Suffering only brings forth salvation if there are seeds of longing to become higher

My Opa was a quiet man. We have a prewar picture of him sitting with his brothers, each with almost identical faces, mustaches, and the same solemn, unsmiling expression. Was it frowned upon to smile for pictures?
Unimposing and slim, with Yekkish neatness and propriety, he didn’t make waves, my Opa. But that same Yekkish personality didn’t allow him to yield on principles either.
In Germany he’d been a successful business owner, but when he disembarked on the West Coast in 1939, he was penniless, with Oma and my father to support. Yet despite his business acumen and the comfortable lifestyle he was used to, he became a peddler, going door-to-door to sell thread, preferring that humble trade rather than run the risk of chillul Shabbos.
And years later, when my uncle was reunited with his parents after the war, Opa didn’t hesitate to send him — and then my father — across the country to yeshivah, despite the pain of a long separation. Torah was his life, and in his quiet way, he was unwavering.
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