By Mady Frischer
When I was 13 I wrapped tefillin for the first time.
When I was 13 all the “post-b’nai mitzvah kids” had to take a class where we woke up early on sundays, wrapped tefillin and felt it dig into our skin while Rabbi Alex talked at us for an hour and half.
I was 13 and I was wrapping my grandfather’s tefillin. The leather on it was cracking and brittle and I was scared to pull too tight. I would run my fingers along the straps and flakes would come off. I never met my grandfather, he died when my dad was 10. In those moments, whether I noticed or not, I was tying myself into generations of tradition. My father’s father wasn’t terribly religious, so I wondered how he got them, if he took them with him to World War II, how often he wore them. My dad told me that he himself only used them once or twice in a similar class. He got them because he was the oldest, and so did I.
The purpose of the class was to teach us about tefillin, and to give us the experience of wrapping them with our parents. Most sundays my dad came with me and just helped out. We only had one set of tefillin in our house. One week, my mom took me. Regardless of how many times I wrapped I always forgot how. I looked at her for help and she shrugged, “I’ve never put them on. Ask Mr. Gertz.” So, the Dad on my left took my arm and showed me how it was done.
My dad got them because he was the oldest, and that’s why I got them. Looking back, I was the first woman to put on that pair of tefillin. I broke the chain and defied what might have shocked my grandfather.
I was 21 the next time I wrapped tefillin.
I had stitched the tefillin myself, I had placed the parchment in the boxes and folded them together. I had tied the knots and threaded the leather.
When my grandchild wraps these tefillin, what will they think? Will the leather be cracked, how often will I have used them? The story is mine to make.
