"bashert"

This is a story about my mother's family that starts in Russia almost 100 years ago and unexpectedly resumes at the present time in California. Some background biographical notes will help in understanding the full impact of this most improbable sequence of current events. The history of my mother's family around the turn of the century is much like that of many other Russian-Jews of the time. They lived in the "Shtetle" (the ghetto area) of the small town of Velizh, not far from the city of Vitebsk, in what is now Belarus. It was at the height of a period of great emigration to the US. My grandparents, Maier & Beilya Berson, had 9 children, 7 girls and 2 boys. Three of the sisters came to the US and settled in New York City, my mother Anna, my Aunts Bessie (Basha) and Celia (Chippa). The other family members remained in Velizh. When they bid farewell to one another, not one of them expected that they would never again see each other. My mother had told me many stories about her childhood.

Her father, who had red hair, was known as "Maier der geller". He was a musician, a pianist and a Klezmer, who was often called upon to give command performances for visiting dignitaries. There were always several pianos in their living room because he also repaired and tuned them. She described their house: where they slept; the food they grew, stored, and ate; and various details of housekeeping. However, there was one story, which I have retold to just about everyone, that obviously had a great impact upon her, and subsequently upon me. It involves her younger sister Sonia who was a child prodigy. Sonia played the piano, by ear, as a very young child, so small that she had to reach the keyboard by getting up on the piano bench on her knees. The mayor of the town walked to his office daily. As he passed mother's house he could hear Sonia playing the piano. One day, the mayor and his wife visited my grandmother and asked her to "GIVE" them this most talented child. They had no children of their own, and since Jews were not permitted in the "public" schools, they offered the incentive that they could give her the education she deserved. Furthermore, they said, "You have so many children, what difference does it make if you have one less?" In response to which, grandmother was said to have held up her two hands, with fingers outstretched, and said, "See, I have ten fingers, but I would not give up any of them." From that day on the shutters of the house Were kept tightly closed for fear that Sonia would be taken away. I was told that, later on, when Sonia was older, my grandfather took her to one of the big cities, to live with a cousin who had a non-Jewish husband, so she could attend school and further her study of music. Aunt Bessie, the youngest of the three sisters in the US, had retained her fluency in the Russian language and corresponded with the family until it became too difficult to do so under the communist regime. Consequently, as I grew up, I knew rather little of the whereabouts and well being of most of our Russian Berson family. However, because of the earlier correspondence, our family was certain that my grandmother and at least some of my mother's sisters still lived in the hometown of Velizh at the time of the start of W.W.II. We felt equally certain that Sonia was living in Leningrad by that time. The last we heard of Sonia was by way of an indirect recounting of a visit with her by a "landsman" (someone who was originally from Velizh, but now an American) after the end of W.W.II. At the time, my husband and I lived on the East Coast of the US and my parents on the West Coast. We never knew this "landsman", or his name. We were told that he had gone to Russia as soon as he could after the war ended, and somehow met with Sonia on a park bench in Leningrad. It was the only place that wouldn't be "bugged", although there was no assurance that they weren't "observed". We were delighted to learn that she had survived the war, but we did not learn her surname, whether or not she had married, had children, and we also had a slightly inaccurate idea that she was a professor of music at the Conservatory in Leningrad where she had, indeed, actually studied. We, of course, assumed that my mother and Aunts knew all the answers. When one is young, there is a natural tendency to leave matters of family history to the elders, with the proverbial and unrealistic assumption that they will always be there to answer questions. We also learned that my mother's youngest brother, Zalman, was alive after the war. There was excitement at our house, while the 3 sisters regularly sent packages to him. It ended abruptly when we received a letter, not in the usual Russian, but in Yiddish, asking us not to send Zalman any more packages because it was making him look bad with the authorities, and to please send them to the letter writer of whom we had never heard. Needless to say, we ceased sending packages, and had no way of finding out what happened to Zalman after that. Any number of scenarios would have been plausible under the conditions that prevailed in the Soviet Union at that time, including that he was possibly no longer alive and the stranger planned to keep the packages. In January of 1942 the New York Times carried a one-paragraph news item telling of the Nazi invasion of the town of Velizh. My grandmother should have been in her late 90's at the time. That description, engraved in my memory, was that the residents were herded into a barn and burned alive. During a recent trip to France, my husband and I saw graphic proof that this was standard procedure for the invading Nazis everywhere they went. The French government has preserved the remains of the entire burned out town of Oradour-sur-Glane, exactly as the Germans had left it, in 1944, to serve as a permanent monument to it's slain residents. As we solemnly strolled through the silent cobblestone streets, past stone foundations and charred metal remains, including sewing machines and bed frames, we recalled the similar fate of my family in Velizh. Last month Moscow television aired a documentary on the invasion of Velizh which included movies taken by the Germans themselves.

