tippy toes and was flabberghasted that indeed the Rav was performing such seemingly menial tasks but understand he did for the next day in the town square he overheard local shul folks blathering on endlessly, as was their custom, about the absence of the much loved Rav.
"He's in shamayim at the right hand of the Aibishter!" said the most convinced and articulate of the small assembly gathered.
The others nodded in collective accord, but the one-time cynic who had witnessed the good deeds of the Saint, having overheard the accolades of the crowd,
whispered to himself: "And even higher!"
May we ascend to ever greater heights in our journey of life but without forgetting to first smell the coffee and the roses, appreciate a butterfly or, if need be, chop kindling for the widow's fire.
Alan Busch
4:14 pm
erev RH.
"Getting dressed for minyan at 5:00. Erev Rosh Ha Shanah Slichos begin in a few minutes and are rather lengthy."
She turned over in a moment of sleepy indifference as if to say:
"Given your year, you do have much to be penitential about!"
So ... I gathered my trusty bicycle, tucked my right pants cuff in my sock and raced off to shul just a few minutes before 5:00. My efficiency paid off because I was able to get in a few laps around the shul parking lot before joining the Slichos minyan. Nothing like a little sweat before standing before the Holy One, Blessed be He!
Came back from shul around 7:30 and began pulling all the last minute strings together for tonight, the evening that heralds the beginning of 5768. I've always`liked that term "heralds" but I never have heard those "much heralded" trumpets blow as they're supposed to when one says "heralds". Guess I have to be content with the blowing of the Shofar, 100 "kolos" (blasts) on each of the two days of yontiff.
It's just me and Kallah for dinner tonight though I will enjoy the company of my Dad
and younger son Zac tonight together with me at shul although Zac will drive his Grandpa home afterward and return himself to his new digs but not first without a take-home yontiff meal prepared by yours truly. Sorry but given my family's observance predelictions, it's the best I can do, but I make no apologies as we are who we are.
In these few thoughtful moments before I have to check the progress of the turkey breast yet again, I am reminded of a little speech I gave the morning of Zac's bar mitzvah ocncerning the legendary Rabbi of Nemirov who absented himself from Slichos because he was out performing acts of chesed in the wee hours of the morning, such as preparing some kindling for a widow's fireplace as there was no one else to do it.
Yes, of course, he disguised himself as a peasant woodchopper. In this way, he not only accomplished some much needed work but prepared the way for his own tshuva as well. The common folks of his town speculated as to his whereabouts but one thing was for certain he was not at his shtender in the beis medrash, but off in the heavens, folks eagerly said, chatting as it were with The One Above.
There was a skeptical fellow in town as it happened, a "pisher" one might say, who was determined to expose the Rabbi of Nemirov for the fraud that he, the young fellow, was certain that he was ... so he slipped into his house late one night, crawled under the saint's bed and awaited his awakening. And as you might imagine, the saintly Rav awoke, dressed himself as a woodcutter and off went he to prepare the kindling for the aged widow's fire.
The young skeptic followed him on tippy toes and was flabberghasted that indeed the Rav was performing such seemingly menial tasks but understand he did for the next day in the town square he overheard local shul folks blathering on endlessly, as was their custom, about the absence of the much loved Rav.
"He's in shamayim at the right hand of the Aibishter!" said the most convinced and articulate of the small assembly gathered.
The others nodded in collective accord, but the one-time cynic who had witnessed the good deeds of the Saint, having overheard the accolades of the crowd,
whispered to himself: "And even higher!"
May we ascend to ever greater heights in our journey of life but without forgetting to first smell the coffee and the roses, appreciate a butterfly or, if need be, chop kindling for the widow's fire.
Alan Busch
4:14 pm
erev RH.
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
Kallah Has Come Home
Kallah Has Come Home ...
I needed some time
while she was gone before
I understood.
Suffering tortuous days, enduring sleepless nights.
That a woman loves her husband
by reconciling her higher sense with ...
a man's baser nature.
I had to discover ...
the key to her love
was to search out her soul.
That when she loves you,
it is first with her mind and ...
only after with her body.
If and when a man
understands this ...
has he finally grown up.
Alan D. Busch
I needed some time
while she was gone before
I understood.
