Dassie Abelson

I was born in 1944 in what was Palestine at the time, but is now Israel. We were still under British control. It was the time of the Second World War and there was very little we knew about what was happening in Europe. Immigrants to Israel were attempting to enter the country, but the British didn’t allow them. These were people who suffered tremendously, who were able to escape because they wanted to be alive and find a place of safety. They didn’t know anything about the country except they were hoping for freedom and a better way of life. My mother was one of those people.

My mother, Sara, was an artist designing clothes in Europe, in Hungary. Sara moved to Palestine in the late 1920s to be with her sisters. By the time she arrived, one sister had died and Sara’s life became chaotic when she became responsible for her sister’s children; their welfare and survival became her primary focus. She wasn’t ready for that.

Two of Sara’s brothers, David and Norman, managed to emigrate to the United States prior to the war and at the end of the war, they were the only 4 siblings to survive the holocaust—the rest had perished.

My father, Shlomo became a farmer when he came to Palestine from Poland in 1925 with his mother and stepfather. Amazingly, we found copies of his passport to confirm this passage. My father was a twin and his brother stayed in Poland to serve in the army but did not survive WWII.

Shortly after Sara’s arrival to Palestine, she was introduced to Shlomo and they married, mostly out of necessity. They respected each other. They had a good life. They were able to purchase some housing in the Tel Aviv area and open a bed-and-breakfast type of place. They were picking people from the street, more for generosity, and really didn’t charge them. My father was very outgoing and caring and my mother just wanted to help people.

I had two older brothers, Chaim and Dov, who were 10 and 12 years older than me. My mother always wanted a little girl so even though I arrived a bit later than my siblings, here I am.

When I was born, Israel wasn’t established yet so there were a lot of Zionists who were doing things to create a homeland. My father was one of them. He was like the American cowboy who went West and did “whatever it is, whatever it takes” to find the gold. He dreamed about having a farm, which he did, outside Tel Aviv. Back then it was just wilderness, right out to the ocean. They happened to have some groves of oranges. That was the dream.

My mother and father never told me, “Don’t do this, don’t do that, you should do that.” My mother was very quiet, a quiet woman. She never talked, she never hugged me, but she was always there watching me every second. So I always knew I was loved, even though there wasn’t real conversation, there wasn’t hugging and kissing and I love yous. But I knew; if there was a man who was suffering down the street or hungry, my father would bring him home for food. There was always food in our house.

As a child, I was not aware of the war in Europe or ongoing attacks in the area or how dangerous my surroundings were, because my parents and brothers were protecting me. I didn’t know any of that. The bomb shelter was my playground. I was a little girl playing in a bomb shelter with my friends and that was normal life at the time.

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In 1948, Israel’s independence was established following the end of WWII, and things began to change. When the country became independent, Hebrew became the national language. Until 1948, Jews lived here and there, scattered around the world. They maintained their identity with their religion and traditions, but this was the first time in thousands of years that they came to the land of their roots. The land was the size of New Jersey. Jews were arriving in the worst shape because of the war. They couldn’t even talk about the horror they went through and survived. Those who survived now had a place to go and begin again. Ben-Gurion became the first Prime Minister and he said, “Everybody must speak Hebrew. Everybody must have a home. Everybody must be able to make a living.”

As a young girl, I always knew who I was: I’m in Israel, I’m a Jew, and I’m free. Nobody hated me for these things. So I was a happy kid. My parents didn’t argue. There was always food on the table. When you experience starvation, the most important thing is food, not even clothing or anything.

The hospital where I was born in Tel Aviv was created in honor of a woman named Henrietta Szold who came to the country from Maryland in 1912. She saw how much sickness there was but no place to get healed. So, she organized volunteers to help create some kind of medical system for everyone, whoever they are, no matter what color, no matter what shape, whatever they need—because there was a lot of disease. She called this organization Hadassah. It comes from the Hebrew word for a healing flower.

