Yaakov Yosef Herman was a European Jew with a strong sense of Jewish identity. Immigrating to America in the early 20th century, he found himself in an environment with little awareness of Jewish laws and tradition. So he dedicated his life to building that awareness wherever he went, and with whomever he met. The following true story is recalled by Rabbi Herman’s daughter, Ruchoma.
It was the [sixth] night of [Sukkot], Hashana Raba. Papa went to shul, where he remained the entire night, learning Torah. It was almost midnight, and Mama was still busy kashering 24 chickens in relays of six. (In Jewish law, it is forbidden to eat blood. So kosher meat must be salted in a special process which removes the blood.)
I sat on a high stool watching Mama salt the chickens. It was a work of art. She sprinkled the salt so evenly into every crevice and nook of each chicken, that it flowed like silvery raindrops falling from the sky.
The warm, quiet kitchen and the constant motion of Mama’s hand almost lulled me to sleep. I emitted a deep yawn.
“Go to sleep, Ruchoma. You helped enough today.” I was happy to obey Mama and ran off to bed.
In my sleep, I felt a tugging and heard an insistent voice from afar, “Get up, Ruchoma! Get up!”
I struggled through to consciousness to see Mama bending over me. “What time is it?” I asked drowsily.
“It’s the middle of the night,” Mama answered.
I sat up abruptly. “What’s the matter, Mama?”
“I was just putting away all the pupiklach (gizzards) of the chickens I had finished kashering, and I noticed that on one pupik there seems to be a question as to its kosher status.” Mama’s words ended in a stifled sob. “They are all mixed up now, so if this pupik is non-kosher, all the chickens will be considered–”
Mama did not finish the sentence, afraid to voice the horrible thought.
“Oh, Mama, what are we going to do?” I rushed into the lighted kitchen to look at the pupik. Mama pointed to the soft, wet pupik, which had a very slight swelling and discoloration on one side.
“Run quickly to Papa in the synagogue and tell him to go right now to Rabbi Skinder to ask for a decision. Don’t forget to tell Papa that I have no idea from which of the 24 chickens this pupik comes,” Mama cautioned.
I dressed hurriedly. Holding the pupik in a soggy little bag, I sped through the dark, gloomy streets, my footsteps echoing my inner anxiety. (In 1930, Mama had no qualms about sending me, a young teenager, out all alone in Manhattan in the middle of the night. Our East Side streets were completely safe.)
As I neared the brightly illuminated shul, I heard many voices raised in Torah study. I rushed into the corridor and poked my head through the swinging door. Papa was sitting up front with an open Talmud before him…
Papa ran over to me with a questioning glance. “Oh, Papa, Mama just finished kashering all the 24 chickens, and she mixed up all the pupiklach, and she found a problem on one of them, and she doesn’t know from which chicken it is, and she says you should go right away to Rabbi Skinder to ask for a decision.” It came out all in one breath.
Papa grabbed his hat, and we both flew through the sleepy, silent streets. We reached Henry Street in a few minutes. Papa looked up to the first floor where Rabbi Skinder lived. There was a light shining from his dining room window.
We tiptoed up the stairs, and Papa knocked gently on the door. Rabbi Skinder opened the door himself. “Sholom aleichem, peace unto you, Reb Yaakov Yosef.” He clasped Papa’s hand warmly.
“My wife was kashering a chicken and found a question on this pupik,” Papa said matter-of-factly. I gazed at Papa in amazement and opened my mouth to speak. Papa’s warning look choked back the words into my throat.
And so, while Rabbi Skinder poked and probed the defenseless pupik under the light of his lamp, the fate of 24 chickens hung in the balance.
I trembled as I stood there. What if it were non-kosher? All Mama’s hard work would have been in vain. What would all of our guests eat on Yom Tov? It cost so much money. Mama’s tired, wan face swam before my eyes and clouded my vision.
Then I glanced at Papa. He stood straight and tall, like a soldier awaiting the verdict of his general. After what seemed an eternity, Rabbi Skinder looked up and announced, “Kosher, kosher.” The words of reprieve rang in my ears.
Papa then said, “Rabbi, if you had pronounced the pupik non-kosher, I would have thrown out 24 chickens. My wife does not know from which of the chickens this pupik comes.”
Rabbi Skinder looked at Papa reprovingly, “Ach, Reb Yaakov Yosef, why did you not tell me? When there is a great financial loss involved, I examine the question differently. (In certain instances, there may be room for leniency.)”
“I never look for leniencies,” Papa answered with his oft-repeated and oft-practiced maxim.
With the kosher pupik wrapped up again in the wet, little brown bag, Papa and I rushed down the stairs. “Run home quickly, Ruchoma, and tell Mama that the pupik is 100 percent kosher. See that she gets to bed. I’m going back to shul.”
Like a winged bird in flight, I flew through the tranquil streets, my footsteps in tune with the rhythm of kosher, kosher, kosher.
When I burst into the front hall [of our apartment building], I could not control myself and called out loudly, “Mama! Mama! The pupik is kosher! It’s kosher!”
Mrs. Friedman, our first-floor neighbor, came running out of her apartment. “Ruchoma, what’s the matter with you? Why are you making such an unearthly racket at this time of night, waking everybody?” she asked peevishly.
“The pupik is kosher,” I babbled.
Mama heard me and rushed down to greet me. I threw myself into her arms and almost threw her off her balance. “It’s all right, Mama, it’s 100 percent kosher!” Mama burst out crying.
By that time, our other neighbors heard the commotion and hurried into the hall, curious to know what had occurred. Over hot, sweet cocoa and Mama’s delicious raisin cinnamon cookies, I told our neighbors the entire episode of the kosher pupik.
Reprinted from “ALL FOR THE BOSS” –
a chronicle of the life of Yaakov Yosef Herman
With permission of Feldheim Publishers – www.feldheim.com
In Israel: POB 35002, Jersualem.
In the USA: 200 Airport Executive Park, Spring Valley NY 10977