This is not a story written by artificial intelligence. Sometimes the most bizarre true stories are beyond belief! My husband, Haim Cohen, tells me this happened when he was a little boy in Jerusalem, and he swears it’s true!
His grandfather was the Shamash of the Great Synagogue Ohel Moshe back then. (Ohel Moshe is one of the shechunot opposite Mahane Yehuda in Jerusalem.)
As the Shamash of the shul, his grandfather lived beneath the synagogue with his wife in a small one-room apartment. His aunt, who fled the Old City with her husband in 1948, also lived with them temporarily. It was so cramped that even the cockroaches chose to live outside.
The story he told me was that one Shabbat, he woke up a little late and ran to the shul. (At that time, he lived in Mazkeret Moshe, the shechunah next to Ohel Moshe.)
He had to cross a street that was closed to traffic on Shabbat because the chief rabbi, who lived in the nearby Knesset Israel neighborhood, had enough influence in Jerusalem’s municipality to ban cars on Shabbat—a decision that pleased both the rabbi and the neighborhood parents of boys who had to cross the street to get to shul.
Not wanting to be late, he sprinted up the synagogue stairs. If his grandfather was waiting and he was tardy, he would be met with a scowl—or, worse, a painful pinch to remind him not to be late again.
As he sat down next to his grandfather, he noticed that on the special bench in the right-hand corner under a small canopy sat two men and a boy. These were special seats reserved for special occasions. Back then, synagogues in Jerusalem only had benches, not individual chairs, and above one of them, they had built a small canopy supported by two pillars. Those celebrating a special simcha would sit in these special seats of honor, and in those days, honor was everything. When a guest entered, the gabbai would rush over to him to find a seat so that no regular worshiper would displace him.
Haim at once realized there was a bar mitzvah taking place. He actually hated celebrations in the shul because he suffered during them. Women from the upstairs gallery would throw unwrapped candies, which landed like a hailstorm. Worshippers would step on them, crushing them into the ancient Jerusalem stone floor, and someone had to scrape them off. His grandfather was too old for such work, so it fell on him. He wasn’t the only one who helped, but he was the only one who didn’t complain aside from his grandfather. (Back then wrapped candies were very expensive in Jerusalem so people brought unwrapped candies to throw down.)
The bar mitzvah boy’s father approached the gabbai, Yehuda Cohen (no relation to Haim), and whispered something in his ear.
When the time came for the auctioning of aliyot, the gabbai stood up and announced to the congregation: “The father of the bar mitzvah has purchased all of the aliyot, as well as the honor of carrying out the Torah, opening the ark, and the silver finials (which Ashkenazim don’t use), for a sum of 100 lirot.” (Which was a significant amount of money back then.)
That Shabbat, the gabbai sold everything that could be sold. If he could, he might have even sold the small carpet at the entrance of the shul and the pictures off the walls. (In those years, most people in Jerusalem were in tightened financial circumstances after 1948 and someone buying all these things was a big deal.)
“Who are these people and where did they come from?” everyone asked. The rumor spread quickly: they were from Tel Aviv. (Back then, Jerusalem people thought everyone in Tel Aviv had money.) The buzz began to spread among the congregants. Every time someone went up to the Torah to pledge a donation, the father of the bar mitzvah asked to add it to his bill.
When the father was called up, the rabbi showered him with the longest and most beautiful blessings he could think of, leaving no blessing unsaid. The cantor sang three songs instead of the usual one, hoping to stir his soul—and his wallet.
The generous donation was not long in coming. Mr. Bechar, responsible for recording the contributions, was overwhelmed. He didn’t want to make a mistake. It was complicated since writing on Shabbat was forbidden, so they marked donations by folding the pages of the donation ledger in different ways, according to the amounts. It was complete chaos, especially on a day when the donations kept pouring in at unprecedented sums.
My husband remembered the look on the gabbai’s face: it was as if he had caught a golden fish.