I was born around the holiday of Purim, a big festival, which celebrates Queen Esther. The biblical book of Esther tells the story of a young Jewish woman living in the Persian diaspora who finds favor with the king, becomes queen, and risks her life to save the Jewish people. To hide her Jewish identity, she had changed her name to Esther, but her real name was Hadassah. So that’s how I got my name and in Israel, we don’t have nicknames.

Our house was built by a Turkish designer, a famous designer, but because of all the bombing there was a lot of damage to it. But on the floor there was a beautiful mosaic design; I was always looking at this mosaic. When you talk about Tel Aviv at that time, it was just 4 or 5 streets and the buildings were kind of unusual. Our building was higher than most of them, so I was able to see the ocean. There was a huge terrace in the back, it was where my brothers’ bedrooms were, and there was a railroad below. My brothers used to say, “If you misbehave, I’m going to throw you down there on the train!” That road started in Italy, went to Greece, to Turkey, to Syria, Lebanon, Israel all away to Alexandria, where Egypt is. Three different continents! In ancient times they went with camels and horses and buggies and whatever, you name it. By foot even. And what happened? The British made it into a railroad. And to think that in my backyard was that road!

By the way, in my house, we spoke German, English, Yiddish, Hungarian, Spanish, Russian, Polish, and of course, Hebrew. My mother’s native language was Hungarian and my father’s was Russian and Polish. But he also spoke some Yiddish and German, and so did my mother. But my next door neighbor spoke only Spanish. If I needed water, I asked in Spanish.

Education was the highest priority and I went to an all-girls school. But the teachers studied Hebrew in different parts of Europe—wherever they came from—and so they didn’t speak the same language, the same dialect of Hebrew. And some biblical Hebrew doesn’t have modern words. I’ll give you one example: television. How do you translate television into an ancient tongue?! When I came to this country, I didn’t even know what language to swear in!

So we learned poetry; we learned history. We had so much to learn over the 2000 years of journeys of Jews in different countries, different cultures, making different adjustments, different experiences.

There was no telephone or television at home, but I had lots of friends. We gathered daily to study and dance and that’s where I met my best friend, Tzila. She was blonde and I was brunette, and we were competitive and pushed each other. Music was a big thing. I remember it was Elvis at the time. I didn’t like him. I didn’t appreciate him. He was not someone I could relate to at the time.

But you know, the closeness you have with people—I can’t even describe—I never felt like I was missing anything. Honestly, it wasn’t about clothing and things; it was just being with people, being with friends who love each other.

In 1949, when I was 5 years old, I traveled to the United States with my mother to visit her 2 brothers she hadn’t seen in more than a decade, since before the war. Upon arrival, my mother became very sick and had to be hospitalized so they put me in a Jewish home. I was in first grade and went to school, but I hated it and ran away. I gave them a lot of trouble because it was difficult and foreign to me, but I learned English and actually almost forgot Hebrew.

We ended up staying a year in the U.S. and when I returned to Israel, I was embarrassed because I couldn’t remember Hebrew. My friends asked, “What do you know in English?” So, I sang “tea for two, two for tea. One for you, one for me” and I never forgot that song.

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When I was in high school, my mother’s health declined again, and by now she was blind from glaucoma among other ailments. It was hard to watch her suffer, but she didn’t want to hold me back and encouraged me to keep moving forward.   

Israeli citizens, regardless of gender, were required to participate in military service (and still are). I went with kids my age from all over the country and I hated it, because it was tough. But always, I still say, that was the best school I ever had in my life because you had to be disciplined. I learned safety, skills, and courage. I learned how to survive in the desert, pitch a tent, sleep with a gun, and how to shoot it. It was empowering and life altering.

I’ll tell you something about women and men in Israel: we didn’t have issues with equality. We had a woman Prime Minister, Golda Meir. In this country, you still can’t get a woman to be a president!

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Israel was evolving. People who come from different parts of the world with different cultures, different food, different ideas, they knew maybe one word in Hebrew. That was a difficult situation! How do you integrate all of these people and make them one? It’s impossible, right? So what happened? They built kibbutzim. The kibbutzim was all around. The settlers created agriculture, they built buildings, they lived a life of togetherness, and then we protected that.

