When Sidney and I married in 1965, we decided that if we would have children, we would like to bring them up within the Jewish traditions and religion. We were married in the Liberal Synagogue of Amsterdam. I used to go there every Friday night for Shabbat services. After I met Sidney, we went together. Sidney had come to Amsterdam from the United States to study medicine, but he had not gone to services in Amsterdam before we met. He thought that not speaking Dutch would make it too difficult for him. That was less of a problem after we met because I never spoke English with him, so he became accustomed to Dutch. I thought that if you study abroad, you have to learn the language.
We knew that after Sidney finished his studies, we would go to America. But we had no idea what kind of life we would have there. There was still a draft in the United States, and the war in Vietnam was escalating at the time. When Sidney started his residency in New York, he was drafted but deferred his service until after finishing his specialty training. Our first army assignment was in 1973 in Italy. We arrived with our three daughters.
We decided that only Judith, who was six years old, should start Hebrew school. In the beginning, I had no idea who to turn to for help, but I did ask many people. Classes were in Italian at the synagogue in Livorno, and since Judith went to the American school, that would not work out. I received a call from the base chaplain, who told me that he knew somebody who could help. He asked her to give me a call. That is how I met Violet Sibony, whose husband was a civilian engineer working for the Army Corps of Engineers and stationed at Camp Darby, as we were. Violet and her husband were Moroccan Jews.
Violet’s daughter was Judith’s age. Violet introduced us to Dora, a Jewish refugee from Benghazi, Libya, who spoke some English. Dora was willing to teach our daughters together. Violet and I took turns driving our daughters once a week to “Hebrew school.” We dropped the girls off and went to a café for coffee. Then we walked around in Livorno until it was time to pick up the girls. Dora taught them Hebrew, all about the holidays, and also cooking. Couscous with different fruits was the girls’ favorite.
We were back in the United States by the time our daughter Naomi would go to Hebrew school. We were stationed in Massachusetts and were welcomed by the synagogue in the next town, Leominster. There was even a class for our youngest daughter, Jordana. But a year later, we were again stationed in Europe—this time at the Supreme Headquarters Allied Powers Europe (SHAPE) in Mons, Belgium. Mons is in the heart of Wallon, the French-speaking part of Belgium.
We had a small international Jewish congregation at the base, but again no Hebrew school for the children. The base chaplain offered to help with this. He contacted me a few months later and told me that he had found a rabbi in Antwerp in the Flemish part of Belgium who would be willing to travel once a week for lessons. He would teach the girls in Dutch. The military would pay for it all. We were thrilled.
All I would have to do was pick up the rabbi from the train station, take him to the chapel where the lessons would be given, and then drive him back to the train. The train ride for the rabbi was about an hour and a half. The first time I picked up the rabbi, he told me he had just eaten his lunch on the train. I had already guessed that—because the herring smell was overwhelming. All I could do was say a silent prayer for the smell to go away before he met our daughters. At the end of the lessons, I picked up the rabbi and the girls to go back to the train station. The girls opened the car windows but did not say anything. As soon as the rabbi was out of the car, they started talking, saying they did not want to sit in the fish smell during their lessons. I kept reassuring them that it was only this time and that next time would be better.
The next time the fish smell was worse. It seemed to come out of the rabbi’s pores. Even in the winter, we would drive with the windows open. It became more and more difficult to get the girls to their lessons—they came up with all kinds of excuses. After about six months, I had to tell the chaplain that this arrangement was not working out.
We were lucky that our Friday night services were led by Morris, the SHAPE historian, who had gone to cantorial school in Baltimore. The girls loved him, and he offered to teach them. He came once a week for dinner and taught the girls and prepared them for their bat mitzvahs. Judith had hers in 1980, and Naomi and Jordana had theirs together in 1983.
A tablecloth once belonging to the grandmother of Louise Lawrence-Israëls. Courtesy of Louise Lawrence-Israëls
These were small, intimate celebrations on a Friday night—first with the small congregation and after that with all my family from Holland and Sidney’s mom and sister from the United States. The Saturday morning after each bat mitzvah, we had a family brunch. The best croissants in the world came from a bakery in Lille, France. I went there and bought four dozen; I froze them when I got home. Sidney’s mom brought four pounds of Nova smoked salmon, thinly sliced, from the United States. We had cream cheese and butter and different kinds of bread and fruit salad. All 24 family members sat at my grandmother’s table with her two tablecloths, all of which were part of her trousseau in 1907. My sister now has the small tablecloth and I have the big one. When we have large gatherings, we bring the tablecloths.
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