The New York Times' terse report had neglected to say that the residents had been herded into not only one barn, but also wooden residences as well, that windows were boarded and nailed shut before the buildings were torched, and that Nazi soldiers stood by and shot anyone who managed to break out. Such were the memories of my mother's family - The Bersons of Velizh!

With that as background, let me take you to Congregation Beth Am, Palo Alto, California, where my husband, Sol, and I have been active members since 1960. In 1988, we were fortunate to witness the beginnings of another influx of Russian-Jewish émigrés to the US. On Yom Kippur of that year a fellow congregant, the indefatigable Peggy Shapera, asked for volunteers to help the newcomers to learn our language and everything else that they would need to know in order to be able to function in our very different society. Sol & I heeded the call and proceeded to meet and interact with this wonderful group of people. They all reminded us of the relatives and "landslite" we knew as children. They even prepared the same foods. We've enjoyed our interaction with them immensely and have made treasured friends. As we'd meet new émigrés I would always ask where they had come from in the former Soviet Union. After listening to their answer, I'd follow by recounting that my family had come from a little town near Vitebsk. In ten years of asking, "Where are you from?" we'd met no one who had come from in or near Vitebsk, and certainly not from the Shtetle of Velizh. We went to piano recitals given by newly arrived émigrés who had studied at the Conservatory in Leningrad, and pursued possible news of Sonia. But, all we could do was inquire about a pianist named Sonia, of the previous generation, whose surname was unknown to us. It was rather frustrating and pretty hopeless! Which brings us to the conclusion of our story. Each year, Sol and I buy 4 season tickets for the theater. We use 2 for us and 2 for family and émigré friends, rotating guests as appropriate for the work to be shown. The last play in our season series was to be on June 3, 1998. At about noon on that day I received a phone call that started a most unexpected, unusual, and improbable, sequence of events.

Our son, David, called to say that he and his wife, Eva, were not going to be able to join us at the theater that night. Eva had been looking after her daughter's 9 month old twins and was utterly exhausted! I phoned Polina, one of our émigré friends, told her what David had told me, and said that since another émigré couple had come with us last time, it was now their turn, were she and Ilya free? She replied that she was, Ilya was not. I was on my way out for the remainder of the day and asked Polina to please invite anyone she cared to, and that we would pick them up that evening on our way to the theater. We pulled up in front of Polina's apartment to find her accompanied by a tall, handsome, gentleman whom she introduced as Alex Levi, a friend she had known in Leningrad, who is now a neighbor in Mountain View. His wife wasn't feeling well that evening and chose to stay at home. Polina had a hard time convincing him to use a theater ticket paid for by people whom he did not know. She prevailed and he joined us. Outside the theater. The brightly-lit marquee displayed "COLE", the title of the play which we were to see. I was surprised to have Alex ask: "Which one of Cole Porter's plays is this? he wrote many." Before getting to our seats, I only had time to reply that this was not one of his plays, but a play about him and his life. I thought of his question throughout the first act. When we got to the lobby for intermission, I asked Alex how come he knew about Cole Porter. The émigrés we have met have known very little about American composers and their music. At this point Polina and I simultaneously laughed and noted that everyone knew Gerschwin's Porgy and Bess, for the obvious reason that it showed poverty in America which suited the Russian government's propaganda. However, she continued to tell us that Alex is himself a musician, and that we must hear how beautifully he plays the piano without ever having had any formal musical training. Alex modestly explained that his mother had been a professional pianist and although she had always wanted to teach him to read music, he had declined. He then added, by way of further explanation, "My grandfather had been a musician, a pianist and a true Klezmer." Up to this point the interchange was rather casual, sedate we were just making polite conversation, passing the time until the second act curtain call. Continuing in that manner, even though Polina had introduced him as a friend from Leningrad, I asked my inevitable question, "Where are you from?" Which led to the following very rapid, very emotional exchange.

