September 20, 2025
Honoured Rabbis, Cantors and a special shout out to Linda Friedman and the Klal Israel Committee.
Shabbat Shalom, a gutte Shabbos—or as my parents would say, Shabat Alegre y Bueno. Sounds a bit Spanish, doesn’t it? That’s because it is! It’s Ladino, the language of the Jews expelled from Spain. But more on that in a minute.
I’m here to talk a bit about the history of the Jews of Greece—a community that dates back to before the first century. While the early Israelites travelled and traded with its neighbour Greece, the first Jews settled in Greece after the destruction of the First Temple in Jerusalem. Like Jews in other locations, they began speaking a dialect that combined the local language with Hebrew—Judeo-Greek, also known as Yevanic (from the Hebrew word for Greece, Yavan). It can still be heard today.
The ancient Jewish community of Greece is Romaniote. The name comes from Romios, meaning citizens of the Roman Empire, of which Greece was a part. Over time, people living on the Greek peninsula continued to identify as Romios, the Jews as Romaniotes.
Should your travels take you to New York’s Lower East Side, you might enjoy checking out the Kehilla Kedosha of Janina, the only Romaniote Synagogue in the Western Hemisphere. They still follow the language and customs of the Romaniote community.
In the middle of the first century, the Christian apostle Paul wrote epistles addressed to Greek Jews, who he was trying to convert to his new faith. Spoiler alert: he was not successful.
Between the 11th and 16th centuries, small groups of Ashkenazi Jews, fleeing pogroms in Europe, also settled in Greece. While they brought their own customs, they were mostly absorbed into the local Romaniote communities.
And then came 1492 - famous for Columbus sailing the ocean blue, but equally important—and tragic for Jews, it was the beginning of the Spanish Inquisition. On Tisha B’Av, the Jewish day of mourning, the Alhambra Decree came into effect, ordering all non-Catholics to leave Spain or face death.
At that time, Greece was part of the Ottoman Empire. Sultan Bayezid II, seeing an opportunity, invited the expelled Spanish Jews to settle in his lands. They were granted dhimmi status—allowed to practice their faith in exchange for paying a foreigner’s tax. In return, they contributed greatly to the economic and cultural life of their new home.
It was a mutually beneficial relationship. These Sephardic Jews (from Sepharad, the Hebrew word for Spain), with their skills and global trade connections, thrived in commerce, finance, jewelry-making, and the silk trade. They helped develop the tobacco industry. Large numbers settled in Salonika (Thessaloniki), a major port city. They brought with them their foods, customs, songs, and—most famously—their language: Ladino, or Judeo-Español. Think of it as a Sephardic version of Yiddish. It became the lingua franca of the port, which they controlled so completely that it would close on Shabbat! Salonika, with its numerous yeshivot , kehillot - what they called synagogues, and vibrant Jewish community, earned the nickname La Madre de Israel—The Mother of Israel.
Jump ahead to 1911, when David Ben-Gurion lived in Salonika. He began planting the seeds of his Zionist dream. He surmised that these Jewish dock workers would be a valuable addition when Israel would someday have a port of its own—and these Greek Jews could help build it.
Today we can be grateful to Greek Jew, Albert Bourlas, past CEO of Pfizer for bringing the Covid vaccine to the market. And who knew that Hank Azaria, who played many of the voices on the Simpson’s tv show was a Greek Jew. Diane Von Furstenberg, the dress designer, also a Greek Jew. Salonika boasted many successful Jewish families. The Allatini family who owned flour mills and used their wealth to establish the Bank of Salonika. The Recanati family found success in the tobacco trade. Today, their name graces the Recanati School of Management at Tel Aviv University. The Florentine section of Tel Aviv was founded by Solomon Florentine, another Salonika expat. Danone Yogurt was founded by Isaac Carasso, a Sephardic Jew from Thessaloniki who emigrated to Barcelona, Spain. He named the company “Danone” after his son, Daniel.
However, 1917 saw the end of the First World War and the dissolution of the Ottoman Empire. Approximately 400,000 Muslims were moved from Greece to Turkey and over a million Greek Orthodox Christians were forced to relocate from Turkey to Greece. Mass immigration—something we in Toronto can easily relate to. Jewish neighbourhoods in Salonika became denser and more diverse. Then, on a hot summer Saturday, a spark from frying eggplants spread through the Jewish neighbourhood, destroying two-thirds of the city. It took 3 days to quell the flames.
