Ghosts, Evil Spirits and Kabbalistic Teachings: A Very Ashkenazi Christmas
"Nittel Nacht" is an Ashkenazi Jewish term for Christmas Eve. Although it is certainly not a Jewish holiday, it has, in very particular Jewish communities, become a night marked by strange and even provocative customs. Where did these Nittel Nacht traditions come from, and how are they connected to historical attempts to protect oneself from the forces of darkness?
As much of the world celebrates Christmas, certain Hasidic communities will mark “Nittel Nacht.” The term “Nittel” derives from the Latin natalis for “Christmas.” These Nittel customs were once widespread among Ashkenazi Jews and have been documented for at least 500 years. However, following immigration to Israel, these traditions have mostly been preserved by only a handful of Hasidic groups.
Centuries ago, on Christmas Eve, Ashkenazi Jews would typically gather in brightly lit communal spaces, play cards until sunrise, eat garlic, and avoid studying Torah. Even those who didn’t make it to the communal events and stayed home refrained from engaging in marital relations, and in some places, ritual baths (mikvehs) were locked beforehand. Another custom involved avoiding going to the outhouse, which was a separate and distant structure from one’s home back then.
Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneerson, the Lubavitcher Rebbe, playing chess in his youth with his father-in-law Rabbi Yosef Yitzchak Schneersohnin in Perchtoldsdorf, Austria, a resort town near Vienna, 1937.
Playing Cards Until Dawn
If you’re wondering where these customs originated, you’re not alone. For centuries, rabbis, scholars, and even anonymous antisemites on the internet have tried to understand them. The most common explanation is that they were intended as a display of contempt for the Christian holiday and the birth of Jesus, though he was generally not mentioned by name. However, upon deeper reflection, there are probably many more effective ways to show contempt for Christmas, even more effective than playing poker all night.
Interestingly, some of those who actually practiced “Nittel” traditions often cited a different reason: Kabbalistic teachings suggested that on that night, unholy spiritual forces were at the height of their powers, making it a very dangerous night indeed. The gatherings, light, games, and garlic were meant to repel these dark forces. It was also important to avoid engaging in Torah study during such times, because doing so when these impure forces were in the ascendance could inadvertently empower them even more.
Over the centuries, various Christian authorities often censored and erased unflattering or disrespectful references to Christian doctrine within Jewish texts, such as the Talmud. But some of these sources which remained untouched by Christian censorship explicitly stated that these forces of darkness included none other than Jesus himself. According to these traditions, on that night, Jesus would rise from the dead to roam the world and try to harm Jews who weren’t cautious. He could hurt anyone wandering alone or heading to the outhouse. They warned that a child conceived on that night would be under Jesus’ influence for life. Jesus was particularly drawn to Torah study, having been a Torah student himself during his lifetime. Therefore, since learning Torah could attract him, it was avoided on Nittel Nacht. He was said to lurk in darkness and recoil from light, laughter, and the smell of garlic. Anyone particularly observant will identify the link between classic vampire traits to the image of Jesus, as one rising from the dead.
And yet, there is something a bit strange about the description of Jesus as a vampire.
A card game at Luba’s. Photo by Boris Carmi, the Meitar Collection, the Pritzker Family National Photography Collection, the National Library of Israel
The Ghost of Christmas Past?
According to scholar Rebecca Scharbach, the solution to these mysteries lies in medieval and early modern Christian Christmas customs. The cheerful, family-oriented Christmas we know today is a 19th-century British invention. Until then, Christmas Eve was considered a time when the spirits of dead sinners returned to the earth, a night when witches and demons haunted the streets trying to harm people.
On that night, Christians avoided churches and holy sites, believing these spaces were where the spirits held their own holiday services. Prayer, in general, was deemed ineffective and even dangerous. Instead, Christian believers gathered in well-lit public spaces, eating garlic and playing card games until the morning light to ward off spirits. They avoided intimacy, but a popular belief also spread that children conceived on Christmas Eve would belong to the forces of darkness or possess supernatural powers, like the ability to see ghosts.