While in the army, I was required to take tests and assessments to discover my best skills, and I was told I would be a good teacher. I was always interested in my education so I took courses at the University of Tel Aviv for 2 years, but life changed, and I was on to the next adventure before I was able to finish my degree.

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So in the year 1964 when I was 20-something, I came to this country. I always say I came with the Beatles. And I did like them very much. I stayed with my cousin, Rivka, in New York City. Her marriage was arranged by a matchmaker, and she lived in an ultra-orthodox  community in Brooklyn. It was culture shock for me, and the rules were too much. I couldn’t take it. So, I contacted my uncle David who lived in Los Angeles and got on a plane to stay with him and his wife, Evelyn. They didn’t have children and they weren’t accustomed to a young independent woman with experience serving in the army. The first thing Evelyn did was pray to God that I “find a doctor or lawyer and get married and get the hell out of my house!” That’s what she told me!

It was the first time I ate cereal in my life, I have to tell you. And it was the first time I ate an apple. We didn’t have apples. And we didn’t have the cereals that puffed up and made noises. The only thing I ate that I loved was ice cream and fruit. I don’t know how I lived on that, but I just was not a big eater.

It was culture shock again just on a different coast. I used to go to the beach a lot, that was my escape. I babysat, waitressed, and did odd jobs at the Jewish Community Center. Evelyn introduced me to a friend who lived near Venice beach. This girl said, “On Sunset Boulevard there’s a coffee shop with Israeli food. I think you like very much to go there.” I said, “Anything Israeli, let’s go!” That’s where I was introduced to this boy Murray from Rhode Island who was in L.A. studying law. Murray had recently spent 6 months in Israel, so he was happy to meet me and practice his Hebrew. We went on a few dates and my aunt Evelyn was thrilled!

A few weeks later, I was at a house party with Murray, and he offered me a beer. I was not a drinker, but everyone around me was dancing, drinking, and getting crazy. Murray had too much to drink and got sick. I wanted to get the hell out of there. Murray’s roommate, Ken, comes to help me. The savior!

Ken and I started dating. While he was in law school, I began a course in hairdressing. I took a course in hairdressing because I wanted to go and have my hair done, so I might as well learn how to do this. You don’t live until you try it all. I moved out of my uncle’s apartment and roomed with some Israeli girls I’d met. But my visa was expiring, and I needed to return home to Israel.

That’s when Ken said, “No, you’re not going. We are going to get married. I’m going home to tell my family and they’re going to love you, the Jewish girl!”

Ken flew home to Providence, RI to share the exciting news with his family, transfer to a law school in Boston, and get things ready for my arrival. We had a small wedding on September 11, 1965. Only a few of my cousins from New York came to the wedding. We didn’t even have a honeymoon because he went back to school the next day. We had the weekend. But you know, to me, education was always first: education, education. So I’m telling you this: But I’m strong enough. I’m living with the love of my life.

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I didn’t know how to cook, and we didn’t have much money, but we bought some cookbooks so I could learn. Ken likes leg of lamb, so I get a recipe and it says to put rosemary on it. I put the whole jar on it! It was a disaster, the smell, the smoke! Then, suddenly, the lights went out! I thought Oh no, I shut the power down! But it was actually a black out in the entire city!

Never have I  used rosemary again!

We lived in Brookline, MA, until Ken graduated law school. After graduation, we moved to an apartment in South Weymouth because it had high ceilings and lots of light and was near beaches.

It was tough at first to find my way but then, I met Kelly in 1970. She and her husband, Ernie, lived on the first floor of the same apartment building, and we immediately bonded because we were both pregnant. Kelly came from a wonderful Greek Orthodox family who welcomed us. Kelly was a teacher and taught me all the nursery rhymes, “The Itsy Bitsy Spider” I remember. Ernie and Ken commuted daily to Boston together. Today, still, we are family.

