LettersSidura Ludwig

Letters

By Sidura Ludwig

Dear Mr. Ben-Haim,

Your name was passed onto me through the prison chaplaincy program. My roll is to

offer spiritual guidance to Jewish inmates. I am a trained social worker so please know

that my skills extend beyond the rabbinate. However, I do approach all my clients

through the lens of Jewish spirituality. In my experience, men who are granted the time to

think, perhaps to repent, at some point their questions and journey turn to God – be it,

Why, God, did You put me here? Or Dear God, grant me the strength to overcome this

challenge.

I hope you don’t find this presumptive. As I said, that has been my experience

with convinced felons, both Jewish and not. I am here to introduce myself in the hopes

that we can begin a dialogue and that I can be a support to you during your time.

Please know, should you need me to advocate on your behalf for your religious

rights while you are in prison, I am able and willing to do so. This can include, though is

not exclusive to: kosher food requests, space and accessories for prayer, access to a

minyan for kaddish, kosher for Passover food, etc. Please don’t hesitate to ask. I’m not

always successful, but I do try.

When you’re ready, tell me a bit about yourself. I am a Lubavitch rabbi, originally

from Crown Heights. I moved to the Toronto area when I married my wife

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35 years ago. We are blessed with a large family, some of whom are spread all over the

world continuing the great Rebbe’s (z”l) work. I have training in drug and alcohol abuse

counseling. I’ve worked with people as young as high schoolers, university students, all

the way up to senior citizens. I believe that the Torah, our religious teachings, is for

everyone. Anyone can find comfort and guidance in the beauty of our rituals. Also, I love

baseball. I’ll admit – I do thank God for the Blue Jays’ current season.

I look forward to hearing from you.

Sincerely,

Rabbi Shmuel Jessin

* * *

Dear Rabbi Jessin,

I wasn’t going to write to you. I’m not much of a writer. And I don’t have much

in the way of questions. I know why I’m here. I never denied doing what I did. You

know, I’m not all that concerned about kosher food. There’s something ironic about a

man concerned about eating kosher who has no problem beating the crap out of another

man. You know what I mean? Isn’t there a commandment about Do unto others as you

want done to you? Or is that Christian? Or Sesame Street? Sorry, Rabbi. I’m not so well

versed. At least I’m honest. And I have been all the way through. I never denied what I

did.

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You know why I’m in here, right? I beat up the man who plowed down my

grandmother. I don’t need to go into the details for you. You can look them up. Are

you guys allowed computers? Or is that monks? No, that’s the vow of silence.

Sometimes I think I’d be better off doing something like that. Not speaking. That whole

deep breathing shit.

I can swear with you, right? If you’re used to working with criminals, then I take

it you hear a lot worse than shit. I gather you’ve heard it all. So what I can I tell you?

Firstly, no one calls me Mr. Ben-Haim, except the judge at my sentencing. I’m Adam.

Mr. Ben-Haim was my father. But only in name. He left to go back to Russia when I was

four and my sister was a baby. I don’t remember him. My mother only ever referred to

him as “the asshole.” A few years later she left too to chase her dreams out west. She

promised she’d be back, but you know what that’s worth. At least my dad never made

any promises he couldn’t keep. If you’re going to write, call me Adam. I should have

changed my last name a long time ago.

I don’t ask questions. Sorry, Rabbi. I gather that’s what you’re looking for. It’s

just not me. You know, I’m not all that concerned about kosher food. There’s something

ironic about a man concerned about eating kosher who has no problem beating the crap

out of another man. I don’t really care whether or not there’s a god. And if there is, I

don’t care if he handed out some kind of guidebook for life. You just need to look around

to know that that didn’t work out for us. I don’t mind talking with you, I’m just saying

don’t try to convert me.

At some point I might be interested in saying kaddish for my grandmother.

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It’s been two years since she died. That’s the kind of thing she would have liked.

She basically raised me. So, you could help me with that. That guy backed into her in a

parking lot. She was buying bagels. The asshole was on his phone and didn’t know which

way his car was going. But he got off. Or at least, he’s not here. I am. How’s that for

karma? Do you believe in karma? Or past lives? I figure I did something really awful at

some other time. ‘Cause I’m paying for it now. I don’t know about God, but I believe in

karma. So the asshole who ran over my grandmother, he’s got something coming to him.

That’s not a threat – I just get how these things work out. I’m just saying.

Also, he was one of your guys. Black hat. Long beard. Maybe you should be

counseling him, ‘cause I’m still waiting for him to ask my forgiveness.