Alex: "I'm from Leningrad, but I was born in a small town near Vitebsk."

Evelyn: "Really? My parents came from a small town near Vitebsk. What was the name of the town?"

Alex: "Velizh."

Evelyn: "My parents also came from Velizh. What was your mother's family name?"

Alex: "Berson."

Evelyn: "My mother's family name was also Berson!" (Practically screeching, experiencing chills, and sweats, but nevertheless, in absolute, total, disbelief that there could possibly be any significance to this strange co-incidence of the same surnames), "What was your mothers name?

Alex: "Sonia."

Sol added: (certain that this would be the definitive fact that would disprove any relationship), "What was your grandfather's name?"

Alex: "Maier."

Sol & Evelyn (in unison): "Maier der geller?"

Alex: "Yes! Maier der geller!"

Polina: Holding her head in her hands, "Oh my God!"

Evelyn: "It can't be! It's impossible! I don't believe it!"

The second act curtain call sounded and as we walked sideways down the aisle, returning to our seats.

Alex said: "You know, my mother had 3 sisters who went to the United States: Anna, Basha (Bessie) and Chippa (Celia). As a matter of fact, Bessie's letters to her cost me my job - more than once!"

Evelyn: In a daze, repeating over & over, "I don't believe this is happening!"

I am still repeating that phrase and re-telling the story with great joy, excitement and disbelief, but there is no longer any doubt. Alex and I are first cousins. our mothers had been sisters. he is the son of the sister Sonia in my mother's tales of her childhood! We chattered excitedly all the way back to Mountain View, with the five of us "driving", a bit worried about paying proper attention to the freeway traffic, and taking the wrong exit. Still in shock and continuing to question, we went to Polina's apartment for a cup of tea. Alex re-joined us after stopping to tell his wife, Simona, what had just occurred. We continued our animated conversation, each telling of the family members in the country of our birth and upbringing. At approximately 1:00 AM, the phone rang and Alex went to his apartment where his wife, Simona, had taken out some family photos for him to show to us. There was a group photo of my Grandmother and 5 of her 6 children who had remained in Russia, including Alex as a baby, with his mother, father and older brother. Both Sol and I exclaimed in surprise that we have a copy of that photo but we couldn't identify any of the people. We finally said goodnight and went home about 3:00 AM, but not one of us really slept that night. The final surprise came after I realized that the very beautiful woman in that group photo, whom Alex had identified as his mother, was also in a photo which I had in my unidentified files. I actually had put it in the file of Sol's family! The 3/4 view of her face and hair style were unmistakable. She was accompanied by a man and only one child. I rushed to show it to Alex, but was unprepared for his emotional response and excitement. It was, indeed, a picture of his mother, with his father and older brother, taken about 75 years ago, before he was born. It obviously had been sent to the sisters in the US, and he had never seen it! And so the excitement has continued: 75 to 100 year old pictures and stories; the charting of a family tree, with most of it of the Russian Berson family we in the US had never known; several more first cousins, scattered about the US and Europe, whom we have yet to meet; family members in the US we have yet to introduce to Alex and Simona; finding pictures, like that of Aunt Bessie, that had been sent to the family in Russia, which now have come back to the US with the new émigrés. Perhaps most astonishing is finding that Zalman's wife, Masha, is alive and well, at age 90, living in Minneapolis, with their children. It seems as though we will never catch up. With the help of modern technology, scanners, computers, and e-mail, we will all be richer for sharing our heritage. but how can we ever explain the unrelated, incongruous, chain of events that brought us together, and not even in New York, where the American sisters were known to have lived, or Los Angeles, where my parents later settled, but in Northern California - of all places! Our parents would have said it was "bashert". Alex says that he, for one, now believes in fate. I still just don't believe it!