Our 2 daughters were born a week apart and then we both got pregnant with our second children at the same time. We bought houses on the same street and delivered our second babies exactly a week apart. It’s 54 years later, and I can’t say enough about this beautiful person and the special bond of friendship that we continue to share.

When my kids were younger, I went through a terrible phase of depression. I wanted to learn the culture here, but it was very difficult for me because I had such pride. I’m a very big achiever. But I got very depressed and I suffered from tremendous migraines. I was in a store one day and was talking with a woman. I said, “I try, but I don’t know where I’m going and I am not sure about my future here.” This country, the golden land, whatever—money and the trees, and all this baloney—you know I just couldn’t find myself. She said, “You know what, you’re very lucky. You have a culture, a rich culture, and you have a culture here. You just have to cross the bridge when you’re here, learn about here. When you go home, take the bridge back home.” And that helped.

The bridge is okay with me. I can be myself. I have an accent, yeah. I speak other languages, yeah. I know about other cultures. This is who I am.

Sometimes I can misjudge, but I’m not perfect. I try to get to know a person and realize the goodness in them.

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With 2 young daughters, we were looking to connect with other Jewish families in the area. We saw the name Levin on a mailbox (“Are you Jewish?” “Yes!”). So one thing leads to another, we strike up a conversation, and they invite us to join the local congregation.

There was no actual synagogue, it’s just a group of people gathering in the Old Ship Church parish house and in peoples’ homes for services and holidays. It was cozy and welcoming at first, but as the group grew, we knew we needed a permanent home. The opportunity arrived to build a place for us to gather. Ken and others made a plan to find the money, the land, build a temple, and find a rabbi to make it happen. We finally got our home.

Teaching was never an interest of mine or in my plans, but with my second child, we needed to start a Hebrew school and no formal education plan was in place at our new synagogue. I knew what I had to do. And with the support and encouragement from then Rabbi Benjamin Rudavsky, I contacted the Bureau of Jewish Education in Boston, explained the situation, and they connected me with a wonderful educator and mentor named Esther Karten. Together we designed a curriculum and program to support the needs of our growing Jewish community.

Funny story: a few years ago, I was in South Shore Hospital, and a doctor came by again and again. He finally stopped and asked, “Are you Dassie Abelson?” And I said, “Yeah. Why?” He answered, “You were my Hebrew teacher at the temple in Hingham! Because of you, I moved to Israel. I made Aliyah. I joined the Israeli army. Do you know what you did for my family?”

I know as a person that I was teaching people. It wasn’t just teaching a language. I was giving these kids—who come from all kinds of backgrounds, who are Jewish, who didn’t understand the value of who they really are—their history. I had a mission to give them that. Because of parents like my parents, we’re still here. 6 million are gone. There could have been more and we would be over.

The best way I started my classes was singing the song [the national anthem]. When I was teaching, I realized the kind of treasure that comes from learning from people who escaped hardship and who were dedicated to their heritage. To the tradition. So yes, connection; I have plenty. The more I see that we aren’t alone, the more I feel blessed.

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I’ve had a passion and appreciation for art as far back as I can remember. I love experiencing art (in all forms) from other cultures, attending artist talks, going to museums, and supporting the arts. The walls of our apartment and just about every surface are covered in paintings, pottery, and sculptures that Ken and I have collected from all over the world. We love it!

I have also been a painter for more than 40 years and while I’ve tried a variety of mediums, I currently focus on acrylic on canvas. My favorite thing to do, and what keeps me going and motivated every day, is to set up an easel and paint outside in the fresh air, especially near the ocean. I also love painting anything with flowers. My favorite spots are in Hull and Provincetown. And I love to revisit the same places again and again to paint them from different perspectives.

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As I age and deal with health issues and losing lifelong friends and family, I’m grateful that I have a husband with whom I can share this journey, and we can kvetch to each other. Sometimes it’s not easy, but we do have each other. I take art classes at the South Shore Art Center in Cohasset, and I spend time with my daughters and grandchildren (kvelling!). My biggest issue is my connection to Israel and not being able to visit as often as I wanted. Tel Aviv is my special place and that’s where my heart is.