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In an unusual alliance, Jewish media and striking journalists are uniting to cover the Pittsburgh synagogue shooting trial
PITTSBURGH (JTA) — How many times should an alleged synagogue shooter’s name be mentioned in a news story about his trial, now beginning after more than four years?
For the Pittsburgh Union Press last month, the answer was seven. For the Pittsburgh Jewish Chronicle, it was an uneasy five, in a departure from its usual answer of zero — a number chosen out of deference to a community devastated by the shooting.
The slight difference was the only discrepancy between one set of stories published by the two news organizations covering the trial of Robert Bowers, accused of murdering 11 Jews in their synagogue here in 2018.
The anomaly offers a window into an unusual partnership between the two publications — the city’s Jewish paper and the news site established by striking staffers for the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette — born in February when it became clear that the trial would last months.
Pittsburgh Jewish Chronicle editor Toby Tabachnick was dreading the trial coverage, with a staff of just three on the editorial side: herself and two reporters, David Rullo and Adam Reinherz.
“I started getting really nervous. Like, how are we going to do this?” Tabachnick said on the eve of the trial, speaking at the federal courthouse where jury selection would soon begin. “Our regular reporters could have been here. But it would have been extremely taxing, difficult and emotional for us, because we’re so ingrained in the community too.”
Plus, she added, “In addition to this trial, which is going to be every day for three months, we’re covering the synagogues, events and the holidays, the lectures, we still have a regular community newspaper to put out.”
Tabachnick knew Andrew “Goldy” Goldstein, one of the Post-Gazette’s team that picked up a Pulitzer for their coverage of the massacre, from his time as a Pittsburgh Jewish Chronicle intern. She also knew he was on strike and wondered whether he could use the extra freelance opportunity.
Instead, Goldstein immediately offered up a better idea: Join with the Pittsburgh Union Progress, the strike paper, in a joint reporting project, organized in part through the Pittsburgh Media Partnership, an incubator for local journalism. (The Jewish Telegraphic Agency is raising funds for the coverage.)
Working together just made sense, Goldstein said. The Chronicle was deeply resourced and credible in the Jewish community, and the Progress had on board Torsten Ove, a local legend.
From left to right, Bob Batz of the Pittsburgh Union Progress, Toby Tabachnick of the Pittsburgh Jewish Chronicle and Andrew Goldstein of the Progress pose in the Joseph Weis Jr. Courthouse in Pittsburgh, April 21, 2023. (Ron Kampeas)
“We have the all-star federal courts reporter in Torsten and we have a lot of really great journalists who love Pittsburgh, love this community, and we’ll do our best to cover it,” Goldstein said, noting that the Chronicle would also have access to the Progress’s photographers. “But the Chronicle brings something different entirely to the table, which is, they’re so deeply sourced in the Pittsburgh Jewish community, and they have such an interest in this trial in particular.”
Newsroom collaborations have become more frequent in recent years as publications realize they can expand their impact and audience by working together. But while there are a growing number of relationships between local and national publications and between daily and investigative outlets, ties between mainstream newsrooms and community or ethnic media are less common.
S. Mitra Kalita, the founder and director of URL Media, a network of Black and Brown community news outlets that share content and revenue, said the value in such partnerships was not just in delivering relief as media staffs shrink, but also in sensitizing mainstream media to minority sensibilities.
“Talking about who [the ethnic media outlet is] serving and why we’re doing it this way — the spirit of real collaboration is a bit of that give and take,” she said. “We make mainstream media way better because it starts to infuse mainstream media with aspects of community and thus redefine the mainstream.”
The residual trauma of the massacre in the Pittsburgh collaboration made it all the more important for the mainstream reporters to be sensitive to the nuances that the Jewish media was bringing, she said.
“Especially a story like this one, which was such an attack on a community — a community that was singled out for their sheer existence, the strategy cannot be ‘let’s just work in parallel,” Kalita said. “It’s not going to work. It has to be kind of a cross-pollination and a real collaboration.”
That’s exactly what is happening, according to the reporters and editors involved in the project, with communication easy between each publication’s editor and expertise flowing in both directions.
