Alexandru Cistelacan notes that the work masterfully incorporates “Jewish humor,” often drawing on traditional Jewish anecdotes and a literary tradition shared by renowned authors like Amos Oz. At the same time, it resonates with the distinct humor of Czech literature, bringing to mind the clever and satirical tones of Karel Čapek and Bohumil Hrabal. This intersection of cultural humor provides the book with a rich, multilayered texture.
In the book’s preface, Emil Nicolae-Nadler emphasizes the continuous stream of lively, interconnected stories filled with unexpected twists and moments of linguistic brilliance. These elements are not merely comedic but also serve to reflect deeper cultural and existential themes, offering a blend of light-heartedness and meaningful reflection. The text’s cultural intertextuality and rich allusions make it a rewarding experience for readers who appreciate nuanced, intellectually stimulating humor.
The book stands out as a testament to the enduring power of storytelling that bridges humor with profound insight, securing its place within contemporary literary discourse.
Dubb’s book is a collection of short stories. Included among these is the novella “Till Death Do Us Part” (Până când moartea ne va despărți), a rich narrative exploring themes of love, marriage, tradition, and familial duty within a Jewish community, likely set in the historical region of Maramureș.
The story employs humor, mysticism, and cultural detail to delve into the complexities of a relationship that is heavily influenced by religious and social norms.
Lipka, or by his full name Chananya Yom Tov Lipa Teitelbaum, is a learned and devout man from a Hasidic Jewish background. He became the Grand Rebbe of the Siget Hasidic Dynasty, and the author of Kedushath Yom Tov, a commentary on the Torah which he wrote in 1895. His knowledge of Jewish laws, the Mishnah, and the Gemara was unparalleled, making him a hugely respected figure in the Jewish world.
However, his inability to father children with his wife Reizele becomes a central tension in “Till Death Do Us Part”. This failure subjects him to societal and familial scrutiny, leading to discussions about divorce and his responsibilities as a rabbi.
The story revolves around the marriage of Lipka and Reizele, a union initially believed to be thrice-blessed but fraught with challenges. It explores the pressures of procreation, the significance of symmetry in beauty and life, and the weight of tradition. The story humorously and poignantly portrays the struggle between adhering to religious expectations and coping with personal shortcomings.
At its core, the story examines several themes:
– The societal expectations of marriage: Especially in traditional communities where childbearing is central to a couple’s identity.
– The burden of religious duty: Highlighted by Lipka’s anguish over being a rabbi without children, which undermines his authority.
– The role of women: Reizele is described vividly, emphasizing both her physical attributes and her vibrant personality, contrasting her predicament as a “barren” wife.
– The humor in adversity: The narrative blends sharp wit with the gravity of the characters’ dilemmas, such as the absurdity of needing to gather 100 rabbinical approvals for a divorce.
Finally, although the novella is deeply rooted in the specific cultural and spiritual life of a Jewish Hasidic community, it also carries additional messages revolving around universal themes of human frailty, love, and the search for meaning in relationships. “Till Death Do Us Part” is just one of the stories included in Come With Me to the Ritz (Vino cu mine la Ritz), which you can find at the National Library of Israel today.
Hannah Kritzman: The Storyteller of Kibbutz Be’eri
At age 15, Hannah Kritzman ran away from home to Kibbutz Be'eri, where she became a beloved preschool teacher and founded the local children's library. 73 years later, on October 7, after spending hours hiding with her caregiver in her safe room, Hannah was shot by a Hamas terrorist, just as the two were being rescued. The memoir she completed shortly before her death offers us a glimpse of what a wonderful woman she was.
A few months after Hannaleh Kritzman, the legendary storyteller of Kibbutz Be’eri, wrote down her life story and celebrated its publication, her family had to add the following preface to it:
Hannaleh Kritzman was shot in Kibbutz Be’eri by Hamas terrorists on the awful Saturday of October 7, 2023. She died from her severe wounds on October 21, 2023. She was 88 years old at the time of her murder.
