By Rabbi Michoel Oishie for COLlive and Hasidic Archives
Rabbi Mordechai Frankel, leader of the Botoshan (Botoșani) Chasidic dynasty, lived in Bucharest in the 1950s. Until he moved to Israel in 1960, he walked the streets each Shabbos, proudly wearing his furry shtreimel.
He was pursued by ruffians, and received fines and beatings from the police, but it never crossed his mind to hide his identity.
When his followers begged him to consider his own safety, he replied, “Who knows? Perhaps one Jew will see me from the window, and remember that they are Jewish.”
And there was one Jew who did see him. Her name was Sarica and she was 5 years old at the time. Upon seeing the rabbi outside her window, she ran to call her father, Mihai.
“Papa, come see this strange person! Who is he? Where is he from?”
It was indeed an uncommon sight in 1950s communist Bucharest: an elderly man with a long beard and a flat fur hat was walking down the street.
Sarica’s father looked through the window, his face registering surprise. It had been a long time since he had seen a Chassidic Jew decked in a shtreimel. Unsure what to say to his daughter, he finally mumbled, “Tomorrow I will explain it to you.”
In truth, though, he did not want to offer an explanation. He did not want to tell his daughter that she was a Jew living in a country where Jewish life was almost impossible, where Jewish institutions had been shuttered and the practice of religion severely restricted.
As an engineer, Mihai also knew that if he expressed any hesitation about his allegiance to the communist government, he would be out of a job.
Still, the next day, he took his young daughter for a walk that ended at the Jewish cemetery. They made their way between the graves until they reached two headstones inscribed with the names “Baruch and Sarah Lorer.”
“Your grandparents are buried here,” he said quietly. “They were Jews, like the man that you saw yesterday.
“Sarica, you are also a Jew. Always remember that.”
The small child shook her head, not fully comprehending his last words. “He never told me I was a Jew,” she thought, “and now he is telling me to never forget that I am one?”
From his pocket, Mihai took out a chain with a small star of David and placed it around her neck. There, in the cemetery, he taught her for the first time how to recite the Shema prayer.
Sarica never did forget her father’s words. As a young adult, she seized the first opportunity to immigrate to Israel. There, she married Bruno Oishie and had three children, one was named after her father, Michoel Binyomin.
I am that son, Michoel Binyomin Oishie.
Together with my wife, Naama Oishie, we are Shluchim and lead the Jewish community in Kaluga, a small city in western Russia, and have dedicated our lives to rebuilding a once-thriving Jewish community.
Today, I walk the streets of the former Soviet Union every Shabbos in both the bitter cold and scorching heat, decked in my tallis. I do it so that my son will know that I am a proud Jew, but the thought also crosses my mind: Who knows? Perhaps one Jew will look out of the window and remember that they are Jewish…
An excerpt from the forthcoming book In the Trenches: Stories from the Front Lines of Jewish Life in Russia. It can be pre-ordered here. Find more of Hasidic Archives latest books on HasidicArchives.com. Hasidic Archives books are also available in bulk.
Wow! The power if one proud Jew, this is so beautiful and inspiring
We often don’t know how much of an effect we have on others, including people we have not met. Hashem places us in a certain place and at a certain time for a reason. Thank you for sharing this inspiring story.