Ove a denizen of the Joseph F. Weis Jr. Courthouse for so long that he can tell stories about a sizable stretch of the portraits of judges that line its corridor walls; he may be the only court reporter to seek an interview with a judge after his death, to ask him why he was haunting the place. (The judge never showed, but his widow was less than surprised to hear that he was still working.)
He led a passel of Chronicle and Progress staffers through the warren-like courthouse on the Friday before the trial, handily impressing them with his intimacy with the building — he knew the provenance of the paintings in each courtroom — and its staff. Soo Song, the assistant U.S. attorney who is leading the prosecution team, smiled and nodded as she passed.
Torsten Ove, left, of the Pittsburgh Union Progress and Adam Reinherz of the PIttsburgh Jewish Chronicle confer on the first day of jury selection for the Pittsburgh synagogue massacre trial, April 24, 2023. (Toby Tabachnick)
Ove showed the reporters how to access court records for free, and while they stood around him at one of the computer terminals, the teams’ different emphases emerged: Ove predicted that jury selection, which started last week and is expected to last as long as three weeks, would not be a news generator, because in his experience, it rarely has been.
Reinherz and Tabachnick, attuned to reporting on faith communities, were not so sure: Reinherz wondered whether believing Catholics, who reject the death penalty, would be eliminated, and Tabachnick wondered whether defense attorneys would seek to keep Jews off the jury — and how they would go about doing that.
Reinherz ended up covering the first day of jury selection. “Local and national reporters decided the Pittsburgh Jewish Chronicle should have one seat during the initial session of day one,” Reinherz explained in a story that appeared on both news sites. He noted that the first member of the public to enter the courtroom was Daniel Leger, one of two survivors of the attack.
Working together across platforms was odd, said Bob Batz Jr., the Progress’s interim editor, but he could get used to it.
“This is uncharted territory for someone like me, and I’ve been doing this for a long time, and we don’t, you know, we don’t collaborate,” he said.
“We compete!” Tabachnick interjected.
“What we’re doing is not common, and it’s not going to be easy,” Batz said. “Surely, we’re going to tick each other off about something or somebody is going to put the wrong word in or there’s a million things that can go wrong, but the breaking of ground where you’re actually working together, it just makes sense in so many ways on this story. We’re really trying to serve the community.”
Tabachnick said she saw added value in keeping journalists she admired in the limelight while they are on strike. Journalists at the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette went on strike back in October over wages and working conditions, in a crescendo of mounting tensions between the paper’s longtime owners and the staff that contributed to a newsroom exodus even in 2018, when the paper won a Pulitzer for its synagogue shooting coverage. The strike is now one of the longest in journalism history, and the staffers contributing to the Pittsburgh Union Progress are doing so despite earning well below than their regular salaries.
“I feel good about getting their names, their publication’s name out,” Tabachnick said.
Each story is running in essentially identical form on both publications’ websites, with a line crediting their collaboration. Tabachnick and Batz had a brief and friendly email exchange before each clicked “publish” on their story about debate among victims’ families about the appropriateness of the death penalty.
The Chronicle is minimizing appearances of the name of the accused killer, out of sensitivity to readers who may want to see their community members centered rather than their aggressor. Some researchers and law enforcement officials have also called on journalists not to print mass shooters’ names and photographs, citing evidence that doing so may contribute to their glorification and even copycat crimes.
Batz says he totally gets the Chronicle’s thinking, despite making a different choice in his newsroom.
“We’re still feeling our way, we’re still figuring this out,” Batz said. “They don’t name the defendant in their story, and they haven’t. And our guy Torsten who’s an all-star courts reporter, he’s going to use the guy’s name. And then in real time going back and forth on email and text we came up with his solution and that story was on both websites in minutes and it was really kind of cool.”
Tabachnick picked up the account of the previous night’s collaboration as if she’d been working across a desk from Batz for decades instead of online since February.
“The solution was that I realized that with the trial starting, it really didn’t make sense not to use his name at all anymore that we really needed to as a news organization,” she said. “But that didn’t mean we had to overuse his name. And I’m not saying Torsten overused his name. He used it as much as he needed to use it in terms of style, but I took out a few of them and replaced it with ‘the defendant’ and we were all happy.”
