I was an opera singer. Then Torah helped me find my voice

As told to Chani Leiser by Alicia Ferraro

I

grew up far from Torah Judaism, and far from the limelight.

I was born in Asunción, the capital city of Paraguay. My childhood was sweet — my parents were warm, supportive people whose top priority was family. They deeply valued being Jewish. But about Torah and mitzvos, I knew little.

Growing up, there was always music in the background. My mother studied at a music conservatory and was a voice training teacher. From an early age, I was exposed to classical music. I remember watching my maternal grandmother working around the house: Every so often, she would walk over to the piano, play a few keys, then return to her tasks. My father was a biochemist by trade, but he also came from a musical family.

The Jewish community in Asunción was small and unified; there were only a thousand people in all. It was established by Jews who fled from Europe before and during World War II. My grandfather was one of those Jews. His name was Rabbi Yaakov Staver, and he was devoutly religious. With the other refugees, he worked hard to collect one penny after another. He planned to use his savings to rescue his relatives who stayed behind in Europe. He managed to bring two sisters over, but the rest of the family perished by murder or hunger.

Immigrants from Eretz Yisrael reached the shores of Paraguay, too. My paternal grandmother’s family came from Tzfas, my maternal grandmother’s family from the Old City. These Jews were compelled to move because of the plagues, illnesses, and severe poverty of Eretz Yisrael in those days.

Only my grandfather and two other refugees were genuine shomrei Torah u’mitzvos. The rest of the refugees didn’t observe mitzvos. Most of the Jews were simply ignorant. They fasted on Yom Kippur but drove to shul. They had no exposure to learned rebbeim.

Despite their lack of knowledge, they firmly attached themselves to the ideal of maintaining a separate Jewish identity. In a city teeming with gentiles, they built a Jewish school to create an “island of security” against the dangers of assimilation. The school was called Noah’s Ark, and, growing up, I was one of 120 students there.