Anyway, thanks for writing.

Adam

Dear Adam,

Thank you for you reply. I will look into organizing a minyan for you to say kaddish for

your grandmother. Please let me know the exact date of her death. If I can arrange the

service on actual Hebrew anniversary, I will. Again, I make no promises.

Karma is a funny thing. It is not a Jewish concept, as I suspect you know. We believe

there is only one true Judge, G-d, Hakodesh Baruchu. Seeking forgiveness is about

teshuvah, repenting. However the actually translation of teshuvah is “to return.” We

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speak about teshuvah when we talk about Jewish people finding themselves in Jewish

faith. It’s a very personal journey. We have no control over someone else’s journey to

teshuvah. Only our own.

I suggest we meet. I visit the prison the first Sunday of every month. I am happy

to sit with you and discuss some of these concepts in person. I am not in the business of

conversion. You are already Jewish! I lead whoever is interested in a

prayer service. I will bring tefillan – the black boxes men wear on their heads and arms

during morning prayers – and talleisim – prayer shawls. Come and we can speak

afterwards.

Rabbi Jessin.

Dear Rabbi,

I had a friend once who tried to get me to put on those prayer boxes. He was crazy. A

fanatic. We were just kids. Maybe 15. We used to ride around the neighbourhood on our

bikes. I remember he wore that prayer shawl thing under his clothes. Those tassels that

stuck out by his waist. I always thought they would get caught in his bicycle somehow. I

remember that – I rode behind him and they waved in the wind like tails.

This one time he took me to a mansion that was only half built. Some rich guy

had it made for his daughter’s wedding, or something like that. And maybe they had the

reception there, but they never finished it. There was supposed to be a huge deck in the

back and there was nothing. The floors upstairs weren’t laid. I remember some of the

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light fixtures were empty. Just these wires hanging from the ceiling where some

chandelier probably the cost of my grandmother’s house was going to hang. I guess even

rich people run out of money.

My friend figured out that we could get into the house from the back if I crouched

down and he stood on my back, he could reach the sliding door which

wasn’t locked. It’s so funny, because I really haven’t thought about this before now. But

I can still remember the smell of the wet mud under my knees and hands, and my friend’s

feet near my shoulders. They smelled like corn chips. It was gross. I remember that.

He took me inside and then into the front room and there were these huge

windows from the floor to the ceiling. It was like a ballroom. Or a church. His name was

Daniel. I called him Dan. We liked to bike together. But he was finding himself that

summer. The kippah on his head all the time. And he would stop to pray if the sun was in

this particular spot in the sky. I never really got it. And then he wanted me to call him

Dani-el. Emphasis on the “el,” which had something to do with God. And I was like,

“Ok, Dan.” He was taller than me. He was growing faster than I was. He already had

thick hair all along his chin and he said he was never going to cut it. I remember the way

he stood in the light from that tall window and how each hair on his face seemed to glow,

like gold specks. I couldn’t even get a mustache growing. So I was like, you know.

Maybe he’s onto something.

And then he pulls those prayer boxes out of his backpack and he says something

about, “Put these on. It’s a mitzvah. I can show you.”

And I’m like, “It’s okay, buddy. I’m good.”

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But he gets all serious. He gets like right up close to me and he’s like, “No really.

Adam. You have to do this. At least once. Hashem commands us to.”

So I step back. I put my hand up and I say, “You know I don’t believe that crap.”

And then he gets emotional! He’s like tearing up. He’s going, “It’s not crap,

Adam. I’m serious. It’s serious stuff. This is who we are.” He goes on about his rabbi and

the group he goes to after school. The stuff they do together on Saturdays. How I’m

missing out. But if I just try this one commandment, this one time. I can be a part of

something bigger.

It’s funny how such a big house could feel so, so small right then. I remember

feeling like I couldn’t breathe. Every time I took a step back, he took one towards me.

Until finally, I put out my arm and I was like, “Okay fine. Whatever,” because I just

wanted to get out of there.

He wound that black leather strap around my arm so tight, my skin burned

underneath it. I felt like one of those snake handlers at the zoo. There’s something funny,

right? Because isn’t there a story about a snake and the apple in the Torah? Daniel was

getting me to repeat the blessing after him. He had his eyes closed, shut so tight it was

like there was something he was afraid to see. With each word, he bowed back and forth.

Do you do that when you pray? It’s like Autistic people when there’s too much noise.

With Daniel it was like the words he was saying were almost too much for his body. And

then it was like he forgot all together that I was there.

