A Picture Book Author’s Unexpected Moment of Joy
I’ve heard it thousands of times from authors. I’ve said it countless of times myself: “Nothing pleases me more than receiving fan mail from my readers.” This past month I’ve discovered that there actually is something far more fulfilling. Truth be told, I found it out twenty-three years ago but then I thought it was a fluke. Now I know that it can happen any time, when least expected. Let me explain.
Twenty-two years ago I wrote “Keeping the Promise,” my first award-winning picture book (Kar-Ben Publishing). It tells the backstory of the tiny Torah scroll Israeli astronaut Ilan Ramon took up into outer space. It’s an emotional, real-life event that should never have happened: a Bar-Mitzvah ceremony secretly held in the Bergen Belsen Concentration Camp. The boy – Joachim Yosef – survived and became a Tel Aviv University professor and NASA scientist. The rabbi who owned the Sefer Torah – Simon Dasberg – trained the boy and gave the Torah to him before being murdered by the Nazis. When I watched the Torah float out of Ilan Ramon’s hand during a live press conference held in outer space, and when Yediot Ahronot revealed the backstory the following day, I knew I had to tell this story. Writing it meant tracking down the rabbi’s descendants and finding out more about his personality. I engaged in a journey that first led me to his traumatized son living in Ashdod, who connected me to his oldest sister on Kibbutz Ein HaNatziv, who spoke about their father, sent me a photo, and gave me book titles to read.
One year after the book appeared in America, its Hebrew version – לקיים הבטחה – was published by the Israeli publishing house Sifriat Poalim. The late Mira Meir, then doyenne of children’s literature in Israel, summoned me to her office for a celebration and read the warm reviews. I left feeling fulfilled, never expecting what would come next.
Shortly thereafter, a weekly Friday afternoon scenario began, lasting for a solid half year. Exactly a half-hour before candle lighting, our home phone would ring. On the other end was a different member of the Dasberg family, which despite the Nazis’ determination of extermination, by then had evolved into quite a clan.
“We never knew about this Torah scroll!”
“Our family is overjoyed with this book.”
“What a story! You’ve warmed our hearts.”
It was the final call that made the largest impact. It came from the wife of Rabbi Dasberg’s traumatized son. “My husband wants you to know that he bought your book,” she began. “Thank you for giving our family this precious gift.”
Every time I tell this story, my eyes fill with tears. As an author, it was an indescribable moment. Knowing that in this clan my book would always have a special place was that Aha! moment of understanding that it would always live on.
I thought: “Savor this moment. It won’t happen again.” Little did I suspect that two decades later it would. Over a month ago, my latest book, “The Henna Helper” (Apples and Honey Press), came out. It tells the story of a little Yemenite-Israeli girl named Gali who is excited about being a flower girl at her cousin Yael’s wedding. Her savta (grandmother) is the best seamstress in the neighborhood and is going to make her a flower girl dress. To Gali’s chagrin, savta is more involved in making all the clothing for what Gali considers “an old-fashioned,” pre-wedding Henna ceremony. A wise savta gets Gali involved in the preparations, and Gali discovers how important it is to keep true to tradition.
The story is the fruit of my imagination. Yes, I have attended many Henna ceremonies. Yes, I had the story outline in mind. Still, I knew that research of a different type was required for this book. I had to track down a woman who orchestrated Henna ceremonies in order to ensure that all details were exact. After searching and speaking to numerous candidates I found the perfect person, a woman named Tzalah Zoranu who grew up helping her grandmother and eventually took over the “business.”
Tzalah’s time, patience, and constant attention to detail were invaluable. When the book came out, I mailed her a copy, called her and told her it was on its way. I hadn’t been in touch for quite a while. When Tzalah answered, she was in tears. Her grandmother had just died and the family was sitting shiva. The book was the last thing she wanted to talk about. Nonetheless, before the Shloshim (the 30th day commemoration after burial), I called again, this time to hear Tzalah say: “I was just about to call you. Last night, one of my cousins read your book out loud to the entire family (another clan). It brought us all to tears. It was as though we were reading a story about our grandmother, and I felt like I was a little girl, back in her house. Thank you for giving us this gift. Your book will stay with us forever.”
There it was again. That unexpected moment of author joy. For the second time, I had unwittingly gifted a heartfelt memento to a family experiencing the pain of loss. My book helped fill the void. It doesn’t get better than that.
