"There are stars whose radiance is visible on earth though they have long been extinct. There are people whose brilliance continues to light the world though they are no longer among the living. These lights are particularly bright when the night is dark. They light the way for mankind". - Hannah Senesh, 1921-1945
Dad died on May 18 after suffering for almost two years following a stroke that left him unable to speak and paralyzed on his left side. Now a year later, when I think about him it isn't him sick but him well and his memory comes at odd times. I visualize him coming in from walking his dog "Sweetie" both of them wet from a Seattle drizzle, visualizing him with the Dalai Lama at the compassionate conference in Seattle earlier this year, and right now when I am working on a ketubah and need his finesse in Hebrew to make the text flow poetically.
I am fortunate that this is the first family member for whom I have had to say kaddish. I have come to understand the wisdom of the rabbis once again in crafting a marvelous way of coping with grief and adjusting to living without someone important in ones life.
Shiva, the immediate time after his death. I assumed my siblings and I would observe a traditional seven day period. We did not get to choose how to observe shiva. Fortunately, I was going from the funeral to a visit with my daughter in Chicago so I could observe a modified shiva. It was Shavuos, and festivals shorten shiva, in any case. Sometimes I think dad orchestrated this.
I chose a Conservative synagogue two blocks away from my daughter. The large building was surrounded by a substantial fence and there were security guards at each entrance. The first day, services were in the chapel as Shavuos came out in the middle of the week. I arrived just before recitation of Hallel. There was a rabbi and cantor on the bimah. I sat in the back. It was clearly a group of regulars who greeted each other warmly but no one acknowledged me. The cantor had an annoying habit of pounding the lecturn as he sang to keep the beat so Hallel sounded like military marchs. The melodies were familiar and the rabbi gave an interesting d'var torah. I felt dad's presence as this was the kind of synagogue we grew up in. I did not stay for Kiddush since I was a "stranger" but decided to come again the next day.
The second day the service was in the main sanctuary as Yiskor is included. There were many more congregants and for some reason the cantor didn't need to keep the beat. The sanctuary had fairly contemporary stained glass windows of historical and biblical themes. Once again no one greeted me, even when they handed things out related to the reading of Ruth, or when the torah came through the congregation before the reading. I think it would have been clear that I was a visitor, so I found this odd. Our shul is so small that when a visitor comes we fall all over each other to greet them.
Two days later, Elana, Jeff and I decided to attend a different synagogue two blocks away in a different direction. It is an Orthodox shul that people had been telling Elana she should try, lots of young people. The synagogue was tucked in the middle of the block on a residential street, very non-descript. It looked like it had been built in the late 1950s and there was no security. When we walked through the door, the smell of mustiness combined with "grandma perfume" greeted me and brought back memories of going to shul with my grandparents in Brooklyn. It was clear we were visitors and we were greeted immediately with Good Shabbos from every person we passed on the way into the sanctuary. The rabbi greeted us and ushered Elana and I to the women's section while he conversed with Jeff. He was young and turned out grew up in Orinda, in the East Bay. He had just celebrated the brit of his first son, born May 18th- the day dad died. So it seemed bashaert that we were there.
The mechitza was low and even on both sides. There was a central section that we could not understand, kind of a no man's land even though there were some men sitting there. The service was straightforward and Elana and I had no trouble knowing where we were or what was happening. Jeff probably had a little harder time knowing where he was in the siddur although he knows most of the service by heart anyway. At the end of the service everyone greeted us once again and wanted to be sure we had somewhere to go for Shabbos dinner. They were having dinner there, with a special speaker and invited us to stay but we wanted to be by ourselves. By then shiva was over and I was embarking on a year of saying kaddish.
