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American synagogues are closing at a record rate. This retired judge is rescuing their stained glass windows.
CHICAGO — Jerry Orbach moves through the sanctuary of Northbrook Community Synagogue with the practiced eye of a man who’s spent years rescuing pieces of a fading world. The suburban Chicago congregation glows with stained glass saved from shuttered synagogues, their colors reframed along these walls. What began as one man’s mission has turned the space into a living museum — a collage of light and loss.
A large gold Star of David hangs from a chain around Orbach’s neck, catching the light from the windows he’s saved from seven shuls. At 79, the retired judge has made a second career of rescuing what others have left behind: stained glass from synagogues that have closed, merged, or fallen into disrepair.
He isn’t just saving glass; he’s salvaging light — the one thing that never stops traveling.
Each panel is marked by a small plaque: the name of the congregation, the town it once illuminated, the year it died. When the sun hits them just right, color ripples across the walls like ghosts, a chorus of light still singing long after the voices are gone. “A continuation instead of a destruction,” he says, as if arguing a case.
For more than a century, the number of synagogues in America steadily climbed, a reflection of immigration, assimilation, and Jewish ambition. But by the 1990s, that momentum stalled. In the decades that followed, it reversed. There are roughly 20% fewer synagogues today than there were in 1990, according to data gathered by Alanna E. Cooper, a Jewish Studies professor at Case Western Reserve University. For the first time in American history, more synagogues are closing each year than opening.
The walls of Northbrook Community Synagogue now hold what those closures leave behind: fragments of glass salvaged from sanctuaries across the post-industrial Midwest, where factories shuttered and congregations dwindled. Orbach has become a one-man preservation society.
A history in glass
Stained glass has long been a marker of Jewish arrival in America. When immigrant congregations began erecting monumental synagogues in the early 1900s, they built them with arches, domes, and large window apertures. Glass became the medium of belonging.
In cathedrals, stained glass told the stories of saints. In synagogues, it told the story of survival. Early designs depicted the 12 tribes, the days of creation, the Exodus from Egypt. Later came darker panels, fractured blues and reds evoking the Holocaust, followed by bursts of gold and white celebrating the creation of the State of Israel. Across a century of Jewish life, the art evolved into a visual Torah of endurance.
The factories closed. The congregations scattered. But the windows remain: fragile, luminous, still looking for a home.
Orbach leads me into a small elevator, one hand steadying his cane as the doors close. “You’re gonna like this,” he says, as the bell dings and the elevator jolts to a stop.
The basement sprawls beneath the entire building, a hidden warren of storage rooms and concrete corridors. One room is a large gym. Another section is soon to become indoor pickleball courts. But in a far corner, the scene could be straight out of an Indiana Jones movie. This is where Orbach has built something else: a warehouse of memory.
Wooden crates line the walls, some open, others nailed shut. Inside are stained-glass windows that have yet to find a new home — towering panels from Beth Achim synagogue in Southfield, Michigan, each thirteen feet tall and three feet wide. For now, they rest here, waiting for wherever their journey next takes them, like the vessels of a traveling tabernacle.
Orbach lifts his phone, flicking on the flashlight. Dust drifts through the beam. The air smells faintly metallic, like old pews and time. He runs the light along the edge of a crate, tracing the outline of a hidden window.
“I just got these in two weeks ago,” he says, like a shopkeeper showing off new stock. “Seven for the holidays, seven for the days of creation. They’re gorgeous.”
He steps closer to a crate, resting his hand on the wood as if on a headstone. This, he said, is how memory becomes a kind of faith.
The case for light
A son of Chicago, Orbach was born in Humboldt Park to parents who fled pogroms in Eastern Europe — his mother from Ukraine, his father from Poland. When he was eight, the family moved north to Albany Park, then a humming center of Jewish life. He’s stayed close to the city ever since: studying law at Loyola, serving as a prosecutor and alderman, and later, in 1988, taking the bench in Cook County. In time he rose to head the court’s law division in District Two, a job that taught him to listen before ruling. He retired two decades ago, though he now mediates and arbitrates cases — a judge, it seems, never entirely off duty.
