Part 1: The Missing Ushpizin

Candles are lit, table’s set. But will the guests arrive?

Stories traditionally have a beginning, a middle and an end. Stories about people, on the other hand, don’t always have an end — at least not one that’s yet been written. They’re a work in progress, as perhaps are all of our lives.

So begins our ending-less story, which gets started about six weeks before Rosh Hashanah 2009. My wife, Chana, had a brainstorm.

But before we get to her idea, let’s take a trip to the mall. You see, many malls across the United States are filled with Israeli-owned kiosks. Generally, the workers are secular Israelis who arrive on US shores following their army service for a term of anywhere from a few months to several years to earn money, often with the goal of traveling to exotic locations around the world. The most easily-recognized kiosks are those hawking Dead Sea cosmetics, which, for about half a month’s income, will exfoliate your epidermis, purge your pores, nourish your nails and resurrect your youthful vim and vigor.

My wife suggested that we try to get some of these temporarily-misplaced Sabras to join us in shul on Rosh Hashana. Our rabbi, Rabbi Shmuel Silber, was certain to love the idea! He’s warm and welcoming (he can’t get through an Israeli border checkpoint without thanking and hugging the soldiers), and would certainly make them feel at home in shul, regardless of their background. But first we figured we would need to get to know them, perhaps by inviting them for a Shabbos meal.

I joined a Project Inspire conference call, and asked if anyone had any suggestions. One of the participants answered that he lives in the Minneapolis area, and brings kugel to The Mall of America on Thursday nights. He ends up with Israelis at his Friday night Shabbos table each week. A light went off in my head — behold the power of kugel! My wife, an excellent cook, could certainly whip up a kugel or two which would go straight from their stomachs to their neshamas! Her challah is legendary, and I hoped and prayed that the combination would prove to be irresistible to our new friends.

Another point that Rabbi Yerachmiel Milstein made in the outreach conference call was the need to push yourself out of your personal comfort zone. Well, stalking mall estheticians is not exactly in my regular repertoire, but I decided to give it a shot. I arrived at the Towson Town Center mall, in a suburb of my native Baltimore, armed with the one thing I knew would open them up to conversation — my credit card. What better way to engage them than by letting them sell me something? I knew the price could be steep, but I figured that it would be very worth the cost.

I started by walking a reconnaissance mission on the upper floor, which overlooked the kiosks, giving me an idea at least where they were located. I saw two Dead Sea cosmetic kiosks, and headed toward one. Having no racist intentions, I was on a mission to speak to the Israelis, so I tried to avoid the African-American man who was working there, in favor of the apparently-Israeli woman.

That was my first of several miscalculations. He got to me first. As it turns out, not only is he not African-American, he’s an Ethiopian Israeli named Itzik, and today he’s one of my favorite people in the mall! As he demonstrated the magic elixir which opens my pores to new, unimagined levels of enchantment, we shmoozed, and I met the others at that station.

When we were done, I moved on to their other kiosk, and, although they too tried to sell me their wares, they had some pity on me when I showed them the bag of their products I had just purchased. There I met the manager, Shai, and I told him that if anyone ever wanted a Shabbat or Yom Tov meal, we would love to host them. He was more guarded than the others, and I estimated that he might prove to be a tough person with whom to develop a relationship (wrong assumption #2, and we’re just getting warmed up!).

Several days later, on Erev Shabbat, I returned, with Chana’s homemade challah rolls and kugel. Some of them recognized me, some had long ago forgotten my face among the hundreds of other patrons, and others were new to me, as they rotate between several local malls. I tried to remember the names — Itzik, Shai, Liron, Shiran, Adi, Dan, Salait, Zohar, Mikey (now there’s an authentic Israeli name!), and on and on. If buying products had opened the door, the fresh-baked goodies were a real home run. Even tough Shai melted: “aizeh chamudi (what a sweetie)!” he declared. I couldn’t yet call them my friends, but they were warming to me, and I again offered them a Shabbat meal if they were interested.

AI-generated image of Challahs baking

The following weeks saw similar visits, always with challah, usually with one type of kugel or another. I was joined on many of my visits by Chananiel, our Israeli friend, who practically lived with us. I found that on every visit I’d learn more Hebrew words. Because of Chananiel, I learned the phrase “ben me’ametz,” or adopted son. That’s how we introduced him to the Israelis, and he helped me communicate, given my less-than-fluent conversational Hebrew skills.

* * *

Bonds of friendship began to form, and each visit brought us closer. Though I continued to offer Shabbat meals, we had no takers. Unfortunately, Shabbat was the one day no one gets off, as it’s the busiest day of the week. “Come after work Friday night,” I offered, telling them that we’d wait up late to start our meal for them. Some seemed genuinely interested, and said they’d push Shai to bring them after work.

Each mall excursion also introduced me to new workers, and I quickly found out that there are other kiosks owned and operated by Israelis. There’s the aromatherapy bean bag kiosk, the electronic cigarette kiosk, the hair straightening kiosk, and, believe it or not, the NFL gear kiosk! We’re now up to bringing challah and kugel to eight groups!

