The Menuhins: A Family Odyssey

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The Menuhins: A Family Odyssey [Lionel Menuhin Rolfe] on * FREE* shipping on qualifying offers. The Menuhins is the story of a miraculous family. Rolfe is violinist Yehudi Menuhin's nephew—son of Yehudi's younger sister, pianist Yaltah—and the second half of this book pretty much.

Very Good Very Good Edition: New York, New York: A near fine, clean, hardcover first edition with little shelf wear but tape marks from a previous dust jacket protector; hinges and binding tight, paper cream white. In a very good dust jacket with wear at the fore-tips, with original price.

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Used book in good condition. Has wear to the cover and pages. Contains some markings such as highlighting and writing. Ex-library with the usual stamps. Ships from the UK. Shows some signs of wear, and may have some markings on the inside. Your purchase also supports literacy charities. Better World Books Ltd Condition: Ships from Reno, NV.


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Your order is also backed by our In-Stock Guarantee! The Menuhins is the story of a miraculous family of great musicians and religious leaders. When a Hassid, a thin, pale-looking young man, had finished kissing the mezuzah, he looked straight at me, without giving me a sign of acknowledgement. I am told we are related to the Schneersohns. How do I find a book? Shows some signs of wear, and may have some markings on the inside.

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9780915572229 - Menuhins A Family Odyssey by Lionel Menuhin Rolfe

It doesn't have to be a yarmulke ; any type of hat would do, I had been told. Ah, in that case, I knew what would have been ideal: Moshe used to have an endless supply of them, one in this room, another in that, maybe even one in the chicken shed. A beret made you a dapper, worldly gentleman, and yet if you had come from the ghettoes of Eastern Europe, it eased your conscience about your naked head.

But there were no berets in the ghetto shops. My pace quickened, and as it did so, the whirring worrying in my head that I would have to brave the Lubavitcher Court hatless also increased. Many a writer had been thrown bodily out of the Lubavitcher Court.

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On the other hand, the Schneersohns, the Lubavitchers, were my cousins. The Menuhins were but an offshoot of the famed Chabad father-to-son dynasty which presided over the Polish-Russian town of Lubavitch. Once the Lubavitchers had been the major leaders of half of Russia's Jewish population, which numbered several millions. But the pogroms at the turn of the century, the mass exodus of the Jews before the Russian Revolution, and then Hitler, reduced the Lubavitchers to holding sway over only few thousand souls. They had done so ever since Rabbi Joseph Isaac Schneersohn, the sixth generation head of the Lubavitcher dynasty, had been released from a Soviet prison in the s.

He had made his way first to Paris, then to Brooklyn. Now I stood in the foyer of , behind the heavy entrance doors, uncomfortable because I could be naught but a stranger to the bearded Jews chanting in the next room with a passionate, melodic, electric hum that I recognized.

Disillusionment at the Ancestral Court

Although in my youth my grandfather did not sing Hassidic melodies to me, there was an intense melody in the hum of his activity. Even if he was merely showing me the right way to pull up a weed or to dig a hole to trap a gopher gnawing at the roots of an orange tree, or tamping down the compost heap back of the chicken shed, the old Hassidic energy emerged in melodic glory, thanking G-d for always creating something new. Now Hassidim emerged from the room where they had been chanting and davaning; they kissed the mezuzah on the door and went outside. My mind became involved in the kissing of the door's mezuzah, and I wondered if they expected me to do it.

When a Hassid, a thin, pale-looking young man, had finished kissing the mezuzah, he looked straight at me, without giving me a sign of acknowledgement. He did not even ask me what I was doing there and left the building. Seconds later, another Hassid, with a more authoritative bearing, walked in the door and asked me what I wanted. I heard my voice mumble something, and then I was being pointed to a door I assumed was an office. Finally an "American" rabbi arrived I began to explain my purpose to him.

The "American" rabbi had returned. He kept glancing up at me. Something was making him nervous. I put it on, and the rabbi looked as if God Himself was smiling in His Heaven.

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Now the yeshiva student became very friendly. He wanted to talk. I asked him if he had ever heard of Yehudi Menuhin, the violinist. I'm surprised you haven't heard of him, for he is also a Schneersohn. I looked at him and saw that his broad, beaming countenance could be said to look like my own. I told him, "I had not been raised religiously; in truth, I hadn't even been Bar Mitzvah'd.