A few of Orbach’s earliest rescues were the panels from his childhood synagogue in Albany Park. They once illuminated the sanctuary where he became bar mitzvah, where he was married, where his parents once prayed. Reinstalled now in Northbrook, they’ve since framed his grandchildren’s baby namings. “They sold the building to a church,” he said. “I couldn’t stand the idea of those windows ending up in a dumpster.”
Something shifted. He started calling contractors, preservationists — anyone with a ladder and a conscience. Soon he was showing up at demolition sites, paying crews out of pocket to let him climb the scaffolding and pry the glass from the walls. Once, at Mikro Kadosh Anshei Ticktin, an old Chicago congregation, he and his crew worked through the night, prying the stained glass from the front while a bulldozer tore into the back of the building. “By the end, there was one wall left,” he said. “It was shaking while we got the last window out.”
He talks about the windows the way some people talk about those who once prayed beneath them, as if they still have a pulse. “If you keep the memory of the shuls alive,” he said, “the people in them are alive too.”
From ruin to renewal
Among Orbach’s most prized rescues are a set of stained-glass windows from Saginaw, Michigan — luminous panels manufactured in France and salvaged just before their synagogue was torn down. He brought them to Northbrook several years ago, giving their light a second life.
A few months after Orbach installed the Saginaw windows, Cooper — the scholar who tracks synagogue closures and the fate of their sacred objects — flew in from Cleveland to see them. She’d been studying what happens to the sacred items left behind when synagogues close: Torah scrolls, yahrzeit plaques, arks, pews, memorial lights. But the stained glass, she said, posed the hardest questions.
Stained-glass windows don’t have a sacred status like a Torah scroll or even the building itself. They carry a different kind of holiness. “I’ve heard many congregations describe their windows as the soul of their congregation,” Cooper said.
She found in Orbach what her fieldwork had only theorized. “He’s creating an afterlife for these windows,” she said at a dedication ceremony at Northbrook, where they both spoke.
Standing before the crowd that day, Cooper described the scene she’d witnessed when windows were removed from Ahavath Israel in Kingston, New York, which Orbach also rescued and relocated to Northbrook. Cooper recalled workmen carrying the panels to their crates as the last members of the congregation looked on. “As they lowered the windows into the boxes,” she said, “it felt like a burial.”
Now she gestured toward the sanctuary, the glass alive with color once more. “And this,” she said, “is the afterlife.”
In his own sanctuary
Orbach has one more thing to show me, in his two-story home on a quiet suburban street. Rusty, his six-year-old rescue mutt, bounds to the door. His wife, Noreen, waves from the hallway.
The foyer is lined with photos of his two daughters and their families. Hanging above the entryway are two stained-glass windows he salvaged years ago from a shuttered synagogue in Lakeview, Illinois, where he used to go for minyan. The site is now condos.
“In my own way, this is how I keep those shuls alive,” he says, glancing up at the glass.
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The Hebrew word “stav” didn’t always mean the fall season
יעדעס יאָר אין נאָוועמבער, ווען עס קומט דער האַרבסט און מע האַלט נאָך אין סאַמע זומער (מיט אַ וואָך צוריק בין איך נאָך געגאַנגען אין אַ העמד מיט קורצע אַרבל), זאָגן די סקעפּטיקערס אַז דאָ אין ישׂראל זײַנען אייגנטלעך פֿאַראַן נאָר צוויי סעזאָנען: אַ לאַנגער זומער און אַ קורצער ווינטער. די ציניקערס זאָגן נאָך אַז די צוויי סעזאָנען הייסן אין דער אמתן „דער הייסער סעזאָן“ און „דער ווייניקער הייסער“ – און עס איז נישט אין גאַנצן איבערגעטריבן.