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In the history of a family’s pianos, a glimpse of a disappearing New York history
Not that long ago, many homes had pianos. Few do now, and a sad sight is a piano left out on the street. Two years ago we moved a Steinway into our home, and until recently, we had two grands in our living room, the Steinway and the Chickering, which I grew up with. There is also a mini Schoenhut, along with a full-size Casio keyboard upstairs.
The Chickering first resided at my grandparents’ apartment on Central Park West. Under it sat a Schroederesque Schoenhut grand. I would sit on the bench in front of the Schoenhut and tinkle the keys while my grandmother Anna played above. The Chickering, a five-foot, seven-inch quarter grand, came to my childhood home in Forest Hills after she died in 1966. There my brother David and I took lessons from our teacher Fred Kahn. Mr. Kahn was easily in his 70s, and a former student of the concert virtuoso Arthur Friedheim who had studied with Franz Liszt. He performed at Carnegie Hall when he was just eight, and later Steinway Hall had him play at their showroom across 57th St. as a way to attract customers. I fondly recall my lessons with him, especially his improvisations, how he effortlessly switched tempo and rhythm so a piece by Bach morphed into a country & western or klezmer tune.
I first heard my wife Lillie play on the Chickering. It was Beethoven’s Piano Sonata No. 10. Lillie studied at Queens College’s Aaron Copland School of Music when we lived in Kew Gardens, and we had her Sargent grand in our apartment. She also had a Baldwin spinet at her mom’s in Manhattan. We moved the Sargent to Lillie’s sister Yuri’s apartment when I had a fellowship at Northwestern in 1994. Then when my mom and dad sold the house the following year, Lillie and I had the Chickering hauled up a steep stoop in Park Slope. I remember it being so heavy that it cracked one of the brownstone risers, though the piano was thankfully not damaged. Even better, our landlord had been planning to restore the stoop, so we didn’t have to chip in for the chip.
Soon after, Lillie took a teacher-training program at the School for Strings in Manhattan to learn the Suzuki Method. In 2001, we moved to Glen Ridge, New Jersey, and in 2006 spent a summer in Chicago. One of the first things we did was buy the Casio. Early one morning we were awakened by the sound of Chopin coming from the front room. Lillie and I rushed out to find our four-year-old Emma at the keyboard. Alas, we quickly realized that she was not the reincarnation of Clara Schumann after whom her older sister was named. Instead she had somehow pressed the right series of keys, and it played the programed piece.
Back home, Emma had cello lessons in nearby Montclair, and while Lillie taught in our living room, Clara, Emma and I would drive to Manhattan where Clara would spend up to two hours with her piano teacher, Barbara Herman. During Clara’s lesson, Emma and I would roam the halls of the nearby Natural History Museum. We all would then go to Ottomanelli and have chicken pot pies and then ice cream next door at Emack & Bolio’s.
The Chickering filled our home with much music. Clara practiced on it, and Lillie would go over music with her. I enjoyed it when they played together, especially a duet from Schubert’s “Trout Quintet.”Lillie would also help Emma prepare for her cello recitals, and later went over pieces with her when she took up the clarinet and joined the high school marching band.
Since the early ‘90s, Lillie has been studying on the Upper West Side with her teacher Denise Kahn. She and Denise’s other students regularly gather at their various Manhattan apartments to perform their pieces for each other, and as Lillie practices at home she is always amazed that I can soundly nap on the couch just a few feet away during her most fortissimo playing.
The Steinway made it to our home from the country house of one of those pianist friends. In 2024, Lillie and I spent a cool spring afternoon at her place in Stockbridge, Mass. so Lillie could test out the piano; while there she Zoomed her piano technician back in New Jersey to ask questions. The Steinway is a rebuilt six-foot, model O from 1910. Until it arrived, it was on the Chickering that Lillie’s students had their lessons for the past two decades.
Four days a week, our home is filled with the sounds of a wide variety of pieces, from “Frog on Logs” to sonatinas by Friedrich Kuhlau, rags by Scott Joplin, even the “Linus and Lucy” Peanuts tune by Vince Guaraldi. Some of the younger ones can’t sit still, but it is always satisfying to see those who stick with it and then one day start to see their lesson as more than a chore imposed on them by their parents, and come to love playing music. Each June, they all perform in a recital at the Congregational Church up the street.