***
88-year-old Hannah, or “Hannaleh”, Kritzman was one of the oldest victims of that fateful day in October 2023. Her family took some comfort in the knowledge that Hannah had lived a full life. A few months earlier, they had managed to publish an autobiographical memoir celebrating her life. “The Story of the Storyteller” was its title. “I’m so glad we managed to finish the project while she was still alive,” says her son, Tzafrir Keren. “She was happy and proud of it. We organized a special celebration for the entire family, where she handed out a copy with a dedication to each of her children and grandchildren.”
Sipurah shel Mesaperet HaSipurim – “The Story of the Storyteller” – Hannah Kritzman’s book, Ot Vaod Publishing
The book, written at the initiative of her children and recounting the story of her life, is a memento of the special woman she was, who so loved books and stories. They suggested to their parents that both of them should write down their life stories for future generations. Their father refused, but Hannaleh threw herself into the process. For several months, she sat in the living room of her home in Kibbutz Be’eri, working with the author, Eli Khalifa, as the two wove her life story together.
The book launch event for Hannaleh’s book with the entire extended family, March 2022. From a private album
Hannaleh spent her early years of her life in a place that was very different from the place where it ended. She was the eldest of five siblings, born to a low-income family in the Florentin neighborhood of Tel Aviv. The family of seven shared their modest two-room apartment with another family. She inherited her love of stories from her parents, who would tell their children stories while they huddled together on the one bed in their apartment. But Hannah didn’t really have time to enjoy a good book back then. As a teenager, she had to attend evening classes so she could help support the family financially. At meetings of her youth movement, HaNoar HaOved VeHaLomed (“The Working and Studying Youth”), she heard about Ben-Gurion’s call to settle the southern Negev region and about a new kibbutz named Be’eri that was about to be built there.
Hannah with her bicycle, from her book, page 39
“Over my dead body” was her father’s response when Hannah told him she wanted to settle the wilderness, and what’s more, with such a disreputable institution as a kibbutz. “If you go, you won’t have anywhere to return to,” her parents desperately threatened, afraid of losing their eldest child. The year was 1950, and they didn’t really understand what a kibbutz was. The rumors they had heard (“They share everything there; even the children!”) only made matters worse.
The Gottesdiener family, from her book, page 33.
But Hannah didn’t give up. With youthful determination, she ran away from home, caught a bus to Kibbutz Sa’ad, which was a few kilometers north of Be’eri, and walked the rest of the way on foot, with two boys who were the same age as her, carrying rifles they had received because there were known to be “fedayeen” militants roaming the area. The warm welcome she received from the founders of Be’eri, who were sitting and singing around the bonfire, was the moment Hannaleh fell in love with the kibbutz—a love that never faded.
All contact between Hannaleh and her family in Tel Aviv was severed for months, but it felt like an eternity. Longing for her parents and siblings tore at the heart of the young pioneer. Eventually, her mother went to consult with the neighborhood rabbi, who said, “If she went to a kibbutz in the Negev, she has done a great mitzvah, for we are commanded to settle the land.” The rabbi’s response softened the father’s heart. He relented and they reconciled. Before he passed away at a ripe old age, almost like an apology to his daughter, the father asked to be buried in the kibbutz, a request that was honored.
Initially, Hannaleh worked in the vegetable garden, but she did not excel as a farmer. As one of the kibbutz members told her: “Whether you work or not — it makes no difference.” She was deeply offended, but her anger only fueled her determination to prove herself. She decided to specialize as a dairy farmer and spent time working in the dairy, enduring the long milking hours at strange times of day and night, as an equal among equals. Together with all the young members of the kibbutz, Hannaleh joined the IDF’s Nahal program, which combined military service with community building and agriculture. Once she married, she finally found her calling. The young girl who had attended evening classes became a preschool teacher, helping to raise and nurture generations of kibbutz children.