דער תּנ״ך למשל, וואָס האָט גוט געקענט די נאַטור פֿון ארץ-ישׂראל, האָט קיינמאָל נישט געשריבן וועגן די פֿיר סעזאָנען — זומער, האַרבסט, ווינטער און פֿרילינג. אַפֿילו אינעם וואָרט „סתּיו“ (האַרבסט), וואָס ווערט דערמאָנט אין שיר השירים ב, יא: „כי הנה הסתו עבר“, מיינט מען נישט דעם האַרבסט, נאָר דווקא דעם ווינטער. אויך די משנה, וואָס באַשרײַבט די פֿיר „תּקופֿות“ פֿון יאָר (מסכת ראש השנה א, א: „בארבעה פרקים העולם נידון“), דערמאָנט מען נישט אונדזערע באַקאַנטע סעזאָנען.
ערשט אין דער נײַער העברעיִשער ליטעראַטור הייבט מען אָן שרײַבן וועגן דעם „סתּיו“ מיטן טײַטש האַרבסט. דער העברעיִשער שרײַבער אליהו מרדכי ווערבעל (1880-1806) פֿון גאַליציע האָט אין זײַן בוך „לימודי הטבע“ באַניצט דאָס וואָרט „סתּיו“ ווי „האַרבסט“, אפֿשר צוליב דעם וואָס דער ווינטער האָט שוין געהאַט אַ נאָמען: חורף. דאָס איז אַ פּנים געפֿעלן די נײַע העברעיִשע שרײַבערס, וואָס האָבן אַ סך געשריבן וועגן דעם אייראָפּעיִשן פּייזאַזש. האָבן זיי אַדאָפּטירט דעם נעאָלאָגיזם און געשריבן למשל וועגן „נוּגֵה סְתָו אוֹ עַז חֹרֶף“ (אַ טרויעריקער האַרבסט אָדער אַ שטאַרקער ווינטער – ח. נ. ביאַליק); „עברו ימי החג ושמי הסתיו רבצו על הארץ“ (עס זײַנען פֿאַרגאַנגען די יום-טובֿדיקע טעג און אַ האַרבסטיקער הימל איז געלעגן איבערן לאַנד – ש.י. עגנון).
הײַנט צו טאָג איז דער טערמין „סתּיו“ אַזוי באַקאַנט, אַז מען האָט שוין פֿאַרגעסן אַז טויזנטער יאָרן האָט לשון-קודש זיך באַגאַנגען אָן אים. דאָס וואָרט „סתּיו“ איז נאַטירלעך אַפֿילו פֿאַר קליינע קינדער, און אַ סימן דערפֿון זײַנען די צייכענונגען וואָס מײַנע טײַערע פּלימעניקעס האָבן מיר לעצטנס געוויזן פֿונעם קינדער-גאָרטן: שיינע ברוינע ביימער, באַדעקט מיט האַרבסטיקע בלעטער.
דווקא צוויי ווערטער וועלכע האָבן אַ סך צו טאָן מיטן האַרבסט זײַנען פֿאַראַן אויף עבֿרית, אָבער אויף די אייראָפּשיע שפּראַכן (און ייִדיש בתּוכם) — נישט. די ווערטער זײַנען „יורה“, דער ערשטער רעגן וואָס קומט נאָך אַ לאַנגן, טרוקענעם זומער, און „שלכת“ – אַ בלעטער־אָפּפֿאַל, די פֿאַלנדיקע בלעטער פֿון בוים אין האַרבסט. „ונתתי מטר ארצכם בעתו יורה ומלקוש“ (דברים יא, יד: „װעל איך געבן דעם רעגן פֿון אײַער לאַנד אין זײַן צײַט, פֿרירעגן און שפּעטרעגן“ – יהואשס איבערזעצונג). יאָ, מיר האָבן ווייניק רעגן דאָ אין לאַנד, אָבער אַ סך ווערטער דערפֿאַר: גשם, מטר, מבול, זרזיף, טפטוף, רביבים, יורה, מלקוש אאז”וו.
