We move out of our comfort zone, bemoan no-parking zones, and drive in a family no-fly zone

Being in different time zones makes it challenging for us three sisters to schedule brainstorming Zooms (SchmooZooms) to choose a topic we all agree on. When we finally do Zoom, we follow a simple rule: If any topic works for only two of us, then it goes into a file of Unwritten Schmoozes for possible future resuscitation.

Another guiding principle: If we ever head toward something like conflict (baruch Hashem, that hasn’t happened yet!), we remember our parents, Nachum and Rose Stark a”h. That’s when we take a step back.

During our latest SchmooZoom, as ideas flew across video cyberspace, we came up with a topic that worked for us all: Zones.

We hope you won’t zone out as we move out of our comfort zone, bemoan no-parking zones, and drive in a family no-fly zone.

Emmy Leah moves...

Out of Her Comfort Zone

Zikaron b’Salon — Remembrance in the Living Room — is an Israeli program where Shoah survivors, and more recently, their children, share their or their parents’ stories to a group gathered in a home setting.

Our mother, Mrs. Rose Stark a”h, survived Auschwitz. For years, she told her own story, in speech and writing, about the nightmare night when her young husband, baby, parents, in-laws, three sisters, and their families were murdered. About her year of torture, slave labor, and death marches; her recovery in Sweden; rebuilding her family in America. With her gift for language (she spoke eight!), she moved audiences and readers.

Since her petirah, I’ve spoken and written about her experiences. So when Zikaron b’Salon asked me to speak, I felt… comfortable.

I’d speak in my hometown, Bet Shemesh, and in English. It’s never easy to discuss the Shoah, but I was still comfortably in my comfort zone: speaking in my native language to religious English-speaking women, sitting on a comfortable couch, perhaps with comfort foods (burekas? cheesecake?) after my talk. Focusing on my mother’s strength and resilience, the evening would be… comforting.

And then came the phone call, and comfort took an uncomfortable turn…

*

A social worker asked me to speak about my mother’s Holocaust experience.

In Hebrew, not English.

At a rehabilitation facility, not in a living room.

Not to religious women, but to non-religious men, recovering drug and alcohol addicts completing a year of therapy.

Discomfort doesn’t begin to describe my feelings. Stunned would be more like it.

Wanting to refuse, I explained that my Hebrew was fine for everyday use, but I still made mistakes.

“That’s good,” she answered. “These men need to learn it’s okay to make mistakes and to continue anyway.”

Suddenly my difficulties with zachar and nekeivah (grammatical masculine and feminine) could become a source of inspiration. Hmmm….

I shared some of my mother’s stories of before, during, after the Holocaust, describing how she rebuilt a shattered life.

That’s exactly what these men have to hear, she said.

Comfort zone?

Overrated.

I agreed to speak.