Opa: Reflections

I was filled with great sadness, mixed with sweet memories and deep love, following news of the death of Dr. Rabbi Moshe Sachs – Opa.

I feel tremendously blessed to have spent two years living in Opa's home, and to have become an honorary member of his extraordinary family.

The day after he died, I spoke with Opa’s grandson, my dear friend Mishael Zion. The conversation quickly turned to this question: What did Opa mean to me? I told Mish that Opa had opened up worlds for me.

The first world Opa opened up for me was his own family. When I moved to Israel for my year as a Dorot Fellow, in July 2001, I arrived in a country where I had no family connections. I found myself, along with my friend Cynthia Weinger, living in the home of an 80-year-old Conservative rabbi who had made aliyah three decades earlier. Over the course of that year, I spent most of my Friday mornings with Moshe, walking with him to run errands on Emek Refaim – we would stand in line at the bank; buy fruits and vegetables in the little fruit market; pick up key household staples (including cruv adom and rice cakes) in the makholet; and we would buy a bottle of wine – a Tishbi special reserve Merlot, which he knew Marcelle loves – for Opa to bring to the Zion home, where he would usually spend Shabbat.

Moshe and I developed a close relationship, and I soon found that I did have a family in Israel. My connection with Moshe opened up loving and caring relationships with Noam, Marcelle, and all five of their amazing children, Tanya, Mish, Heftzi, Eden, and Yedidya. And, over time, it has extended further, to Elana and Ehud and Yonatan, and to Zohar and Lia and Shai.

Three weeks ago, while my wife Claire and I were on our (belated) honeymoon in Paris, we pre-paid for a Shabbat dinner at a kosher restaurant and found ourselves sharing our meal with the other American couple who were dining there. After about an hour of pleasant conversation in which we introduced ourselves and told a bit about our backgrounds, I began telling our new friends about my experiences studying at Pardes, attending Shira Chadasha for davenning, etc. The husband of the couple said, “I just have to ask one more Jewish geography question: Do you happen to know my brother-in-law, Noam Zion?” I said, “I lived in Opa’s house for two years!” He replied, “Well, I lived there for a year when it was still Opa and Oma’s house!” Our cordial and friendly dinner discussion instantly was transformed into a reunion of long-lost cousins, as we took turns comparing our memories of the layout of the apartment, of Opa’s dining habits, and of the stacks upon stacks upon shelves upon shelves of books, everywhere.

Opa opened up for me the world of an elderly person. My own grandparents had all died during my childhood, teen years, and early twenties, and I had spent very little time in my young adulthood around anyone older than sixty. Spending time with Opa meant experiencing life at a very different pace than the one with which I was familiar and comfortable. It meant slowing down. I found myself amused by the fact that, walking alone, it might take me a total of three minutes to walk from The Coffee Mill on Emek Refaim back to Hamelitz 6/1. When walking with Opa, the same walk might take half an hour – fifteen minutes for the walk itself, and fifteen minutes for chats with people who would stop and say hello to him, or for kibitzing with shopkeepers along the way.

Because he had at that point already lived for over 80 years, Opa had a scope of experience that was beyond my own comprehension, and he was always generous in sharing his stories, transporting me to a different era, to the different worlds that he had experienced throughout the 20th Century. Though he was always humble about his own contributions, Opa was also proud to have been an active witness to efforts to save European Jewry during the Holocaust, to the creation of the Jewish State, to the rescue of Soviet Jewry, and to the building of modern Israel. I sensed Opa’s gratitude for having been able to live during these times and for having participated in his own way in shaping Jewish history.

Finally, Opa opened up for me a world of comfort.

A year after I arrived in Yerushalayim, my world was torn apart when my girlfriend Marla Bennett was killed in the terrorist bombing at Café Sinatra at Hebrew University. Marla and I had met and fallen in love during the previous year, and we had spent many hours with Opa (and the rest of the Zion family). That summer, I had been working as a madrich with a group of Israeli and American teens on the Nesiya summer program. On the day Marla was killed, as my horror mixed with shock and anguish, I returned to Jerusalem and stayed at Hamelitz 6/1, which quickly became the gathering point for my friends to come sit with me, cry with me, and comfort me. Throughout the previous year, we had gathered in the living room at Opa’s house to watch television reports of horrific news – the Sbarro bombing, the 9/11 attacks, bus bombings, and on and on. We were able to absorb and face what was happening around us and in the world in part, I think, because of the calm and comfort we felt in that place filled with books and pictures and quiet joy and appreciation for life. Suddenly, in the summer of 2002, I was at the center of the storm, and Opa’s home was, more than ever, a refuge and a gathering place.

Over the next twelve months, I grieved intensely. I spent hours in Opa’s home crying, staring at the ceiling, and wondering at the awful tear in the fabric of my existence. Opa’s presence was a soothing one for me. My experience had demonstrated that in a split second the world could be turned upside down, that a woman with seemingly unlimited potential and the promise of decades of life and love and joy ahead of her could be obliterated in the blink of an eye. In contrast, Opa was a steady, quiet reminder that the world is also inhabited by good people who live long and productive lives, that this is still a world where a man can live to grow old with his beloved spouse, to see his children succeed and prosper, to watch and experience beautiful children growing from birth through b’nei mitzvah to the chuppah, and to hold great-grandchildren in his arms. Opa was an unmistakable reminder, when everything had gone wrong, that the world could still be all right.

Last October, I had the incredibly joyful honor of marrying Claire Sufrin. I had told Opa all about Claire, and whenever I visited him in Israel the past couple of years he would ask me about her research on Martin Buber (a philosopher with whom, long ago, Opa had corresponded). Three months after our wedding, my father died. This year has been a vivid reminder to me of the ways in which joy and pain are intertwined inextricably in life. When we open ourselves to the blessings of life and love, we open ourselves to both joy and pain. Opa understood this, and he lived and taught it well.

I was blessed to have known Opa, and I am blessed to have been part of his life. At a Shabbat dinner at the Zion family home during my first year in Israel, I watched as Moshe and Noam and Marcelle got up from the table to bless their children. Opa blessed Noam and Marcelle, and then they blessed the Zion children who were home that evening. This custom was new to me, as it was not one that my own parents had practiced when I was growing up. Opa turned to me and said, “Can I give you a blessing, Michael?” Choking back tears, I said, “Yes,” and Opa drew me close, put his hands on my head, and recited the traditional blessing. He then kissed my forehead. It was the first time in my life that I had ever received that blessing, and in that moment I felt that I had become part of his family.

So, now, as I say goodbye to the departing neshama of my friend, my roommate, and my teacher, Dr. Rabbi Moshe Sachs, I imagine placing my own hands onto his forehead and returning to him the sweet blessing that he gave to me:

Y’sim’cha Elohim k’efrayim v’chimnasheh
May God make you like Ephraim and Menasheh.

Y’varech’cha Adonai v’yishm’recha
May Adonai bless you and watch over you.

Ya’eir Adonai panav eilecha vichuneka
May Adonai shine His face toward you and show you favor.

Yisa Adonai panav eilecha v’yaseim l’cha shalom.
May Adonai turn His face toward you and grant you peace.


Opa, may your memory always be for a blessing.