The bar mitzvah boy was called up to the Torah, greeted with joyous singing. Yehuda the gabbai held his hand and danced with him—just like they danced at Simchas Beis Hashoeivah.
All the elders of the synagogue placed their hand on the boy’s head, kissed him, and blessed him. When he finished reciting the blessings over the Torah, the rabbi blessed him with the same words Jacob had stolen from Esau, then added the blessing Jacob gave to Ephraim and Menashe. Had the gabbai not given him a stern look, the rabbi might have continued giving him even more blessings.
The boy glanced at his father, and the father responded with another hefty donation: 300 liras! The congregation erupted into song again.
The gabbai signaled my husband to approach.
“I trembled, not knowing what he wanted from me,” said Haim.
“Go to Grandma and bring me what she cooked for Shabbat.”
Haim ran to Grandma Mazal, told her about the bar mitzvah, the Tel Aviv donors, and that Yehuda wanted to treat them to her Shabbat cooking.
Grandma wasn’t thrilled about the idea, but she packed a tray of kubebas (fried meat patties bound with matzo meal), muttering something in Spanish, and handed him a key to the small cabinet in the kiddush room, where the bottles of arak were kept.
He sprinted back up the stairs, first looking for a place to hide one kubeba for himself.
“I’d be dead if I got caught,” he told me.
He placed everything on the table. Mr. Cohen checked that all was in order, and after the prayer service, they held a small kiddush only for the distinguished guests and the bar mitzvah family.
“Who should I make the check out to?” asked the bar mitzvah boy’s father.
“Not today!” said Yehuda. “It’s Shabbat Kodesh! Come back tomorrow.”
The father hesitated. He wanted to return to Tel Aviv right after Shabbat but eventually agreed.
“When is morning prayer on Sunday?” he asked.
“Six o’clock,” the gabbai replied.
Yehuda and a few synagogue officials accompanied the three guests back to their hotel. After about half an hour of walking, the Tel Aviv man said, “I still have another 15 minutes to walk. Maybe you should go home to your families!”
Yehuda the gabbai hugged the guest with a heartfelt hug and bid him farewell, as if he were a beloved friend heading off to war.
Of course, the whole neighborhood was abuzz with the “miracle” that had occurred at Ohel Moshe. News spread to synagogues far and wide about the bar mitzvah Shabbat and the astonishing donations of the righteous benefactor from Tel Aviv. With each retelling, the sums grew larger.
The next morning, the synagogue was packed to capacity. Worshippers from other synagogues even sent representatives, each hoping to receive some donation.
Six o’clock arrived. Yehuda signaled for the prayers to begin. All eyes were on the door.
The service ended. No one moved. Everyone waited for Yehuda Cohen’s orders. He peeked through the window twice, hoping to spot the visitor from Tel Aviv in the distance.
An hour passed. Then another.
Whispers filled the room as everyone speculated about what had happened.
Gradually, worshippers began trickling out. Only a few curious ones remained behind, waiting.
The next day, when we arrived at the synagogue, the first question was:
“Did the benefactor come?”
The answer: “No.”
A heavy cloud of sorrow hung over the community.
In other synagogues, people mocked them mercilessly, though they conveniently forgot that they, too, had wanted a piece of the bounty.
The way my husband told the story, I kind of realized this guy was going to disappear in the end, but I still couldn’t get over it. “This was really unbelievable, and this guy had no conscience?”
“At least a good story came out of this tragedy,” said Haim. “And no, the mysterious benefactor from Tel Aviv never showed his face in Jerusalem again!”
Anessa Cohen lives in Cedarhurst and is a Licensed Real Estate Broker (Anessa V Cohen Realty) with over 20 years of experience offering full service residential, management and commercial real estate services in the Five Towns of Long Island as well as the tri-state area. She can be reached at 516-569-5007. Readers are encouraged to send any questions or scenarios by email to anessa@avcrealty.com.