דאָס צווייטע וואָרט, „שלכת“, ווערט דערמאָנט אין ישעיהו ו, יג: „כאלה וכאלון אשר בשלכת“ („װי אַ טערעבינט און װי אַן אײכנבױם, װאָס נאָר זײער שטאַם בלײַבט װען בלעטער פֿאַלן“). „שלכת“ איז אָן קיין שום ספֿק פֿון די שענסטע ווערטער אין עבֿרית. אין אַמעריקע און אין אייראָפּע זײַנען פֿאַראַן פֿאַלנדיקע בלעטער, און איר האָט שיינע לידער ווי Les Feuilles Mortes („האַרבסטבלעטער“( פֿון זשאַק פּרעווער. אָבער מיר, ישׂראלים, האָבן אַ באַזונדער פֿײַערלעך וואָרט דערפֿאַר — „שלכת“, און איר קאָנט אונדז נאָר מקנא זײַן. די ווערטער „יורה“ און „שלכת“ זײַנען געוואָרן אַ מין „מאַדלען-קיכל“, מיט אַ סגולה צו דערוועקן פֿאַרבאָרגענע טעמים און זכרונות.
דאָס האָבן גוט פֿאַרשטאַנען די ייִדישע שרײַבערס וואָס זײַנען אַהין געקומען, און געזוכט נײַע ווערטער פֿאַר די נאַטור-פֿענאָמענען אין ישׂראל. די אַמעריקאַנער דיכטערין רחל פֿישמאַן, וואָס האָט זיך באַזעצט אין קיבוץ בית-אלפֿא, נאָענט צו דער נאַטור, האָט זייער שיין געשריבן ווערן דעם יורה: „שמאָלע פּלײצעס / האָט דער יורה. / און דאָך / שמײכלען אים אַלע נאָך. / די מענער קלאַפּן אים פֿרײַנדלעך. / אױף זײַן דינעם רוקן / קינדער לױפֿן / װילן אָנרירן זײַן גרױ העמד. / ער גיט אײן בליק / מיט זײַנע פֿײַכטע אױגן / און גײט װײַטער“ („זון איבער אַלץ“, זײַט 47).
איז זײַט מיר מוחל, סקעפּטיקערס און ציניקערס: דער האַרבסט עקזיסטירט דאָ דווקא יאָ, און נאָך ווי! עס הייבט זיך אָן מיט די ערשטע טעג ווען מע בעט „ותּן טל ומטר לבֿרכה“ און עס דויערט ביז אַרום חנוכּה, ווען עס ווערט שוין עפּעס ווינטערדיק. פֿאַרשטייט זיך, עס איז נישט דער פּרעכטיקער האַרבסט פֿון צפֿון-אַמעריקע, מיט די וווּנדערלעכע פֿאַרבן; און נישט „דער גאָלדענער האַרבסט“ פֿון מזרח-אייראָפּע, וואָס מען האָט אַזוי שיין באַזונגען אין דער ייִדישער ליטעראַטור.
מיר באַנוגענען זיך מיט אַ ביסל: דאָ און דאָרטן, דער עיקר אין די בערג, לעבן ירושלים צי אינעם גליל, קאָן מען זען אַ בוים אין שלכת. יעדעס יאָר נעם איך פֿון דאָס נײַ אַ פֿאָטאָ פֿון אַ קאַרשן-בוים אין ירושלים, ווען זײַנע בלעטער ווערן סוף-כּל-סוף גאָלד; און אויפֿן וועג צווישן תּל-אָבֿיבֿ און ירושלים באַמערק איך די האַרבסטיקע ביימער. ביסלעכווײַז אין חודש חשוון אָדער כּסלו קומט צו גאַסט אַ וואָלקנדל אָדער רעגנדל, און דער עיקר: עס ווערט אַ ביסל קילער – אַ מחיה. עס איז אַ סך פֿריילעכער ווי דער פֿרילינג, ווײַל דאָ אין לאַנד הייבט זיך אָן גרינען אין סאַמע ווינטער, און אַרום פּסח זײַנען ס׳רובֿ בלומען אויף יענער וועלט, ווײַל עס קומען די באַרימטע „חמסינען“, די הייסע ווינטן פֿון מדבר.
