More than an ephemeral part of Sukkot observance, the fruit also symbolizes the commitment of one generation to the next
By Benjamin W. Corn
On
my mother’s glass-and-chrome étagère stands a sepia-toned photograph of
a dapper-looking soldier, a captain in the tzar’s army. The young man,
my maternal grandfather, wears his medals and other military regalia.
The picture pleases the eye, startling the viewer only when background
information comes to light: In addition to being a commanding officer,
my grandfather was a rabbi.I never met my grandfather, Benjamin W. Greenberg. He died several months before my birth. In compliance with Ashkenazic custom, I inherited his name. Still, having heard stories about this Renaissance man, I feel that I know him.
Like many rabbis, Grandpa amassed a vast collection of Jewish books, including rare folios and classical texts. Sixteenth-century Bibles, illuminated haggadahs, and anthologies of Yiddish poems stood among the bound volumes on shelf after shelf in his modest house, which he purchased in Brooklyn after he emigrated from Russia. Simply acquiring a treasure-trove of books, however, was too conventional to satisfy his eclectic tastes. He also cherished another object. Grandpa was an avid collector of etrogs.
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