Suffering tortuous days, enduring sleepless nights.
That a woman loves her husband
by reconciling her higher sense with ...
a man's baser nature.
I had to discover ...
the key to her love
was to search out her soul.
That when she loves you,
it is first with her mind and ...
only after with her body.
If and when a man
understands this ...
has he finally grown up.
Alan D. Busch
The Miracle of Kimberly
Dear Readers,
This section is excerpted from In Memory of Ben.
Why was Kimberly saved? I don’t have an answer anymore
now than I did before when I asked why Ben was not
saved. It was unanswerable then as it remains now.
The following Friday, I invited Kimmy along with her boyfriend
for dinner Erev Shabbat. Zac was there too as was my
fiancé. The table, beautifully set, awaited us: its candles
aglow. It is my custom to light a ner nechuma for my son Ben
every Friday night before Shabbos begins … sort of bridging
the distance between us. We sat down.
“Kimuschkele,” my voice cracking as I try to get the words out
of a short speech.
“Yes BBDO,” she responded half grinningly, half tearfully.
(BBDO=Big Bad Daddyo)
“This Shabbat is extra special,” I said, addressing everyone but looking at my daughter.
“We say ‘Hodu la Adoshem ki tov, ki le’olam chasdo’ because
of all nights, I am especially thankful tonight to have you by
my side.” Lifting the kiddush cup, a slight tremor animated
my right hand. I let a moment pass, not a peep was uttered.
Ben’s lamp seemed to flicker more brightly, illuminating the
serpentine path of a single drop of wine running down my
hand.
“Vayahe erev, vayahe voker,” I sanctified the wine.
Alan D. Busch
This section is excerpted from In Memory of Ben.
Why was Kimberly saved? I don’t have an answer anymore
now than I did before when I asked why Ben was not
saved. It was unanswerable then as it remains now.
The following Friday, I invited Kimmy along with her boyfriend
for dinner Erev Shabbat. Zac was there too as was my
fiancé. The table, beautifully set, awaited us: its candles
aglow. It is my custom to light a ner nechuma for my son Ben
every Friday night before Shabbos begins … sort of bridging
the distance between us. We sat down.
“Kimuschkele,” my voice cracking as I try to get the words out
of a short speech.
“Yes BBDO,” she responded half grinningly, half tearfully.
(BBDO=Big Bad Daddyo)
“This Shabbat is extra special,” I said, addressing everyone but looking at my daughter.
“We say ‘Hodu la Adoshem ki tov, ki le’olam chasdo’ because
of all nights, I am especially thankful tonight to have you by
my side.” Lifting the kiddush cup, a slight tremor animated
my right hand. I let a moment pass, not a peep was uttered.
Ben’s lamp seemed to flicker more brightly, illuminating the
serpentine path of a single drop of wine running down my
hand.
“Vayahe erev, vayahe voker,” I sanctified the wine.
Alan D. Busch
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Questions
Remember this tale about which you'll hear
of fighting Jews who fell without fear,
who chose to die as men and not as cattle,
but fate had determined that they first do battle
with the Hun at whom they did courageously fling
all of the might of young David's sling.
Their foe, a Goliath, of thousands' times size
from whom they refused to submit to the lies:
that they were weak and unworthy, unable to rise,
though blinded by hate, they aimed straight for his eyes.
Never before had there been seen such daring
from young women and men all of whom caring
for the dignity of those for whom they fought,
such were the lessons that history had taught ...
that the Jew stood alone, friendless, against foe,
counting his days, tormented by woe.
His task ... to prove that though troubled by pain,
the courage of Masada had not been in vain.
For three months, the struggle did not cease,
neither of its sides desiring peace.
For that meant 'surrender', an unthinkable word,
from the sewers of Warsaw could there still be heard:
the cries, the anguish, the torture within
ferreting out their captives the Nazis whose grin
was evidence they had been acting with glee
when stifling the attempt of people to be free.
Cords of 'log-bodies', stacked just the same,
secular and religious none to blame.
For there was NO difference before the Hun,
the Jews for him were decidedly ONE!
Whether armed or with prayer, they met their end,
futile struggle, Kiddush HaShem.
Our duty to those whose fate we survived
is in working to keep their memory alive.