So I just took off. I still had the box on my arm, the one on my head. I jumped on my

bike and rode home and I must have looked like the biggest idiot with those leather straps

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flying. I guess I was the one with the tails then. But I remember that the one on my arm

got loose and slapped against my leg, like a whip.

So that’s what I know about religious guys. They’re either crazy, or running down

grandmothers in parking lots and getting away with it by lying. You know

what that guy said about my grandmother? He said she was on her phone and not

looking where she was going. But what about the phone in his car, the one he hid in his

glove compartment? The one everyone ignored because my grandmother’s phone was

smashed on the ground, 12 feet from where she was knocked down, like it had gone

flying from her hand.

It’s all crap, Rabbi. A liar is a liar, I don’t care what colour his hat is or how often

he prays. Because no god is going to help him if he can’t be honest. And my friend, the

crazy kid? He went berserk. He followed me home and was pounding on our front door

for his tefillan, his tefillan. He didn’t care that he completely freaked me out. He never

apologized for basically holding me captive. It’s cultish, Rabbi. I don’t care what you

say. I opened the door, finally, and I threw the tefillan past him, and he actually

screamed. There was spit flying out of this mouth. He was yelling about how I had to fast

now. I threw holy scripture. I was a heretic. I told him to “Fuck off” and I slammed the

door. I think it took him a long time to pull himself together. I watched him through the

peephole in the door. He paced for a long time. He looked like a nervous panther. And

then he rode off.

We never hung out after that. There was no point.

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I’m not interested in asking anything from a god who makes people crazy, or who

sides with liars. And I’m not letting you or anyone else tie me up and tell me it’s good for

my soul.

You seem like a nice guy. But then so did Daniel, and he went bat shit. And I’m

sure the guy who killed my grandmother is a nice guy too. I’m sure he was

calling his mother to say how much he loved her when he plowed my grandmother

down.

Adam

Dear Adam,

I want to tell you a story: When I was a boy, I took something that didn’t belong to me. It

was a glove – a baseball glove – it belonged to my friend. All I can say is I wanted it. He

let me try it on once, it fit me perfectly (like a glove, you might say!). It was like the

leather was molded to my hand. I needed this glove, you understand. I was 10 years old.

My parents didn’t have the money to buy us such things. And they didn’t want me

wasting my time with baseball. Better I should be learning. My father wanted me to be a

Torah scholar. I wanted to be a major league pitcher. So you see, the glove was part of

my plan. I even convinced myself it was divinely inspired.

One evening, I took it when my friend wasn’t looking. A bunch of us boys were at

the park. I ran home before he could notice it was gone. I remember the blood pounded in

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my face when I sat in my bedroom with the glove in my lap. I remember that it felt a lot

heavier than I expected it to.

Of course, I couldn’t do anything with the glove. I couldn’t take it anywhere. My

parents couldn’t find me with it – they would know I took it from somewhere. My friends

couldn’t see me with it – they would know it wasn’t mine. And my friend who I stole it

from would recognize it right away. So all I could do was lie in my bed with the glove on

my hand, closing my eyes. Imagining I was at Fenway, first baseman. My glove like a

magnet.

A week later, maybe two, my mother requested a phone call with the Rebbe, and

he called us. She was worried about me, you see. I’d stopped hanging out with my

friends. I was looking pale. I only wanted to lie down. She was asking for guidance. She

had been praying to Hakodesh Barchu.

The Rebbe said, “Put him on the phone.”

I will never forget the way she looked at me. Her eyes had never looked so big.

She waved me over and she held out the phone to me. She said, “Listen. He wants to

speak to you.”

I think I knew before he spoke what he was going to say. And how can I explain

it? All he said was, “It’s time to give the glove back.”

How could he know? But this was the Rebbe’s gift. And when I said, “Ok,” he

answered, “You are a good boy. You have a strong neshomo. You are meant to bring

light to this world.”

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This is what I try to live up to. None of us are perfect. But we can only try. Light

in the darkness is our quest for redemption. Forgiveness. When we grow as Jews, even in

the darkest of places, we spread our light unto the nations.

There will be a prayer service Saturday morning in the chapel. If we have ten

Jewish men attending, we can say kaddish for your grandmother. Come meet me.

Rabbi Jessin

Rabbi,

Not everyone is destine to be a candle. Or a fucking flashlight you can switch on and off.

If I am a flashlight, then I’m that flashlight you find in the basement, dead batteries.

Hasn’t worked in years.

