What Would My Father Say?

In the years after the war, my father became one of the wisest men I have ever known.

Whenever someone asked for his opinion—whether on political, personal, or religious matters—he would offer brief, precise answers.

“Nussi, vus meinste, wird man schicken die 6. Flotte?”
This question takes me back to the days before the Six-Day War.

We were at our stibl on Grünangergasse on a Shabbat morning.
The men stood in the narrow entryway, ready to head home—yet no one moved.
Israel was in danger, threatened from all sides. This small group of survivors clung to one another, searching for a way to protect their beloved homeland.

As I held a paper plate, still enjoying my potato kugel, I watched the grown-ups. They were desperate to find a solution to the looming danger.
Though my Yiddish comprehension was imperfect, I understood the emotion in the room. These men—Jews who had survived so much—were once again afraid of losing their home, this time in Israel.

That moment left a deep impression on me. I could feel my parents’ Angst in every word, every gesture.

Fast forward to June 12, 2025—when Israel launched a preemptive strike on Iran.
In my mind, I could see my father again, standing in that same entry hall, deep in thought, surrounded by his friends.
All of them are gone now—but I still hear their voices.

“Noo, Nussi,” I hear him say. “Vus meinste? Will Trump come with the bombers? Ich mein ja.”

And the others would nod.
“He’s not Roosevelt,” someone would mutter, “who didn’t lift a finger when the Nazis came.”
They’d murmur in agreement—then shift seamlessly into discussing the upcoming soccer match: Austria Wien versus Rapid.
Austria Wien, the purple team, was considered the “Jewish” team. Rapid—the green team—represented the antisemits.

And so it went every Shabbat. After the parasha was read and discussed at the kiddush table, they would gather in that creaky hallway, solve the world’s problems, and make sure that by the time they walked home, a look of contentment had returned to their faces.
They knew their wives had prepared a lovely Shabbat lunch—and no woman wanted to receive a husband still burdened by the world’s troubles.

I cherished those intimate moments—the squeak of the wooden floor, the mingling aromas of kugel, tscholnt, herring, and dark tea.
Those smells and sounds became the essence of Shabbes to me.
They infused me with a deep love for Yiddishkeit, a warmth that has stayed with me always.