I ask ... why a people whose destiny has been
to enlighten a world through darkness and din,
whose lives are as many as they have been few,
why so despised has been the Jew?
For what 'good' reason is he chosen to die?
Why gone unnoticed the tear in his eye?
Has he not suffered so while the world stands by,
Why have we not ever heeded his cry?
Is there really a difference that makes him seem strange,
as if the same blood did not course through his veins?
Does he not laugh, cry, and feel just as you?
How threatens he when he numbers so few?
Threatened with death should he adhere to his ways,
terrorized by chimneys above which rose haze,
searchingly hopeful ... in whose starry gaze
are reflected the faggots whose fires roar ablaze.
Why did none act to stop it once knowrn?
Enough indifference haven't we sown?
Praying to the heavens as they did every day,
that soon they'd see planes flying their way,
so bombardment, please god, should take us
ere the chambers would
but, the Allies denied they could destroy the rails
leading straight into Hell,
from which precious few reemerged to tell
of the horrors awaiting them, so hard to believe,
that neither kindness nor life did the arrivals receive.
The children, too, thrust into the pit,
enraged blood lust, into its infernal fit
that even the babes whose potential so great
should have felt the steel of this magnificent hate,
whose cries were heard, but listened to none,
whose heads fell limp with the snap of a gun,
whose parents, god forbid! they saw as naked as they,
for it was like this ...that they suffered that day.
There are those who challenge what we have to say,
"Does such a retelling remains relevent today?"
"That, somehow, It's past, gone. Let it be!"
"Why do you make us suffer to see:
the killings, the children, the mountains of bone,
the chambers transformed so many to stone!
who dropped like logs when the doors were thrown wide,
there simply had been ... no place to hide,
mothers whose skirts offered refuge at least
little ones uncovered ...thrown into the fiery feast.
"Of what use" it was queried,
"could they possibly be"
in a stench wherein no one was happy or free?"
Ne'er a glimmer of hope would the murderers give
to those whose sole wish ... was only to live.
Mothers from children, families asunder,
might others have withstood this fury and thunder?
Slave labor was needed to further the 'cause',
to build V-2 rockets, to sharpen the claws.
For such, 'noble' men, doctors by fame
were employed to brutalize, murder, and maim
so that 'Science' could learn when life was so cheap,
discarded mankind onto the heap.
'Great' governments had met in order to be
as pious as possible, but deaf to the plea ...
of the wandering Jew whose torment to see
how unwelcome he waS in the 'Land of the Free'.
The ship onto which so many had stormed
could not find refuge for opinion had formed
that the Jew was expendable, a nuisance, a thorn
upon whom fate had abandoned its contemptuous scorn.
They made it to America these "tired and poor"
to discover Liberty's spark shone little more
that, for them, there was not room enough to remain,
what hopes they had cherished were all now in vain!
Dejectedly they limped back to the place
which had expelled them at first for the same lack of space.
Stripped naked and paraded for the world to see
Remember this tale about which you'll hear
of fighting Jews who fell without fear,
who chose to die as men and not as cattle,
but fate had determined that they first do battle
with the Hun at whom they did courageously fling
all of the might of young David's sling.
Their foe, a Goliath, of thousands' times size
from whom they refused to submit to the lies:
that they were weak and unworthy, unable to rise,
though blinded by hate, they aimed straight for his eyes.
Never before had there been seen such daring
from young women and men all of whom caring
for the dignity of those for whom they fought,
such were the lessons that history had taught ...
that the Jew stood alone, friendless, against foe,
counting his days, tormented by woe.
His task ... to prove that though troubled by pain,
the courage of Masada had not been in vain.
For three months, the struggle did not cease,
neither of its sides desiring peace.
For that meant 'surrender', an unthinkable word,
from the sewers of Warsaw could there still be heard:
the cries, the anguish, the torture within
ferreting out their captives the Nazis whose grin
was evidence they had been acting with glee
when stifling the attempt of people to be free.
Cords of 'log-bodies', stacked just the same,
secular and religious none to blame.
For there was NO difference before the Hun,
the Jews for him were decidedly ONE!
Whether armed or with prayer, they met their end,
futile struggle, Kiddush HaShem.
Our duty to those whose fate we survived
is in working to keep their memory alive.
