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Sophie is 85 and survived the Holocaust. Caroline is 29 and new to NYC. Here’s how they became fast friends.
(New York Jewish Week) – It’s a sunny Wednesday afternoon, and Sophie Turner Zaretsky has laid out a tray of fruit and cookies, eagerly awaiting her friend Caroline Crandell. When Crandell arrives at Zaretsky’s Upper West Side apartment, just a few minutes after their scheduled meeting time of 3 p.m., the two break into smiles and embrace.
The two women have been meeting every few weeks since the fall of 2022. Like any pair of friends, they discuss everything that’s going on in their lives and families, as well as current events and their favorite spots in the city. But unlike most friendships, there’s a 56-year age gap between the two: Zaretsky, a Holocaust survivor and retired radiation oncologist, is 85, while Crandell, a software engineer, is 29.
“We just talk,” Zaretsky told the New York Jewish Week as she poured tea for Crandell and a reporter. “Whatever comes into our head.”
“She knows all about my dating life,” Crandell added. “I get a lot of advice, which is helpful.”
The pair were matched through the “Caring Calls” initiative, a flagship program of the Wechsler Center for Modern Aging at the Marlene Meyerson JCC Manhattan on the Upper West Side. The program was created during the pandemic to help seniors combat isolation. It enlists some 130 volunteers to reach out to everyone over 70 who has attended any type of program or event at the JCC in recent years. Most of the check-ins happen over the phone: Volunteers call a few times a year to say hello and offer everything from tech support to grocery shopping assistance.
“We want to be there for our community as folks age,” Susan Lechter, the director of the Wechsler Center, told the New York Jewish Week. “No one should be lonely in this world. If we can make a difference in any way, we want to be there for our community.”
And some of these relationship blossom into something deeper. Seniors can request a “buddy” for regular phone calls; according to the Wechsler Center, there have been 140 “buddy” matches so far.
When Zaretsky first heard from Caring Calls last fall, she had a specific request: She wanted to be matched with a young person as a buddy. “I talk to old people and I’m tired of hearing about all the issues and problems with aging,” Zaretsky quipped. “I have my own issues; I don’t want to hear anybody else’s.”
Given that most of the Caring Calls volunteers are middle-aged or older adults, Lechter knew exactly whom to tap: Crandell, who was living by herself in a fifth-floor walkup on the Upper East Side, having arrived in New York via California during the Omicron wave of January 2022. In order to meet new friends, Crandell had enrolled in intramural soccer at the JCC, and she also had inquired about volunteer opportunities there.
“My family is very far away and I haven’t had any living grandparents for a long time. I didn’t know anyone when I moved here,” Crandell said, explaining her interest in the Caring Calls program. “I think it’s good to have different generations and different perspectives come together.”
Matched by Lechter, the pair first spoke in October of last year and they hit it off immediately. “I think we spoke for like an hour,” Crandell said, recalling how they bonded over their dislike of cooking and exercise. “By the end of the call we said to each other, ‘Let’s not do the call thing. Let’s meet up.’ I came over a few days later and we’ve been getting together every few weeks ever since.”
Turner Zaretsky and Crandell get together every few weeks at Turner Zaretsky’s Upper West Side apartment, pictured here on May 10, 2023. (Julia Gergely)
The particular afternoon of the New York Jewish Week’s visit, Crandell had brought over a new blend of tea to try. Over their beverages, the two women share lipstick and book recommendations, and swap stories about their childhoods — which were, not surprisingly, vastly different from one another’s.
Zaretsky, born Selma Schwarzwald in 1937, had grown up in hiding in Lvov, Poland; she and her mother posed as Catholics in order to avoid deportation to the Belzec killing center. She moved to England with her mother in 1948, when she was 10, and wasn’t told she was Jewish until she was a teenager.
“It was terrible,” she said of moving from Poland to England. “It’s very hard to be a refugee when you don’t know the language. You feel stupid. You don’t have the narrative. I didn’t have the narrative for England and I didn’t have the narrative for being Jewish.”
After attending medical school in England, Zaretsky moved to New York in 1963 for her medical residency at Montefiore Hospital in the Bronx, and found herself alone in a brand new city. In 1970, she married David Zaretsky.
