Esther Segal of Yerushalayim (yes, the mother of quintuplets born with the Rebbe’s bracha in the Igros Kodesh), shares an unpleasant experience she had two decades ago with a woman who ruined her vacation, but who left her with a different perspective on life. * With Ahavas Chinam we will be redeemed.
I heard the following story from Mrs. Esther Segal on Simchas Torah last year in the town of Azor. When I returned home, I told it to whomever was willing to listen. We know that hearing is no comparison to seeing; all the more so when I have no way of conveying in writing how she spoke, her hand motions and the sparkle in her eyes. Nevertheless, I’ve decided to relate to you what she told me:
I grew up in Petersburg, Russia and became a baalas t’shuva at age 23. This story happened when I was around 19. I was attending university and was in my third year studying towards my bachelor’s degree. As an outstanding student I was given the opportunity to go on a paid vacation to a beachfront hotel near Finland. The hotel was beautiful. Compared to hotels in Eretz Yisroel it may not have been something special, but in comparison to Russian hotels, it was definitely in a different league.
My vacation was scheduled for two weeks in the summer. When I arrived, I was given a room and then I had to go downstairs to the kitchen manager in order to get a table number and a chair number. People in Russia are very organized and the rules are strict. Each visitor was given a number and one could not change it without the approval of those in charge.
I was given a number and I went to eat my first meal. I found the table easily and it was empty when I arrived. I took my chair and waited for the food to be served, as well as for the other people who were going to be at my table for the next two weeks. They finally arrived and I was sorry they did. They were a father, a mother and a girl of about eight or nine. We briefly introduced ourselves and the food was served.
As soon as we sat down together, I realized that something was not quite right with this family. The mother had a loud, shrill, staccato voice. She sounded like a hen. Usually, people make the attempt at being polite when they are among strangers, but not this woman. She spoke to her daughter constantly and when I say constantly, I mean it literally. She did not leave her alone for a second. She did not allow her to hold her fork and spoon on her own. She fed her while screeching, “My darling, my precious, open your mouth wide! Here’s another bite.”
This kind of talk was appropriate for a one or two year old, but this girl, as I said, was about nine. The meal continued and took on a nightmarish quality. It is hard to sit for a long time next to someone who is not normal, and this woman acted crazy. As soon as the meal was over, I hurried back to the kitchen to find the manager. I asked to be moved, but she said, “I am sorry, it is not possible to switch places now. M-a-y-b-e, in another week, when some people leave the hotel, I will be able to do something for you.”
I remember thinking that whoever arranged the places sat me with that family on purpose. No normal person would be willing to sit next to that lady. I was a young student and couldn’t do anything about it.
I decided to outsmart them. I arrived in the dining room first. My plan was to eat quickly and then leave before the strange family arrived at our table. I had failed to take one thing into account – the food.
The waiters would only put down the heavy dishes on the table. If it was lunch, for example, by the time I arrived there was a big pot of soup on the table. The rest of the food was served during the meal. I saw that coming early made me miss out on most of the meal and left me hungry. I decided to switch tactics. Instead of coming early, I would come late, after they left.
I stood outside the dining room in a concealed area and waited until they left. Once again, there was one thing I had failed to take into account. The family didn’t rush their meal. Anybody eating alone eats for a certain amount of time and leaves, but in this case, the mother had to eat and feed her daughter. It took double the time it would for a normal person. When they finally left, I discovered that no food remained.
I was left with no choice and went back to showing up on time. At this point, I didn’t simply hate the woman; I despised her. She was ruining my entire vacation. Every meal in her company was a nightmare. It was intolerable.
One day, I was at the beach when I suddenly felt a shadow appearing from behind me. Someone was blocking the sun. I opened my eyes and saw that the family had also come to the ocean. But why did they have to park themselves near me?
I wanted to close my eyes again, but the mother had other plans for me. The little girl played a little distance away with a ball and the mother sat near me. In her strident voice she described every move her daughter made, “See how pretty she is! See how sweet! See how she throws the ball!”
I was going out of my mind. I could keep quiet no longer. I took her by the arm and said, “Tell me, don’t you see that you are ruining her life? She is nine years old and you treat her like she is one. She won’t be able to have a family of her own one day! She will not be able to develop normally and will accomplish nothing! Stop it already!”
I talked and talked and saw that my words had affected her. She lowered her gaze and said that she understood why I said what I said, but she could not act differently.
I asked her why not and angrily added, “Send her to camp and get used to her being far from you! If you can’t, see a psychologist! Do something! You cannot destroy her life!”
“I’ve been to a psychologist already and it didn’t help,” she said. Then she began to cry. She told me that she had given birth to nine children and none but this daughter had survived. Apparently, she had a rare disease that caused her babies to live for a day or two after birth and then to die. Each time, she went through the entire pregnancy, gave birth, and then buried the baby. The little girl I saw was the last child she had given birth to and the only one to survive.
After hearing this, the woman’s voice and behavior ceased to irritate me. It’s not that her voice and behavior changed, since she continued to behave the same way. She fed her child, shrieked, and addressed her as one would a baby, but instead of hating her and seeing her as a crazy woman who was ruining my vacation and her daughter’s life, I looked at her like a heroine. No less. She wasn’t Jewish, but she taught me a very important lesson for life.