Hundreds of piano makers once thrived in New York and Boston. Chickering started in Boston in 1823, became one of the nation’s finest manufacturers, and had a hall on 57th St. that rivaled Steinway’s just a block to the west. The firm moved to East Rochester, NY in 1927 and stopped producing instruments in 1983. Sadly, most American piano makers are now gone. On bulk days in our town, we have seen a few pianos sitting on the curb, and Lillie has alerted others of their presence in the hope that someone would rescue them.
Two years ago, I was out for a walk. Along the curb sat a diminutive Schoenhut upright. I have no idea what happened to my grandmother’s Schoenhut grand, and happily hoisted and adopted this homeless one. Not surprisingly, Lillie’s students have embraced the mini-me piano, and during their lessons, some of the younger ones like to hop over and play on it, with the instrument offering up its chime-like, glockenspiel sounding versions of their pieces while Lillie accompanies them on the piano.
We only need one main piano, though, and the last thing we were going to do was toss out the Chickering. I do realize that the piano is but an object, one fashioned from mahogany, rosewood, ebony, ivory, metal wires, and felt. But the Chickering had a real presence and voice in our home, one that brought joy. Quite simply, it was part of our family. I am therefore not surprised that I got teary eyed as we said goodbye to it on June 15. I am glad to say that movers ferried it to a new home up the road. And while the spot where it stood, one filled with much meaning, seems quite empty now, we do hope that the Chickering will create fond memories for another family.
Before it left our home, Lillie played on it that Beethoven sonata that she first performed for me.
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Lively Yiddish Forward columnist Miriam Hoffman has died
The Yiddish writer, Forverts columnist, playwright and Yiddish lecturer Miriam Hoffman passed away July 29 in Coral Springs, Florida. She was 90 years old.
Hoffman was a talented storyteller, as seen in the 2017 Forverts video about her, one of ten episodes in its documentary series, Yiddish Writers Monologues. In the 55-minute clip, she describes in dramatic detail her family’s journey from Siberia to a forced labor camp to a displaced persons camp and finally, to New York. The video is in Yiddish with English subtitles.
In a book, also published in 2017, A Breed Apart: A Miraculous Escape from Russia, she tells her life story again, this time in English.
For many years, Hoffman penned a lively column for the Forverts, where she commented, often with biting humor, on certain character types in Jewish society she disapproved of — like American-born Jews snubbing their noses at fellow Jews who had recently arrived from Europe, something she experienced first-hand.
She also wrote about the blatant sexism she encountered in the 1960s and ’70s among the leadership of Yiddish organizations like the Workmen’s Circle and the Congress for Jewish Culture.
But other essays had a serious, softer voice, like the one she told about her decision as a young teen to suddenly cut off her curly locks in order to look more “American” — and how her mother reacted to her daughter’s “rebellion.”
She also hosted a popular Yiddish radio program on the Forward station WEVD.
Hoffman loved the Yiddish theater and began writing plays herself. She and fellow playwright Rena Borow wrote the book for the musical, Songs of Paradise, based on the biblical poetry of Yiddish troubadour Itzik Manger. The show ran at NYC’s Public Theater and the Shakespeare Festival in 1989, drawing a rave review from The New York Times. Her plays were also staged in Montreal and in several European countries.
For 23 years, Hoffman was a popular Yiddish lecturer at Columbia University. In 2011, she published a Yiddish textbook, Key to Yiddish, that included not only lessons in grammar, but also passages on Eastern European Jewish history, customs, songs and holiday content.
I was personally most impressed with her dogged determination to preserve Yiddish as a spoken language with younger generations. In the 1960s, while teaching at the Sholem Aleichem Shul 21, an afternoon Yiddish school in the Bronx, she and three fellow Yiddish cultural activists — educator Gella Schweid Fishman, pianist-composer Malka Gottlieb and artist Tsirl Waletzky — published a series of Yiddish children’s books through a publishing house they created themselves, called Oyfgang (Sunrise).
As Hoffman and Schweid Fishman told me years later, the mood in the Yiddish world then was so pessimistic, and the attitude towards women so dismissive, that none of the Yiddish cultural organizations — including the Workers Circle and the Congress for Jewish Culture — showed any interest in publishing the books.