אמת, מען קאָן אויך נישט לייקענען אַז מיטן האַרבסט קומען הײַנט אויך מעלאַנכאָלישע טענער. דעם 7טן אָקטאָבער דערוועקט בײַ אונדז די פֿרישע זכרונות פֿון דעם טראַגישן שׂמחת-תּורה 2023 און די בלוטיקע יאָרן וואָס זײַנען געקומען נאָך אים, און דאָס האַרץ ווערט פֿאַרקלעמט. דער נײַער יאָרצײַט פֿאַראייניקט זיך מיט אַן אַלטן: דאָס יאָר האָבן מיר דעם 4סטן נאָוועמבער אָפּגעמערקט 30 יאָר זינט מען האָט דערמאָרדעט דעם פּרעמיער-מיניסטער יצחק רבין. נאָך אַ סך יאָרן האָט מען באַנײַט די יערלעכע מאַניפֿעסטאַציע אין כּיכּר רבין (רבין-פּלאַץ), וואָס מע האָט אויפֿגעהערט טאָן מיט צוואַנציק יאָר צוריק. אָבער צוליב דעם וואָס די מאַניפֿעסטאַציע איז הײַיאָר פֿאָרגעקומען אַ קורצע צײַט נאָך דעם פֿײַער-אָפּשטעל אין עזה, זענען די געפֿילן געווען געמישטע: פֿון איין זײַט — פֿול מיט טרויער, צער און זאָרג; פֿון דער צווייטער —אַ פֿריש ווינטל פֿון האָפֿענונג, האַרבסטיקע גרוסן פֿון ערגעץ-וווּ.
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Jewish conservatives are looking to JD Vance to draw a line against the antisemitic right. He hasn’t delivered.
(JTA) — Ben Shapiro, Bari Weiss and Dan Senor were mostly in lockstep as they condemned antisemitism on the right during an event for Jewish conservatives on Sunday night.
But despite their shared concern about Tucker Carlson and Nick Fuentes, they were divided on how to think about Vice President JD Vance, who hasn’t publicly disavowed either the influential podcast host or the white supremacist he recently interviewed.
“I’m worried, but I’m not alarmed,” said Senor, a columnist and host of the podcast “Call Me Back,” about the groundswell of antisemitic expressions on the right.
“You’re not alarmed?” interjected Weiss, the newly named editor-in-chief of CBS News.
“I’m not alarmed because I am struck that every leader that is under pressure from this online mob is still standing strong,” said Senor, who pointed out that President Donald Trump has been steadfastly pro-Israel. “Who has fallen? No one has fallen.”
Weiss pressed the issue, singling out Vance: “But what does it mean that the vice president of the United States had Tucker Carlson on his show, when he had hosted Charlie Kirk’s show?”
The question, referring to Vance’s tribute to the slain leader of Turning Point USA, drew applause from many of the more than 1,000 attendees at the 2025 Jewish Leadership Conference, held in Manhattan and organized by the conservative Tikvah Fund.
The exchange aired a growing debate within the Republican party and the right as a whole. Stoked by Carlson’s friendly sit-down with Fuentes, and Carlson’s own harsh criticisms of Israel, it has led to calls within the party that its leaders disavow the antisemites in its midst. Influential Jewish conservatives, who see Republicans as a much more reliable friend to Israel than the Democrats, are eyeing key figures like Vance as counterweights to the right’s increasingly isolationist and emboldened antisemitic forces.
But so far Vance — a likely 2028 presidential candidate — has not delivered any rebuke to Carlson, Fuentes and the growing antisemitic “groyper” movement on the right. Instead, he has drawn concern over what his critics say is a weak response: He did not push back on skeptical questions about Israel, including one laced with an antisemitic conspiracy theory, at a Turning Point USA event at Ole Miss. He also downplayed the significance of the text messages shared among Young Republicans, which included jokes about gas chambers, racist slurs and praise of Hitler. Vance dismissed the invective as “jokes” and said that critics should “grow up.”
Vance’s failure to call out what others see as troubling isolationism and blatant antisemitism has become a talking point at Jewish gatherings.