Though the JCC initiative is the first time either Zaretsky or Crandell have participated in a formal matching program, Zaretsky has a history of “adopting” people who look like they might need it. A number of years ago at a dinner at the United Nations, which she attended in place of her son who often worked with the organization, Zaretsky was seated next to the ambassador from Malta. “He didn’t know people in New York, so being the Jewish mother that I am, I had to introduce him to everyone to make sure he could live a good life here,” she said. They’re still friends to this day, Zaretsky said, and she has been known to advise him on certain geopolitical issues when the General Assembly meets.
“I have found that young people nowadays are so educated and so aware, but they still need a little bit of TLC — at least this one does,” Zaretsky said, nodding towards Crandell. “But I do, too.”
Indeed, former U.S. Surgeon General Vivek Murthy has described a “loneliness epidemic” that peaked, not surprisingly, at the height of the pandemic. Older adults, disproportionately women, have been especially vulnerable, although a Harvard studying 2021 found that older teens and young adults were the hardest hit by the social isolation brought on by the pandemic.
“I feel like in the society we live in right now, isolation and disjointed community is common,” Crandell said. “Everything’s online, every single person has been affected by technology and feeling pretty isolated, no matter what age. Any opportunity to meet people in person or just connect with someone goes a long way.”
This type of relationship is exactly what the program aims to achieve, said Lechter. “We were determined to create more intergenerational opportunities,” she said. “We’re hoping that it becomes more frequent.”
By the time Crandell needs to head to her soccer game, several hours have passed. “I come thinking I’m just stopping by, but it turns out we have hours of things we need to discuss,” Crandell told the New York Jewish Week. “I always lose track of time.”
Like any good Jewish mother, Zaretsky sends her off with a care package of snacks to take home and a plan for when they’ll meet up again — this coming Friday, for Shabbat dinner.
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The post Sophie is 85 and survived the Holocaust. Caroline is 29 and new to NYC. Here’s how they became fast friends. appeared first on Jewish Telegraphic Agency.
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Support for Iran war among ‘connected’ US Jews falls again, poll finds
(JTA) — In the early days of the U.S.-Israel war on Iran, 68% of “connected” American Jews — those with ties to American Jewish institutions — supported the war, according to a poll taken by an Israeli public affairs institute.
That proportion fell weeks into the war and fell further to 60% just after President Donald Trump unilaterally announced a ceasefire on April 8, the same survey found, according to results released by the Jewish People Policy Institute last week and publicized on Sunday.
The decline was sharpest among those who identified as “leaning liberal,” 42% of whom are supportive of the war, down from 57% in early March.
At the same time, opposition among “connected” Jews has risen sharply, with about a third saying they oppose the war, up from 26% just after the war’s start. And only 14% of respondents said they believed the war had achieved “major success.”
The survey of 806 American Jews, taken April 15-19, drew from a panel that JPPI maintains and surveys regularly. The institute says its polls reflect the sentiments of “connected” Jews because its panel includes fewer intermarried Jews, more Jews who are affiliated with denominations and more Jews who have lived in Israel than demographic data suggests is representative of U.S. Jewry overall.
Two polls taken weeks into the war, before the ceasefire, found that most American Jews overall opposed the U.S. military campaign against Iran.
The latest results arrive as the future of the war and its dividends so far remain uncertain. Facing widespread public disapproval on Iran and pressure over oil prices, Trump has repeatedly extended the ceasefire despite failing to extract the major concessions from the Iranians that he has called for. This weekend, he said he was unsatisfied with their latest offer and said he remained torn between wanting to keep pressing for a diplomatic agreement or choosing to “go and just blast the hell out of them and finish them forever.”
Speaking at an event in Florida, Trump said. “Frankly, maybe we’re better off not making a deal at all. Do you want to know the truth? Because we can’t let this thing go on. Been going on too long.”
Iranian officials have reportedly said they expect a return to fighting, and the Israelis also have said they remain at a high level of military readiness.
A key sticking point is the future of Iran’s nuclear program, which Trump vowed to eliminate. The Iranians have offered to halt nuclear enrichment for up to five years, but Trump has rejected that offer and is pushing for a 20-year pause — longer than the 15-year hiatus in the agreement President Barack Obama in 2015 struck that Trump exited in 2018. Following the collapse of that deal, the Iranians are understood to have embarked on an enrichment spree, giving the regime the most nuclear material it has ever possessed. Much of that material remains buried but extractible under facilities Trump bombed last year.
