The Bronx Branch

The Bronx section of New York City has changed drastically over the years. The relocation of its once thriving Jewish community is old news, rarely recanted except by those who remained living there.

On a recent Purim, I was preparing to go read the Megillah in one of the last remaining Synagogues in the South Bronx. Just as I was about to leave, I received a call from a friend who asked me to drop off some Mishloach Manot to an elderly Jewish man living alone in a vast housing project in the Bronx. I quickly threw together a hamantash, a fruit and some candy in a small brown paper bag, and phoned Bernie. He seemed surprised, almost shocked, to receive my call, and I told him that I’d stop by when I finished reading the Megillah.

Years of solitude affect a person, and my call must have prompted Bernie to recollect the memories of his neighborhood's better days, teeming with Shuls, schools, and joyous celebrations with relatives and friends. Perhaps he wasn’t quite ready to deal with those memories, for he called and left this message, "All the Jews have left, there’s no one here anymore," he said with resignation that it would be better if I didn’t visit. But I had already left and didn’t get his message.

Later that afternoon when I arrived at Bernie's apartment, he greeted me graciously but subdued. He seemed hesitant and uneasy, unsure if he really wanted me there. But holding the Mishloach Manot in hand, I was there nonetheless.

For close to an hour, I sat in Bernie's cluttered apartment surrounded by old newspapers and memorabilia. I spoke about Israel, the Bronx, the Jewish Patriarchs, Purim, and whatever else he chose to discuss. I felt like a traveler from afar bringing Bernie news. I was his sole connection with the Jewish world for that brief time. How ironic that I lived only a few miles away. Bernie soon warmed up to me, and became comfortable with my presence. When it was time to leave, I wished him a “Freilichen Purim!” a greeting he hadn’t heard in years.

Returning home that evening, I heard Bernie's earlier recorded message telling me not to bother coming.

But an additional message followed. In an enthusiastic tone that told a thousand words, he thanked me profusely for visiting him and for the Mishloach Manot. In an uplifted spirit, he said, "I thank you for the Shaloch Manos and most importantly for your presence here today. It's been a long time since I spoke about Yiddishkeit; you brought back the 'pintele Yid' (Jewish spark) in me,” concluding with "Zei Gezunt," and added in parting "I'll call you when I get a chance." We have indeed spoken several times since.

I think that my simple Purim packet was more meaningful than all the costly fancier and more elaborate multi tiered fruit and pastry Purim baskets one sees nowadays. I had given Bernie, and myself, the essence of the Purim spirit.