Once in a while, I walked with my father to shul on Shabbat afternoon for Seuda Shlishit, the third meal, which took place in the basement of a building named Weihburg.

I was a young girl, maybe eight years old, and the sensation of my father’s hand holding mine was a reward in itself.

While I waited for the men to complete the afternoon prayer, I watched an elderly man picking up bread crumbs from the floor. He carefully gathered each tiny piece with his fingers and explained to me that it was a sin to step on even the smallest crumb of bread.

That image has stayed with me until today.

But there was another bonus........

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