But Hoffman and her colleagues didn’t give up. An example of this concerned a musical Purim play they wrote and published in 1968, “Purim iz a shpil aza” (“Purim is a time to play”). On the book cover it gives the male name Gavriel Tolyes as the author. But this was a pseudonym; the real author was Hoffman.
“We understood that no one would take our book seriously if they found out that four women published it,” Hoffman told me. “So we took my mother’s name Tolye, and came up with the name Gavriel Tolyes.”
Years later, Hoffman translated the Purim play into English where it was performed and made into a video. This time, the author’s name was her own.
Hoffman was born Miriam Shmulevitsh in Tobolsk, Siberia in 1936. In 1950, her family immigrated to the United States where she studied Yiddish pedagogy at the Jewish Teachers Seminary until 1957. Years later, she finished her bachelor’s at the University of Miami and received a master’s from Columbia University in 1983.
During the 1970s she and her husband Mendl and two young sons, Avrom (Avi) and Binyomin, lived in Israel for several years where she hosted the first Yiddish television program in the Jewish state, together with the popular comedian Shimon Dzigan.
Hoffman often said that one of her main goals in life was to help instill Jewish pride among Jews of all ages in order to stem the tide of assimilation. In 2015 she, along with her son — the renowned Yiddish actor, director and producer, Avi Hoffman — launched the Yiddishkayt Initiative, an organization dedicated to bringing Jews back to their roots through lectures and performances that portray Jewish values and cultural traditions. For Hoffman, this was exactly what she had been waiting for.
Miriam Hoffman is survived by her two sons, Avi and Benjamin, four grandchildren and one great-grandchild.
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Are you there Hashem? It’s me, Clara
“I can complain no more of what brutal tongue-abuse I suffered today. I have exhausted all manners of expression for my grievances.”
I wish I could tell you I don’t recognize those words. I wish I could say they were written by a beleaguered 19th-century governess, or a soldier in the Continental Army afflicted with gangrene. Unfortunately, they were written by me. The day was May 20, 2016. I was 12 years old and full of spite.
I am not sure what, exactly, provoked me that day (since I had exhausted all manners of expression for my grievances), but judging from other angry rants found in this deceptively cute, panda-covered journal, it probably had something to do with: A) My obsession with school, B) My enemies, let’s call them Kyle and Reese, C) My parents’ attempts to discipline me, and D) My conviction that the whole world was conspiring against me. These were heavy burdens for a sixth-grader to bear. Fortunately, the school year was almost over. Reform Jewish summer camp was just around the bend, and I was praying for change. Literally.
“God, if you can hear me, please let me have an amazing camp-experience,” I wrote a few weeks before the session started. “It’s my only escape.” Also, while I had His ear, could He make sure I got a really good part (preferably Belle) in the summer musical, Beauty and the Beast? The previous year, in Aladdin, I’d been relegated to some sadsack ensemble role that clearly did not make use of my incalculable dramatic potential. Please, Hashem!!
But God had His work cut out for Him.
During my first summer, I had established a reputation for myself as a puritanical hardass thanks to my clashes with the popular girls of Bunk 15. Let’s call them Samantha, Madison and Lindsey. Lindsey slept in the bunk bed next to mine, and every night she would amuse the other girls by pretending that she was singing Taylor Swift hits in her sleep. This enraged me. I hung up towels around my bed so I could silent-scream in private. Soon, the trio began to whisper that I was “gossiping” about them. I don’t think the counselors bought that story, though, since successful gossiping requires you to spread lies to many people, and I knew around three. I spent seven weeks in non-stop kvetch mode, writing pathos-ridden letters home, crying a lot, and making petty demands on God in a prior journal that I am scared to open. It got so bad that the camp director had to call up my parents on vacation.
Yet when the long-awaited last day came and my parents loaded up the car with all my musty-smelling camp stuff to take me home, something inexplicable happened: On my first night back in my own bed, I cried that I missed camp. Maybe I had been wrong all along! Send me back!
I don’t know how I got sucked back into another year. Maybe I’d been hoodwinked by ritual — the s’mores, the songs, the tie-dyed shirts, the crying around the lake as we promised to come back — or the fantasy that next year, I would finally be accepted. In any case, nostalgia had caused me to keep secrets from myself. “When does the memory keep secrets?” the Italian writer Alda Merini asks cryptically in her 1989 book Delirio amoroso, or Amorous Delirium, a collection of poems inspired by her experiences with love-induced madness. “When it forgets.”
