Nostalgic Reunion

A friend in shul shared with me that a mutual friend had lost his wife, and the funeral would be in LA. Although I had not really seen the man since I was a child, I remembered him well. When we were both small, we lived in a town where most of the Jews were survivors of the Holocaust. These were broken people who, at the time, seemed old to me although they were probably the same age as my parents. But they were survivors. They had lost children, spouses, parents, and entire communities. They looked worn, sometimes depleted, and bore the pain of loss and trauma most vividly.

But through their loss and trauma, they were taught various skills by Jewish aid organizations so they could make a livelihood in the New World. In their trek across the continent, they had found each other in the little town where they had converged, a small community that became a unique haven with a definite Jewish presence. That town much later became a city, and its Jewish history has been virtually forgotten. At one time, though, there were two shuls and a mikvah; a shochet would come from Los Angeles to make sure there was kosher meat and poultry. Yet, hardly any Jews still reside there.

I can remember the Yiddish conversations, the songs, and expressions, and the people, mostly with few children, and the quiet energy they showed their pride in being Jewish, and in remaining Jewish. After a few years, my own family moved away, seeking to assure the possibility of better Jewish education and stronger affiliations with Torah personalities, even though a few of those survivors there had a command of Torah and wore the long beards of patriarchal sages, at least one of them had once been a dayan. Somehow, long after his death, I inherited his tzitzis and a sefer he had written. But with time, one by one, the families moved on to bigger cities and other states, some even went to Israel. One by one, we all lost touch with each other, only occasionally hearing news about this one or that one.

So, when my friend told me about the funeral, I knew I had to go. At a convenient moment, I approached the husband, now a widower, with condolences, and he asked who I was. He was ten years older than me and had been an only child, and I was eager to see if he remembered me. When I softly told him my name, his face lit up and he embraced me. The memories came flooding back, despite his grief. I noticed that from time to time during the levaya he would glance at me.

A few days later, I found out that he was sitting shiva nearby before he returned to his home in a distant part of the country. When I arrived, I reminded him of who I was and he breathed deeply. He told me what his life had been like. He was the only son born to his parents upon their arrival in America. They had once had another son who was killed in Auschwitz at the age of 12. In America, his parents raised him to be honest and true to his faith. He recalled how his father would walk him to shul on Shabbos and would read from the Torah for the small gathering of men. He reminisced about life with his parents, both of whom were long gone, and how, after their deaths, he waited a long time before marrying. He recalled the friendship between our parents and how, after I and some of the other bachurim left to study in yeshiva, he had stayed behind to pursue a college education and a professional career, yet had a more limited involvement with tradition and halacha.

But then something happened. He and his wife had a son. The son was born with serious medical complications, and the doctors had little hope for his survival. Our mutual friend, the one who had informed me about the funeral, had remained observant and urged the father of the baby to go with him to get a berachahfrom a visiting Torah giant. And then an overt miracle followed: he said the rabbi seemed to radiate with a blue light coming from his eyes, and a moment later declared that the baby was fine. He and his wife rushed to the hospital just as the nurses were extubating the child, removing all the medical equipment. From that moment on, the boy was perfectly healthy.

The baby, now a young married man with children of his own, came into the room where his father sat shiva. He too needed to sit because it was his mother who had passed away. That son, an Orthodox Jew, learns Torah, and raises his own children in the ways of Torah. In fact, his oldest son is a talmid of my own oldest son, who teaches in the yeshiva where this family resides. My old friend is now active in the Orthodox community. He and I looked at each other, marveling at the intricate plans of Hashem: two youngsters growing up in a small enclave of post-war Jewry, parting ways, out of touch, yet the Yiddishe inspiration that his parents gave my parents and which he gave to me as I moved from toddlerhood to boyhood was “paid back,” or at least reciprocated a half century later, with my son guiding his son and grandson, and two families were reconnected in the merit of the mitzvos and the Torah which they shared in that distant place in that far-off past. 

Rabbi Dr. Dovid Fox is a forensic and clinical psychologist, and director of Chai Lifeline Crisis Services. To contact Chai Lifeline’s 24-hour crisis helpline, call 855-3-CRISIS or email [email protected]. Learn more at ChaiLifeline.org/crisisox.