The American TV program Dancing with the Stars, in which couples take to the ballroom floor competing for first prize, is avidly watched by countless viewers. But Sheila Patz, at her recent 100th birthday party celebration in a hall near Jerusalem filled to capacity, wearing a dazzling white sweater with a smile to match, entranced us all.
With arms aloft, she pirouetted to face captivated would-be partners. Finally came my turn, after which we enjoyed a delicious meal and a 70-year-old 60mm film showing scenes of her family’s carefree existence. Her six little children were seen tumbling freely barefoot, idyllically careless of time as was their wont in rural South Africa’s easygoing life.
Nodding and smiling, without a sign of regret for bygone days, she leaned toward me and whispered in my ear, “If you come over for a cup of tea, I will tell you the secret of long life.”
What is the secret to a long life?
With the imperative to learn the answer, time was of the essence! Well wrapped up against the chilly Jerusalem air found me several days later ringing the bell of her 11th floor apartment in Jerusalem. Ushered into an extraordinary wrap-around view of Jerusalem was an equally extraordinary sight of mini-skirted Grandma Sheila – no stockings – in her sneakers, seated straight backed on a straight-backed chair, reading a well-thumbed volume.
Placing it atop a pile of newspaper cuttings which the small table had difficulty holding, she stretched out her hands and, with her all-embracing smile, drew me onto a chair beside her while following my glance.
“You’re looking at the cuttings? It’s very, very important for the children to know. One day, they will look through them and learn history,” she said.
Sheila glowed with approval at my response. “Absolutely! My way is also to put them into albums. For the first 200 days of this traumatic Swords of Iron war, I collected all the front pages of The Jerusalem Post.”
Turning to each other, to my surprise she began by interrogating me!
“What is life?”
“A mystery?”
“You’ve got it all wrong. Tell me what is life all about?”
“A time when you try to do your best?”
“You’ve got it all wrong. The whole of life is a challenge. You must understand what your challenge is. Tell me, why do babies cry?”
“Because they’re hungry?”
“They cry because they can’t face a challenge. Their life has to be smooth. It has to be smooth because they don’t understand a challenge.”
Sheila allowed me a sip of tea in concert with her own and, sucking on a soft jelly candy, she gently pronounced: “The whole of life is a challenge. You must understand what your challenge is.”
So now I understood why she was reading the volume entitled CHALLENGE: Torah views on science and its problems, edited by Arieh Carmelli and, to my surprise, Cyril Domb.
“Cyril Domb!” burst from my lips. “Cyril Domb was a professor and lecturer in London. Groups of us walked miles for well over an hour on Shabbat afternoon to hear his marvelous talks.”
You would have thought my journey had been to the moon and back at the excitement we both felt, hugging and laughing. Sharing the news that Cyril Domb had made aliyah, we were united in our pride that both our families were ardent Zionists. Indeed, for us both, at every meal, Israel, its history and situation was the heartbeat of our family, even though mine came from a North of England industrial town and Sheila’s from rural South Africa.
We both marveled how, on realizing our dream of making aliyah, our grandchildren married – and produced our fourth generation of adorable little great-grandchildren.
“Still,” said Sheila, “though you too have three sons, you cannot boast as I can that three of my sons married three sisters!”
She pointed to the gallery of family pictures adorning her walls, where the Lithuanian origins of her family stemmed. The tree of life has blessedly extended its branches widely. It included Sheila and her two younger sisters, Jean, 97, and Ruth the tomboy, 94. Ruth had just recently ridden pillion on her son Richard’s 1,000 cc. motorbike. She had held us all spellbound at Sheila’s birthday party, reading her biographical poem on Sheila’s long life, where Jean, vivacious with her finely honed features and bubble of white hair, superbly enjoyed herself.
Now imperative for me to meet the trio together for an understanding of their secrets of long life, Sheila’s son Julian drove us to a town in central Israel where Ruth and Jean live. The drive was long and arduous, but far from boring, as Sheila quizzed her son tenaciously as follows:
“How is water made? When, where, how? H2O! Man will never be able to make water.”