Tziki and Hannaleh on their wedding day, with Hannaleh’s parents, Hadassah and Simcha, from her book, page 68.
***
Generations of children in Be’eri were raised by Hannaleh Kritzman. Although she never formally studied education, her well-developed and nurturing educational approach came naturally to her. She was drawn to this work, never leaving it until her retirement.
“What was unique about her education was that she never gave up on any child,” says her son. “At that time, they didn’t know about attention disorders, but she understood it intuitively: when a child couldn’t sit still and wanted to go out and chase birds, she’d go out with him to search for them.” Hannaleh understood the children. She knew how to engage, connect, and show that together they could achieve more. She always walked alongside the children she taught, with them, not against them—never through yelling, never through force. “Even with the grandchildren, for example, if they needed to go take a shower in the evening, she’d never fight, force, or bribe them. She knew how to create a situation where the child himself wanted to get in the shower, through play or speaking with them at eye level, and there was always her tempting promise: ‘If you shower quickly, we’ll have time to read a story.’”
Hannaleh reading a book to the children of the kibbutz, from a private album
When Yotam Keren, one of her grandchildren, decided to specialize in pediatric medicine, she offered her assistance: Before his residency began, she’d go with him and his fellow future doctors and teach them how to approach children in a way that wouldn’t scare them. It was clear to her that she had something to teach them.
“These are experiences that children never forget”
Books were an educational tool that Hannaleh used in a particularly clever way. “When a child would disrupt the class while she was about to read a book, she would say to him, ‘Come, you have a special job to do. Hold the book for me and turn the pages when it’s time.’ She captivated everyone, even the other teachers!” said her son, Tzafrir.
Hannaleh’s deep love for books accompanied her throughout her time as a preschool teacher, but she sought other ways to bring children closer to the world of reading.
When she had the idea of establishing a children’s library in Be’eri, she envisioned it as a place where families could come together and have bonding experiences. The library was located in an old building that had previously housed the elementary school’s science lab, and Hannaleh organized it into a warm and inviting atmosphere, with colorful rugs and cushions. She would open it in the afternoons and hold storytelling sessions for the children. “She didn’t just read aloud: She used sound and motion and involved the listeners by asking questions,” her son recounts.
She planned events and meetings with authors at the local library, and the library became a vibrant cultural center. Later, after serving as an exceptionally successful cultural coordinator in the kibbutz, she was appointed the cultural director of the entire Kibbutz Movement, where she mentored cultural coordinators in many other kibbutzim.
Even after she retired from teaching, Hannaleh continued visiting the preschools in Be’eri, where her presence was welcomed by both the children and the adults. Even at the age of 80, she volunteered two or three times a week to read stories to the children, who would immediately gather around her in a circle. “She never just ‘read a story’.” her son says. “When she read Yael’s House[a classic Israeli children’s book about a young girl who chooses a wooden box as her new home], she brought a large cardboard box and let all the children take turns sitting inside it. When she read A Tale of Five Balloons, she took them outside to blow up balloons together. These are experiences children never forget.”
It wasn’t just children who fell under her spell. While retired, she traveled twice a week to the nearby town of Sderot, to a club run by the Enosh Association, where she volunteered to read stories to people with disabilities, who eagerly awaited her visits every time. “She always said she felt she received more from them than she gave them, and she never gave it up, even when she was ill,” her son Tzafrir shared.
On October 7, Hannaleh was at home with her husband Tziki, and their Filipina caregiver, Abigail Rivero. When the first sirens went off, she and the caregiver immediately entered the safe room, while Tziki, refusing to panic, insisted on staying in his armchair in the living room to watch TV.
That morning, Tzafrir watched in horror as his father sat in the living room, with the sounds of fierce battles raging throughout the kibbutz in the background. He watched the events unfold live, through cameras that the children had installed in their elderly parents’ home, mainly out of concern about potential falls or health emergencies. At some point, the cameras stopped working. Tzafrir was powerless: “I felt terror combined with an immense sense of relief – whatever happened to my parents, for better or for worse, I wouldn’t see it live.” All three survived the long hours of that awful day. The terrorists massacred people in the neighboring homes but, for whatever reason, happened to leave their home alone.