In many places, these beliefs gave rise to some odd customs, with selected townsfolk dressing up as ghosts, witches, and various “resurrected” sinners. They would go house to house ringing bells, testing children’s knowledge of religious texts. Good children received sweets, while rumor had it that bad children were dismembered and cooked in boiling water. If this reminds you of Halloween, that’s no coincidence – the customs are indeed related. And if this brings to mind an early version of Santa Claus, that’s because it likely is.
It might seem that the unique Jewish element in these customs was the linkage of Jesus with demonic, impure forces. But surprisingly, even this was not a Jewish invention.
In many countries, a custom was practiced according to which one person would dress up as the Christkind (the Christ-Child or Baby Jesus) and roam about on Christmas Eve. In certain villages, these customs blended with local traditions, and the figure dressed as Jesus would join the demons and spirits in the streets. While Jesus would often be dressed in white, this was not always the case, as described below by Max Toeppen and cited by Scharbach in her article:
On Christmas Eve, the so-called ‘Holy Christ’ goes around – that is, a fellow dressed in a fur pelt turned inside out and armed with a club …[or] very often he appears as a Bear, likewise wearing an inside-out fur with a sleeve left dragging as a tail. […] [He] examines the trembling children [ as to whether they know their prayers]. Those who are studious […] and can answer him well receive gifts upon his departure.
From the Dani Hadani Archive, the Pritzker Family National Photography Collection at the National Library of Israel
Baby Jesus Will Catch Your Big Toe
It appears that Jewish folklore recognized, adopted, and even preserved the older Christmas traditions long after they had faded from most of the world.
The German Reformation, the English Industrial Revolution, and American capitalism transformed Christmas into the holiday we know today, almost unrecognizable from what it once was, and almost all of the customs known today only go back to the last 200 years or so. Ironically, some of the only people who still observe these ancient holiday traditions belong to certain Ashkenazi Jewish communities, for whom the practices of their ancestors remain sacred. After all, as the old Jewish joke goes – what do Christians know about Christmas?
Book Review: “Come With Me to the Ritz” by Vasile Dubb
A collection of anecdotal short stories that contain an intellectual playfulness that keeps readers engaged.
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.
Another Trial: A Kafkaesque Love Triangle
Despite his romantic and tortured image, Franz Kafka’s attitude towards women had its darker aspects. Who would have guessed that the tangled romantic triangle between Kafka, his fiancée Felice Bauer and her good friend Grete Bloch would produce one of the greatest literary classics of all time?
Franz Kafka and Felice Bauer, 1917. Mondadori Portfolio, public domain, via Wikimedia Commons
Four years ago, a new trend took TikTok by storm, with young women developing an obsession with a desirable bachelor by the name of Franz (Amshel) Kafka. The #Kafka hashtag received over 140 million views, and female TikTokers filmed themselves reading selected passages from Letters to Milena, the collection of correspondence written by Kafka to his muse, Milena Jesenská. Praise was lavished on the iconic author for his good looks and poetic writing style, and his written expressions of love were soon setting the bar for young women on TikTok, who declared that they would settle for nothing less in their future partners.
But what the Kafka fangirls missed was that the writer’s relationships with women had less positive aspects as well. In today’s terms, one could even argue that he was a bit of a “douche” or a “gaslighter.” These tangled relationships did not lead to a happy marriage or to a settled family life, but they did result in one of humanity’s greatest literary classics.
But the story I’m about to tell isn’t just juicy gossip concerning this tortured author. Who knew that the hurt feelings of a single man would lead to the creation of one of the greatest novels of the 20th century, one which ostensibly has nothing to do with romantic relationships?