Scott Jennings, a conservative political commentator for CNN, spoke about the U.S.-Israel relationship at the Jewish Federations of North America’s General Assembly in Washington on Sunday. Jennings did not name Vance, but alluded to him as a presidential candidate in 2028. “Hopefully the people who run to replace this administration understand the benefit of this, that it’s a good thing and not something to be ashamed of,” he said, referring to support of Israel.
Meanwhile, donors at the Republican Jewish Coalition’s annual summit in Las Vegas two weeks ago were not shy about their views on Vance.
“In 2028 you can bet, if he’s the nominee, I won’t vote for him,” said Ed Wenger, who called Vance “Tucker Central.”
The vice president, Wenger said, “sounds like he tolerates religions” other than Christianity, rather than embracing them. “Well, I don’t need Vance to tolerate Judaism or me.”
Valerie Greenfeld’s thoughts on Vance in 2028 were quick and straight to the point. “Marco Rubio for president,” said Greenfeld, an author attending the RJC summit.
Jewish activist Shabbos Kestenbaum, who spoke during the RJC’s summit, criticized Vance’s response to the conspiracy-laced question at the Turning Point USA event.
“When you have a vice president who is unable to condemn the obvious antisemitic, conspiratorial, victim-blaming mentality of young people, that is incredibly concerning,” Kestenbaum said in an interview. “And I am very concerned about JD Vance’s inevitable run for the presidency. This is not someone who I have seen has been able to show the moral clarity that a leader needs.”
Ari Fleischer, an RJC board member and former White House press secretary, did not criticize Vance, but said about the vice president’s response to antisemitism within the party, “This is going to be one of those issues that’s going to define his future.”
“The number of candidates who emerge to run for president will be significant on the Republican side, and that’s going to begin in earnest in about one year,” Fleischer said. “And I think JD’s going to have to earn it like everybody else, and be very curious to see what he has to say.”
While Vance hasn’t weighed in on the Carlson-Fuentes controversy, he did defend Carlson’s son, Buckley, in an X post on Saturday. An X user had asserted that Tucker Carlson’s brother “idolizes Nick Fuentes” and asked whether Buckley, who serves as an aide to the vice president, is “also a vile bigot.”
“Every time I see a public attack on Buckley it’s a complete lie,” Vance wrote, later adding that “*everyone* who I’ve seen attack Buckley with lies is a scumbag.” His tweets did not mention Fuentes.
Saul Sadka, a pro-Israel influencer with nearly 65,000 followers on X, recently called out Vance’s exchange about Buckley Carlson and his failure to condemn his father. The vice president has “decided that trying to impress the schoolyard bullies by performatively picking on Jews is the way to become popular as the new kid in school,” wrote Sadka.
Vance’s boss also ignored the Carlson-Fuentes tensions for weeks, only to brush aside concerns about Carlson, who joined him on the campaign trail last year. “You can’t tell him who to interview,” Trump said on Sunday. “If he wants to interview Nick Fuentes, I don’t know much about him, but if he wants to do it, get the word out. People have to decide.”
And while Trump hosted Fuentes and rapper Kanye West for a dinner at Mar-a-Lago in 2022 (Trump later claimed he didn’t know who Fuentes was), some still see him as a bulwark against the anti-Israel and antisemitic waves represented by the groypers.
Kestenbaum said he is “so proud to support President Trump,” but is concerned about the power vacuum that will be created once his second term ends.
“I’m just concerned that when President Trump reaches his term limit, and when there is an open Republican primary, that we will see the nefarious far-right actors that President Trump has so clearly kept at bay, and has made clear have no room in the Republican Party — I’m concerned that they will be let in,” Kestenbaum said.
At Sunday’s Tikvah conference, Shapiro, the conservative political commentator and founder of the Daily Wire, cautioned against dismissing the threat of figures like Fuentes — whom he called a “basement dweller” — and the far-right influencer Andrew Tate, and their influence on younger, more online generations.
“They haven’t aged into the voting population yet,” Shapiro said about their audiences. “And so I think one of the things that we have to be very careful of is trying to write that off as not a problem.”
