Atlantis
The lost city of Atlantis has long been a symbol of a forgotten world, a once-vibrant civilization now submerged beneath the waves of time. For many of us, our heritage can feel much the same—distant, almost mythical, yet leaving behind shards that occasionally resurface, reminding us of the vibrant cultures from which we descend. My own journey into this Atlantis began in a Jerusalem supermarket.
It started with a simple request for a particular alcohol from a Jerusalem distillery. The manager of the alcohol department, with his distinguished appearance and a beard that bespoke tradition, agreed to stock it. His accent initially suggested British origins, but one day, a subtle shift hinted at something different. My curiosity piqued, I switched to Russian, and he revealed his roots—he was from Liepaja, or Liebau as it was once known.
My grandmother was born in New Jersey, but her mother had journeyed from this distant shore, bringing with her the traditions and language of her people. It was there, in New Jersey, that my grandmother’s second cousin, Moshe Avigdor Pearlstein, was also born.
But Moshe’s legacy was far more profound. As a member of the Lamed-Hei, a group of 35 Haganah soldiers who perished in an attempt to resupply the besieged Gush Etzion bloc during the 1948 Arab-Israeli War, Moshe exemplified heroism and sacrifice. His story was one of courage and devotion, a narrative of a man who gave his life for the land that now sustains his memory.
Born eighteen years after the death of Moshe Avigdor Pearlstein, I feel a profound connection to my distant cousin. We are both descendants of Rabbi Yisrael Avigdor Altshul, born in 1789. I proudly share the name Avigdor with my great, great, great grandfather and with my heroic cousin, who is now buried in Mount Herzl among other war heroes. I feel that part of my mission of Achdut is to continue where my cousin’s mission was tragically cut short-to dedicate my life to making Israel a better country for all of its residents.
The manager from Liepaja, too, had his own story of survival. His family, having served in the Russian army during World War II, managed to survive the Nazi onslaught. He grew up in Liepaja, speaking a Yiddish so strikingly similar to German that it formed an unexpected bridge between us.
One day, I noticed a shift in his accent and, curious, I switched to Russian. His response revealed a life that, like Atlantis, seemed submerged beneath the waves of history. He spoke of Latvia and his childhood in Liepaja as if recalling a distant dream, with his primary language being Yiddish. It was a tongue I knew only in fragments, taught to me by my grandmother, but it became a bridge to a shared past.
Our conversations evolved, shifting from English to the Yiddish that was his mother tongue. In this man, younger than I, I found a living relic of that lost world, a man whose life was a testament to the resilience of culture and the enduring nature of heritage. As we spoke, he confided that he often shared stories of his past with his children, describing it as his own Atlantis—real, yet unreachable, a world submerged by the tides of time.
Yet, here we were, two men brought together by the echoes of a language and the shared fragments of a forgotten world. Our friendship blossomed over time, a testament to the power of reaching out, of smiling, and of engaging with the world around us. This simple gesture led to a connection that transcended generations and geography, reminding me that the shards of Atlantis are all around us, waiting to be discovered.
I bought a bottle of wine from him for the upcoming holiday of Sukkot, a celebration of unity and gratitude, feeling grateful for the friendships formed in the most unexpected of places. It’s a reminder that our shared histories and the spirit of achdut can bring us closer, transforming chance encounters into lasting bonds.
In this way, the Atlantis of our past is not truly lost; it lives on in our stories, our traditions, and the connections we forge, bringing us ever closer to the unity we seek.