I decided that I would try to the best of my ability to say kaddish for my dad as much as I could. A child is supposed to say kaddish for a parent every day for 11 months in the presence of a minyan. Why is the proscription greater for a parent than a child, since loss of a child must be even more painful than loss of a parent? Parents have given birth to you, raised, educated, and transmitted Jewish and human values to you, and have helped form you into a productive human being. They deserve the most prolonged and intensive period of mourning. Just as in life we honor our fathers and mothers, so we do in death. Eleven months, that is a story only Jewish tradition could come up with. In Jewish tradition, after death one suffers the punishment of "gehinom", or the Jewish version of Purgatory, before going on to Gan Eden, or paradise. The more sins committed in life, the longer the punishment. And in fact, every time you say kaddish it helps to lessen the punishment. How about that for the ultimate "guilt trip." But "gehinom" has a time limit. No soul suffers there for more than a year. To demonstrate the belief that one's parents are not among the totally wicked who would endure a full year of "gehinom" the kaddish period is reduced by one month. And of course, there is also "L'Dor va Dor" from one generation to another. My dad said kaddish for his parents, I say it for him, my children will say it for me. "L'Dor va dor" is inscribed on my dad's tombstone. It was that important to him.
My siblings were able to observe the halacha of daily kaddish as their synagogues are in big enough places that there is a daily minyan. I tried saying kaddish by myself but it was unsatisfactory and didn't call dad to mind so I decided that I would say kaddish whenever I was out of town somewhere where there was a synagogue with a daily or Shabbat minyan.
Since my sister Debby was unable to come to the funeral and Anita needed help going through dad's things, Debby and I made a trip to Seattle a few weeks after his death. When she arrived we first went to the cemetery to see dad's grave. We met Anita at the shul, where there was a bat mitzvah so the place was packed. It was my second time there attending services. We had gone a year earlier to celebrate dad's 80th birthday. At that time we attended the study group with him. As much as he could, he participated and it was one of the most animated I'd seen him since the stroke. I think dad could have dealt with the paralysis but loss of ability to speak was the worst torture for him. During the service this time I kept thinking if this could have really been his community. Dad really understood what it meant to daven, and between the piano and the prayerbook, it was hard to see him in this room. I know that his reasons for joining this congregation had more to do with their work on behalf of social justice, rather than its spirituality and I have a feeling he did not attend services often. It did feel good to say kaddish with my sister and Anita.
Debby and I decided to attend Herzl Ner Tamid for the morning minyan the next day, as they are a Conservative synagogue so they have a daily minyan, even in the summer. Dad was a member there for many years, from the time he first moved to Seattle. He left because he did not feel that it was his home. The service was in a very small chapel and so the small minyan filled the space, which felt good. The gabbai turns out to be someone I know from CAJE and he greeted us warmly. No one else said anything, not even "sorry for your loss" or even nodded a head.
Bob Zimmerman not only greeted us but gave us the honor of an aliyah, since it was Rosh Hodesh, requiring torah reading. He acknowledged who we were, and when it came time for kaddish had some very sweet words to say about dad. I suspect most of the people there knew dad, and in fact one couple, was shocked to hear that he had died as they had been in a havurah together with dad and Anita. We chatted with them a little at the end of the service and they said they'd tried to visit dad but it became too difficult. I began to see how isolated dad was especially towards the end. It was sad but also good to see how beloved he was in the community.
The educational director at Herzl Ner Tamid is Melanie Berman, who got her first job in Jewish education as a teacher working for dad. She helped me write an azkarah for the CAJE program book. She wrote beautifully about how much dad meant to her and to Jewish education. It felt good being in her synagogue. Just before we said kaddish I told the minyan goers how lucky they were to have Melanie. I felt dad's voice inside me telling them how much they should appreciate this marvelous educator in their midst.
As we left the building, another one that looked like it was probably built in the early 70s, and kind of depressing (but of course it was Seattle gray that day), I was sorry we couldn't talk with dad about why he left his congregation.
A few weeks later we had a planned trip to visit our daughter Yael in New York working as a summer intern. In preparation I went to Google and searched for synagogues on the Upper West Side, where we would be staying. The response came back with over 3000 (within 45 miles). I redirected the search to within one mile of where I was staying and it came back with 385! Funny, since our synagogue is the only one within 400 square miles.
I chose an orthodox Sephardic synagogue, since they had an early morning minyan daily and was within close walking distance. I called ahead of time to be sure they would allow me to say kaddish out loud, as some orthodox synagogues do not allow that. I got a call back within hours and was told that yes, I could but would have to "read" it out of the prayerbook, not say by heart. I assumed this was the minhag that says one must read in the siddur and not pray from memory but I thought it was an odd thing to say.
