The Man in the Photo

After the Anschluss in 1938, my father’s family and their entire community were expelled from their homes in Kittsee, Austria by the Nazis. With only the clothes on their backs, and with no neighboring country willing to take them in, the group of 60-odd Jews were placed on a rat-infested cargo barge for months and then confined to a detention camp for over a year. Even while finding himself in a most perilous and frightening situation, Zaida Yaakov was filled with optimism and hakaras hatov. In a letter to his chavrusa during the harrowing ordeal, without minimizing the trauma, he wrote, “There are no words that can adequately express my deep sense of gratitude to Hashem for the kindness He did on behalf of my family.”

My family was granted asylum and arrived in the United States just prior to the outbreak of the war. They settled in Spring Valley, New York. Zaida Yaakov was instrumental in establishing the Yeshiva of Spring Valley, which today has an enrollment of over 1,800 students. But in a tragic turn of fate, in 1945 he passed away suddenly at the age of 42, due to complications from surgery. His widow and four children were shocked and pained into a silence that lasted for years.

That’s why all I knew of Zaida Yaakov while growing up were a few facts, and then there were two photos I found in a dark corner of our basement. One is a family portrait of my grandparents and their children taken upon their arrival to the United States. My Zaida looks distinguished with his beard, hat, and tie, relieved to have brought his family to safety. In the other photo, my Zaida’s expression is somber as he holds a piece of klaf from a sefer Torah that had been slashed by the Nazis. The tangible pain etched on his face becomes my pain, teaching me the value of the Torah in a way nothing else can. As a child, when I would stumble upon this photo, which was not on display, I would wonder: Who was the man behind the face in the photo? What qualities defined my Zaida? Did he ever smile?

Only when my brother and I were emptying our parents’ home after our mother’s passing did we stumble upon a treasure trove of letters, photos, and documents that provided a gateway into the landscape of my family history. So began my search for my roots, characterized by an unquenchable thirst for any piece of information I could get my hands on. I analyzed every document and pursued every lead. Every new fact I discovered became a priceless piece of the puzzle.