The Shabbat visit didn’t happen. Shai explained that they eat as a group on Friday night, and that he didn’t want to break them up by allowing some of them coming to us. I was very pleased to hear that they regularly had some form of Shabbat dinner together, and especially gratified if Chana’s challahs were part of it! It wasn’t a given that the challah made it that long. Sometimes, they decided to dig in right then and there in the mall!

* * *

Rosh Hashanah was approaching, and the initial idea of getting them to shul with us was quickly fading. In truth, I felt that the connections we were forging (especially on those trips when Chana joined me, adding a whole different family dimension to the visits) were special all on their own. We were bonding with other Jews, and letting them know that wherever they went, there is family nearby.

On Erev Rosh Hashanah, friends and I returned, this time with baskets. Inside were pomegranates, candies, dates and — my favorite — my wife’s patent-pending, too-scrumptious-for-words, special-for-Yom-Tov chocolate chip challah. Being a graphic designer, I also made up an all-Hebrew Rosh Hashanah card specifically for them, with pictures of our family, a list of the traditional “simanim” and their explanations, and a map with directions to our home for anyone who wanted to join us.

The Rosh Hashanah Invitation

Shimrit, one of the more traditional workers, told me that she was taking off Rosh Hashanah, and asked me where there was a shul within walking distance of her apartment for davening. Again, since they were eating the Yom Tov meals together, I failed to convince her to join us. The area where they live is far from the observant community, but heavily Jewish, so I gave her directions to Chabad and our local outreach organization, Etz Chaim, both which were having minyanim within a few miles of them.

One time, we approached the bubbly Salait, who was in the middle of making a sale to a distinctly-Gentile-looking couple. She interrupted the transaction and greeted us warmly. “These are my Jewish friends,” she said of us, and then turned to them to ask: “Are you Jewish?” When they responded in the negative, she comforted them: “Don’t worry. Nobody’s perfect!”

For those who don’t know much about so-called secular Israelis, it’s incredible how attached many of them are to tradition. They may not practice on a regular basis, but they have a deep-seated emunah that should be the envy of all of us. So as Yom Kippur approached, I got a couple of requests. Adi told me that it was vitally important to her to do kaparot, and practically begged me to get her the text, and be her messenger to distribute her tzedaka. When I agreed, she and others handed me a sizable sum to be donated to a worthy cause. (I’m not sure what I would have done if she had asked me to bring a live chicken and a knife.)

On the Friday before Yom Kippur, Eyal asked if I would be able to get them a couple of machzorim. Yom Kippur is the only day of the year they all take off, and at least some of them would want to pray during the day. I quickly thought about how we could help, and realized that most of us have extra machzorim at home. I called Rabbi Silber to ask if he could make an announcement in shul to round up spare machzorim, but he wouldn’t hear of it. Instead, he instructed, I was to call Shabsi, owner of one of the local Judaic book stores, and he’d give us a good price on nice, new machzorim. They would be a gift from the shul to the Israelis in the mall. Sure enough, we cleaned out his stock of ArtScroll Hebrew machzorim, we made up a label for the inside stating that they are a gift from their friends at Congregation Toras Chaim, and we delivered them Erev Yom Kippur to all the kiosks.

* * *

By this time, I was determined to get at least some of our newfound friends to our home. Or, more accurately, to our temporary home – our sukkah. We are blessed with a large sukkah which can hold 30 or more people, which my son and I built from scratch. We have beautiful floor-to-schach posters of the arba minim, with dramatic pictures taken by Yitz Wolf in Israel. I was sure they would love it.

So, abandoning the tentativeness of some of my earlier invitations, I told them all that we were making a sukkah party just for them on Motza’ei Shabbat, which was the beginning of the second day for us. When I arrived on Friday, Erev Sukkot, I intentionally only brought challah with me. I was also armed with Hebrew invitations, depicting a man going through a maze. “Where’s the kugel?” the invitation asked. “This time the kugel is at our house! Join us in our sukkah for a party in honor of our Israeli friends.” The time was listed as 9:15-11 p.m., so they wouldn’t think they had to stay for hours and hours. That, ironically, proved to be my greatest misjudgment of all, as you will see.

The Sukkot Invitation

There was genuine excitement. It seemed like they really wanted to come.

By this point, perhaps they felt they owed us something, so whether they were coming because they wanted to sit in a sukkah, or whether the word “party” is more enticing than “Shabbos or Yom Tov meal” or whether they were just coming out of guilt, they were coming! I guesstimated that a crowd of 10-20 would show, and bought a variety of goodies accordingly.

We invited some friends and local religious Israelis for our meal, and to stay afterward, to make them feel more at home.

At the Motza’ei Shabbat/Yom Tov meal we ate, we sang, we cleared and we reset the tables for our own special Ushpizin – Sukkot visitors — our mall friends, who were due to arrive shortly. We brought out the cake and candy and, of course, the kugel. We waited until 9:30. And we waited until 10:30. Others dropped by, but not the guests of honor. Our Ushpizin were MIA.

Midnight approached, and we reluctantly and dejectedly cleared the tables.

Had we failed again?

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Stay tuned for parts 2 and 3 of this story, which, ironically, involve Chol Hamoed trips to the mall, and an Xmas dinner (don’t judge me!).

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The above was adapted from an article that first appeared in Baltimore’s Where What When magazine, in November 2009.