Many families—my grandparents among them—were forced to live in refugee camps while the new Greek government tried to figure out how to rebuild. And many, with nowhere to settle, packed up and followed Ben-Gurion’s dream in British Mandate Palestine.
My parents, Eli Benyacar and Esther Tivoli, were born in Salonika—on different sides of the tracks, five years apart. Eli’s father, my grandfather was a stevedore, a port worker. Esther’s father—my Nono—was a pharmacist. They went to different kehillot and different schools, but shared the same language, holidays, and foods.
The families were patriarchal—fathers worked outside the home, mothers inside. Monday was laundry day. The mothers would start a pot of lentil stew, Lintejas which could simmer all day while they washed clothes. Remember—there were no machines then, so this was labor-intensive work. On weekdays, women might visit the Turkish bath— a structure still prominent today in the center of town.
The more modern mothers , like my Nona, grandmother, would take in a movie or stop at a café in town. The great-grandmothers—like my bis-Nona— identified as Turks. They dressed in Turkish pantaloons. They stayed home, drinking Turkish coffee with neighbors, reading fortunes in the coffee grounds while hand-rolling the orzo noodles, called fideo that they would need for Shabbat. The fideo would accompany the fijones—a Sephardic type of cholent, without potatoes or barley, that would be eaten over the Sabbath. When the fathers returned from synagogue, the children would kiss their parents’ hands as a sign of respect and honour.
Rosh Hashanah was a time for kiftikas de prasa (fried leek patties) and avolegmono chicken soup (lemon-egg drop soup). Fish fillets were coated and fried—no gefilte fish here. This was an authentic Mediterranean diet: fresh fruits, vegetables, olive oil, grains, and pulses.
On Yom Kippur, my mother—still a child—would run home shouting ”¡Ya charvo!” (“The shofar has blown!”) signaling her mother to put on the coffee.
For Purim, there were orejas de Aman—spirals of fried dough coated in honey and nuts that symbolized Hamans - or as they would pronounce it Aman - Aman’s ears not pockets. My mother would distribute handmade mishloach manot, with marzipan figures shaped like characters from Megillat Esther. Today you can see replicas of these figures in the Salonican museum.
Pesach meant strict housecleaning. My aunts’ dowries of hand-embroidered linens were stored in a chest, which was emptied and cleaned out each year. The community-distributed matzah was placed inside. The seder plate held huevos haminados—eggs hard-boiled in their shells overnight with onion skins, oil, and coffee, giving them a shiny red-brown shell. The maror was romaine lettuce, carefully inspected for guzanos — bugs. Every house smelled of lamb, redolent with garlic, oregano, lemons, and fresh spring peas. For breakfast, there were buñuelos—what you might call bubalech—sweetened with honey.
At the end of the chag, they would gather their leftovers for a final picnic and return with sweet spring grass to sprinkle in the corners of the house.
On Shavuot, in lieu of blintzes, there were bourekas—with handmade dough (not filo or puff pastry)—and sutlatchi, rice pudding made from rice flour, slow-cooked until a skin formed on top.
Unlike the Ashkenazi custom, Sephardic children were named for living people. When my brothers and I were born there were no surviving relatives so we carried the names of the dead. Our parents were honoured and ecstatic to hear their own names reborn in each of their grandchildren.
All that life changed with the arrival of the Nazis in 1943. They brought yellow stars, the Nuremberg Laws, and forced labour. Perhaps you’ve seen photos of “Black Sabbath,” July 11, 1943, when Jews were rounded up in Salonika’s town square and forced to perform calisthenics in the hot midday sun. The Jewish men were taken to forced labor camps, and only freed after a ransom of two billion drachmas was paid. Jewish law mandates the redemption of Jewish captives -pidyon shevuyim -so the centuries-old Jewish cemetery land was sold off to the government to raise the funds. The ancient tombstones were used to rebuild the city, and the University of Thessaloniki now stands on the burial grounds.
Within the next eight months, the Nazis herded the Jews into the Baron Hirsch ghetto, close to the train tracks—making it easy to load unsuspecting Jews onto trains to Auschwitz.
