As the warmth of the day settles in, the desire for ice cream grows stronger. While the craving might seem counterintuitive following the sugar rush of Purim, there’s a deeper significance to today. This would have been the 87th birthday of Shlomo Mansour z”l, a man who cherished pistachio ice cream.
Today, more than ever, the details of his life feel poignant. Though I’ve shared this before, the realization of just how much this detail matters has only just begun to resonate with me.
A few days ago, my family gathered to observe the yahrzeit of my grandfather, who passed away before I was born. I’ve come to know him through stories shared by my family, particularly my mother, who was adamant about honoring his entire life—not just the somber moments at the end.
My grandfather’s journey was extraordinary. Born in Hungary, he immigrated to New York as a young child, eventually becoming a doctor. He faced immense obstacles, notably quotas that prevented Jewish students from attending American medical schools. Despite this, he became a doctor in the U.S. Army during World War II.
One of the most memorable stories about him, passed down through generations, tells of a time he performed a blood transfusion on a Nazi soldier. During the procedure, he reportedly said, “This is Jewish blood you’re getting.” While it’s impossible to verify the truth of this statement, the significance remains: My grandfather valued life—enough to save the life of someone who, at the time, represented everything his people had suffered under.
Life, as a Jewish value, is central to our beliefs. From prayers for the “Book of Life” to toasts of “L’Chaim” (to life), it’s woven into the very fabric of our identity. It even appears in my Hebrew name.
After reflecting on my grandfather’s yahrzeit, we observed a three-day Purim celebration—a complex balancing act between joy and the reminders of darkness in our shared history.
Now, we turn to Shlomo, whose life demands equal recognition. He was a survivor of the Farhoud, an atrocity that marked his early years, and later became a victim of an unspeakable crime. His family insists, however, that today be a celebration of his full life, not just the tragedies. And so, in keeping with this wish, we honor the man who led a full, vibrant life, surrounded by the love of his kibbutz community, his family, and, of course, plenty of pistachio ice cream.
Though I’m not indulging in pistachio ice cream myself today—preferring vanilla, despite my love for pistachios—I still raise my cone in tribute to Shlomo. His smile, which was infectious, remains a testament to the joy he spread during his 85 years in this world.
Happy heavenly birthday, Shlomo. Though my ice cream may not be the flavor you favored, I hope it’s acceptable to you. Your life and memory will forever be a blessing.
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