I was born 80 years ago in Oberwart, a small town in eastern Austria. We had real winters, deep snow covering everything, icicles hanging from the eaves and the sound of bright bells coming from sleighs drawn by heavy horses with white puffs steaming from their nostrils.
Father had exchanged the summer’s wood shutters for an extra set of windowpanes to keep out the season’s chilly frost. Sister Magda and I marveled at the fantastic iceflowers covering our
windows, while inhaling
the satisfying aroma of
cholent Mother was preparing in our cozy kitchen.
And now it was time for me, at age 10, to make my way to shul. Bundled up against the cold, a thick scarf around my neck, I walked gingerly along a path trampled down by our villagers, with snowbanks on either side as high as my chest.
Half an hour later, I knocked on the familiar door and old gray-bearded Rabbi Blau welcomed me with a glass of hot tea. Soon I was sitting at the table, with my books spread out, across from him. The rabbi had my full attention — I was his only pupil.