I ask ... why a people whose destiny has been
to enlighten a world through darkness and din,
whose lives are as many as they have been few,
why so despised has been the Jew?
For what 'good' reason is he chosen to die?
Why gone unnoticed the tear in his eye?
Has he not suffered so while the world stands by,
Why have we not ever heeded his cry?
Is there really a difference that makes him seem strange,
as if the same blood did not course through his veins?
Does he not laugh, cry, and feel just as you?
How threatens he when he numbers so few?
Threatened with death should he adhere to his ways,
terrorized by chimneys above which rose haze,
searchingly hopeful ... in whose starry gaze
are reflected the faggots whose fires roar ablaze.
Why did none act to stop it once knowrn?
Enough indifference haven't we sown?
Praying to the heavens as they did every day,
that soon they'd see planes flying their way,
so bombardment, please god, should take us
ere the chambers would
but, the Allies denied they could destroy the rails
leading straight into Hell,
from which precious few reemerged to tell
of the horrors awaiting them, so hard to believe,
that neither kindness nor life did the arrivals receive.
The children, too, thrust into the pit,
enraged blood lust, into its infernal fit
that even the babes whose potential so great
should have felt the steel of this magnificent hate,
whose cries were heard, but listened to none,
whose heads fell limp with the snap of a gun,
whose parents, god forbid! they saw as naked as they,
for it was like this ...that they suffered that day.
There are those who challenge what we have to say,
"Does such a retelling remains relevent today?"
"That, somehow, It's past, gone. Let it be!"
"Why do you make us suffer to see:
the killings, the children, the mountains of bone,
the chambers transformed so many to stone!
who dropped like logs when the doors were thrown wide,
there simply had been ... no place to hide,
mothers whose skirts offered refuge at least
little ones uncovered ...thrown into the fiery feast.
"Of what use" it was queried,
"could they possibly be"
in a stench wherein no one was happy or free?"
Ne'er a glimmer of hope would the murderers give
to those whose sole wish ... was only to live.
Mothers from children, families asunder,
might others have withstood this fury and thunder?
Slave labor was needed to further the 'cause',
to build V-2 rockets, to sharpen the claws.
For such, 'noble' men, doctors by fame
were employed to brutalize, murder, and maim
so that 'Science' could learn when life was so cheap,
discarded mankind onto the heap.
'Great' governments had met in order to be
as pious as possible, but deaf to the plea ...
of the wandering Jew whose torment to see
how unwelcome he waS in the 'Land of the Free'.
The ship onto which so many had stormed
could not find refuge for opinion had formed
that the Jew was expendable, a nuisance, a thorn
upon whom fate had abandoned its contemptuous scorn.
They made it to America these "tired and poor"
to discover Liberty's spark shone little more
that, for them, there was not room enough to remain,
what hopes they had cherished were all now in vain!
Dejectedly they limped back to the place
which had expelled them at first for the same lack of space.
Stripped naked and paraded for the world to see
what sickness had afflicted modern Germany?
Once active and vigorous this citizenry now wandering about quite aimlessly.
It didn't take long for the nazis to see
that the world cared less for these Jews to be free.
A 'final solution' would quicken the pace
that guarenteed mastery to the 'Aryan' race.
No longer at issue either sufferance or claim,
onto Jewry was placed the burden and blame.
To repair the world, there first must needs be
a point at which we accept responsibility
for right against wrong, fiction from fact,
a basis upon which we can responsibly act,
Once active and vigorous this citizenry now wandering about quite aimlessly.
It didn't take long for the nazis to see
that the world cared less for these Jews to be free.
A 'final solution' would quicken the pace
that guarenteed mastery to the 'Aryan' race.
No longer at issue either sufferance or claim,
onto Jewry was placed the burden and blame.
To repair the world, there first must needs be
a point at which we accept responsibility
for right against wrong, fiction from fact,
a basis upon which we can responsibly act,
but why even bother...
so distant from then,
what more do we gain, what message we send?
For the sake of' the children,
if not for our own ...
and for them whose lives ...
we
might
otherwise
have
known.
