the time of their occurrence, they often leave worthwhile,

life-long impressions. Henry Brooks Adams, American

historian, journalist and novelist put it best when he said: “A

teacher affects eternity; he can never tell where his influence

stops”, and so it is with certain of our lives’ experiences, the

importance of which we may only realize years down the

road.

I grew up “Jewishly” but not religiously in the 1960 (s)

one suburb west of the orthodox community, centered

in University City, Missouri. My brother and I lived with

our mother, a young, inexperienced divorcee who was

probably overwhelmed by the realities of single

parenthood.

My maternal grandmother, Jean Austin nee Pick who

lived with us for several years, worked as a professional

buyer of women’s fashions and was, I think, a genuine

rarity in an age when divorced, independently-minded

women were far less common than even in my

mother’s generation. She had been a “tough love”

parent (a fact I learned from both my mother and my

Aunt Iris, my mother's sister) who successfully combined hard

work and an independent spirit to raise two daughters. “My

mother provided us with a fine home,” my mom told me,

“but without any Jewish atmosphere.”

I’m not sure why she did what she did or if she even

understood it herself, but my mother enrolled my

brother and me in the Epstein Hebrew Academy, the

first Orthodox Hebrew day school in Missouri almost

immediately after our arrival in St. Louis. It sounds like

a good first step, right? Well, we hated it. My sole

memory was of the alphabet on our classrooms’ walls

which, I recall with perfect clarity, was written in an

unrecognizable script. Unbeknownst to us at the time,

we had been looking at the aleph-beis  posters. My

brother and I protested vociferously to our mother. I

don’t think we lasted more than several days before my

mother withdrew us.

As a result of my all too brief “close encounter” with

Torah Judaism, I became a Jew who knew virtually

nothing about his Judaism. The richness of Jewish tradition

had eluded me and countless other Jewish children whose

attachment to Judaism was largely cultural rather than

Torah-based. I suppose had I not disliked the Epstein

Academy so passionately, things might have turned out

differently, perhaps even better.

Then again, as Jews of faith, our bitachon reinforces our

belief that while “things do happen for the best”, I look

back upon my limited Jewish upbringing with a slight

tinge of regret  but with thanks as well. After all, my

youth was not entirely barren of Jewish experiences. We

gathered at my Aunt Iris's house for our family's one

seder with ample supplies of machine matzah while my

Uncle Marvin led us through the redemption of our

people, according to the Haggadah from Maxwell

House. Shavuos and Sukkos were unknown to us. We

celebrated Rosh Ha Shana and broke the fast of Yom

Kippur with festive meals. We did not light candles, but

my mother did plug in an electric menorah each of the

eight days of Chanukkah. It was not so much that my

family lacked the threads of Jewish life (though there

were many we were missing) as much its fabric.

My First “Almost” Shabbos

It was exceedingly difficult not to love Reb Moishe and

Chava Grossman. The parents of Harold Grossman, my

mother’s second husband, Reb Moishe and Chava

became Morris and Eve upon their passage  through

Ellis Island. A tiny twosome, they were a quaint,

picture-perfect couple of old-fashioned dignity, each

crowned with snow white hair. Speaking a stereotypical

blend of Yiddish and English, dubbed “Yinglish” by

author Leo Rosten and living within fifty yards of their

shul, I felt drawn to Reb Moishe and Chava. There was

just something about them I found so … charming, I

guess.

When the sun sets on Friday afternoon, Erev Shabbos

begins. For observant Jews, the Shabbos is kadosh,

separate and holy, a reminder of the Creation.

To me, an eight-year old Jewish boy living outside the

observant Jewish community, it was just Friday night. I

had no idea that another state of being, Shabbos,

existed on a parallel but higher plane than our own.

Harold, my mom and I stopped in one Friday night to

visit his parents. Already several minutes after

sundown when we arrived, we found Harold’s parents-

their feet barely touching the floor (actually Mrs.

Grossman's did not), sitting quite properly on their

plastic cover-fitted sofa, in total darkness as if nothing

were amiss. Except for what little remained of the

Shabbos nerot, there was no other light to be had.

We sat down with them in a state of virtual

bemusement for several moments until Harold’s

patience ran out.

"Pa,” he pled incredulously, always the dutiful son but

who had forsworn Jewish religious observance when he

enlisted in the Navy after Pearl Harbor, "You're ‘gonna’

sit here in the dark?! Lemme tur ..."

"Zol zein shtil, Herschele! 'Don' touch!” barked Zaide

who did not pronounce the 't' in ‘don't’.

"But, but ... " Harold blurted out.

"But, but 'nuting'! Shah!" Zaide thundered.

"Ma!?" pled the son.

"It'll be fine tatele. Listen to your father," Bubbie

 counseled.

"Mom, why are we sitting in the dark?" I asked,

absolutely intrigued by this most bizarre circumstance.

"Shah! Listen to Bubbie."

If only Mel Brooks had seen this!

To this day some forty-seven years later, I do not know

if the Grossmans had set their timers but which failed

to turn on or if they had simply forgotten to switch on 

their Shabbos lights. It remains a fond albeit befuddled

memory to this very day.

We did not stay much longer. Leaving behind the dark

wonderment of Erev Shabbos, we drove back to Friday

night. Darkness could and did enlighten me that night

to the fascination of Erev Shabbos  to which I returned

years later. It turned out to be a difficult destination to

reach as an adult, but at least I knew that my childhood

journey had begun in the apartment of Moishe and

Chava Grossman, may their memories be for a blessing.

Alan D. Busch

7/01/09