By Merav Salomon, from the “Kafka: Metamorphosis of an Author” exhibition at the National Library of Israel
Kafka met Felice Bauer at the home of his good friend Max Brod in 1912 and was immediately impressed by her as a talented businesswoman and even a Zionist – a trait he found endearing, to his surprise. Bauer was an independent and modern woman by the standards of the time, the daughter of a German Jewish family who worked as a clerk in Berlin. He wrote to her five weeks after their first meeting and presented himself as the man who had been seated across from her at a table in Brod’s apartment and who had handed her a series of photographs to examine:
“and who finally, with the very hand now striking the keys, held your hand, the one which confirmed a promise to accompany him next year to Palestine”
(From a letter by Kafka to Felice Bauer, appearing in Kafka’s Other Trial by Elias Canetti)
Kafka was a man who fell in love via the written word, and indeed, his relationship with Felice was characterized by intense, powerful writing – more than 700 pages spread over the course of 500 letters.
They corresponded for years, yet only the letters that reached her have survived to this day. Even his marriage proposal was put in writing, included as a mere side issue in a letter that mainly discussed his manuscript of The Stoker. But as was his wont – the moment Felice said “yes,” Kafka began to panic at the very thought of settling down with a woman. In the following letters, he presented legal arguments that essentially attacked himself, artfully edited and arranged in a manner that clearly disclosed his own professional experience as a lawyer. He explained why she should reconsider marrying him – due to his own great concern for her:
“Haven’t I for months now been squirming before you like something poisonous? Am I not here one moment, there the next? Are you not beginning to feel sick at the sight of me? Can you not see by now that if disaster – yours, your disaster, Felice – is to be averted, I have to remain locked up within myself?”
(From a letter by Kafka to Felice Bauer, appearing in Kafka’s Other Trial by Elias Canetti)
Felice used the only weapon at her disposal in response – silence. She ceased responding to his letters, and if she did reply – she did so with a succinctness which tortured him. After months of sparse communication, Kafka told her that he had fled to Vienna. There, he participated in the Zionist Congress taking place at the time, but due to his bitter mood, his impression of the event was entirely negative.
Felice continued her stubborn silence, but since she heard nothing from Kafka, she sent her good friend Grete Bloch and asked her to mediate between them. Had she known the consequences of putting her friend in Kafka’s sights, she probably would have done anything to reverse that decision.
Franz Kafka’s calling card
Very little is known of Grete Bloch. Like Felice, she was also Jewish, a businesswoman and a practical type. Kafka’s quotes of her letters imply that her writing was efficient rather than literary, though she also tended to open up emotionally and share her experiences and inner world freely with the author.
The two often corresponded regarding Felice, discussing her deficiencies – such as dental treatments which left her with mostly golden teeth. Despite this occupation with Felice’s less attractive sides, Kafka finally returned and asked Felice once again to marry him, as a result of his correspondence with Bloch.
Yet despite the renewed engagement between Kafka and Felice, he continued to correspond with her good friend, sharing his continued fears regarding his upcoming marriage to Felice.
“Our relationship, which for me at least holds delightful and altogether indispensable possibilities, is in no way changed by my engagement or my marriage”
(From a letter by Kafka to Grete Bloch, appearing in Kafka’s Other Trial by Elias Canetti)
Although we know little about Bloch, we do know one thing for certain – she was a good and faithful friend to Felice. Bloch therefore took care to inform Felice that her fiancé was again becoming fickle and getting cold feet regarding their engagement. She also let Felice know that Kafka was corresponding with her (Grete) with the same passion and emotional warmth he’d expressed when writing to his betrothed.
One of Kafka’s own drawings, appearing in what’s known as the “The Black Notebook”, the National Library of Israel
The High Court of Love
This strange love triangle reached a crescendo in a particularly charged meeting that included all three parties. Kafka was invited to a hotel in Berlin, and there in the lobby, he was put on trial for his duplicitous behavior with Bloch and Bauer. The prosecution was represented by Felice and her sister Erna, while Kafka was defended by his good friend, writer Ernst Weiss, who never liked Felice. Grete Bloch served as the judge, while also bringing forth his letters and marking all his dismissive statements towards Felice in red.
