Every synagogue has characters. Temple Brit Kodesh on Miami Beach was no different. Though he was only forty-six years old, Rabbi Sam Groh had learned this well after twenty years on the pulpit. He was known among his congregants as kind and affable, with a sharp sense of humor. He was beloved for his ability to make Judaism relevant in their lives. And he always knew what to say even in the most trying times. Rabbi Groh may not have had movie-star looks, but he was well put together, and always dressed in the latest fashions. His trademark tortoise-shell glasses gave him a look of elegant sophistication without sacrificing his boyish looks. It was not unusual for someone to comment how incredible it was for a rabbi of his age to already be leading such a large congregation. Like any pulpit rabbi, he sometimes found his congregants overly and unnecessarily demanding. But that was the business he’d chosen, and he never shrank from the opportunity to stand up for his people and his congregation.
The Jews of Miami were making significant advances in society, but for the survivors of Hitler’s inferno and the Jews fighting for survival in Palestine, life was far different. The devastation of the war in Europe weighed heavily on Rabbi Groh’s mind even a year after German surrender. He felt guilty enjoying the good life on Collins Avenue while his brothers and sisters were fighting to get out of Europe and into Palestine. Rabbi Groh felt guilty not volunteering to serve in the Haganah himself. Why should some Jews have to defend the Land of Israel while others refused to a lift a finger? Such guilt dogged him wherever he went.
It was that passion for his people that convinced him to meet one of his synagogue’s greatest characters for breakfast that morning at the Canopy Diner. Rabbi Groh entered his favorite diner at ten past eight in the morning. Through all the grey-haired men in shorts and sandals staring carefully at their newspapers, he spotted Al Farber sitting alone in a booth at the far end of the noisy dining room. Al was a seemingly successful salesman, though it was hard to say for sure. He was seventy years old and scruffy looking. He wore large black glasses that he hoped would hide his wandering left eye.
Al was always at shul. Not a huge donor, as the rabbi knew, but he always seemed to be in the mix. And boy could he talk. He often monopolized the rabbi’s time before and after services with his inane stories about his family, his job, or his past. The rabbi needed an extra hand to count how many times he’d heard the story of how Al grew up living next door to Lou Gehrig back in the Bronx. You would think Al himself played for the Yankees with how often he would mention those stories.
But even though he annoyed the rabbi, the rabbi suffered his routine because he knew that Al really did mean well. So when Al requested that the rabbi meet a friend of his from Palestine that morning, the rabbi’s interest was piqued. He willingly put aside the skepticism usually reserved for Al’s ridiculous ideas and stories.
“Trust me, Rabbi, this meeting will be worth your while,” Al had promised the previous week. “This friend of mine, he’s a do-gooder. He wants to help our brothers and sisters overseas. Just a quick breakfast is all I’m asking.” At mention of this topic, Rabbi Groh was intrigued. Plus, he loved the Canopy’s French toast.
The rabbi approached Al’s booth, extended his hand, and said, “Morning, Al, good to see you.” The rabbi didn’t love wasting time, but maybe this was a chance to do some good for the Jews of Palestine.
“Rabbi, I’m glad to see you,” Al said in a less blustery tone than usual. For such an outgoing guy, he sounded as if he was standing among mourners at a funeral. “My friend will be here any minute, and I really hope you can help him. These Jews are in rough shape, and they need our help. It’s amazing what they are doing over there, and if we aren’t going over to help them fight, we might as well help them the best we can from here.”
“Al, I can’t believe you have a friend who knows what’s happening on the ground over there. I’m amazed that someone who has been there and knows what is going on is here now in Miami. It’s incredible—their will to survive after what so many of them have been through. I wish there was more we could do to help.”
“Well, maybe there is. I know how much you want to help, and I think there might be a real role for you to play in all of this,” Al said, knowing he was speaking the rabbi’s language.
Al, like almost everyone in the congregation, truly respected Rabbi Groh. Rabbi Groh had been with the shul for about five years. In that time, the Temple had grown into the biggest reform synagogue in Florida. It was flooded with former GIs who had gotten their feet in the sand during the war and found that Miami Beach was a much nicer place to raise their kids than dreary Baltimore, Philadelphia, or Brooklyn. Rabbi Groh was the right guy for them. He was kind, but funny. He was politically adept at navigating the different segments of the shul’s population. And he was a pretty damned good golfer, a nice skill to have for a Florida rabbi. He knew how to talk to and cater to the machers, but he was truly a rabbi of all the people. And he was fiercely loyal to his people. Nobody took more pride in being Jewish than Rabbi Groh. He was the perfect clergyman for Jewish soldiers returning shaken from what they saw in the camps and the ghettoes. Even though he had not been there in Europe with them, the rabbi was thoroughly preoccupied with the fate of the Jews of Europe. It was all he ever thought about.
