Sometimes a column virtually writes itself. Here’s the story…
My mother was the oldest of the dozen born in Pittsburgh to David and Mollie Roth. Now, only one Roth — her youngest brother — is alive. When neighborhoods changed and only a few elderly were left to support and attend Congregation Cneses Israel, its board decided to close up this hundred-year-old synagogue and send its four Torahs to other shuls with strong family connections. My Uncle Srol (Hebrew name Yisroel, but there are no diphthongs in “Pittsburghese”) — last of the 12 — made it possible for one of those Torahs to come here to my synagogue, Beth Torah in Richardson. It was the one my mother and all her siblings had dedicated many years before, in honor of their parents.
Our Roth Torah has been much beloved since its local arrival and rededication in 2003. My grandson Ben, then 11 years old, was here that day, representing the fifth generation of my family to kiss that scroll.
But now — more than 13 years later — a newly discovered problem: Our rabbi saw an error while reading: A letter was missing! Left out altogether. How could this have gone undetected for so long, considering how old this Torah is, how many people read from it before and after it arrived here, and regular scribes’ inspections? But no one had ever noticed.
Not only that, but the left-out letter was especially crucial. Where “l’Adonai” should have been, there was no lammed. Yes, a sofer can make corrections, but on this? No scribe can change God’s name; that would render the Roth Torah totally unkosher. But not to add the letter would also make it unfit for future ritual reading.
I didn’t know about any of this until the matter was settled, when members of our ritual committee finally told me about the problem and sent an email photo taken of the spot. By personal choice, I don’t read Torah myself; they were kind not to disturb me with a matter I might not fully understand because of no direct experience (although of course I do know that every mistake in a scroll must be corrected before the Torah-in-question is once again restored to fitness for its primary use).
Those kindly congregants then explained that both the old-faithful Hertz Chumash and the newer Etz Hayim had been consulted; both confirmed that a necessary letter — in a very touchy position — was indeed missing. To make the Roth Torah useless would have been as sad for our whole synagogue as for me personally; since it arrived here, its unusually clear script has made it a favorite not only for Shabbat and holiday readings, but also for b’nai mitzvah students in training.
But Sofer No. 3 saved the day. He would not have to touch the letters in the name of the Almighty to make a ritually acceptable correction; by adjusting the letters in the adjoining word rather than trying to add to the imperfect word itself, he was able to create enough space for insertion of the necessary lammed, and made the scroll kosher again.
I hope I have all these “technicalities” reported correctly; after all, I’ve already told you I’m not a Torah reader myself. But I do know for sure that our Roth Torah is back in use, and I’m now at my computer, ready to place an order to further enhance it as soon as I’m done typing this. After a dozen years of heavy use, my family scroll’s everyday mantle has finally worn out, and I’m going to get a new one. It will be exactly the same as the original, with only one necessary change in the embroidered inscription. What has long said “In Honor of David and Mollie Roth” will now become “In Memory of David and Mollie Roth.” I’m sure that somewhere, my Boubby and Zaide are both smiling.