Published: 23 April 2021
Last updated: 4 March 2024
THE CHALLAHS STARTED ARRIVING mysteriously on Fridays just as Shabbat was about to begin.
We would come home in the late afternoon to find a warm loaf sitting on the front porch or suspended from the door handle in a bag.
At first, we were puzzled by who was committing these seemingly random acts of kindness. So my wife and I told our children that a challah fairy had begun visiting us.
But it was not long before we uncovered his identity. It was our neighbour who lives a few doors down - we just happened to be out when he made his first few deliveries to our house.
He would wrap several times on the front door, yell “challah delivery” and hurry back down the path unless we were quick enough to rush out and wish him good Shabbat. He asked for nothing in return.
We became friendly when he invited us to a kind of communal Shabbat get together in his backyard shortly after we moved into Caulfield South.
I had gone reluctantly and alone to his gathering but stayed much longer than I planned, enjoying the company of my neighbour and some of his guests.
It was about this time that my aversion to this most Jewish of Melbourne suburbs began to soften. Before moving into our present home a few years ago, I had quietly sneered at life in Caulfield. I looked down on the suburb as drab and predictable.
Apart from a year in Ballarat and two stints in China before that, I had lived in Melbourne’s bagel belt since moving out of my childhood home.
Increasingly, the inhabitants of Caulfield began to loosen my grip on the grudge I held against it.
But I much preferred its edgier suburbs like Balaclava and Ripponlea, which have a grungier spirit and more lively nightlife.
Of course, I am fortunate to have some choice in where to live - a luxury denied to many Melburnians for whom increased housing costs mean they will never own their own home or even rent wherever they want. The stress of struggling to find a safe place to live or face homelessness is unimaginable to me.
Amid the soaring property prices we managed to find an almost unlivable house within our budget in the area and set about the endless project of fixing it up.
For a while I resisted embracing the suburb where my own grandparents had lived for many years. But increasingly the inhabitants of Caulfield began to loosen my grip on the grudge I held against it.
Shortly before Rosh Hashanah last year the young owner of the Turkish takeaway joint near my house waved me inside as I was walking by. He lowered his mask, paused a moment and wished me Shana Tovah with perfect pronunciation.
I wondered if I had ever told him I am Jewish but I was touched by the gesture just the same.
As Melbourne emerged from lockdown last year, I felt relief and maybe even some joy as the familiar Jewish rhythm began to softly beat again in the streets of Caulfield.
At Purim I chuckled at the kids walking by dressed as oversized stuffed animals, wishing me Chag Purim Sameach on their way to school.
The small supermarket nearby sells the same brand of Polish pickled dill cucumbers my grandmother bought when the fresh gherkins that she pickled were out of season.
I’m quite sure the workers at the supermarket are not Jewish but they know exactly where to find the matzah and Pesach goods on the shelves.
In the parks and streets, I hear Hebrew, Russian and sometimes, if I’m lucky, a few words in my dearest language Yiddish.
It’s a reminder of my own migrant roots and how newcomers continue to shape our community with their customs, language and food.
I love overhearing people wish each other good Shabbat on the phone before they scurry off to finish their shopping late on Friday afternoons.
The sight of people walking to shul brought an unexpected sense of relief as the lockdown lifted even though my relationship with Judaism is largely secular and cultural.
Last Friday my neighbour told me the challah deliveries were about to end because the prices were going up.
He had been supplying challah to other families too and the cost was mounting. I only felt more grateful he had thought to include us.
Those weekly deliveries had become part of the rhythm of my household’s Jewish life. They comforted us during lockdown when we could do little more than nod in gratitude from behind masks and retreat back into our isolation after a challah drop-off.
But I realised those challahs also helped me to appreciate my community and home. Maybe this is where I belong after all.
Illustration: John Kron