Rabbi Groh looked over the menu as they waited for Al’s friend. When the waitress came to take down their order, a slender, middle-aged man was weaving through the restaurant towards them. Even from afar, the rabbi could intuit a stern, no-nonsense expression on his sun-tanned face. He walked briskly and with purpose. He was dressed neatly in a grey suit and carried a brown leather briefcase, which he dropped on the seat as he extended his hand to Al.
“Good morning, Al. Rabbi,” the serious man said tersely, greeting both men in one fell swoop. “Waitress, a black coffee please.” The rabbi respected his style. This was a man on a mission. He also envied a man who could get right to business without any need for pleasantries. The rabbi wished more conversations in his life were this pointed.
“Rabbi, thank you for meeting with me. I am only in Miami for two days, and I know that you are someone who can help us.”
“The pleasure is all mine. Welcome to South Florida. We are glad you are here and eager to hear about your work,” the rabbi said earnestly.
The man responded, “Thank you, Rabbi. I don’t know what Al has told you about me, but I was fortunate to meet him on my last trip to Miami a couple of years ago. My name is David Peled, and I’ve just come from Palestine. I have been living there on a kibbutz for a number of years now. Our people are doing incredible things there, and we will continue to do so until we have a Jewish state of our own. We have built cities out of sand dunes. We have the makings of a formidable army that can defend us. We are irrigating fields, draining swamps, and raising our children as free Jews. You wouldn’t believe it, but we Jews are developing one of the most advanced societies in the Middle East. But even with all our success, we face many challenges, and we need your help.”
Rabbi Groh was intrigued. “I am eager to help. And I’m not just spinning your wheels. There is nothing more important for our people right now.”
“Yes.” Peled nodded, hoping this rabbi was a man of his word.
Rabbi Groh continued, “To be honest, I am starved for real information coming out of Palestine, and it has been months since I’ve had the opportunity to speak with someone who had been over there. I am honored to have the chance to meet with you.”
The serious man with no time to waste made excellent eye contact with the rabbi. His face revealed that he had seen quite a bit for his age, which the rabbi guessed was close to his own. It only took him a few sentences before he made his plea. “Rabbi, we know of your congregation, and your reputation. And we know about your passion to help our less fortunate brothers and sisters fighting to get to Palestine. I know you realize how lucky you are to be so safe here and to live so well. But Jews across the ocean are not so fortunate. They are fighting for everything they have, which is not very much.”
Rabbi Groh was no stranger to Jewish organizations soliciting him to raise money. This tough Jew from Palestine had not asked yet, but he figured what he needed from him was the money of his congregants. As always in these situations, he wanted to cut to the chase and simply ask, “How much do you need me to raise for you?” but he didn’t have the chutzpah to interrupt this man who was doing so much for his people. He knew that many in his flock would not be in any position to help. But he did know a few who could.
The rabbi prepared for Mr. Peled to give him an amount, but that amount never came. Rabbi Groh was shocked when Peled arrived at his real request.
“Rabbi, the Haganah has many ships that are we using to bring survivors to Palestine illegally under the nose of the British. It is dangerous and risky and not every ship makes it. But many do, and we are trying to bring every Jew we can to Palestine to help us build a country.”
“There is nothing more important,” the rabbi interjected.
“We agree. But Rabbi, these Jews, they are in bad shape. Many of them are too traumatized to communicate, and we are finding that the boat journey to Palestine is reigniting in their minds many of the horrors they experienced. They need people who understand them to accompany them and help ease their burdens during the voyage at sea. Rabbi, they need escorts who can soothe them. And we would like you to accompany a group of survivors on a journey from Europe to Palestine.”
The rabbi was shocked. They didn’t need his congregants’ money after all. They needed him. At once, he was flattered and taken aback.
“Me? Seriously? What can I do to help them? I have no way to understand what they have been through.”
Peled understood the rabbi’s surprise, but he was prepared with his answer. “Rabbi, have you thought of anything other than their suffering these last five years?”
“No.”
“You speak Yiddish, correct?”
“I do.”
“You are a rabbi of the Jewish people?”
“Of course.”
“Most of their rabbis are either dead or traumatized themselves. We need rabbis like you who are healthy, physically and emotionally. Think about it. What Jews need a rabbi more than these Jews right now?”
“You make a very good point, Mr. Peled.”
“Good. So in a few days, you will join me on a flight to Nova Scotia, and then from there we will fly together to Greece. We have friends there who will help us with refueling and fly us safely to Europe. Here is a packet with some details, and directions to the airport we will leave from. I will see you Sunday at noon. And we will be on our way.”
Before the rabbi could even respond, the serious Haganah man was standing, gathering his briefcase, and heading for the exit. There was no turning back now. The rabbi was on his way to Europe.