Alan D. Busch
revised 2007
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
The White RoseWherein the Enlightenment had so radiantly shone ...
descended a darkness o'er the land, a blackening,
not of locusts sent by God ...
but that of an even more stubborn Pharoah
whose heart was even harder ...
whose command over masses numbing,
yet ultimately insufficient to blot out the light of day.
Ashkenaz- a land in which so many B'nai Jacov,
had come to make their homes.
Though in galus, already centuries old, why next year in Jerusalem ...?
This Pesach yearning ... hadn't they already arrived?
fought well in defense of the Fatherland?
who bore the Iron Cross proudly? '
Yet was there no foreshadowing of the darkness?
or had it not been when the land forgot Moses Mendelssohn,
and... bore Alfred rosenberg?
Had not Heine known that a land wherein books are burned,
so will humans ultimately be?
where the admonitions of the few prophetic voices
drowned out by the din of the incredulous
whose skepticism and cynical mockery provided advance notice
of evil's transcendence?
Or might it have been when men's apathy and fear
began to terrorize living space and individuality's resistance little remained?
when Jew hatred and blood letting were becoming national pasttimes-an opiate with which to
drug the masses and passive stupidity replaced the excitement of free thought's spirituality.
It was this same land in which not all debauched themselves
on the alter of the golden calf:
Hans and Sophie scholl were two such people
on whom had not been lost the distinction between right and wrong.
That same ageless lesson from the origins of mamkind's innocence.
The Gestapo executed Hans and Sophie Scholl
whose parents had taught them diligently and ...
spoken to them at home of right and wrong..
Nurtured had been these young people on individuality's inquisitiveness,
enough so that when almost all had become bad,
Hans and Sophie still believed one should have the courage to believe only in what is good.
When so many hysterically applauded tyranny's hypnosis,
this brother and sister had the presence of mind
to stand up and proclaim freedom's stubborn persistence
while the majority clung to falsehoods, deludely and tenaciously.
Hans and Sophie held that living a lie ...
was unworthyof the sacrifice they had prepared themselves to make
should their sojourn lead them too close to the truth.
Our sages knew that few are the righteous whose defiance of evil
leads them across death's yard to the gullitine,
but not before which blossoms pushed out the rot of weeds and beauty overtook ugliness.
For who could have foreseen that a WHITE ROSE ...
could burst forth in a land whose gardenswere fertilized
by the ashes of auschwitz, dachau, buchenwald, treblinka ...
a land wherein only the presumpton of guilt became the standard
of an obscene perversion of justice
on the alter of the golden calf:
Hans and Sophie scholl were two such people
on whom had not been lost the distinction between right and wrong.
That same ageless lesson from the origins of mamkind's innocence.
The Gestapo executed Hans and Sophie Scholl
whose parents had taught them diligently and ...
spoken to them at home of right and wrong..
Nurtured had been these young people on individuality's inquisitiveness,
enough so that when almost all had become bad,
Hans and Sophie still believed one should have the courage to believe only in what is good.
When so many hysterically applauded tyranny's hypnosis,
this brother and sister had the presence of mind
to stand up and proclaim freedom's stubborn persistence
while the majority clung to falsehoods, deludely and tenaciously.
Hans and Sophie held that living a lie ...
was unworthyof the sacrifice they had prepared themselves to make
should their sojourn lead them too close to the truth.
Our sages knew that few are the righteous whose defiance of evil
leads them across death's yard to the gullitine,
but not before which blossoms pushed out the rot of weeds and beauty overtook ugliness.
For who could have foreseen that a WHITE ROSE ...
could burst forth in a land whose gardenswere fertilized
by the ashes of auschwitz, dachau, buchenwald, treblinka ...
a land wherein only the presumpton of guilt became the standard
of an obscene perversion of justice
and good people were perfunctorily tried and condemned ...
whose only "crime" was they had managed to remain human
in a country where depotism reigned not because ...
there were no good prople left,
whose only "crime" was they had managed to remain human
in a country where depotism reigned not because ...
there were no good prople left,
but that there were so few.
Alan D. Busch
Alan D. Busch
Revised 2007
Up Heaven's Slope
Wearily trod they up heaven's slope,
fatigued, in pain, forlorn
awaiting freedom desperately
that soon it might be born.
Prayerful hopes shoes be found
for souls bereft and torn,
a moment to rest, a breath to breathe
for spirits dulled and worn.