“What’s important in life? Thinking! That’s important! What’s electricity? The movement of electrons between atoms. What’s law?”
Julian: “Structure.”
“Yes, structure!’ she finally agreed.
Structure, thinking, and facing challenges were part of Sheila’s values’ scaffolding.
It was now with greater understanding that her pioneering attempt at being the only Jewish woman to stand for city council in her hometown of Middleburg was gained. And how for years she would travel alone the 100 miles to Johannesburg to buy kosher meat and attend shiurim.
Despite the fluidity of her children’s life, Sheila and her husband, Max, had insisted that their sons go to cheder classes twice a week, often resulting in cricket games being suspended as the Jewish boys schlepped off to cheder. And she always had a bag packed when, at the drop of the proverbial hat, her ever-adventurous husband might declare they were off on a three-day jaunt into the bush.
Finally we arrived at Ruth’s gracious home – and out into her waterfall garden for our get-together. Hard to imagine that a round, refreshment-laden table could have a head. Yet, as Sheila sat down, she was clearly at the head, Ruth to her left and Jean her right. Could it be the sisters were a little in awe of their feisty older sister? The one who left the glamour of Johannesburg for the off-the-beaten track small country town of Middleburg, with its sparse Jewish population and amenities. There, following her the love of her heart, Dr. Max Patz, she spent 56 years. A heart no doubt won in the arms of young Max, who led her gliding round the ballroom floor. A friend commented that none could compete! Nor could they when, even before marrying, after two years of medical school, Sheila decided to become a physiotherapist, being one of the first to work on the innovative iron lung for polio treatment, and another as a working mother raising their six children – both a rarity in her day.
In a documentary made as a tribute to Sheila’s husband, speakers noted his brilliance as a diagnostician and his unique devotion to patients. Considered a medical legend, the maternity section of the Middleburg Hospital and the first blood transfusion center, which he established, were named after Dr. Max Patz. Commenting on his colorful career and interests, which included ornithology and wildlife, tribute was also paid to Sheila. Not only was she the one he confidently left to raise their children, but she also shared his interests. He was the flora and Sheila the fauna! Nevertheless, one celebrant commented, “How Sheila Patz and family survived her husband’s devotion to his patients is amazing!”
The mystery was solved as Sheila expounded the bedrock of her upbringing: “Values! From my father. Learning to be Jewish! Running away from antisemitism.” Her sisters demurred, skeptical, asking what she meant. Struggling to bridge their obviously different perceptions, no gap needed to be bridged, as warming up, the three sisters reminisced and giggled like teenagers once more.
“Sheila, you were the thinker,” volunteered Ruth. “Do you remember when I copied your essay ‘A Day in the Life of a Sovereign’ six years later and got top marks? And do you remember that horrid boy twisting our arms, and pinching us?”
Jean said, “And I’d go crying – such a cry baby! But Sheila was the big girl, so instead I went to mother!”
“Mother played piano,” continued Jean, “with us all gathered round!” As she reminded them how they went to the Palladium to see shows, they spontaneously burst into song:
As I walk along the Bois de Boulogne
With an independent air
You can hear the girls declare,
‘He must be a millionaire!’
“Yes! It’s from the song ‘The Man Who Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo,’ they enthused. Then, in full swing, the trio pitched into:
Swanee, how I love you, how I love you
My dear old Swanee.
I’d give the world to be
Among the folks in D-I-X-I-E
The evening drew to a close and the three sisters hugged, giving their Afrikaans elbow hand salute. Sheila got into the car reflecting on her father with “Dad bridged the Lithuanian shtetl and took all the New World had to offer.”
Clearly, Sheila bridged Johannesburg to Middleburg to Jerusalem, finally honing her inquiring mind. Still, she must keep her promise to divulge, at last, the secret of long life. With the road sliding by, and the stars above dancing as we drove home, Sheila rhythmically intoned, “You must understand that structure, curiosity, learning, Jewish values, and facing one’s challenges are indeed the secret of long life.”
We had been privileged to drink the elixir of Sheila’s century-old wisdom. Evergreen, ever profound, ever relevant, and ever blessed.■