It’s hard to believe that 30 days have passed. I just came back from an azkara for a friend who passed away at the age of 62. We sat in a circle. I, as a friend, the staff of the assisted living residence (“the hostel”) in Jerusalem where he had lived, and the residents. I choked away tears when I quoted the Talmud that stated that Hillel caused the poor to be incriminated. Poor people, when they come to Heaven, bring to their defense the argument that they didn’t learn Torah because they were suffering from poverty. The “prosecutor” in the heavenly tribunal then points to Hillel: “Who could be poorer than Hillel? Yet he learned Torah!”

It was a beautiful autumn day, and autumn is a fleeting season in Israel. We have pine needles instead of maple or oak leaves, which don’t change color. But the weather was not too hot or too cold, only 77 degrees Fahrenheit. The sky was blue with a few puffs of clouds, and I woke up too late for my first shiur. We don’t have weekends in Israel as in America – Rabbi Sholom Schwadron, the famous “magid” from Shaarei Chesed called American Sundays “Shabbos sheini shel goliyus” – and I needed a break.

I put on my helmet, hopped on my bicycle, and sped southward. My first destination was the First Station, a recreational complex of restaurants, stores, and sports activities that surround the first train station in Yerushalayim, built by the Ottomans in the late nineteenth century. Alongside this area, the city paved a designated bike path that runs all the way down to the Biblical Zoo.

The very mention of the word “Germany” brings on revulsion in me – not surprising for a child of survivors who was brought up with concentration camp stories at the dinner table. But the tour I was considering was being led by Dr. Shneyer Leiman, a professor of Jewish history, whose lectures have always enthralled me. He is a walking encyclopedia, with a dry sense of humor, who truly loves to share his erudition with others. Because of a “chance” meeting with another couple near Jerusalem, whom I had met on a tour that Dr. Leiman led in Lithuania, I hesitantly signed up at the last minute, becoming group member 13. It was going to be a small group.

This was my second visit to Germany. The first was just a short stopover, when I was returning to Israel from Austria via Munich. Now I would be spending 10 days in the land of the people who murdered my grandparents and uncles. What a comforting thought!

While Israel is being bombarded by Hamas and Islamic Jihad with rockets and burning kites, the poor Jews in the Diaspora are being bombarded with biased, anti-Israel news coverage. They are told that Israel is using “disproportionate force,” a phrase we also heard a lot during the last war, Operation Defensive Shield. They are told of the plight of the poor Palestinian refugees “peacefully” protesting their “right of return” – a parody of the term Israel uses to gather in its own Diaspora, chok hashvut, or “the law of return.”

Until 1967, Israel was the little David fighting the mighty Goliath of the Arab world. Today, after the “crime” of success in war and in economic and societal development, it’s the opposite. And so, the narrative is about “unarmed” Palestinians, including a 20-year-woman “medic,” whose “sole” purpose on the “battlefield” was to tend to victims when she was “cruelly” shot dead by an Israeli sniper. Unfortunately, a video of her lobbing a hand grenade toward the Israelis did not make the mainstream news and anyway came too late, after people had already made up their minds.

“Listen, daughter, and see, and incline your ear, and forget your people and your father’s house.” (Psalms 45:11)

I first met Chana Mejia, age 54, when she came with some of her friends to a restaurant near Tel Aviv’s boardwalk and introduced herself and friends to a tour group from Baltimore led by Rabbi Dovid Katz. She “represented” the Filipino Jewish community in Israel and delivered an inspirational message of hope and faith. Many of us were quite moved by what the soft-spoken, diminutive lady had to say, and after she spoke, Mrs. Karen Katz approached me and said, “Sam, you have to write an article about this community for the Where What When!”

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Getting a hold of Chana after that evening wasn’t easy. Finally, she suggested that I come to her upcoming Chanukah party and see the community for myself. I gladly accepted the offer.

The night of the party, I lit my menorah, grabbed a bite, and hurried off to Tel Aviv, exiting from the Ayalon Freeway onto the Kibbutz Galuyot ramp, where I made a right turn onto the main thoroughfare, Lechi Street. The adjoining side streets were dimly lit. The few people I saw outside didn’t even look Jewish: an Eritrean on a bicycle and a Ukrainian dragging a pushcart. It felt like I was back in Baltimore, crossing Northern Parkway, and I was nervous. Welcome to Hatikva, a rundown, working class neighborhood in Tel Aviv. The one-story dwellings were bunched together and quite modest, but the streets and sidewalks were clean. After making a U-turn, I made a right on Hatikva Street (how apropos!) and parked down the block. Then I searched for an address – she said it was near the community center – going through a maze of dark alleyways.

Starry, starry night.
Paint your palette blue and grey,
Look out on a summer’s day,
With eyes that know the darkness in my soul.
Shadows on the hills,
Sketch the trees and the daffodils,
Catch the breeze and the winter chills,
In colors on the snowy linen land…