Weiss concurred, saying, “It’s a great lesson of the left over the past 15 years that everything was downstream of online culture.”
Senor, responding to Weiss, agreed that Vance should say more about the rising tides. “I am patiently waiting for the vice president to come out, like a number of other leaders have come out in recent weeks,” he said. Sens. Ted Cruz and Mitch McConnell both criticized the Heritage Foundation for standing by Carlson.
Jonathan Silver, the moderator and Tikvah’s chief programming officer, cut in at that point, saying there’s “comfort to be had in the fact that elected leaders have acted in such a patriotic, American way,” before shifting the conversation more specifically to asking why Fuentes appeals to young people.
Many attending the Tikvah event seemed also to be waiting for a strong statement from Vance condemning Fuentes and Carlson.
“I’m willing to be patient — but only so patient,” said Neil Cooper, referring back to Senor’s comment that he’s “patiently waiting” for Vance to comment on Carlson.
Luke Moon, a leader of a Christian Zionist non-profit, expressed concern about an emerging “neo-isolationist” wing of Republicans who oppose supporting Israel.
Moon said he’s even noticed a recent shift in how Vance has posted about Israel on social media.
“JD went to Israel a couple weeks ago, and they didn’t post pictures of him at the [Western] Wall,” Moon said. “Now I appreciate that as a Christian he should go to the Holy Sepulchre. But he had also previously gone to the Wall.”
Others did not take issue with Vance, saying they believed the threat at hand was being blown out of proportion.
“That’s just a small little group of people. Only people involved in journalism take that stuff serious,” said Edward Shapiro, a retired professor who has moved from New Jersey to Florida.
He added, “They’re such fringe characters.”
As for Weiss, who was named to head CBS News after four years at the helm of the consistently pro-Israel Free Press, she said she hoped to use her new position to counter the voices like the ones at the center of Sunday’s discussion.
“The choices that it feels like we have sometimes — which is [the progressive streamer] Hasan Piker and Tucker Carlson, or Nick Fuentes and Andrew Tate, the kind of people who are rising in the podcast charts — those don’t actually represent our values,” Weiss said. “And I don’t think that they represent the values or the worldview of the vast majority of Americans.”
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In Israel, she’s a national heroine — Americans are starting to understand why
Crash of the Heavens: The Remarkable Story of Hannah Senesh and the Only Military Mission to Rescue Europe’s Jews During World War II
By Douglas Century
Avid Reader Press/Simon & Schuster, 432 pages, $30
In Israel, Hannah Senesh, the 23-year-old poet and paratrooper who died trying to save Hungarian Jews during the Holocaust, is a national heroine. Her verses are memorized by schoolchildren and encoded in prayerbooks, her kibbutz home is a memorial, and Israeli streets and settlements bear her name.
In the United States, recognition of Senesh’s achievements has come more slowly. Roberta Grossman’s 2008 documentary, Blessed is the Match: The Life and Death of Hannah Senesh, told her story with archival footage, interviews and dramatic recreations. In 2010-11, New York’s Museum of Jewish Heritage hosted an exhibition, Fire in My Heart: The Story of Hannah Senesh.
Now, when the notion of Israeli military heroism seems particularly contested, Senesh has surfaced again. This fall, the National Yiddish Theatre Folksbiene revived David Schechter’s play with music, Hannah Senesh, a collaboration with Lori Wilner that originated in the 1980s. And a major new biography, Douglas Century’s Crash of the Heavens, excavates the brilliant young woman — frustrated, lonely, headstrong, determined — long encrusted in myth.
Century’s powerful book, whose title derives from a Senesh poem, depicts both a unique 1944 Jewish rescue mission and its historical context: the chaotic final months of World War II, when Europe’s remaining Jews were both targeted victims and bargaining chips.
An emigrant from fascist Hungary to British Mandatory Palestine, Senesh was one of a cohort of Jewish volunteers — 37, including two other women — chosen to infiltrate the inferno of Central and Eastern Europe that other Jews were desperate to escape. Trained by the elite fighters of the Palmach, as well as the Royal Air Force and British Intelligence, they had a dual mission: to locate and evacuate downed Allied airmen and escaped prisoners of war, and to save Jews. For the latter, it was almost too late, though the paratroopers did ultimately rescue an unknown number of Jews.