Hannaleh and Tziki, from a private album
Just before morning on Sunday, a group of reservists came to rescue them and help them evacuate. The elderly couple drove in a golf cart toward the exit from the kibbutz, with soldiers walking alongside to guard them, when a terrorist who had remained in the kibbutz fired at them from a rooftop a few meters away. Hannaleh was shot in the stomach.
Kritzman was shot while she was being rescued from her home in Kibbutz Be’eri and was taken to Meir Hospital, where she lay unconscious for two weeks, sedated and on a ventilator. Her tenth great-grandchild was born a few days later, in the same hospital. Hannaleh never got to meet the baby, and she died from her wounds on October 21, 2023.
After about 20 minutes of fighting, the rescue unit managed to get the couple to a gathering point at the entrance to the kibbutz, where Hannaleh was boarded onto a helicopter that took her to the hospital. Her injury was severe, and would have been so even for a young person. Since it wasn’t possible to bury anyone in Be’eri due to the ongoing fighting in the area, the victims of Be’eri were buried in temporary graves around the country. Hannaleh was initially buried in Kibbutz Einat, and then in the summer of 2024, she was taken to her final resting place in her beloved kibbutz. The Be’eri families had to bury their loved ones a second time, a permanent, final burial, which was no simple matter and took a significant emotional toll—eulogies were written and read once more. Perhaps the only comfort was in the traditional social gathering at the kibbutz members’ club after each funeral. Hannaleh was buried next to her parents, and with her favorite book, Children’s Island by the Jewish author Mira Lobe, at her request.
Hannaleh’s grave at Kibbutz Be’eri, alongside the graves of her parents, Simcha and Hadassah Gottesdiener. Photo by Tzafrir Keren
“Our disaster pales in comparison,” says Tzafrir. “The disaster that took place at Kibbutz Be’eri as a whole is unfathomable—children, entire families were murdered. I lost so much more than just my mother. Adi Dagan, my best friend since preschool, who I spent all my childhood with, was murdered. I had just been texting with him that morning and promised him that the army was on the way. He replied, ‘There’s no one here’.”
Channaleh’s grandson Omer Keren wrote in her memory: “Grandma Hannah was the most optimistic person in the world. When her angelic Filipina caregiver, who bravely protected her for 20 hours in the small safe room, came to say goodbye at the hospital, she burst into tears: ‘Who will tell me to wake up tomorrow morning with a new song in my heart?’ That’s my grandmother. A woman of words, for whom words are too small. This is not the ending she deserves. She never told anyone a story with a sad ending, and her story can’t be like that either.
Grandma used to say that the only remedy is to smile, to keep creating, to love, to build something new. Just like the huge, united family she created is her truest revenge against the Nazis who destroyed her parents’ families. To return to Be’eri and rebuild it just like the paradise she built herself.”
The library building in Be’eri was severely damaged during the murderous attack in October 2023. While writing this article, I received moving news from Aliza Gad, the Kibbutz Be’eri member who replaced Hannaleh as the library director: The library building will not be demolished but will be renovated and reopened in the future.
***
At the beginning of her book, Hannaleh wrote a general dedication to her readers:
“A person leaves home with a suitcase. Inside, they place love, caring, sensitivity to others, compassion, and curiosity, and then each time, they can open it to learn how to give from it to others. But when the suitcase from home is empty, they cannot develop or give to their surroundings. Therefore, as parents, we must equip our children with a suitcase full of good things.”
“After a person has gone, what remains of them? Not their possessions, not their money, but their story, whether they wrote it or told it. And now I present my story to you.”
Did He Write It or Not? The Mystery of the Torah Scroll Attributed to the Ran
This centuries-old Torah scroll underwent many travails, changing not only its geographical location multiple times but also its identity and history. “Everything depends on luck, even a Torah scroll in the Holy Ark,” says the Zohar. It seems this Torah scroll did not have the best of luck.