A moment's time in dark travail
mockingly Goliathan was the fight,
that even David who had stood so well
soon stumbled in the night.
Why was there no way
to bring them back home?
O'er hills and fields whence they came
while dreaming did they roam.
Marched back and forth, thin and wane
their figures stooped and grey,
next day ere long gathered clouds again
for fewer who remain.
Should there not have been
the one for whom faith
steadfast but rare,
that his would be enobled by Thee
to seek his just and fair?
Who glimpsed the light but touched it not
whose spark had become so dim,
for them we say such a day,
Never Again! Never Again!
Under lash by day,
nocturnal storms did rage
Why did He not show them
a war He could have waged.
Yet reigned in death's kingdom
a way, a light, a day,
when dawn rising would those eyes see
of whom did faith sustain.
They lie on planks aside bodies
whose heat so little remain,
dreaded morning's welcome soon might bring
next to whom they had just lain.
The world we choose can point the way
down paths long sought by peace,
in whose gardens we plant the seeds
lest memories tragically cease.
Alan D. Busch, copyright 2007
Wearily trod they up heaven's slope,
fatigued, in pain, forlorn
awaiting freedom desperately
that soon it might be born.
Prayerful hopes shoes be found
for souls bereft and torn,
a moment to rest, a breath to breathe
for spirits dulled and worn.
A moment's time in dark travail
mockingly Goliathan was the fight,
that even David who had stood so well
soon stumbled in the night.
Why was there no way
to bring them back home?
O'er hills and fields whence they came
while dreaming did they roam.
Marched back and forth, thin and wane
their figures stooped and grey,
next day ere long gathered clouds again
for fewer who remain.
Should there not have been
the one for whom faith
steadfast but rare,
that his would be enobled by Thee
to seek his just and fair?
Who glimpsed the light but touched it not
whose spark had become so dim,
for them we say such a day,
Never Again! Never Again!
Under lash by day,
nocturnal storms did rage
Why did He not show them
a war He could have waged.
Yet reigned in death's kingdom
a way, a light, a day,
when dawn rising would those eyes see
of whom did faith sustain.
They lie on planks aside bodies
whose heat so little remain,
dreaded morning's welcome soon might bring
next to whom they had just lain.
The world we choose can point the way
down paths long sought by peace,
in whose gardens we plant the seeds
lest memories tragically cease.
Alan D. Busch, copyright 2007
Time to Say ...
You say you needed to hear me say it before I could ...
but I wasn't ready.
I felt it though.
You and I had just begun ...
to be an "us."
It seemed so simple then,
before us nary a challenge,
except one: what to say, how to react
when folks mistook us for father and daughter.
Did we ever figure that out?
You know what?
As upsetting at times as it may have seemed ...
I think we revelled in it.
Bold but not unprecedented ...
an older man loves a much younger woman,
but perplexing was how a much younger woman
could love me?
That confounded me, even troubled me at times.
So when you said "I love you" it made me feel special.
It really did!
But I knew something then you may not have known yet.
No fault of your own.
Just a matter of time.
to show you "I love you."
I held those words back ...
because I feared they'd
be cheapened if I could not back them up with deeds.
And I wanted to give you only the very best I could ...
because it was
for you,
and that meant everything to me and ...
still does.
Because you were ready, but
I was not.
My words I wanted to utter,
only when it was right,
but like all things for which there comes a time ....
now it is ...
I
love
you.
Alan
Revised 8/29/07
You say you needed to hear me say it before I could ...
but I wasn't ready.
I felt it though.
You and I had just begun ...
to be an "us."
It seemed so simple then,
before us nary a challenge,
except one: what to say, how to react
when folks mistook us for father and daughter.
Did we ever figure that out?
You know what?
As upsetting at times as it may have seemed ...
I think we revelled in it.
Bold but not unprecedented ...
an older man loves a much younger woman,
but perplexing was how a much younger woman
could love me?
That confounded me, even troubled me at times.
So when you said "I love you" it made me feel special.
It really did!
But I knew something then you may not have known yet.
No fault of your own.
Just a matter of time.
to show you "I love you."
I held those words back ...
because I feared they'd
be cheapened if I could not back them up with deeds.
