After moving from New Haven, my parents’ initial years in Michigan were mostly golden.

“So many Jews! So much food! So many good causes and interesting speakers!” they marveled.

 B’nai Moshe in West Bloomfield became their second home, religiously and socially. There, a membership subgroup of Holocaust survivors embraced my mother. Possessing the resilience to restart their shattered lives in America, they endured a common thread of antisemitism, anguish, sickness, starvation and displacement.

Almost every Friday evening, Gina and I hosted groups of friends and community leaders for Shabbat dinner. My parents became a permanent part of our invitation list. By the time of goodbyes, guests had become acquainted with my mother’s little brother Meier.

“You know, my Artie is named for him,” she always added. If I were standing nearby, she gently slapped one of my blushing cheeks. Since my early teen years, she made sure I would be living two lives – mine and the one little Meier never had. I couldn’t escape this transmission of intergenerational trauma.

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What was he planning to say?

B’nai Moshe Rabbi Eliot Pachter invited my father to deliver the sermon on Shabbat Shuva, the Sabbath between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur – a day of extraordinary introspection. As my father ascended the wide front steps to the awaiting microphone, my mother leaned toward me and whispered.

“His socks don’t match.”

No one else seemed to notice once he began to speak.

“As a boy standing next to my father in New Haven, my young eyes and ears were overwhelmed as he and the immigrant men of his generation pounded their hearts- for all of those sins committed. And the women in the balcony were weeping. They weren’t looking over each other’s clothing – not much – they were weeping.

“Ahl tashlicheynu l’eit ziknah – do not cast us off in old age when our strength fails – they wailed. Now, my generation is the generation of old age and failing strength.

“Last year in New Haven, these prayers had added meaning. My wife and I faced failing health and strength and the world was changing around us. We prayed a bit forlornly, ‘Please do not cast us off.’ But this year, we have found our prayers answered. Our son and daughter-in-law in West Bloomfield have seen to it that we move here and remain under their care and watchfulness. And we have found a wonderful Jewish community, a home in the center of Jewish activity and helpfulness.

“Yes, the Kol Nidre melodies will again send chills up our spines. Shema Koleynu – listen oh Lord to our prayers. Yes, this year they were answered.”

Gina joins me in wishing you a G’mar chatima tova. May you be sealed in the Book of Life.