AND, FROM THE OTHER SIDE OF THE POND...

t makes sense to begin my story with a brief digression into the history of our family, even through you will not find anything extraordinary in it. My parents, like many, came from a small town. Located near Vitebsk, Velizh was a typical shtetl. The majority of the population, or at least the part that most characterized it, was Jewish. According to the stories I've heard, even the local policeman Lovra (Lavrenty, clearly) spoke fluent Yiddish. My grandfather was a musician who was well known in the area: he played many instruments and tuned and repaired pianos. And, naturally, he was an indispensable participant in all village festivities. He was, as they say, a true klezmer. In fact, the entire family was very musical, my mother in particular. She taught herself to play the piano when she was about four years old. By the time she was six, she was already "giving concerts": she played in the homes of the village elite and the region's landowners. By the age of seven she had embarked on her "professional career," playing piano at the movies to accompany silent films. One favorite story goes like this: watching the film and playing along with it, Mama was horrified to see that on-screen gypsies had just stolen a young girl. In terror, the little pianist burst into tears and stopped playing! Despite this episode, my mother appeared to have a glowing musical future ahead of her. In 1916 my grandfather took her to St. Petersburg, and the composer Alexander Glazunov, director of the Conservatory at the time, accepted her as a student. This happened even given the "official norm" of those days: no more than 3% of students could be Jewish! Her studies progressed successfully, but, alas, the 1917 revolution interfered.... Lessons at the Conservatory stopped, and my mother was unable to graduate. In later years she became a professional pianist, but her true talent was never realized. Back in 1907, my grandfather had decided to emigrate with his entire family to America.

ll the necessary forms had been filled out and the tickets had been purchased. Suddenly one of my mother's older sisters unexpectedly decided against making the trip; her husband had refused to go. What could they do? Grandfather, not wanting to leave one of his daughters behind, decided to cancel the entire trip. The family stayed in Velizh, with the exception of three of my mother's older sisters, who, overcoming the objections of their parents, set out nonetheless across the ocean. I knew almost nothing about their life in America, but I figured that, as with all Jewish immigrants of those times, they had settled down gradually to life in their new country, worked hard, raised children and tried with all their best efforts to give them an education. In 1928 my parents moved from Velizh to Leningrad. My grandmother and two of her daughters along with their families remained in Velizh (my grandfather had already died). The daughters in America kept in touch with their mother through letters, but only until 1937.... After the husband of one of the daughters was arrested (he was, clearly, a "large-scale wrecker," simply because he worked as bookkeeper at the Velizh State Timber Enterprise), my grandmother ceased all contact with America. And then there was the war, which carried off all remaining family members in Velizh. The Germans shot one of my mother's sisters as a hostage, and the local Polizei drove all the others to a ghetto where they were burned alive. In 1946 my mother, who still lived in Leningrad, completely unexpectedly received a letter from her sisters in America. Knowing nothing about the fate of their relatives, they had been trying desperately to find one among the living and by some miracle had gotten my mother's address. Of course she responded and told them of the tragic fate that had befallen the Velizh relatives. After that they corresponded sporadically for a couple of years. But when the first clouds appeared in the relationship between the U.S. and the USSR, my brother and I advised my mother to avoid future unpleasantness for us by ceasing her contacts with her sisters, and so she did. As you might have guessed, our "foresight" had no results. For our entire working lives, both my brother and I suffered all sorts of difficulties simply because we had American relatives--never mind the fact that we had never seen them and knew virtually nothing about them. I, of course, imagined that somewhere in the United States relatives of mine still existed. My mother's sisters, of course, would no longer be living, but their children might well be alive, and their grandchildren all the more so! Nonetheless I didn't intend to seek them out once I arrived in America. Why, you may ask? First of all, I was not entirely sure that they would be interested. More than that, though, I feared that they, God forbid, would take my approaching them as a desire to get something out of them. So I would have remained utterly in ignorance were it not for one chance event....

nd now the time has come to tell my incredible story. It all began when our neighbor and old friend Polina Fried--and pay attention to this name, because it's impossible to overestimate her role in my story, came to us with an invitation to join her for an evening performance at the theater in San Jose. She and her husband had been invited to this play by their good friends, an American couple. Polina's husband couldn't go, so there was an extra ticket. My wife declined the invitation. I began to decline, feeling awkward about using an expensive ticket purchased by people I didn't even know. But Polina convinced me, insisting how wonderful, kind, warm, and cultured her American friends were. Evelyn and Sol (for such were the names of these truly lovely Americans) came by for us in their car and, keeping up a pleasant conversation during the ride, brought us to the theater just as the show was beginning. We watched an impressive show based on the life and works of the American composer Cole Porter.