One day in 1978, a centuries-old Torah scroll was discovered deep inside the National Library of Israel, practically by coincidence. The scroll, written on dark parchment, also had a silver plate, which was apparently discovered beforehand, with an etched explanation of the scroll’s origins. The scroll’s height was almost half a meter, and it was written in early Sephardic script. The scroll had not been cataloged nor did it appear in our records of manuscripts. In short, a mystery (patience, we’ve only just begun and from here onwards things will only get weirder). No-one knew how it ended up in the collection, but the experts at the National Library immediately identified what this Torah scroll was.
Some 40 years earlier, on the eve of Passover in 1936, the Haaretz newspaper published a fascinating article on a unique Torah scroll that had been discovered. The article was written by Rabbi Baruch Toledano, a scholar and author who once discovered a copy of the famous Commentary on the Mishnah in Maimonides’ own handwriting (sections of which are preserved at the National Library).
According to the article, the scroll was written by none other than Rabeinu Nissim Ben Reuven of Gerona (Girona) (1290-1376), known as “The Ran”, an important commentator and religious jurist in 14th century Spain. After the Jewish expulsion from Spain, one of the exiles – a respected elder – brought the scroll from Spain to a small Jewish community based in Brazil. There, a Shadar – an emissary of the Jewish community in the Land of Israel – acquired the scroll in the early 20th century. This emissary, Chacham Yahya Dahan from the northern city of Tiberias, brought the scroll to the Holy Land.
Haaretz, April 6, 1936
Antique Torah scrolls are spread throughout the world, but there is usually no evidence of their scribe. This one, however, had clear signs pointing to the author. One of the most prominent is the colophon (a portion of text describing the time and circumstances of its writing) written on the other side of the Torah scroll’s parchment, at its very beginning.
Adding a theoretical portion to a kosher Torah scroll is considered an unconventional and religiously very problematic action. Still, the colophon is there, prominently displayed, telling the scroll’s tale in Sephardic script written in brown ink. The colophon’s author, according to its text, is Rav Reuven, the son of the Ran. He describes the troubles which befell the Jews of Spain during the Christian pogroms of 1391, writing that he managed to flee with his father’s scroll:
“For three months, the fire of conflagration spread in the holy communities of the children of Israel, in the exile of Spain… the kingdoms of Castile, Toledo, Seville, Majorca, Cordoba, Valencia, Barcelona, Aragon, Granada… a blow of sword, killing and death, religious destruction, captivity … and we were sold as slaves and handmaidens to the Yishmaelites… the seekers of blood carried out their plot… and I saved all the scrolls of our holy Torah and with them this book that belonged to my father and mentor… and our heart is filled with terror and fear and our lives are torn for there is no faith as to our end…”
The colophon at the beginning of the Torah scroll, on its back
Rabbi Toledano didn’t suffice with the testament of the colophon as evidence of the scribe’s identity, and he presented additional proof in his article in Haaretz: the form of the some of the Hebrew qof (kuf – ק) letters in the scroll. Here’s what Rabbi Simeon Ben Zemah Dura (1361-1444) said on the matter in his responsa:
“I also heard that the Rabbi R. Nissim Gerondi ob”m who was in Barcelona and who was the Rabbi of my rabbis ob”m that he wrote a Torah scroll for himself and the legs of the [letter] qof would be stuck to their roof.” (Shut Tashbetz, 1.51)
And indeed, the Torah scroll in question often had the qof, which is usually made up of two separate parts, connected in a way reminiscent of the letter chet – ח, with a long left leg.