This article originally appeared on JTA.org.
The post Support for Iran war among ‘connected’ US Jews falls again, poll finds appeared first on The Forward.
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A folksy approach to this year’s Yiddish symposium in Amsterdam
דעם 21סטן אַפּריל איז פֿאָרגעקומען דער יערלעכער אַמסטערדאַמער ייִדיש־סימפּאָזיום, נאָר דאָס יאָר איז עפּעס ניט געװען װי געװײנטלעך. איז מה נשתּנה, מיט װאָס איז דער הײַיאָריקער סימפּאָזיום געװען אַנדערש װי אַלע יאָר?
מיט 20 יאָר צוריק האָט דער פֿילאָלאָג און היסטאָריקער שלמה בערגער ע״ה געגרינדעט דעם סימפּאָזיום — װי אַ פֿאָרש־קאָנפֿערענץ. אלא װאָס, אין יאָר 2026 איז דאָס ניט געװען קײן שמועס פֿון פֿאָרשער צװישן זיך, אין העלפֿאַנדבײן־טורעם, נאָר אַ קולטור־אונטערנעמונג פֿאַרן ברײטן עולם.
שױן דאָס באַגריס־װאָרט האָט געשמעקט מיט פּאָפּולאַריזירונג און פֿאָלקסטימלעכקײט. באַגריסט האָט דעם עולם די לעקטאָרין פֿאַר דער ייִדישער שפּראַך און ליטעראַטור בײַם אַמסטערדאַמער אוניװערסיטעט, דניאלה זײַדמאַן־מאַוער. אַלײן רעדנדיק אױף ענגליש, האָט זי באַמערקט, אַז מאַמע־לשון קװעלט מן־הסתּם פֿון נחת, זעענדיק די חסידישע קינדער װאָס בײַ זײ אין מױל לעבט די שפּראַך װײַטער.
זײַדמאַן־מאַוער האָט פֿון צײַט צו צײַט פֿאָרט אַרײַנגעכאַפּט אַ ייִדיש װאָרט: „זיצן שיבֿעה“, „קוגל“, „חוצפּה“. אױך יצחק באַשעװיסן האָט מען דערמאָנט. װי ניט איז, קומט זײַדמאַן־מאַורער אַ גרױסער יישר־כּוח פֿאַרן אײַנאָרדענען דעם סימפּאָזיום. אין דעם פּרט איז איר אַרבעט געװען זײער אַ געראָטענע.
סך־הכּל זײַנען געװען דרײַ רעדנערס. בײַם אָנהײב איז אַרױסגעטראָטן דװקא אַ װיסנשאַפֿטלערין מיט אַ רעפֿעראַט װעגן לינגװיסטיק. דאָס איז געװען די שפּראַך־פֿאָרשערין חיה־רחל נאָװע פֿון ניו־יאָרק. זי האָט איבערגעגעבן אינטערעסאַנטע אױספֿירן פֿון איר פֿאָרשונג און בעת־מעשׂה פֿאַרװײַלט דעם צוהערער־עולם.
אײדער ניו־יאָרק האָט געהײסן ניו־יאָרק, האָבן דאָרט געװױנט האָלענדישע קאָלאָניסטן אין אַ ייִשובֿ אױפֿן נאָמען נײַ־אַמסטערדאַם. אַפֿילו די שפּעטערדיקע דורות האָבן נאָך אַ צײַט לאַנג אױפֿגעהיט די נידערלענדישע שפּראַך — זײ האָבן זיך געהאַט זײערע צײַטונגען און אױך אײגענע שולן. אױב אַזױ, האָט די לינגװיסטן נאָװע געטענהט, קען מען דאָך מאַכן אַ גזירה־שװה און זאָגן דאָס אײגענע װעגן דער חסידישער באַפֿעלקערונג הײַנט צו טאָג, װאָרן אַ סך חסידים לעבן זיך װײַטער אױס אױף דער ייִדישער שפּראַך — צװישן זײ נאָװע אַלײן.
