Tefilin and Teacher (revised)

Fearing I was going to miss the recitation of the Rabbinical Kaddish for my dad who had passed away several weeks before, I made a mental note to take my Parkinson’s meds before I ran out the door. I was running several minutes behind that morning and had begun to slowdown even before I left the house. My movements were becoming labored and I sensed a rise in what I call my "trembling index". At this point, without additional medicine, it becomes virtually impossible for me to put my tefillin on.

"Oh no," I glanced at the time on my cell phone. “It’s already 6:03.” Brochos began promptly at 6:00. I had four minutes before the minyan reached the Rabbinical Kaddish. Living one block away from shul has its advantages.

"Al Yisroel v'al rabbanan …” I heard several familiar voices intone. My heart was pounding as I rushed down the hallway to the beis medrash, my legs and left hand trembling rather noticeably. I tried to catch up. It wasn’t the first time this had happened.

We are bidden to find a teacher. This I had done some fifteen years before. Actually, it was Mr. Irwin Parker who found me when I wandered into the minyan one Sunday evening where he served as gabbai. An apothecary by training in pre-war Poland, Mr. Parker later survived Mauthausen. His wife and children were among the Kedoshim.

Reb Isser, as I learned to respectfully address him, stooped forward, a result of the beatings the kapos had inflicted. The same perpetrators broke his nose repeatedly. Never reset properly, it became permanently misshapen, its tip misaligned with a crushed bridge. Other beatings damaged his eyesight, causing his left eye to float.

I do not know why he took me under his wing-a forty year old whose knowledge of Yiddishkeit was slightly below that of an am ha eretz..

A man in his late 70s, Reb Isser bore the moral authority of one whose quiet tenacity to overcome permanent injuries proved indisputably that a new pharaoh had arisen to destroy us a generation before. Being with and learning from older men had never been a problem for me. As a boy, I had been taught to rise up before the hoary head.

One afternoon he took out a small blue velvet bag from inside the portable bima.

“Roll up your sleeve,” he nodded toward my left arm. “Slip your arm through this loop and slide it up to your bicep.”

“Like this?’ I wondered, my legs shaking.

“No, no. You see this knot? It has to be on the inside facing your heart.”

“Oh, okay. I got it.”

We tightened the slip knot to my bicep and wound the black leather strap seven times around my forearm.

“Nu?” he waited. “Mach a brocho …”

“Yes. Now the Rosh. Remember? Bein einecha.”

“Okay, got it. How’s this?” hopeful I had gotten it right.

Minyan was crowded that morning. Two new fellows had shown up to my right. Ordinarily a table of three, we had grown to five. I felt cramped. “This is not going to work,” I thought, clumsily trying to unfold my talis. My fingers were stiff and uncooperative. Realizing then I had forgotten my meds, I gathered up my stuff. “I need lots more room,” I muttered while opening the door to the main sanctuary. On such mornings, the privacy helps.

“I’ve got to get back in there before “Shema”- managing finally to get my talis and tefilin on after ten minutes. The shliach tzibur announced the Borechu. I checked my Rosh quickly and reentered the beis medrash in time for the Shema.

 “…ukshartam l’os al yadecha v’hayu letotafos bein einecha …” I had earned the sense of accomplishment I felt that morning.

I invited Reb Isser to my house one afternoon for tea. As with my grandpa Harry to whom he bore a striking resemblance, Reb Isser placed a sugar cube between his lower lip and gum before he sipped his tea. Nothing less than a sweet fragment of an old world, I watched him intently, this righteous man who often likened the tefilin shel yad to a telephone hand set and the shel rosh to its receiver.

“Our tefilos,” extending his metaphor, “are long distance calls. If you dial His number often, you get unlimited minutes for less money,” he explained while steam from his cup momentarily clouded the sparkle of his blue eyes.

“More tea, Reb Isser?” He nodded. Happily there were abundant sugar cubes.

“