Stories My Father Told Me

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Occasionally in Words Have Wings I write two posts in one week instead of one. This occurs on weeks when we complete a tractate of the Talmud and mark it with a siyum. As I skate across the very wide sea of Daf Yomi, for each of the tractates that we complete I write one poem. The poem may just point out one small point in a deep lake of questions, disagreements and rulings of law.

In this particular Masechet (tractate), Zevachim, the subject was animal and bird sacrifice and. was explained in great detail.

I chose to focus on page 56 a.

(Synopsis is taken from AI)

Zevachim Daf 56a discusses the precise dimensions of the Azarah (Temple courtyard) where offerings could be brought and eaten, specifically the 187x135 amot area, debating whether walls or window sills are included, and contrasting the laws of pigul (withdrawn intention for later eating) and notar (leftover sacrificial meat), highlighting disagreements between R' Yochanan and Chizkiyah on when disqualification from eating renders meat forbidden, using a story about shushim (shushing sounds) in the Temple to illustrate timing issues for priests. 

This Masechet was much more difficult to follow than many of the others, although they are all challenging. This one was challenging because the intricate rulings of sacrifice are bloody and desribes rituals that have not been enacted in millenium. Often teachers asked during these past months why we need to study this at all? There are some who believe that one day this type of sacrifice will once again be performed in a rebuilt Temple in Jerusalem and it is very important to know the rules and rulings when that time comes.

I remember listening to a podcast one day while I walking Trixie and listened to the podcast of page (Daf) 56. On that page was short discussion noted between Rabbi Nahman, who hadn't seen The Temple, and his father, who describes it for him.His father rebuilt a lost world for Rabbi Nahman.

I believe this is the essence of Masechet Zevachim, the rebuilding of a lost world for those who study.

תָּנֵי תַּנָּא קַמֵּיהּ דְּרַב נַחְמָן: כל הָעֲזָרָה הָיְתָה מֵאָה שְׁמוֹנִים וָשֶׁבַע עַל רוֹחַב מֵאָה שְׁלֹשִׁים וְחָמֵשׁ. אֲמַר לֵיהּ, הָכִי אָמַר לִי אַבָּא: כְּגוֹן זֶה – כֹּהֲנִים נִכְנָסִין לְשָׁם וְאוֹכְלִין שָׁם קדְשֵׁי קָדָשִׁים, וְשׁוֹחֲטִין שָׁם קָדָשִׁים קַלִּים, וְחַיָּיבִין מִשּׁוּם טוּמְאָה.

A tanna taught a baraita before Rav Naḥman: The entire Temple courtyard was 187 cubits in length by 135 cubits in width. Rav Naḥman said to the tanna: My father said this to me: In an area such as this, the priests enter there and eat offerings of the most sacred order there, and slaughter offerings of lesser sanctity there, and are liable due to entering in a state of ritual impurity.

Zevachim 56a

My dad as a Holocaust survivor did the same for me. Through his stories he reconstructed a lost world for my brothers and me. This is what I'd like to remember about Zevachim. Lost Worlds.

May we be privileged to continue this cycle with Masechet Menachot. More sacrifice, but less blood this time as we will learn about grain sacrifice.

If you are doing this cycle of Shas, don't lose heart! Only one year and a half and we will finish and then begin again!

Leann

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Stories My Father Told Me

When I was little more than a child

on the occasion that something moved him to speak 

my father shared stories 

of places I could not imagine in my comfortable existence.

With simple words, he recreated 

a world of family, forests,

sacrifice and destruction.

With words blunter than any paintbrush,

he described the front parlor of a house I will never see

curtained windows looking outside,

a scratchy sofa and sisters.

He shared stories of sisters and parents

long gone from this complicated world.

I would never meet them,

not in my lifetime.

but with his words he made them real,

as though I sat with them,

aunts and grandparents.

My father’s tales of survival,

of sacrifice and blood 

built a world for me

and his world became my world.

His memories became my memories.

In his clumsy English he would describe

a real place with

real people hurrying to and fro.

Horse drawn carts, a carpenter's nails,

chopping wood,

wide forests on the edge of town,

crossing frozen rivers,

a nearby hayloft,

a kind hearted soul

cold forests,

and the courage to fight.

My father is gone.

His world,

his community is gone

but his world still lives 

through his words

burning images in my mind

in my heart.

Should I ever travel there

The people would be absent,

but the streets would

still curl into each other,

and echoes of voices still trail on the winds.

There is still that spark who once inhabited those living rooms,

who walked those streets.

I can imagine them.

The people, the places,

Their lives before they were taken.

All because my father told me.

sharing what was important

so my heart would know

and his world would become mine.