בשעתן רעפֿעראַט האָט זי טאַקע געװיזן אַ קורצן פֿילם מיט איר אײניקל װאָס לײענט פֿון אַ ייִדיש־לערנבוך. בײַם סוף האָט זי נאָך געװיזן אַ מוזיק־װידעאָ מיט אַ רעפּ פֿונעם פּאָפּולערן חסידישן זינגער אַרי סאַמעט. „פּסח האָבן די קינדער דאָס געזונגען אָן אױפֿהער!“ — האָט זי געזאָגט.
צװישן די גורמים װאָס פֿאַרזיכערן דעם המשך פֿון דער שפּראַך האָט נאָװע דערמאָנט דעם פֿאַקט, װאָס מע קען פֿירן געשעפֿטן און מאַכן אַ קאַריערע אױף ייִדיש. מע דאַרף ניט צוקומען צו ענגליש כּדי פּרנסה צו האָבן. אַחוץ געזעלשאַפֿטלעכע פֿאַקטאָרן האָט נאָװע אױך אַרומעגערעדט פֿאַקטן פֿון דער שפּראַך גופֿא.
אינעם לשון פֿון הײַנטיקע חסידים געפֿינען זיך סימנים סײַ פֿון המשך און סײַ פֿון באַנײַונג. חסידים זאָגן, למשל, „אַלעס“ (פֿאַר „אַלץ“) — פּונקט װי דער ייִדיש־רעדנידקער עולם אין אונגאַרישן אונטערלאַנד פֿאַר דער מלחמה. פֿון דער צװײטער זײַט, זאָגט מען הײַנט צו טאָג „אײביק“ (ניט „אַלע מאָל“, „תּמיד“ אָדער „אַלץ“) — אַ װאָרט װאָס אַמאָליקע צײַטן האָט מען עס זעלטן װען געבראַכט פֿאַרן מױל, און אַז יאָ, איז מײנענדיק דװקא „נצח“ און ניט אַז מע טוט עפּעס שטענדיק, כּסדר.
דער צװײטער רעדנער אױפֿן סימפּאָזיום האָט שױן גערעדט אין גאַנצן ניט אַקאַדעמיש, נאָר דערצײלט אַנעקדאָטן, פּערזענלעכע זכרונות. אױך בײַ אים האָט מען זיך גוט פֿאַרװײַלט און ער האָט ניט אײן מאָל אַרױסגערופֿן אַ געלעכטער בײַם עולם. דאָס האָט געשמועסט דער שוועדישער פֿאַרלעגער ניקאָלײַ אָלניאַנסקי װעגן זײַן פֿאַרלאַג און װעגן דעם װי אַזױ ער האָט זיך גענומען צום אַרױסגעבן הײַנטצײַטיקע װעלטלעכע ליטעראַטור אױף ייִדיש.
אָלניאַנסקי איז אַ שװעד װאָס האָט זיך מגייר געװען. לכתּחילה האָט ער גענומען זיך לערנען ייִדיש כּדי ניט אָנצוּװערן זײַן סטודענטישע דירה. אָבער נאָך דעם האָט ער שטאַרק הנאה געהאַט פֿון די שפּראַך־לעקציעס מיט שלמה שולמאַנען ע״ה, װאָס האָט דעמאָלט געהאַלטן ייִדיש־לעקציעס אױפֿן לונדער אוניװערסיטעט. שפּעטערצו האָט ייִדיש געשפּילט אַ צענטראַלע ראָלע פֿאַר זײַן באַנעמען זיך אַלײן װי אַ ייִד.
מיט דער צײַט האָט אָלניאַנסקי, אין אײנעם מיט זײַן װײַב אידאַ, אַלײן אָנגעהױבן זיך אױסלעבן אױף ייִדיש און אַרױסגעבן אַ צײַטשריפֿט, װאָס אין איר האָבן זײ געשריבן װעגן „העװי מעטאַל“, װידעאָ־שפּילן און נאָך ענינים װאָס האָבן זײ פֿאַראינטערעסירט. די יונגע משפּחה אָלניאַנסקי איז אין גיכן דערגאַנגען צום אױספֿיר, אַז פֿאַרן ייִדישן המשך דאַרף מען האָבן װעלטלעכע קינדערביכער אױף ייִדיש. און דאָס פּאָרפֿאָלק איז ניט געזעסן מיט פֿאַרלײגטע הענט, נאָר זיך טאַקע גענומען צו דער אַרבעט.
