Sisters

My sister is arriving on a visit to New Jersey next week. I suppose that the word “visit” is correct, although she was actually born and bred here in the Garden State, in the great city known as Newark, in that remarkable portion of that great city known as Weequahic. So, she’s not a touristy type of visitor at all.

You might call her a homecomer. Or perhaps a returnee.

In general, my sister is one of my very best friends, but there is one thing I absolutely loathe about her! Her weight! All the unneeded but stick-to-the-body calories have landed on me, and even though she eats ice cream every single day, she stays lithe and limber, while I am the queen of stretch pants. It’s really unforgivable. I haven’t forgiven her.

More about her: She has always loved to travel, near or far or even farther. I remember well the trip she took with her friend Sherry when they were both 18, and I, three years older, was already married. They hit hot spots in Europe and then, neither one of them ever previously showing any Zionistic leanings, they flew into Tel Aviv — TLV, which isn’t really in Tel Aviv of course, and was then known as Lod, which is where it really is. Something transformational happened to my sister at that eureka moment. She fell in love with a place that had long been a vicarious part of our family story, and she elevated it quite a few notches.

Up until then only the concept of Israel was in our lives, since we lived in what I always called Hadassah House. But none of our feet had been on the sacred ground. All four of the moms there at 83 Aldine Street — one being our own, two others being biological aunts, and the fourth being the italicized aunt, Rose, since she was so much a part of our lives — labored with fierce dedication to concepts like Youth Aliyah and HMO, Hadassah Medical Organization. Hadassah, particularly Newark’s own Henrietta Szold chapter, became one of our family‘s major foundational pillars. Projects to earn critical funding for that faraway place became integral to us every day of our lives.

But Mom and Dad did not actually consummate the aforementioned Youth Aliyah. They were true believers, and finally, in old age, they did pack it all up and move to Israel, living their retirement years in Herzliya in the Holiest Land. This was certainly a testament to the lifetime commitment of the preceding years, and a tribute to Hadassah. They also were in pursuit of their progeny, their daughter and her children.

But I am ahead of myself! This is what happened.

My sister’s transformation from American to Israeli didn’t happen instantaneously. At the end of her trip with Sherry she returned to New Jersey, finished her B.A., became a social worker in a sad neighborhood of Manhattan, and seemed set to pursue her life with marriage and a split level in some New Jersey suburb.

Then, in 1967, something dramatic happened. The Six Day War erupted, and Israel became indomitable Israel, heroic Israel, glorious Israel, unbeatable Israel, and inspirational Israel. Which Weequahic natives would want to live out their lives in such a place? Quite a few, it seems, with my sister Janet quickly leaving her former life behind and taking a one-way trip to Lod. Unprepared? Yes! But also eager, committed, and determined

Let me tell you a bit about her. She is brilliant, scholarly, and beautiful, and she will reject those adjectives with her usual modesty. But let me further tell you that they’re all true. She’s also very very nice. I’m the caustic sister. She’s not. So, if you meet her during her little sojourn amongst us in New Jersey, be prepared for a non-confrontational, friendly time. I told you, she’s not like me. You can even discuss politics with her without argument. She’s reasonable but opinionated, and every discussion doesn’t deteriorate into a debate, or more predictably an argument. Not at all. She’s not me!

She made her klita, adjustment, in Israel, ultimately marrying her bashert, a staunchly Zionistic former Romanian who came to TLV by way of Cyprus, where he was detained for a long enough time to have learned fluent Yiddish, the lingua franca of those many displaced persons forced to make long detours there. His name became Zeev Goren, a name he proudly adopted on arrival in Israel. From that day forward, in Tel Aviv and Herzliya, he refused, in principle, to speak Yiddish. Hebrew was now his language, and while Yiddish had served him well in the DP camp, it was not to be his chosen tongue. However, there were two exceptions to this dictum. Out of derech eretz he spoke to my parents, his in-laws, in Yiddish, their only common means of conversation. He was a mensch.

I have rarely, if ever, seen a marital relationship of such respect and tenderness. In the twilight of their time together, the two of them, Janet and Zeev, could be seen walking hand in hand through the hills of Herzliya. They parented two amazing children, Tali and Ilan, and there are now five grandchildren. From the mountains of Romania to the distant streets of Weequahic, love bloomed, and two sabra children and five sabra grandchildren are the dividend. There will be more in the generations to come. Certainly! But who would have foreseen that this couple, and others with similarly fantastic stories, would have ever met?

This is the ingathering of exiles, known as kibbutz galuyot, promised by Moses, which remains a holy concept in the land of Israel, a beautiful blending of lives and cultures until this day.

It was Zeev, with his dry sense of humor, who took my husband and me and our 7-year-old daughter Amy on our first intensive tour of Israel. We were eager to see everything, full of questions. One question that we asked repeatedly pertained to names of towns, streets, and places. Who was this person, this Weizmann, this Bograshov, this Bialik, this Dizengoff, this Ruppin, this Sokolov? Zeev offered the same response to each question and each answer was unabashedly correct. Early Zionists, he would teach us. Always true.

Zeev served repeatedly in the IDF through the years, but long life and old age were not to be his reward. He died prematurely, leaving my sister to navigate life alone. He is buried near our parents in the Herzliya Cemetery.

My sister, however, is strong and resilient. She retired a few years ago from a career as a high school English teacher. Her students successfully learned to speak English. She continues to work as an online tutor, teaching on zoom and always completely booked. She also often bumps into her former students. When I am witness to how they greet her, I know that I am in the company of a master teacher. She is beloved, invited to their smachot, and never forgotten. And just as they adore her, she is invested in their lives, keeping in touch and remembering their stories.

When you wander around New Jersey in the next few weeks, if you see us, we will undoubtedly be accompanied by my sister Janet Goren. She’ll be the skinny one!

Rosanne Skopp of West Orange is a wife, mother of four, grandmother of 14, and great-grandmother of eight. She is a graduate of Rutgers University and a dual citizen of the United States and Israel. She is a lifelong blogger, writing blogs before anyone knew what a blog was! She welcomes email at rosanne.skopp@gmail.com

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