I had forgotten, and now I was going to pay the price.
On my first day back, I arrived to find that all my complaining to the camp director had backfired: I’d earned an exile worthy of Napoleon, except instead of Elba, I was going to Bunk 20, where I knew nobody. I had no foes, and also no friends.
According to 12-year-old me, I spent the next seven weeks fighting back an unstoppable tide of hostilities. In reality, I probably spent just as much time swimming, kayaking, trying to play volleyball, hanging out with my new friends Lana, Hannah and Sabrina, painting clay pots, and pretending I wasn’t spending Shabbat services writing installments of a bleak tale called “Gertrude’s Life,” about a long-suffering Victorian girl with a mangled left leg. But 12-year-old me was fluent exclusively in “kvetch.” A couple of times a week, a cadre of rabbis with guitars tried to counteract my natural crankiness by teaching us key principles of Reform Jewish wisdom: Shalom (keeping calm), Tikkun Olam (repairing the world), and Hineini (present awareness). Unfortunately for the rabbis, I was too far gone. I had braces on my teeth and eczema on my skin, an intimidating combination of blood and steel.
You probably won’t be shocked to learn that I didn’t get Belle. Instead I got cast as something more fitting, the wicked crone who turns the Prince into the Beast to begin with. It seemed unfair to me that such an important catalyst didn’t have any lines, just menacing gestures. Later in the summer, our bunk went on a camping trip where I broke a glow-stick on myself and my sleeping mat, and I became convinced that I was going to die. I briefly developed “enamorous feelings” for a young fellow before concluding that “he was really into cursing and being a general idiot.” On the bus back from some field trip, a kid named J.T. said he wanted to kiss me, which was repugnant and secretly flattering.
And of course, I somehow still managed to scrap with my tormenters from the year before. On a visit to Bunk 18, the lair of my enemies and also a few friends, Madison told the counselors that she felt “uncomfortable” changing out of her swimsuit in front of me. For my part, I felt uncomfortable that she was framing me as a pervert.
Looking back on this journal, I may have had myself to blame for the isolation I spent so much time complaining about. How would anyone make friends with a 12-year-old nudnik who wrote things like “I had to go to the compost bin thrice during breakfast” and “I started off the morning by crying the equivalent of Taghaza, the city made of salt”? Even Job would not have had the patience.
One way or another, by summer’s end, I was ready to leave camp forever. Or so I claimed. “At the moment, our bunk is creating a plaque to commemorate the summer. Everyone’s laughing, sharing inside jokes I’ll never be a part of,” I wrote. “To be honest, I’m rather sick of this camp thing and going home in two days is perfectly fine with me. Camp days are too frivolous. I need something with which to occupy the mind.”
But if I wanted “something with which to occupy the mind,” I was about to get it. Two days later, I was back home. Camp was no longer tormenting me with its frivolity, and I missed it. Memory had worked its hazy rearview magic on my mind once again. I thought about my friends, about singing the evening prayer and swaying back and forth, about the wooden float we’d burned in the middle of the pond like a Viking ship to commemorate the summer. I thought about ice cream sandwiches. “It’s been so fun, and now it seems like it had all been a dream,” I wrote.
A day or so later, missing camp had become a dream, too. I never went back.
It’s been ten years since I was twelve. That time of life is increasingly dream-like. When I reread the cursed document that is my camp journal, I feel the misery. I feel it churn in my stomach sure as suspicious falafel. Yet in photos taken at camp, I see myself smiling, entwined with other girls, my braces glinting in the sun. I cannot tell which person is real. Both girls — the one in the journal and the one in the pictures — seem unknowable.
I don’t know if I’ll ever figure out what I really thought. Memory is made of such blobby, malleable stuff that you can’t touch it without changing it, reshaping it in some way. And since memories make up our “sense of self,” whatever that is, this must mean that we are constantly morphing, too.
The last thing I wrote about camp at the summer’s end was that it seemed like another life, “as if it had all happened to someone else.”
Maybe it did.
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