Kafka did not even try to defend himself on this occasion, and it is no wonder that this improvised trial terminated the engagement.
“He felt attacked,” said Stefan Litt, curator of the Humanities Collection at the National Library of Israel, “he felt that he was being unjustly tried, and that he was being accused without even understanding the charge.”
The sense of persecution and the “romantic trial” – in which Kafka’s loves served as accusers, judges, and executors – greatly influenced Kafka. As part of his effort to process and respond to what happened, he began to write one of the most important works in the western canon – The Trial.
A letter by Kafka to Grete Bloch, Felice Bauer’s friend, the National Library of Israel
All’s Fair in Love and War
The Trial tells the story of Josef K., a senior bank clerk who is accused one fine day of a crime he did not commit. Except that the investigators don’t investigate him, and the judges and surrounding officials aren’t even willing to tell him what he’s being charged with, instead making his life miserable with a row of damning accusations, charges, and legal proceedings. Josef feels powerless to halt the wheels of justice which are slowly but thoroughly grinding both him and – justice itself – into dust.
Alongside the many deep readings of Kafka’s story, which was previously thought to be primarily an indictment of modern bureaucracy, there is also the interpretation which establishes it as the way he experienced the “court” formed by the two women in his life, who put him “on trial” when they chose to support each other against him.
In real life, despite the traumatic encounter which led to the writing of the book, Kafka and Felice Bauer continued to correspond and even became engaged again after the dust had settled. Kafka intended to marry her – until he learned he was sick with tuberculosis. This bitter news greatly affected him emotionally and he had difficulty imagining a future, so he called off the engagement, thus ending his relationship with Bauer.
Other women over the years had an influence on Kafka’s writing and work, the most famous of which were Milena Jesenská – a Czech journalist and intellectual who also translated Kafka’s works into Czech from their original German – and Dora Diamant. Diamant met Kafka towards the end of his life, when he was 40 and she was 25. Originally from a family of Ger Hasids, she was the only woman he lived with in his adult life and she was the one who cared for him during his final years.
The Court Adjourns
Most of Kafka’s relatives and the women in his life were murdered in the Holocaust. Felice Bauer was an exception, having immigrated to the United States before the war. Like the good businesswoman she was, she sold the letters Kafka sent her, which were then collected into a volume. Bauer ultimately married to another man, one who did not panic at the very thought of being in the presence of a woman, and ultimately passed away in the 1960s in the United States.
You must be asking yourselves: What about Grete Bloch? As already noted, we know very little about her and her fate aside from the fact she perished in the Holocaust. But there are unconfirmed rumors about her and Kafka continuing their relationship, even after he ended things with Felice Bauer. Bloch gave birth to a child, and never said anything about the identity of the father. Some tried to claim that Kafka may have been the father, but the child died at the age of five, and documentation of him has not survived.
For his part, Kafka married neither Bauer nor Bloch. It’s really no wonder that the Kafka-Bauer-Bloch love triangle did not result in any sort of stable or normal relationship, and instead brought The Trial into the world. Kafka’s story would likely not have seen the light of day were it not for the tension and difficulty he experienced when confronted by two friends, bound by a sense of sisterhood, who stood together against him in the moment of truth.
One of the many letters Kafka wrote to Bloch will be displayed in the “Kafka: Metamorphosis of an Author” exhibition, which will open on December 4, 2024 at the National Library of Israel. In the exhibition, rare items such as Kafka’s will, letters in his handwriting, and even draft pages of The Castle that were left out of the published book will be on display, as well as items which tell the complicated story of Kafka and the women in his life. The exhibition marks the 100th anniversary of Kafka’s passing.
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.”