Remember the silver plate that came with the scroll? The form of the letters and the menorah etched on it indicate that the plate was not made in the Ran’s time and was actually a copy, yet the text of the plate explicitly attests that the Ran wrote the scroll himself and donated it to the synagogue:
“This holy Torah scroll, I wrote for myself and my merit, Nissim son of my master, my father, teacher, and Rabbi Reuven Girondi, may his creator preserve him and keep him alive. I gave on condition to the synagogue of Kohelet Yaakov to the holy congregation in Barcelona…”
The Torah scroll’s silver plate
The 1936 newspaper article was not the only appearance of the Torah scroll in question. Scholar and historian Shmuel Kraus mentions it in his book Korot Batei Hatfilah Beyisrael [The History of Jewish Prayer Houses, published in 1955 after his death]. Kraus saw the scroll when he visited Tiberias in 1934. He describes the scroll as being made of the skin of a red deer and being difficult to read. The scroll’s author asked Kraus to help him sell it, but Kraus didn’t succeed in brokering a transaction. A few years later, another attempt was made to sell the scroll in Jerusalem.
The last testament to the scroll’s existence before its disappearance appears in the book Tzidkat Hatzadik [The Righteousness of the Tzadik] by Rabbi Aryeh Leib Friedman, who wrote that in the summer of 1952, he travelled to the Chacham Yahya Dahan (the emissary we mentioned earlier) in Tiberias and saw the Ran’s Torah scroll there.
Doubts begin to emerge
The enthusiasm which accompanied the important and accidental discovery at the National Library was quickly dampened by scholars who had questions about the source of the Torah scroll and its ostensible author. Despite the careful argument made by Rabbi Toledano in 1936, doubters did not lack alternative explanations. For instance, it was known that the lettering styles in Jewish holy books differed among Ashkenazic and Sephardic Jews and depended on the period in which they were written. Indeed, some of the letters in the Torah scroll in question were different than those used in the time and place in which the Ran lived.
Shlomo Zucker of the National Library’s manuscript department noted another strange fact: In the Torah scroll in question, the song of Haazinu contained 70 lines, yet in the Ran’s time it was customary to use 67 lines, in accordance with a ruling by Maimonides.
Haazinu in 70 lines instead of the 67 used during the Ran’s lifetime
Doubts also arose as to the colophon. It turned out that its description of the 1391 pogroms was chronologically inaccurate. It also contained words that were relatively modern compared to the Ran’s time, and it also contained acronyms unknown from other sources. Furthermore, acronyms were marked with quotation marks, as is done today in Hebrew, even though in the Ran’s time – and later – they were marked by periods.
Another problem with the colophon’s history is that it mentioned the city of Granada in southern Spain as one of the cities attacked by Christian pogroms – except that in that year, Granada was still in Muslim hands. A slightly different spelling of Granada was etched into the silver plate, a text supposedly written by the Ran:
“This Torah scroll I wrote for myself and for my merit … Nissim son of my master, father, teacher and Rabbi Reuven Grinodi.
For scholars, the great contradiction here is that the Ran, like Maimonides, Rabeinu Yonah, and others, lived in the city of Girona in northeast Spain and not Granada/Grinoda/Grinodi in its south. In his article, Rabbi Toledano tried to explain this contradiction by suggesting that perhaps the Ran was indeed from Granada and not from Girona as originally thought, but this explanation was rejected by other scholars.
Map of Spain, Abraham Ortelius, Amsterdam 1586. National Library of Israel collections
Despite the multiple questions surrounding the origin of the Torah scroll, the National Library accepted the source’s own testimony in the colophon and silver plate and presented the scroll as having been the Ran’s own creation. In 1992, to mark 500 years since the Spanish Expulsion and 100 years since the founding of the National Library, the Library put on a special exhibit of “Books [and manuscripts] from Spain.” The exhibit’s catalog shows the scroll under the heading “Torah scroll written by Rabbi Nissim Ben Reuven Girondi (the Ran) for himself” and notes that the scroll was acquired by the Library. No further details were provided. Eight years later, to mark the 75th anniversary of Hebrew University, the scroll was once again put on display and presented in the printed catalog.