And I wanted to give you only the very best I could ...
because it was
for you,
and that meant everything to me and ...
still does.
Because you were ready, but
I was not.
My words I wanted to utter,
only when it was right,
but like all things for which there comes a time ....
now it is ...
I
love
you.
Alan
Revised 8/29/07
A Poetic Dialogue: Son
“Daddy?”
“Yes, Sonny Boy,” I said.
“How come the birds don’t fall out of the sky?” he asked
brilliantly, but not without a partly suppressed yawn.
“D’ya feel the wind on your face when you’re outside, son? I
asked.
“It feels good Dad.” he answered, cheerfully following along.
“The wind, Son, is God’s breath that he blows, but we call it
the ‘wind.’
“Ooookay,” he responded, appearing somewhat quizzical, “but
Daddy remember the birds?” he dutifully reminded me.
“Yes, Son, when God wants to, He blows his breath,” I said.
“Like this, Dad?” he queried, inflating his cheeks and blowing.
“Yes, Ben, just like that, but when God blows his breath, it
catches under the wings of the birds and lifts them up.” I
explained.
“Ooooh,” he replied, scratching his head but clearly intrigued
by the answer.
“Daddy?”
“Yes, Sonny Boy,” I said.
“How come the birds don’t fall out of the sky?” he asked
brilliantly, but not without a partly suppressed yawn.
“D’ya feel the wind on your face when you’re outside, son? I
asked.
“It feels good Dad.” he answered, cheerfully following along.
“The wind, Son, is God’s breath that he blows, but we call it
the ‘wind.’
“Ooookay,” he responded, appearing somewhat quizzical, “but
Daddy remember the birds?” he dutifully reminded me.
“Yes, Son, when God wants to, He blows his breath,” I said.
“Like this, Dad?” he queried, inflating his cheeks and blowing.
“Yes, Ben, just like that, but when God blows his breath, it
catches under the wings of the birds and lifts them up.” I
explained.
“Ooooh,” he replied, scratching his head but clearly intrigued
by the answer.
(excerpted from In Memory of Ben)
Alan D. Busch
2007
Monday, August 27, 2007
"Dignity Restored"
Holy martyrs … kedoshim
For whom monument tall
Shouts defiantly: “NEVER AGAIN!”
at last, for once and all.
Thus hatred's reminder,
its insatiable, implacable aim,
weighing heavily upon humanity’s unforgivable shame.
Atop the bronze mount does stand there remain
Remnants of countless savagely slain:
a mother whose babe has cried its last,
an elderly Jew to whom a boy clings fast.
A partisan fighter whose gestures ignite …
one spark of the hope that flickered by night.
Amidst the rubble of days …that which had been
through the ages a beacon for men ...
the Torah commanding “Thou Shalt Not Kill ...”
albeit in ruins though applicable still!
to our lives which came after relatively free
of terror's ability to blind us who see.
Now tearful, silently stoic first gaze
while vigilance slept, its fires not ablaze ...
why desecrate this monument, a tribute to those
Holy martyrs … kedoshim
For whom monument tall
Shouts defiantly: “NEVER AGAIN!”
at last, for once and all.
Thus hatred's reminder,
its insatiable, implacable aim,
weighing heavily upon humanity’s unforgivable shame.
Atop the bronze mount does stand there remain
Remnants of countless savagely slain:
a mother whose babe has cried its last,
an elderly Jew to whom a boy clings fast.
A partisan fighter whose gestures ignite …
one spark of the hope that flickered by night.
Amidst the rubble of days …that which had been
through the ages a beacon for men ...
the Torah commanding “Thou Shalt Not Kill ...”
albeit in ruins though applicable still!
to our lives which came after relatively free
of terror's ability to blind us who see.
Now tearful, silently stoic first gaze
while vigilance slept, its fires not ablaze ...
why desecrate this monument, a tribute to those
in whose memory we recall
so few of their woes?
Nary a night did pass ere an evil befell,
and reminded, were we all, of heaven and hell.
Now gone were the tears that had welcomed its sight,
but ready were the many to stand and fight ...
an ugly reminder whose obscenities told …
of times long since and graves since cold.
Aroused and awakened this community alert,
so few of their woes?
Nary a night did pass ere an evil befell,
and reminded, were we all, of heaven and hell.
