Long ago, when those of you who are not yet thirty were not
even born, two Jewish families lived in a town in England.
The particular area where they lived was not a religious one,
but it was a Jewish neighborhood. For some reason, all the
people who lived in one large housing development were
Jewish. Perhaps it had happened that the first few houses on
the new estate were sold to Jewish families and so, when this
became known, the gentiles would not buy there. Perhaps it
happened because it became a sought-after area for young
Jewish couples and prices rose above similar houses in other
developments and only Jewish families would pay these higher
prices. I don't know. In any event, when we bought our house,
we found one shul, one cohesive community. True it was
only really full on Rosh Hashona and Yom Kippur. True, also,
that there was not what could be called a Shabbos-dik
atmosphere, and each shomer Shabbos family had to
create this for themselves, but it was Jewish, so there was
no anti-semitism, and for this fact alone, we were
grateful.
The families who went to shul regularly knew each
other well. There was a close-knit-family feel to the Kiddush
after the service. The community was economically secure and
those who came only on Shabbos, dressed in a modest yet smart
manner. Those who came only once a year, generally looked as
though they had walked straight out of the pages of a fashion
magazine.
One day, a new family came to our community. I went to visit
them, taking a cake, and asked what they needed. I found that
they were shomer Shabbos and that they had moved to
the area because they had inherited a large old house, one of
the few original old houses in the neighborhood, and that the
move meant they had opted to leave their old posts of work
and that the children had to change schools. However, they
had made this decision because they would be living in a
Jewish area, and being observant, it would make life much
easier in the long run.
That first Shabbos, the whole family came to shul together
and since only I knew them, I did my best to introduce them
to everyone. I was surprised to find the reception a cool
one. I couldn't understand it. We had so few families who
attended regularly and this was clearly one family to add to
that number. Not only that, but the parents were interesting
people, intellectually stimulating and full of fun. The
children were a pleasure to be with: polite and well
behaved.
The reason was slow to emerge. At lunch that day, my Shabbos
guests were full of discussion about the clothes these people
wore.
"Did you just see that suit?! It must be at least five years
old. Didn't anyone tell him that no one wears double-
breasted any more?"
I could see how the conversation was going and did my usual
trick, embarrassing my children, by suddenly going off on a
tangent with a long, boring, convoluted story, so that people
drooped their eyes in boredom and by the time I paused for
breath, they had quite forgotten what they had been talking
about before.
My children were glaring at me from lowered lids, by then,
but their eyes said it all, "Ma, why don't you just tell them
you don't like to hear loshon hora? Surely, that's
much simpler."
*
This family became good friends. We ate with one another, our
children played together and we helped each other out in
those small daily emergencies that occur when one has young
children, baby-sitting one child while another went to the
doctor, helping with lifts to school and the general
interchange of suburbia.
One afternoon, sitting beneath huge trees, on a green lawn on
an idyllic, rare English rainless day, my friend unburdened
herself. She waited till the children were out of earshot and
said, "You know that we are a bit financially strapped at the
moment. I can't afford to buy suits for the boys, but on
Shabbos they wear nice trousers and a white shirt and a
tie.
"Last week, the girls weren't ready yet and the boys didn't
want to wait for us so I sent them on ahead. I met them on
the way, coming back, white faced. They wanted only to go
home. So I turned back.
"You know what had happened? Some big-shot from the shul had
walked up to the boys as they came into the lobby and
accosted them. `Can't you afford a decent suit for Shabbos?'
he said. And now the boys don't want to go to shul any more.
I offered to buy them a suit and somehow, we'll find the
money, but they still refuse to go to shul."
We were both upset. After some discussion, we agreed that the
following Shabbos, the boys would stay home, but my friend
and I would go to shul and try to piece together the
description the boys had given of this man; we would approach
him together and see to it that he apologized. Perhaps then
the boys would agree to go to shul again. Perhaps this way,
their hurt would be assuaged.
Off we went, feeling unhappy, but each one putting on a brave
front for the other.
As we entered, I heard one woman say, "Goodness, did she get
that hat with Noah's ark?"
I am no fashion plate, but all my hats happened to still be
new, so I knew this remark was aimed at my friend and I hoped
she hadn't heard. I started to talk loud and furious, but a
quick glance at her made it clear that she had, and had
correctly assumed that it was aimed at her.
One or two remarks more, in sotto whispers, actually
mentioning her name, and soon we were out of shul, on
the way back to her house, all thoughts of finding the
culprit who had been rude to her sons quite forgotten. This
was clearly a community that felt that `clothes maketh a
man'.
It will come as no great surprise to hear that the family
left the community and went to another part of England. Some
years later, they left for Israel. Through all these years,
we maintained our friendship, by letter, phone and occasional
visits.
We all missed them. My children never really felt at home in
this community that they had been born into and where they
had grown up. One memorable summer, we became friendly with a
chareidi family who had a holiday home near ours. When
vacation time was over and we returned to town, we continued
to keep contact and exchange visits. My children felt
comfortable with them and their friends, and slowly, over the
years, we, too, adopted a totally chareidi lifestyle,
changing schools, modes of dress and gradually adopting many
other significant details.
As our children left school, Israel seemed the obvious
destination, and one by one, they went, first to yeshiva or
seminary, and then staying to settle, until we, too, followed
them over.
Now we all live in Israel. I am still in contact with my
first friend. Her children are all secular and she is a
fervent and important member of Meretz. Once a month I
receive their newsletter. Its contents bring me no joy. More
important, each time it arrives, I am reminded of how hurtful
words can be and the harm they can cause.