And the results are in…
Yet the doubts persisted. In 2012, a sample of the scroll’s parchment was sent to a lab at the Weizmann Institute to conduct a carbon-14 test on it. Since this test is used to date archaeological findings containing organic material, a parchment made of animal skin is very appropriate for such a test.
The results showed, by a probability of 86%, that the Torah scroll is dated to the time period of 1470-1680 – at least 100 years after the Ran’s death. Put another way: the scroll may be old, but the colophon and the plate are false and attest to a forgery. It could be that the forgery was committed to increase the value of the scroll. In an effort to explain the errors in the descriptions, scholars believe the forger who added the colophon and created the silver plate inscription was not very familiar with Spain’s geography and confused Girona and Granada. In his book Chazon Tverimun, which discusses the counterfeiting industry in Tiberias, Moshe Hillel describes the history of the forgery of this Torah scroll and thus explains all the doubts raised concerning it.
The first verses of the Torah scroll attributed to the Ran
So where did it come from?
If it wasn’t owned or written by the Ran in Spain, then where is this scroll from and whose was it?
According to Moshe Hillel, the Torah scroll appears to have come from Morocco. The Moroccan Jewish community was in possession of antique Torah scrolls, some of them were even made before the expulsion from Spain, which Jews fleeing the Inquisition brought with them. In 1810-1910, some Moroccan Jews immigrated to Brazil, bringing along with them a number of Torah scrolls and settling in the region of the Amazon.
The emissary from Tiberias, Yahya Dahan, may have come to Brazil and returned with an old Torah scroll. But since the attribution to the Ran is false, it is also possible that the scroll never even passed through Brazil but rather arrived directly from Morocco to the Land of Israel, after which a whole story was stitched together to make its provenance sound greater than it was.
Others believe that the scroll may have originated in the Land of Israel or even Turkey.
The portion of Bereshit in the Torah scroll attributed to the Ran
If the Torah scroll had indeed been written by an important Torah scholar such as the Ran, we could have learned much from it on the customs of writing holy Hebrew texts in Medieval Spain. And indeed, Rabbis and scholars tried to do just that in a number of articles. While the scroll does seem to be quite old, it is unfortunately not “old enough,” and what we can learn from its writing is unrelated to the Ran or to the Jews of Spain. The scroll certainly served some Jewish community for many years, and perhaps we do need to remember it – as a historic document of the lives of Sephardic Jews is some other location.
The Zohar, in relation to the Torah portion of Naso, says “Everything depends on luck, even a Torah scroll in the Holy Ark.” So yes, even Torah scrolls need a little luck. There are Torah scrolls that sit unused in the ark of a synagogue for a whole year and are only brought out to be danced with on the festival of Simchat Torah. Other scrolls, the luckier ones, have the privilege of being used several times a week.
This famous Torah scroll that was once attributed to the Ran has experienced varying luck over the centuries. Once a holy relic associated with one of the great leaders and sages of 14th century Jewry, it is today linked to fraud and deceit. And perhaps here we have a final stroke of good fortune: Despite its dubious reputation, instead of being buried or hidden away like other Torah scrolls with problematic histories, it is preserved, maintained, and sometimes even put on display at the National Library of Israel.
Larger Than Life: Remembering Eden Ben Rubi
Ben Rubi had a natural artistic spark that enabled the Rishon Lezion resident to express her unique personality in her works. She dreamed of leaving her mark on the world. On October 7, 2023, she was among those murdered at the Nova music festival.
The colorful elephant looks ahead from a painting hanging from a first-floor wall in Rishon Lezion’s city hall. The pachyderm’s blue, green, orange, yellow and red body, depicted in wide brush strokes, may not fit on an African savannah, but it seemed plenty natural to Eden Ben Rubi, the local artist who painted it.
Eden Ben Rubi’s elephant painting
The image so appealed to Meirav Ben Rubi that she wore it on a t-shirt while being interviewed for a short film about the life of her daughter, 23, who along with her boyfriend Ariel Bitton was murdered by Hamas terrorists after fleeing the Nova music festival and taking refuge in a bomb shelter on October 7, 2023.