שלום בערגער האָט דעמאָלט רעצענזירט זײערע ביכער פֿאַרן פֿאָרװערטס און אַראָפּגעריסן צװײ פֿון זײ. אָלניאַנסקי האָט זיך אָפּגערופֿן דערױף, אױך אינעם פֿאָרװערטס, מיט טענות קעגן „אַן עליטיזם װאָס שטײט תּמיד אין וועג דעם לעבעדיקן, הײַנטצײַטיקן ייִדיש.“ בערגער האָט געהאַלטן אַז אָלניאַנסקיס ביכער לײענען זיך טײל מאָל „װי אַ ראָבאָט װאָלט זײ אָנגעשריבן“. אױף דעם האָט אָלניאַנסקי געענטפֿערט — מיט אַ ראָמאַן װעגן אַ ייִדישיסט װאָס הײסט קאָליאַ ראָבאָטסקי.
בשעת װען די ערשטע צװײ רעפֿעראַטן האָט מען געהאַלטן אױף ענגליש, איז דער דריטער און לעצטער געװען — אױף פֿלעמיש, דער סאָרט האָלענדיש װאָס מע רעדט אין צפֿון־בעלגיע. דאָס האָט דערצײלט נפֿתּלי מאָסקאָװיטש, אַ חסיד פֿון אַנטװערפּן, װעגן זײַן אַרבעט װי אַן עצה־געבער אין שפּראַך־ענינים פֿאַר דער נעטפֿליקס־סעריע „רױע דימענטן“.
אין דער אמתן האָט מאָסקאָװיטש ניט נאָר געלערנט הילכות אױסשפּראַך, נאָר אױך ייִדישע פֿירונגען: װאָס טוט אַ שטײגער אַ פֿרומער ייִד װען ער כאַפּט זיך אױף פֿון שלאָף? װי אַזױ זאָגט מען מודה־אַני און גיסט אָפּ נעגל־װאַסער? װי אַזױ פֿירט זיך אַ חסידיש פּאָרפֿאָלק צװישן זיך?
װאָס שײך אַרױסרעד, האָט ער געשילדערט דעם גאַנג פֿון לימוד: צו ערשט דאַרף דער אַקטיאָר דאָך פֿאַרשטײן און קענען זאָגן די װערטער: װאָס — הערט — זיך, נאָר לסוף עס אַרױסרעדן: „װאָסערצאַך?“
אַז מע האָט געדאַרפֿט בראָקן פּסוקים לשון־קודש, האָט מאָסקאָװיטש זיך אָבער אַ מאָל מיאש געװען פֿונעם אױסלערנען זײַנע תּלמידים דעם אַרױסרעד. אײַנחזרן דעם פּיוט „אשת־חיל“ װאָלט זײ נאָך אַלעמען אָנגעקומען צו שװער. איז װאָס װעט מען טאָן אַז אַ משפּחה זעצט זיך אַװעק בײַם שבתדיקן טיש פֿרײַטיק־צו־נאַכט, און אַלע מאַנסבילן אין אײנעם דאַרפֿן זינגען אָט דעם לױבגעזאַנג לכּבֿוד דער ייִדישער פֿרױ?
צום סוף האָט מען רעקאָרדירט מאָסקאָװיטשן גופֿא עטלעכע מאָל װי ער זינגט אױס דעם ניגון, אַזױ אַז ס׳זאָל פֿאָרט קלינגען כּאילו דאָס זינגט אַ גאַנץ געזעמל מענערשע שטימען. װעגן אַזעלכע און אַנדערע פּרטים פֿון הינטער די קוליסן האָט מען זיך געקענט דערװיסן פֿון מאָסקאָװיטשן, װאָס אַרבעט אַנדערש װי אַ העברעיִש־לערער.
די אָרגאַניזאַטאָרן האָט זיך אַזױ אַרום אײַנגעגעבן אײַנצוסדרן אַ נאָכמיטאָג לעקציעס װאָס האָבן געקענט פֿאַראינטערעסירן סײַ אַקאַדעמישע פֿאָרשער־מבֿינים און סײַ דעם פּראָסטן, װײניקער באַהאַװנטן עולם. אַחוץ דעם איז דאָס אױך געװען אַ שײנע געלעגנהײט פֿאַר ייִדישיסטן זיך צונױפֿצוטרעפֿן און צו כאַפּן אַ שמועס אױף ייִדיש־לשון. דורך דעם האָט די ייִדישע שפּראַך גופֿא אױך געקראָגן אַ תּיקון אױף אָט דער לעבעדיקער אונטערנעמונג.