uring the intermission we talked about music. Evelyn and Sol wanted to know whether I had known anything about American composers when I was living in Russia. Fortunately I was in a position to prove to them that we had indeed been aware of them. And now Polina began to tell that I could play the piano. True, she noted, I couldn't read music at all, since I'd never studied it formally. Continuing this discussion, I said that I'd inherited my musical talent: my mother had been a professional pianist, and my grandfather a klezmer. Evelyn wondered where my parents had come from. "From near Vitebsk," I said. Then Evelyn said that her parents were also from near Vitebsk, from a town called Velizh. "But my parents were also from Velizh!" I responded, already in a state of excitement. Then Evelyn asked what my mother's maiden name had been. "Berson," I said, and I saw Evelyn's face go white. "Berson was my mother's maiden name also," she exclaimed in a tremulous voice!

ere Sol entered the conversation--it quickly became clear that he was well-acquainted with Evelyn's family history. "What was your grandfather's name?" he asked. "Meyer," I answered. "Meyer der geller?" Sol & Evelyn added. (Here I should explain that the Jews of Velizh were known by nicknames. My grandfather was called "der geller," which in Yiddish means "the redhead.") "Meyer der geller," said I decisively.

There could be no more questions or doubts. Evelyn and I were cousins. Our mothers had been sisters. I'm unable to describe the scene that followed, and not only because I lack sufficient "literary talent." Our excitement, or rather shock, was so intense that I couldn't truly grasp what I'd just learned. I only remember Evelyn clutching her head and repeating incessantly, "This is impossible! It cannot be! I don't believe it!" Some time has passed, but the excitement from our truly incredible meeting has not subsided and will not for some time. We've only managed to tell each other a little bit of our stories--and there's so much to tell! Evelyn knew almost nothing about her relatives who had remained in Russia, except what her mother had told her. But Evelyn has a strong sense of family and she's truly interested in the fate of our once-large family.

s an active member of Congregation Beth Am and in frequent contact with immigrants from Russia, Evelyn had always questioned the émigrés she met, hoping to find someone from Velizh. She had even intended to travel to Velizh, hoping to learn whether she had any living relatives there for more bargains! And then she met me. I'd like to relate one further episode. I showed Evelyn a photograph of our grandparents, my parents, and my mother's brothers and sisters. In the picture, my brother and I are sitting on our grandparents' laps. "Oh," Evelyn exclaimed. "We have the same picture. Only I don't know anyone in it except our grandparents. Do you?" I did, and I told her. And here's one more discovery that made a big impression on me. Having looked through our family photos, Evelyn and Sol then brought me one of their pictures and told me with great excitement that they now could recognize someone in it - my mother. This picture, which I was seeing for the first time, showed my parents and my older brother, who was still very young at the time.

ust imagine--this picture had been sitting in America for about 75 years before I encountered it! I in turn knew absolutely nothing about my relatives prospering here for more bargains! Some I have now met. Evelyn's older brother Harry and his wife Jeanette came to visit from Arizona. At 86 years old, Harry is quite hale and hearty, with a clear mind. Then I met Evelyn and Sol s daughter Betsy, their sons Mark and David and David's family. Evelyn intends to introduce me to all the other relatives as well. A relationship with relatives who have turned up so unexpectedly, after living their lives in a different country from one's own, comes with all sorts of psychological, moral, and ethical nuances. But for me this meeting is without a doubt an enormous and unexpected joy. All my American new relatives are truly wonderful, warm people with strong family feelings. If you asked the specialists in probability theory to calculate the likelihood of a meeting like Evelyn's and mine, and if you asked them to take into account all the conditions that would need to be met for such a meeting to occur, I think that the results would be very impressive. It seems to me that winning millions in the lottery would be more likely! It's incredible.... but this is just how it happened!

Fate must have wanted things this way. And for my part, I believe in Fate!

ALEX LEVI

"bashert"

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