Eleven Months

By: Larry Gordon

My brother Binyomin, a’h, has three great daughters: Perel, Naomi, and Malkie.

Let me tell you two things about them. Perel is named after my sister-in-law Sandy’s grandmother. Naomi is named after my paternal grandmother. And Malkie is named after my maternal grandmother, my mother’s mother, Chaya Malka.

My brother Binyomin was sadly niftar almost 11 months ago. Since, according to our tradition (and this is the second thing I want to point out) women do not recite Kaddish with a minyan, the reality is that someone needs to say it. So, Kaddish was left to me, my younger brother, Yossy, and our nephew (my brother’s son-in-law) Yossi Bennett.

Now that the 11 months of Kaddish is coming to a close, our last Kaddish for Binyomin will be at Minchah on erev Rosh Hashanah. My experience with Kaddish is that it ends pretty much the way it begins—suddenly. One day something happens out of the blue and the next minute you’re standing in front of a room saying Kaddish.

And to fulfill this obligation you push ahead day after day: Shacharis, Minchah, and Ma’ariv. In this case there were three of us fulfilling this obligation, and with rare exceptions, we are always in shul to daven. That’s what Rashi says about the Israelites at the Yam Suf while we were being pursued by the Egyptian army: we davened. That’s what we do. It’s our way of life.

I had this experience as I said Kaddish day after day for my parents some 36 years ago for my dad, and just nine years ago for my mother. It seems that the recitation of Kaddish somehow keeps us connected to the souls of our deceased loved ones. The continued relationship is both puzzling and enigmatic. That is, most of us do it, but don’t really understand the connection.

Interestingly enough, the Kaddish prayer does not make any reference to death. It’s actually more about praising Hashem and affirming life, which offers great comfort and a sense of connection to generations past during this fragile time when we experience loss.

Erev Rosh Hashanah will mark 11 months since we began saying Kaddish for Binyomin. Time is supposed to heal and comfort us, but as I wrote that last sentence, I realize I’m still mired in sadness and disbelief.

Binyomin held multiple zechusim and distinctions in his life. He was the eldest child of my parents and he was the first grandchild of two couples who had persevered and survived through numerous uncertainties and difficulties in their lives, emerging from the darkness of Europe almost miraculously.

Binyomin was their light, their hope for a bright future. They had every right to be dejected and lose hope after what they experienced. But he gave them a concrete example of the power of faith to persevere. His birth in 1946 led the way.

True, he was almost 80 years old when he passed, so what am I complaining about? Almost every day we hear about people much younger than him who pass away suddenly and unexpectedly. In that context, the question that is asked in last week’s parashah, Ki Tavo, is why so much of the verbiage is couched in the context of harsh warnings and consequences. Blessings and curses, and all in such shocking detail.

Rav Adin Even-Israel Steinsaltz explained in his commentary on the parashah that the Torah refuses to present a sanitized, fairy-tale version of life, and the margin for a blessing is razor-thin, requiring an exact, delicate equilibrium. For example, if it’s 72 degrees outside, then you’re happy and comfortable. But if it’s slightly hotter, then you’re hot and uncomfortable, or if it’s colder, then you’re too cold and miserable.

Perhaps it’s just this post-war generation that is plagued with this outlook of comfort and security. The truth is, no one lives forever. If my parents were alive today, they would both be over 100 years old. I guess that would be asking a lot to have them back, don’t you agree?

Aside from all the chronology, let’s focus on the love that was lost. But was it truly lost? I’d have to say no. I miss the occasional phone calls before Shabbos when we would chit chat for a few minutes about almost anything and nothing. Sometimes my mother and father would interject some expression they were fond of saying, bringing back good memories. Yes, all of that was lost.

Binyomin was the man who kept the extended family connected every year with his annual Fourth of July BBQ that was sometimes attended by cousins who lived on the other side of the world in addition to all the local relatives.

While he was seriously ill, Binyomin wrote to my brother Yossy telling him that he was not afraid of death, but was concerned about how it would impact on his wife, children, and grandchildren. What would they do without their Zaidy in their lives?

He had non-smoker’s lung cancer, and he once shared with me that he rented an office on Flatbush Avenue where he sold car insurance and had a few empty desks available that he rented to others. He said that as far as he could recall, the men who rented there were all heavy chain smokers. Who knows?

I miss those calls when he’d ask me what’s doing. I’d say, “Not much” and then I’d ask him the same question, to which he’d offer the same response.

In 1989, when my father had taken ill, we were both visiting him in Maimonides Hospital in Borough Park. I was planning a trip to Israel in the coming weeks, and as we were leaving the hospital, I brought up the subject of him joining me. At that point, Binyomin had not been to Israel in 20 years. He said that he wasn’t sure, but would think about it.

A few days later, our father was niftar and the two of us were on an El Al flight accompanying our dad to his levayah in Beit Shemesh. We arrived on a Friday morning and after a quick service at the cemetery, we were off to a hotel in Jerusalem for Shabbos. It was Shabbos Chanukah and all of Israel was dancing and singing, yet we were in shock, mourning, and crying. Saturday night we went back to Ben Gurion Airport for the 1 a.m. flight to JFK and the rest of the shivah with the family.

It was a chink in our family armor. Just prior to the loss of Binyomin, my sister and brother-in-law lost their daughter Rachel during childbirth here in New York. A couple of months later, it was Binyomin. Just too much, G-d.

Kaddish for Binyomin concludes on September 11, erev Rosh Hashanah, the 30th of Elul. A month later, we will observe his first yahrzeit. The fact that Kaddish does not mention death is in essence a tribute to the soul of the deceased. It’s solely a declaration of the greatness of Hashem.

Apparently, there’s more going on than meets the eye. Binyomin’s beautiful neshamah and the neshamosof our loved ones will live on. That’s why we say near the conclusion of Kaddish, “He who makes peace in His high places, may He make peace for us and for all Israel; and we say: Amen!” 

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