Don’t forget, these were Spanish, Turkish, French, and Italian-speaking Jews. German was not widely understood of at all. The government recognized that the chief rabbi was a Viennese Ashkenazi Jew named Tzvi Koretz. He acted as interpreter, and the Greek speaking Jews could not see reason to mistrust him. They were told they were heading to a new life in Poland. They exchanged drachmas for zlotys, and even paid for their tickets on the seven-day trip to Auschwitz.
There were approximately 73,000 Jews in all of Greece. 53,000 were from Salonika.
My father, #114191, was on the seventh transport to Auschwitz.
Eli Montekio, whose son Alan is also a member of Adath Israel, and who was honoured with an Aliyah today was on one of those seven-day cattle cars to the death camps
Our families arrived in Poland ill-equipped for the harsh winter. They didn’t speak German, Polish or Yiddish and were constantly asked by fellow Jewish inmates, “Bist a Yid?” (“Are you Jewish?”)
My father was lucky. At only 15, he was in line for the gas chambers with his sisters and elderly parents. But he ran toward his 2 brothers. When asked his age, he held up 16 fingers. He was assigned to work in the kitchens, peeling potatoes and chopping cabbages.
The Nazis, seeing the strong, stocky build of these Greek labourers, forced many into the Sonderkommando—those who worked the gas chambers. Their lack of Yiddish meant their landsmen couldn’t be warned of the fate that awaited them.
But they found ways to resist. Greek Jews like Albert Errera and Josef Levy participated in the Sonderkommando Uprising of 1944. Testimonies recount how prior to their own deaths the Greeks sang songs of the Greek partisan movement and the Greek National Anthem. They died singing.
My father , Eli Benyacar, Eli Montekio and other Greek-speaking Jews were sent to clean up the Warsaw Ghetto after its uprising. They couldn’t speak Polish, so escape was nearly impossible—those that tried, were caught and tortured to death.
Of the 53,000 Salonika Jews deported, only 1,000 survived. My father, Eli Benyacar, and Eli Montekio were among those who walked out.
There was nothing left for them in Greece. The past was destroyed. Palestine, America, and Canada became the future.
But where was my mother during all this? Esther Tivoli was born in 1932. Her family were Italian Jews from the time when Italy was part of the Ottoman Empire. After Greece became a nation-state, they remained Italian citizens—not Greek. Mussolini, part of the Axis, would not allow Hitler to deport Italian Jews to camps, so they were instead sent to live in ghettos in Athens. By then, Jews were aware of the danger. My mother, only 11 years old and crippled from polio, was hidden in a hospital under a false Christian name. Her sisters were hidden in the countryside. But once the Hitler-Mussolini pact broke down, the Nazis found her brothers, parents, and grandmother. They were sent to Auschwitz. The girls remained hidden.
When the war ended, the orphaned Tivoli children—three sisters and one surviving brother—planned to go to Palestine. But British immigration made that difficult. My mother, a handicapped 14-year-old, was not a good candidate for smuggling into the country.
The JIAS (Jewish Immigrant Aid Services) arranged sponsorships for orphans and 3 Greek girls were brought to Toronto. My mom was lucky—she was placed with Molly and Israel Edell, kind Torontonians - even if they didn’t understand why she’d never eaten gefilte fish.
As for my father— Eli Benyacar kept missing the boat to Palestine. One day, he became Efraim Mucher, and with his new name found his way to Toronto. The Jewish Y organized dances for young refugees. My dad said he was looking for a girl who could cook like his mother. Toronto had three Greek girls. My dad chose the prettiest one.
Today there are barely 6000 Jews remaining in Greece, primarily in Salonica and Athens. Greek native, chief Rabbi Gabriel Negrin is known for his efforts to revitalize the Greek Jewish community and connect with younger generations.
Parashat Nitzavim that we read today talks about defeating death. “I call heaven and earth as witnesses today against you, that I have set before you life and death, the blessing and the curse; therefore choose life, that you and your children may live.” (Deut. 30:15, 19)
My parents went on to raise a growing family. They had three children, who gave them nine grandchildren, and 9 great-grandchildren and counting Pupu.
They chose life!
Hitler did not succeed.
Am Yisrael Chai!