I arrived the first morning, modestly dressed, and since it was summer in NYC, I was drenched before going in the door. I was hoping that it was air conditioned. This building had security, but not in a uniform. The taxis were pulling up to the side door, men were getting out with tallis bags in hand, so I followed them in. The gabbai greeted me by name (Mrs. Cohen) and ushered me into the small chapel, which was not air conditioned. There were cushioned benches along three walls with the ark along the fourth wall. The men were seated along the long walls and there was one row with a railing on the opposite wall from the ark and behind the bimah (in the center) where I sat, the only woman. On the slightly raised bimah the two rabbis and a cantor were dressed in robes over their street clothes and were wearing black upside down cone hats. I couldn't imagine why they weren't passing out from the heat. I could feel sweat dripping down my back, but couldn't remove my jacket as I had a sleeveless shirt underneath.
The gabbai kept coming over to show me what page we were on, but I was totally on track. When we came to the first kaddish I understood the gabbai's instruction about reading all the words. There were at least 10 additional words added to the kaddish and they read the Aramaic so fast I mumbled my way through them. Aramaic is not my strong suit. I enjoyed the melodies and the "straight" davening. At the end of the service that first day the rabbis greeted me (father and son- Angel- a congregation full of "angels"). No one else did. The gabbai gave me a tour of the synagogue when the service was over. I tried to engage in conversation but he knew everything about everything and wasn't really interested in hearing from me so I just listened and got quite an education.
This is one of the oldest synagogues in New York and was moved to its current location in 1897! At the time there was a pond there and one gas light. The Dakota is two blocks away and he told me that building got its name because people said "why would you move so far away, you might as well move to the Dakotas and live with the Indians." This is at 73rd and Central Park West. The main sanctuary has Tiffany stained glass windows and is modeled grandly after the major Sephardic synagogues around the world. It especially reminded me of the one in Amsterdam, though more "modern" with electric lights. I came back for the service the next day as well. I felt sort of at home, though no one but the gabbai spoke to me.
Elana and I went there for Shabbat morning services in the main sanctuary. We got there early, as we were told they would say kaddish first thing, as soon as they got a minyan. We sat upstairs in the women's balcony and there was only one other woman there at the time. They drifted in, along with the men and the service progressed until all of a sudden they broke into the mourner's kaddish as soon as the 10th man was there. Since we were upstairs we weren't able to "count".
Since we were upstairs we were closer to the windows. They were the simplest Tiffany works I've ever seen. Nothing representational but in the center of each was a rectangle of Tiffany's febrile glass in pinks and blues that looked so much like sunrises or sunsets over the ocean that kept me mesmerized until suddenly beautiful male voices emanated from behind the ark. I looked across and there was an all male choir with no instrumentation. It was magical. It was great being in the balcony for all this. We did not stay to the end of the service once we'd had the chance to say kaddish a second time.
A weekend in San Francisco took me to Sha'ar Zahav, the LGBT synagogue. When the synagogue first started I was living in San Francisco and attended their high holy day services at the JCC. Now they have their own building in a converted funeral home. I was curious about the building and of course about the service. I arrived within a half hour of the start and they were almost finished! I'm glad I hadn't been there longer, as the service came out of a stapled paper prayerbook that was trying too hard to be "relative." While I know that I have the good fortune to be well versed in Jewish prayer, looking in everyone else's liturgy doesn't make a lot of sense. English doesn't bother me, but talking about prayer instead of trying to pray leaves something to be desired. While I know the gay community in San Francisco suffered great losses from AIDS, reading a list of every single person lost to the community every week (especially on Shabbat) did not seem right. I almost worried that they would talk about kaddish, rather than recite it. However, at the end of the very brief service, I was greeted by many, and invited for lunch. I stayed for Kiddush and then took my leave.