When I was arrested, I called my sister in Israel. She’s there serving in the army,

something she would never consider doing here. But her boyfriend was going and she

couldn’t bear to be away from him. Even though that’s not what she says.

She says she believes in a Jewish homeland, and fighting for it, or serving the State.

She’s not actually fighting. I think she works as a medical secretary. Funny, here you’d

have to go to school for a position like that. There, they hire you right out of high school.

But if anything, she’s the light. She’s the one always looking for a higher purpose.

She said to me, when I called, she said, “I don’t know if I can ever forgive you for

this.”

I said, “I didn’t ask you.”

She said, “You knew it was an accident. You knew he didn’t mean to hit her.

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This is not what Bubby would have wanted.”

I said, “She wouldn’t have wanted you to move to a country that’s always at

war.”

She said, “What I’m doing and what you did are no where near the same.”

And then I yelled at her because she was always trying to act better than me and I

was tired of it. Even if I knew it was true. She hung up on me but before she did she said,

“Of all the people who have left me, I didn’t think it would ever be you, and not like

this.”

And then she’s the one who took off. She hung up and I haven’t heard from her

since.

So I don’t know if you make phone calls, but I could get you her number and

maybe you could reach her for me. You could tell her that we’re talking. Maybe that

would change her mind.

The guy was never charged. And I couldn’t just leave it. This idea that no one was

going to pay for my grandmother’s murder. It was murder, Rabbi. Anyway you look at it.

Accidental murder, manslaughter, second degree. My grandmother walked out of that

bakery and onto the road like she always did and because he wasn’t paying any attention,

he backed into her and she fell right over. I don’t care that he supports his big family on a

teacher’s salary. She was the only one who ever supported me.

I took stuff when I was a kid. After that whole thing with Dan and the tefillan, I

spent the rest of that summer breaking into people’s houses. In our neighbourhood,

everyone forgot to lock their sliding doors. And on the weekends, people went up to the

cottage. So I would get into their homes from the back and then take one thing while their

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house alarm was blazing, but the cops never came. I took half-empty bottles of whiskey.

Silver candle sticks. A video game system. Once I just took chocolate. The local paper

used to print the break-ins in the area for the previous week. And I saw mine – entry:

back sliding door; took: chocolate. Someone actually reported that! The chocolate wasn’t

even that good.

But you know, when I went after that guy, I went right for his front door. He

wasn’t even going to be charged. They dropped the charges. He should have turned

himself in. He should have pleaded with the cops to take him. I pounded on his door and

I remember my face was sweating. All along my forehead, running down my nose.

The guy comes to the door and he’s all polite and saying, “Can I help you?”

There are kids behind him. So I say, “Come out here. I have to show you

something.”

And you’d think he’d know not to, right? Because I’m obviously pissed. My face

is pounding red and he’d got to be seeing that. If I’d been him, seeing me on his doorstep,

I’d have closed my front door so fast and called the police. But he goes and steps outside,

closes the door behind him so his kids can’t watch us. The paint was peeling on his front

door. It would have kept falling off in flakes if I’d kept pounding. Like little bits of blue

dried skin.

I swung right at his face and I felt his nose crack. I felt bits of bone. I pounded

him with my other hand as hard as I had knocked on his door. He cried out when I

knocked out his teeth. He wasn’t even fast enough to swing back at me. He was just lying

there on his driveway, hands over his face, crying, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” But that’s not a

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real apology, is it, Rabbi. And you know, by then that wasn’t what I was there for. I

wasn’t interested in stealing an apology by pounding it out of him.

I don’t believe in light. I believe in justice. Someone had to serve for my

grandmother. And if it has to be me, then fine. I can lie here all day and think about her.

About how that man will probably always talk with a lisp now. His face will never be the

same. He will have to look at himself and remember her every day.

But you know, my sister doesn’t understand that I am serving. There is a higher

purpose. If you want to call it God, or forgiveness or whatever. But life couldn’t just go

on, could it. I couldn’t just leave things the way they were, because then no one was

remembering her. Even my sister Ava, off in Israel, fighting for the Jewish people and

some ancient right given by God knows. I guess if you believe it, then God does know.

And Ava thinks she’s out there, filing medical records and that’s serving God. I bet she

doesn’t spend more than five minutes a day thinking of our grandmother. Ava’s not like

that. She’s always about moving forward.

But if you could reach her, I’d appreciate that. If you could tell her I’m doing a lot

of thinking, then maybe she’ll understand.

Adam

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