Eden painted the elephant during a two-week art workshop in India during a visit the last summer of her life. Because the canvas hadn’t dried when Eden left India, the workshop’s director mailed it later. It reached Eden a week before her murder.
Eden’s sketch of the Taj Mahal, which she visited in summer 2023
When the city hall exhibition — displaying works of six natives killed at Nova and in the war since — closes, the painting will return to the Ben Rubis’ home — the only artwork by Eden displayed there. It’s not that Eden particularly loved elephants, Meirav said. Rather, her daughter had been struck by this post in English:
ADVICE FROM AN ELEPHANT
Make a big first impression.
Don’t work for peanuts.
Be all ears.
Know when to put your foot down.
Be gentle, no matter your size.
Have big ideas.
Charge ahead.
“This was Eden: that it doesn’t matter your size — bring big ideas,” she said. “Leave an impression that you won’t be forgotten.”
Some of Eden Ben Rubi’s works at Rishon Lezion city hall (photo by Keren Weisshaus)
The blonde-braided Eden loved to create. “A gallery in New York” read one item on a handwritten checklist of her life’s goals in a notebook found under Eden’s pillow. Eden didn’t live to open a gallery, but Meirav achieved the next-best thing by arranging for Eden’s work to be displayed, along with pieces by other Nova victims, in Manhattan’s Chelsea neighborhood in April.
“What spoke to me about Eden’s art was the realness. You can feel her emotions and her connection to different people, places and things that meant a lot to her,” said Julia Levine, who organized the New York event and displays in her apartment a copy of another of Eden’s elephant paintings, this one Indian-themed.
Meirav, above her daughter’s picture, at an exhibition-dedication event in Rishon Lezion (photo courtesy of Meirav Ben Rubi)
Eden painted, sketched and drew. She made tattoos for friends. She seemingly was everyone’s friend, someone who lifted spirits and freely complimented others, who loved to dance and sing and smile — that’s the consensus of the film, After Eden.
The film was made by young Jews in Greece, the ancestral homeland of Eden’s father Uzi’s family. She traveled to Greece most summers to attend a Jewish camp, where she later worked as a counselor. When Meirav and Uzi visited the Acropolis last Passover, a cashier recognized her as Eden’s mother.
“I’m not like everyone else. That’s clear. As a result, I’ll succeed,” Eden said in a clip included in the film.
Eden at work (photo by Meirav Ben Rubi)
Keren Weisshaus, the curator of the Rishon Lezion exhibition, said she’s struck by the movement of Eden’s brush strokes, her utilizing lots of color and the cheerfulness conveyed. Approximately a dozen of her works appear in the exhibition, all of them sketches and drawings but for the elephant painting.
The display “testifies to her personality, that she saw brightness in everything,” said Weisshaus. “We see she’s bubbly, like sparkling water. Just like everyone has a unique handwriting style, so with an artist we can learn about the person’s personality and style. [We] can see that she’s energetic, upbeat and optimistic. You can see by the subjects she chooses that she sees the beauty in the world and in people.”
Eden Ben Rubi
That is apparent, too, in Eden’s paintings that Weisshaus didn’t include in the exhibition — “very colorful, saturated with color, [like] of sunsets,” she said. “You see her passion for life.”
Most astounding about the works and the exhibitions is this: Eden never studied art.
“Everything came from her head, her imagination,” Meirav said.
People continue paying tribute to her. A yoga event is being organized in her memory in Miami, and a wine-tasting night in Israel. Acclaimed chef Moshe Segev added an Eden’s Sunsets Cocktail to the menus of his restaurants in Petah Tikva and Hod Hasharon.
“Whoever does something recalling [Eden] really strengthens and excites us. The pain is there, but it helps. It says, ‘Look, they’re not forgetting her,’ ” Meirav said.
“Every time I memorialize her, I feel her close to my heart.”