Beth Sholom in San Francisco has just completed a brand new building, the first since mid-20th century. They were in the process of building when I sought them out so were holding their daily minyan at the new San Francisco JCC, quite a posh facility. I arrived at 7:15 and they did not know at the front desk that there was a service, and it wasn't on the schedule. Not a good sign. They did suggest I check in the Beit Midrash, where services are held when they happen. The lights were dimmed but chairs were set up and the janitor confirmed that yes indeed there would be a service. So I sat down and read a magazine. As I sat there quietly looking around the room I noticed there were lots of posters for social justice events, programs for seniors, and advertisements for upcoming speakers like Dennis Ross. Dad would probably spend a lot of time in this place.
About 20 minutes passed and I began to think that they weren't going to appear when the lights came on and an elderly man came into the room. I greeted him and he nodded. He put on his tefillin and left the room and came back with one prayerbook. I assumed we were the only ones and I asked him if I could have a book too. He said nothing but left the room, I followed him and he opened a drawer from which I took one book. We returned to the room and sat at opposite ends. He said nothing and so I proceeded to daven. About 10 minutes later two people came in, a very talkative woman (who did not stop talking) and a very friendly man who greeted me, and said the services on Sunday started at 8 am instead of 7:15. People drifted in over the next 15 minutes including another visitor who also had kaddish to say. We basically sat there until there were 10 of us (including the women). The chit chat was about a marathon that was tying up traffic and Barry Bonds, a hero to them, even those who don't follow baseball. I guess when it's your "steroid taking athlete" it's okay.
We davened through the morning service with a ba'al koreh who had a Maryland accent, not a very good voice, and bizarre pronunciations. Again, it was nice to be in a "davening" group and to see women in tefillin.
Traveled to Southern California stayed with relatives in Beverly Hills and we found an early morning minyan at a Sephardic synagogue within walking distance. My sister-in-law accompanied me. It was nothing like Sherith Israel. First, the building was unmarked and we had a hard time finding it. No security but no sign and it looked like a cross between a run down office building and a warehouse.
We entered on the gound floor where a minyan was in full swing. Kaddish came shortly after we entered the room (no one greeted us or oriented us- did not even give us the usual fashionable doilies for our heads). I assumed the kaddish came so soon because it would be said multiple times as it was at Sherith Israel. Immediately after, the service was at an end and people (men mostly) streamed out the door. We inquired why, as the website listed a 6:45 am service. We were told that was upstairs.
We climbed the stairs and found another minyan, close to the beginning of the service. Again no one greeted us. Tall mechitza all glass (reminded me of the glass ark at another synagogue in Los Angeles- one we thought meant we should stand for the whole service). There were quite a few women but again no one offered to show us the page or talk to us. After around 10 minutes I figured out where we were and was able to keep up though the person davening had a very soft voice and it was hard to hear through the wall sized mechitza. Room was much more sterile than Sherith Israel.
Lots of young people, torah reading day so they took the torah out of an ark filled with dazzling scrolls. They chose on of the traditional upright scrolls. They wound to the right place while the torah was still inside the ark and then carried it open to the reading desk. Some "kids" did the reading, was very nice. After kaddish there did not seem an end to the service. Coffee and tea was brought out and those who did not leave sat down to study. No one said anything to us as we left.
In Santa Barbara I attended the Young Israel congregation and when my extended family arrived they did not have a minyan. We davened to the Torah Service and then had to stop until more men showed up. Two more of my male relatives showed up to make the minyan so we moved on. We had waited so long that they were getting ready to leave as soon as the torah reading was finished, as we had a family event planned. I moved into the men's section and told them they could not leave so that we would be sure to be able to say kaddish. During the announcements, it was announced (in a whisper) that a "woman" rabbi was coming to teach about Hevra Kadisha. That "woman" rabbi is our very own. Thought that was bashaert once again.
Ari Goldman asks at the end of his book "Living a Year of Kaddish": I dutifully called out the ancient formula for praising G-d. Why? What good did it do? Jewish tradition teaches that kaddish eases the pain of the dead.
What does it do for the one saying kaddish? I felt my dad accompanied me on this journey, standing over my shoulder, guiding me to see how prayer can slowly heal the loss, helped me to focus on my dad's legacy and on all those who were part of his life, some that I know, some I didn't know before, and even some who have never met either one of us.
© 2008 Mina Cohen
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Updated 06/22/2008 (rge)