Sylvia Gottlieb (name changed) was an energetic septuagenarian.
She never understood why the shul no longer offered bingo night and she still advocated for a ladies’ bowling night. Although Sylvia couldn’t read Hebrew that never stopped her from asking insightful questions and she loved answering all queries with her recently added favorite phrase “Baruch Hashem.” And however outdated some of her ideas — like when she offered to organize a rummage sale where people could sell their old 8-tracks and cassettes — her heart was always in the right place.
The week after her “75-plus” birthday celebration she came by to see me.
After a few minutes of chitchat she produced a large journal. As she placed it on my desk she said “Rabbi you know I was married for 44 years. You remember my husband Morris may he rest in peace. He is gone now five years. I realize my time will also come soon. This journal contains my life’s work. I know I’m not the most learned or educated person in the shul. However this journal is the ‘evidence’ I intend to exhibit at my Final Judgment. When I’m no longer alive and until the funeral you can read it. Maybe it will be of help for you to help others. If you are ever to tell of this you must alter the details so no one will ever recognize me. At my burial I’m asking you to place it in my coffin with me.”
Sylvia Gottlieb lived for another few years. She passed away on a Thursday and we rushed to have the funeral.
I remembered the journal.
Beginning when Sylvia and Morris wed in 1960 there were entries all clearly dated.
March 1961. Morris forgot my birthday. Although I was upset I successfully restrained myself and did not get angry.
June 1963. Morris made me upset when he commented that the soup was too salty in front of the guests. I made my mind up not to mention it until we were alone and I continued the Shabbos meal as if nothing occurred.
October 1965. Steven (our oldest son) decided to raid the refrigerator and ate all of my pies I was saving for the shul’s pie sale. I disciplined him by telling him; however I never raised my voice or displayed any anger.
May 1968. Morris and the two boys left Miriam (our youngest child) in Coney Island. Thank G-d a friendly policeman watched her until they fetched her. Although I wanted to scream and yell at them I laughed about it with them when they came home as I saw how embarrassed they were.
In short Sylvia Gottlieb kept a 44-year journal detailing all the times she wanted to get angry but didn’t. It lays out in plain language how a simple woman who never learned a day in a Bais Yaakov had absorbed the vital Torah life lesson of self-control. Sylvia Gottlieb who could not read Hebrew was a real-life mussar sefer.
As I touched the yellowing pages of the 44-year-old journal I realized I was touching a masterpiece on self-control.
An hour later as we were burying Sylvia Gottlieb I lovingly placed the journal inside her coffin.
Her son Steven (now Rav Shmuel an accomplished talmid chacham) noticed the journal.
“Rabbi what’s in that journal? What did my mother write in there? Chiddushei Torah?” he asked somewhat surprised.
I looked at the grief-stricken son and simply said “Yes she did. When they read her kuntres [journal] upstairs it will move Heaven and earth. Indeed it’s her personal Torah. It’s your mother’s passport to the Next World. Every single page has the scent of Gan Eden.” —