Rav Shimon Schwab and the Magic Glue

T

hey weren’t really “survivors,” but my dear in-laws, Hachaver Rav Shlomo and Rivka Ferber, a”h, were most definitely refugees, having escaped Germany just weeks before the outbreak of World War II. Both came to England, where they were later introduced and eventually married — in London, during the height of the German bombing raids.

After the war, the childless couple immigrated to New York in search of better parnassah opportunities and better mazel. Baruch Hashem, both aspirations were achieved as my father-in-law found steady shomer Shabbos employment and the couple were blessed with three children, one of whom became my wife.

Initially, the Ferbers settled in midtown Manhattan. When the neighborhood changed, they moved to Washington Heights and became members of a local shtibel and the Breuer’s Kehillah.

One Pesach shortly after we married, my wife and I spent the last days of Yom Tov with my in-laws. At the seudah on Leil Acharon shel Pesach, my father-in-law launched into one of his favorite conversation topics: life in prewar Poland and Germany during the Third Reich. As much as he relished sharing his reminiscences, my mother-in-law felt such talk was un-Yom-Tov-dig, since it brought back unpleasant memories of stressful times. And she tried, not so subtly, to change the subject. Their minor difference of opinion remained with me the next day when my father-in-law invited me to join him for “Matnas yad.”