Many years ago when I was leaving to spend a year studying abroad, my grandmother asked me for a favor. When I got to Israel, would I please go spend a Shabbat with a dear friend of hers? Pepi had escaped from Europe and arrived in Israel just before the Holocaust’s full fury unfolded. As my grandmother told me of her friend, it became clear that my grandmother, who arrived in America prior to World War I, had never met this woman.
Pepi came from the same town as my grandfather and was friends with his younger sister. While my grandfather didn’t remember her, she remembered how her friend’s older brother left for the United States before the First World War. After the Holocaust, she tracked down his address and from her new home in Israel wrote to him with details about his parents’ and sister’s deaths. My grandmother responded and a friendship was born. My mother and aunt remember packing boxes of warm clothing to be sent overseas; a struggling American family helping out an even less comfortable Israeli one. When my grandmother told me about Pepi, I knew there was something special about this friendship. Everyone else in my grandmother’s circle of friends addressed each other as “Mrs. So and So” despite years of acquaintance, yet this woman was to be known, even to me, by a diminutive of her first name.
I admit to being apprehensive about visiting Pepi. A Shabbat visit would last for at least 25 hours, which could be interminable. Even my grandmother had never spoken with her; their interaction was entirely through the mail. Not only was she an unknown, elderly widow, but she didn’t speak any English. My Hebrew was pretty good, but what if I didn’t understand her or we had nothing to say? However, I adored my grandmother and would have done anything she asked. I duly called Pepi shortly after my arrival in Israel and arranged to travel north to her home.
My fears were allayed them moment she opened her apartment door. The pre-Shabbat aromas wafting into the hall transported me to my grandmother’s apartment. Her loving embrace did the same. Pepi’s daughters told me of their excitement when a package from America arrived and how the candies tucked into pockets of sweaters and jackets made them feel wealthy and privileged. I was instantly grafted into the four generations of their Israeli family.
I came to adore my time with Pepi and regularly returned through the year. Each time I left her home I carried a package filled with food including a still warm kokosh cake that has never been equaled. When I returned to the States I stayed in touch with Pepi and we both mourned when, shortly thereafter, my grandmother passed away. A few years later Pepi rejoiced with me when my husband and I gave our eldest child my grandmother’s name, Rivka Leah.
Ten years later, Pepi too was gone. When our youngest daughter was born, my husband and I gave her the middle name Penina – Pepi’s given name. I prayed that our Tamara Penina would have the unwavering faith in God, effervescent joy in life and heartwarming demeanor of her namesake.
Since Tamara’s birth it has given me a particular thrill to see my eldest and youngest girls together. Their namesakes never got to experience that physical closeness, at least in this world. Almost ten years ago, Tamara helped me address invitations for her sister’s wedding and a few weeks ago my Rivka Leah and her husband opened their home to host a Shabbat wedding celebration for Tamara and her new husband.
There is a Hebrew word, nachat (sometimes pronounced nachas) which is impossible to translate into English. It is a combination of joy, pride and intense satisfaction among other emotions. It is what parents pray to receive from their children’s lives. That Shabbat, I experienced tremendous nachat, and I knew that my grandmother and her beloved friend, Pepi, rejoiced with me.