Now gone were the tears that had welcomed its sight,
but ready were the many to stand and fight ...
an ugly reminder whose obscenities told …
of times long since and graves since cold.
Aroused and awakened this community alert,
whose monument remained defiled as such,
to remember one and all, incredulous and carefree,
that history was not over …
as they had hoped it might be.
A garden became this memorial soon
and erased were the lies that had blackened the truth.
Dignity restored its shiny glossto words read anew …
of six million lost.
Toward heaven it points
to remember one and all, incredulous and carefree,
that history was not over …
as they had hoped it might be.
A garden became this memorial soon
and erased were the lies that had blackened the truth.
Dignity restored its shiny glossto words read anew …
of six million lost.
Toward heaven it points
in neither doubt nor shame,
history reminding our memories lame.
That even those departed …
must struggle to hone the spade
that will dig out
this spot
as
their
own.
Alan D. Busch copyright@2007
history reminding our memories lame.
That even those departed …
must struggle to hone the spade
that will dig out
this spot
as
their
own.
Alan D. Busch copyright@2007
"Around My House"
Dedicated to Hadar ...
Around my house
ere dusk fell.
my kallah I await
these words would tell.
Then memories awoke
of moments recall
the evergreen stands
and Ben so small.
I stand and look.
How it has grown!
Twenty years hence
many seeds have sewn!
The old basketball hoop ...
there once a time ...
when I could beat Ben,
a moment sublime.
In memory's flight,
I see only me ...
in this house once lived my children three.
Under Ben's window
wouldst I not know,
that wherein I now sit,
a few tears did flow.
I stepped back ...
to now and saw I did come
my kallah for whose love
my heartbeat
did
drum.
Alan D. Busch
2007
Dedicated to Hadar ...
Around my house
ere dusk fell.
my kallah I await
these words would tell.
Then memories awoke
of moments recall
the evergreen stands
and Ben so small.
I stand and look.
How it has grown!
Twenty years hence
many seeds have sewn!
The old basketball hoop ...
there once a time ...
when I could beat Ben,
a moment sublime.
In memory's flight,
I see only me ...
in this house once lived my children three.
Under Ben's window
wouldst I not know,
that wherein I now sit,
a few tears did flow.
I stepped back ...
to now and saw I did come
my kallah for whose love
my heartbeat
did
drum.
Alan D. Busch
2007
From Your Room
From your room Ben
on this sixth year’s eve
I write these words
alone I grieve.
From your room Ben
lived herein our woes
in wee morning’s darkness
wrestled us our foes.
Where by your bedside
I sat many a night
afraid to leave you ...
lest return it might.
So Ben,
please remember…
never in doubt or need,
our love for you
was always agreed.
Accept these few words
your blue eyes to see ...
o’er these six years
mournful ...
without
thee.
Alan D. Busch
2007
From your room Ben
on this sixth year’s eve
I write these words
alone I grieve.
From your room Ben
lived herein our woes
in wee morning’s darkness
wrestled us our foes.
Where by your bedside
I sat many a night
afraid to leave you ...
lest return it might.
So Ben,
please remember…
never in doubt or need,
our love for you
was always agreed.
Accept these few words
your blue eyes to see ...
o’er these six years
mournful ...
without
thee.
Alan D. Busch
2007
Mourning's Reflections
Illusory strength ...
Illusory strength ...
quivering knees.
Witnessing ...
Irreversible finality.
Near the edge ... swaying,
clutching a moment's time more until words enough,
this end a beginning,
reality obscene.
Linger intimate friends,
voices hushed.
Sobbing disbelief ... soon resignation,
what choice ...really?
Faith, Thou art with me,
though alone I remain
but a shadow of time before;
a mound of earth returns to its void,
last glance, turn to depart
from this ground.
Fading memory searching ...
mind moments
yet
recalled.
this end a beginning,
reality obscene.
Linger intimate friends,
voices hushed.
Sobbing disbelief ... soon resignation,
what choice ...really?
Faith, Thou art with me,
though alone I remain
but a shadow of time before;
a mound of earth returns to its void,
last glance, turn to depart
from this ground.
Fading memory searching ...
mind moments
yet
recalled.
Alan D. Busch
200
published Passing
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