Over the years, I’ve discovered that this story pertains to everyone and to all situations. When we are upset with someone because of something he does or did, we can never know or understand what caused him to act as he did. You cannot be angry at someone without knowing his or her entire history. We don’t have the ability to assess a situation without examining all the stages of life that preceded it.
I relate this story, which clarified for me what it means to be melamed z’chus, as a preface to the topic of Ahavas Yisroel which is the key to bringing Moshiach. From the time of the Gemara we know that it was unwarranted hatred that lead to the destruction of the Beis HaMikdash, and it is in the merit of Ahavas Yisroel that it will be rebuilt. I didn’t invent this. It seems to me that if we made progress in this area, Moshiach would come already.
Things happen today that are the opposite of Ahavas Yisroel. We see this in politics, in shul, in the grocery store and in the conversations that children have. Each of us needs to do a little to bridge the gaps, to try and understand others, to think about where the other person is coming from and where the difference in opinion stems from.
The Rebbe taught us not to use words like “chiloni,” for example. There is no “chiloni” and no “chareidi.” We are Jews. There are no differences. No groups. We are all Jews, children of one people.
Rabbi Akiva said that Ahavas Yisroel is a “great principle of Torah.” Hillel the Elder said that the entire Torah can be summed up with “What is hateful to you, don’t do to your friend.” The Tzemach Tzedek in Derech Mitzvosecha asks – how can this possibly comprise the entire Torah when there are numerous mitzvos that don’t have anything to do with other people?
I think that the answer ought to be copied, framed, and distributed by the millions. The Tzemach Tzedek says that we were all, at one time, one neshama, the neshama of Adam HaRishon. This neshama was divided into parts. Despite this division, the parts of the neshama retained that initial connection. That means that there is a part of the neshama that belongs to the heart or mind, but there are also parts that are connected to the toe. A medication given in one part of the body can heal another part, like in reflexology. When you press on one point of the body it allows another part of the body to heal, even if it’s located further away. The same is true for the Jewish people. When a Jew does something good, this immediately affects someone else.
You cannot hate your finger. Even if it’s bleeding and it hurts, you would not consider asking a doctor to remove it. Any sane person would ask a doctor to heal his finger. The same is true when it comes to loving another Jew and understanding that hating another Jew makes as much sense as hating a finger that hurts.
The reason that Ahavas Yisroel is the entire Torah can be illustrated by those mitzvos that were done in the Mikdash, where Kohanim with physical blemishes could not serve. When a Jew hates another Jew, he blemishes his own neshama. If the neshama is blemished, then the individual and collective body is also blemished. If the Kohen is blemished, then his avoda is not worth anything. He cannot serve in the Mikdash! If we think about this, it gives us an understanding of the enormous significance of Ahavas Yisroel.
I can honestly say that ever since that summer vacation, I look at all life events with this key. I hope that all of you can look at others in a positive light. Be assured that any small effort on your part accomplishes a lot up above and also affects others in this world.
When Mrs. Esther Segal began telling the story related in the article, she began by saying, “I have a story, but it’s not about the quintuplets; don’t worry.”
Not that we worried. Hearing about the Segal quintuplets (who are now eleven) is always interesting. There are three boys (Yosef Yitzchok, Mordechai, and Shneur Zalman) and two girls (Chana and Chaya Mushka). And for those of you who haven’t heard – there is a little brother Mendy, who is six.
I asked Esther some questions about raising quintuplets so I’ll know how to prepare for when I have them too.
How do you raise quints?
“I don’t know,” says Esther, and she laughs. “There is no formula. It’s very hard and I have nothing to be proud about. They just grow. Only yesterday, they were so small and now they are so big.”
Raising quintuplets requires a lot of attention on your part, no?
“Of course. When they were small and I began taking them out, people were sure I had opened a daycare center. I discovered that quints are a concept that’s a little hard to digest.
“In stores they love us. We buy so much. Much more than a regular family. It’s expensive raising quintuplets.” She laughs. “They have a very strong socialist brotherhood.”
Socialist brotherhood?
“Yes. If we buy for one, the rest all want the same. For example, when I bought a briefcase for one of the girls, the rest of the gang said, ‘We want one too.’ When I explained that we bought one for her because hers got ripped, their logical response was, ‘Then we’ll rip ours too.’
“The little one, by the way, doesn’t want hand-me-downs. If we buy for the older ones, he wants something new too.”
What about schools? Is there a school with three parallel classes?
“No. The boys are in one class and the girls are in parallel classes.”
Isn’t that hard?
“What can you do? There is one class, so there’s no choice. You get used to everything. Fortunately for them – or more accurately, fortunately for their teachers – they don’t look alike so you can’t mix them up.”
In conclusion …
“I have a story to tell that just happened. The kids said they were bored and the only solution was for me to have another set of quintuplets. How was this a solution? Because then each one will be able to take care of one of the new babies. My youngest child immediately piped up and said, ‘Hey! What about me? Whom will I take care of?’
“They found a solution to that too. ‘We’ll buy you a pet.’ That arrangement appealed to him.”