Life threatening
Her mother died. Would I go to Colorado Springs to do the funeral? Of course I would. For one of the founding members of the congregation, nowhere is too far. Besides, the Springs is only about 50 miles away, straight down I-25 – an hour drive depending on traffic.
Then she added: “Oh, and my brother, with whom I have no relationship, is asking his rabbi to officiate. He belongs to the Orthodox shul a few blocks from Temple Sinai. You know, my brother is crazy, right?”
“A bit odd, perhaps, but ... look, I’ll call his rabbi and we’ll work out the details.”
To which she added: “I want you to give the eulogy and say Kaddish.”
“I’ll give a eulogy, but his rabbi may also want to say a few words about Mom.”
“I’m okay with that, but my brother may resist you speaking, and he will certainly not want you to do anything in Hebrew.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll work it all out with his rabbi. The most important thing is that there should be peace at the cemetery.
She left my study assuaged by the assurance that I would work it all out rabbi to rabbi. Ayn ba’ayot – no problems. My call to the rabbi was, as always, very pleasant. He acknowledged that the brother was a tad askew, and that he had already been on the phone with him five times that morning – every call coming with new directives. You do this and this. Don’t let the sister’s Reform rabbi do this or that. “He insists that I somehow I should keep you from saying Kaddish or Ayl Malay, or even reading a kepital tillim (a few Psalms) in Hebrew.” Mishigas (it’s craziness).
We spoke for a while and came to a complete agreement on the order of the service. I’d open the service, welcome the people, recite a few Psalms in Hebrew and English. He’d say a few words, then I’d do the eulogy. He’d do the interment prayers and the Ayl Malay and we would both lead Kaddish.
Twenty minutes after hanging up, my secretary peeks in with that “I’m not sure you want to take this call” look. She says in a somewhat conspiratorial voice: “It’s the brother.”
“Put him through. Better a first go-round with a phone between us than at the cemetery.”
“Zwerin, it’s Chayke Basha’s son. I’m going to say this once – don’t go to the cemetery. Don’t even think about taking part in the ceremony. I don’t want you near my mother’s grave. Do you hear me?”
“That’s Rabbi Zwerin to you, my friend. Now you listen to me, because I’m only going to say it once. (I’m getting that Bogie noir movie feeling, and it’s so not me, grrr.) Your mother also has a daughter who happens to be a member of my shul. She asked me to participate in the funeral ceremony, and that is exactly what I am going to do. I have had a nice long talk with your very wise rabbi and we have agreed completely on how the ceremony will be conducted. We will both do our very best to honor your mother with traditional rites and kind words that pay homage to her memory.” Normally, this would have pleased anyone. Normally, is not on today’s menu.
“Listen carefully to what I am saying. You even show up at the cemetery and I am not responsible for what happens to you. You understand? I’ll won’t stand for you saying a single word during the funeral, not one word. I know where you live. Stay home ... and keep on living.” [click]
Well, at least he didn’t call me Zwerin again. I called his sister to ask if he was truly dangerous or just a bunch of bluster. She told me that he had become hyper-observant, bordering on obsessive. He lived alone, went to shul mornings and evenings, and aside from grocery shopping stayed at home most of the day. He reads Psalms and other sections from the Bible much of the day. He has few if any friends. “... and quite frankly, Rabbi, I don’t know what he is capable of doing.”
The funeral was set for the next day at 1:30pm. We have very good friends who live in the Springs, and I called to talk about coming down for a funeral. They invited me to come a few hours earlier so we could chat and have lunch with them and their in-laws. The two men were intrigued by the story of the brother and sister trying to bury their mother while the one is also attempting to thwart the other’s way of doing and being.
“We’re going with you,” both men said, insisting that I needed protection. I started to laugh, and as I did so they realized that their intentions, while noble and filled with bravado, were beyond ridiculous. Both were in their mid-60s. One of them was on oxygen and carried a portable tank with him at all times. The other had broken his leg and was in a leg cast and on crutches. What better protection could I ask for? So, they got in my car and directed me to the cemetery.
The sister and her husband were already there and standing 50 yards away from brother, who was cheek to jowl with his rabbi. They were debating, arguing, disagreeing, pointing, gesturing, but quietly. I greeted sister and husband and made my way over to the discussants. Rabbi greeted me warmly, hand over handshake, pat on shoulder. Brother gave me the cold shoulder and through clenched teeth hissed, “I told you that you were not welcome here. Get back in your car and go.”
His rabbi was more than a little annoyed, and told him to behave himself. That I was invited to participate by his sister and she has every bit as much love for mother as he had. Brother was not mollified. He clenched a fist and shook it in my face. I shook my head and mentioned that a session or two of anger management might be a good idea. As I turned to walk back to speak with the funeral director, he said, “Don’t you turn your back on me.”
“What in the name of sanity did I ever do to raise such anger in you?” I said with a note of sympathy for him in my tone.
“You and my sister are goyim. Go say your blessings at the treif cemeteries, not here, and not for my mother. Go over there and do what you have to do, but when you are done, we will bury my mother here without you.” His rabbi was beside himself and clearly had no response for his congregant.
“Look,” I said, “maybe we should take a page out of Malachim (the book of Kings) and do as Shlomo HaMelech (King Solomon) might suggest. Why not cut Mama in half and we’ll bury one half over there, and you bury the other half right here. Then some of her will rest with your anger and some of her will rest in peace.”
Through gritted teeth he responded: “You will never know peace so long as I’m around. That I promise you.”
I gave him a half-chuckle and pointed: “You see those two gentlemen over there? Haim Shapiro with the crutches and Moishe “the Knife” Kohen? They used to work for the mob back in the day. They’re still well-connected in certain circles in Jersey. They live here now, and I did them a toyvah, a big favor, so they’re here as witnesses. If they think for a moment that you mean me harm, well, they have contacts, if you get my drift. You don’t want to mess with them. You don’t even want them to think we have a problem here. It’s in your hands, but they need to see mellow here. They even think they see threats, prayers won’t help you. So, stay calm, and pretend you’re happy. I don’t want your pain to be on my conscience.”
The rabbi rolled his eyes, and then seconded the motion. “Yes, I’ve heard about such people. Let’s just proceed as calmly as we can.” Facing the brother he continued: “After the funeral, we can stay here a while, just you and me, and we’ll say a few extra tehilim (Psalms) for your dear mother.”
The funeral director and driver were listening to the back and forth and didn’t know whether to drive off with mother, take her casket out of the hearse and put it on the rope catafalque over the grave, or call 911 for backup. When I signaled that we were ready to begin, they knew what to do and did it with aplomb and dignity. The service went smoothly, but I was sad to see that only one other couple joined the nine of us. Mother, from what I was told, was a wonderful woman who had worked hard to support the children after her husband had died as a young man. When the service ended, the siblings had not a word to say to one another – no memories to share, no reminiscences, no words of sympathy or comfort. The sister would have been willing to extend a hand or welcome a hug, but the rift was too wide to bridge.
The word religion comes from the Latin religare meaning to bind or tie one to another or to the gods. But religion can also separate us from one another especially when practice becomes obsession, belief become fanaticism, and faith becomes self serving narcissism. One loving mother could raise two children, but those two ... actually, that one, couldn’t find it in his heart to share his downheartedness, his sadness, his mourning, his brokenness with the other child whom she also loved. The tragedy went far beyond the mother’s death. The tragedy was the death of her children’s relationship.
Exactly what Dee Trasen wrote. Chesed.
Very sad story, told with kindness and some humor. We all know such stories. Would that everyone had a Rabbi Zwerin!