While Senesh is the focus, Century’s cinematic narrative alights periodically on several of her colleagues. Among the most notable was Enzo Sereni, an Italian Jewish intellectual, “a remarkable man with prodigious appetites,” who died in Dachau. The Romanian-born Surika Braverman, phobic about heights, was unable to parachute. But she did fly into Yugoslavia, link up with Tito’s partisans, and later establish the Women’s Corps of the Israel Defense Forces. Yoel Palgi, the lone survivor of the three paratroopers who infiltrated Hungary, became a key source of information about Senesh’s ordeals.
Her story, told here with great intimacy and detail, is riveting. Those who knew her underline her uniqueness, including a courage that ultimately impressed even her captors.
Born Anna Szenes in 1921 Budapest, she was the daughter of a celebrated Hungarian Jewish playwright and journalist who died of heart failure at 33. At 13, Senesh started a diary. In 1938, the Hungarian Parliament passed a law restricting Jewish participation in the economy, and her country’s growing antisemitism transformed the teenager into a Zionist.
Accepted to an agricultural school in Palestine, Senesh made aliyah in 1939. She graduated with expertise in poultry farming, but was assigned to the laundry of Kibbutz Sdot Yam (Fields of the Sea), near Caesaria. The location inspired one of her most famous poems, but the daily routine was mind-numbing. She longed to return to Budapest to inspire Jewish resistance and help her mother escape.
As luck would have it, her kibbutz connected her to a fellow Hungarian refugee involved in organizing a secret rescue mission. “I see the hand of destiny in this,” she wrote at the time. “I’m totally self-confident, ready for anything,” she later added.
The mission was delayed, in Century’s telling, by mutual distrust between the British military and the Jewish leadership in Palestine. But Senesh finally was able to train as both a paratrooper and wireless radio operator. She chose the code name Hagar, for the second wife of the Biblical Abraham, “the slave girl who’s redeemed, who speaks directly to the Lord, who is told that she must return home.” Before leaving for Europe, she was able to see her brother, Gyuri, and give him a poignant letter in which she wrote: “Will you sense that I had no choice, that I had to do this?”
After parachuting into Yugoslavia, Senesh joined Tito’s partisans. But within days, the Germans had marched into Hungary, complicating her mission. She crossed the border anyway, and was quickly captured by Hungarian gendarmes — likely because of a betrayal, or more than one, Century suggests.
He graphically describes the vicious beatings and torture she endured, and her stoic silence. One of her fellow paratroopers had declined to give her a cyanide pill, so an easy death was impossible. Her suicide attempts failed. Believing her mother had left Budapest, she finally offered her real name. That led to a heartbreaking reunion between a bruised and battered Hannah and her anxious mother, Katherine. Both spent time in a Gestapo prison, where they had occasional contact.
Katherine eventually was released, and her daughter experienced a mild reprieve: She was able to teach her fellow inmates Hebrew, distribute hand-made dolls as gifts, and counsel a pregnant Jewish prisoner on an escape route. Then came a trial for treason and espionage. In her defense, Senesh eloquently denied betraying Hungary and chastised her judges for allying with Nazism. As Soviet and Romanian troops descended on Budapest, she was abruptly informed of her conviction and an immediate death sentence, with no chance of appeal.
Integral to her legend is that the youthful Senesh went defiantly to her execution by firing squad, declining to beg for a pardon and refusing even a blindfold. She left behind a trove of diaries, letters and simple, emotionally direct poems — a dazzling literary as well as moral legacy.
One poem, from a period of torture and solitary confinement, concludes: “I gambled on what mattered most,/The dice were cast. I lost.” Another famous verse emphasizes redemption, declaring, “Blessed is the match consumed in kindling flame.” Century’s biography — which also recounts Senesh’s prodigious cultural afterlife — is a stirring testament to both her undeniable gifts and tragic fate.
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