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A New Jersey congregation was already falling apart. Then came Oct 7.
Partly Strong, Partly Broken
By Nathaniel Popkin
New Door Books, $19.95, 249 pages
When Rabbi Adinah Feld returns to her reform congregation in New Jersey after a nearly week-long trip to Israel, she discovers two crises have occurred in her absence: The roof of the synagogue has collapsed after a heavy storm and the Muslim teenager, Fami, who helps clean the shul is in the hospital after a savage attack by a local white supremacist.
Things only further devolve from here in Partly Strong, Partly Broken, a new novel from author and former Wall Street Journal critic Nathaniel Popkin. The fictional synagogue of Temple Beth Israel fractures — metaphorically and physically — in the month leading up to the Oct. 7 Hamas attack.
Feld is presented as the archetypal neo-liberal American rabbi. Her trip to Israel, we quickly learn, consisted of participating in the pro-democracy protests and pining for her Palestinian ex-girlfriend, whom she first met nearly two decades earlier while living in Israel. Once she’s home, her attention is split between trying to fix the storm-damaged roof, respond to the attack, and finally launch the Hebrew learning center she’s been advocating for the synagogue to have for years.
But at every turn there’s a challenge: The incompetent and combative building manager can’t seem to get the roof fixed; some congregants believe Feld’s concern for Fami is proof she cares more about Muslims than Jews; a wealthy board member wants his name on the Hebrew center and his project manager in charge — a woman who takes personal offense when Feld invites the local Imam to join tashlich.
Many readers will probably see their own congregation in the fictional Temple Beth Israel, especially if they’ve served on a synagogue’s board or committee. But for those who have avoided seeing behind the administrative curtain of a synagogue, the complex power dynamics might come as a shock.
Popkin deftly captures a stark truth: The attack on Oct. 7 and the subsequent war didn’t create the divisions over Israel in the Jewish community; it exposed tensions that were already there. This reality, combined with a prophecy from the Book of Daniel — Daniel tells Babylonian King Nebuchadnezzar that his dream of a statue with feet made of iron and clay reveal that the foundations of his kingdom were “partly strong, and partly broken.” — is the inspiration for the book’s title.
For some, the fact that Jews have always been divided over Israel may not seem like a particularly insightful observation. But after Oct. 7, there was a lot of shock and outrage among the Jewish community at the wide range of opinions in their communities. As Partly Strong shows, when synagogues avoid talking about Israel to mitigate conflict (or please wealthy donors, as Feld does in the book), they don’t prevent conflict — they just make disagreements and tough discussions about Israel taboo and volatile.
In Popkin’s novel, the conflict comes to a head less than a week before Oct. 7 at a whiskey-fueled book talk where a Jewish comparative literature professor presents his claims about understanding the role of epigenetics and inherited trauma in the book of Genesis. The conversation quickly turns towards trauma among Israelis and Palestinians — a subject the drunken congregants are not prepared to discuss civilly.
As startlingly realistic as Popkin’s story is, the strong narrative occasionally feels disrupted by verbose, overexplanatory writing (“She’d better go find Fami right away and give her the silver chain with the hamesh pendant, the palm-shaped amulet of protection that is usually called by its Arabic name, hamsa, and sometimes the hand of Fatima, for the daughter of Mohammed”) and a surfeit of subplots. At one point, readers are pulled away from the main story for a brief and sappy sex scene between two teenage Hebrew school instructors on a faux polar bear rug (the girl is described as “dessert” and the boy is described as an “Olympic eater”). While it was impressive to see what seemed like half of my home congregation represented, at some point it becomes too much to keep track of all the characters, big or small, and all their issues.
We don’t actually see how the characters respond to Oct. 7 — the book ends with a small group of them huddled together watching the first reports of the attack on a television. We’re left to imagine how Feld and her congregation will handle the aftermath — although readers have probably already lived it themselves.
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