It was Rosh Hashanah afternoon, and a group of sixty of us-men, women, youth, and children, were walking towards the river to say Tashlich.  We were quite a sight, walking together, some wearing kippahs, some too shy to, all of us holding Machzorim as we walked down streets that had not changed since Czarist times.

People looked on in interest, wondering from afar, what on earth we were up to.

And then, out of nowhere, came a man with a poodle.

One of the girls in our group, always eager to make new friends (especially furry ones), complimented his dog. He stopped, smiling, and asked, “Where are you all going?”

With pride sparkling in her eyes, she answered, “We’re Jewish! It’s Rosh Hashanah, and we’re doing Tashlich!”

The man paused, as if the words stirred something deep inside. “I’m Jewish too,” he said quietly. “My mother and father were both Jewish.”

Her face lit up, and she sprinted over to me, practically bursting with excitement. “Rabbi Levi, we found another Jewish man!”

I walked over to meet him. His name was Mr. Goldman. We began to talk as the group continued by the river. He told me he didn’t remember much from his childhood—no special foods, no family traditions.

But then, his expression changed.

“There is one thing I remember,” he said, his voice growing softer. “When I was little, my grandmother took me to do Kapoores. She held a chicken over my head, swinging it as she said a prayer. I didn’t understand it, but I remember her voice, the seriousness of it. It’s stayed with me all my life.”

As he shared his story, I felt chills. Here, standing by a river in Voronezh, amidst a group of Jews rediscovering their roots, was a man living just a 2 minute walk from my house who had carried this tiny spark of tradition all his life, waiting for the right moment to ignite.