These Are My People

Photo: Flash90

Abit less than a year ago, a cousin passed away — a survivor who’d lost his entire immediate family during the Holocaust yet maintained his boyish irreverence for authority and feisty zest for life through many rich, full decades of rebuilding. His twinkling eyes and raspy voice had been part of the wallpaper of my childhood; he was one of those figures who instinctively came to mind when I heard the word “extended family.”

While his own wife, children, and grandchildren were his pride, joy, and revenge, he fiercely treasured all his relatives, treating my kids to “buy out the candy store” jaunts every time he visited Israel and taking real pride in our growing family’s achievements. When I learned that he was gone, it was hard to believe that such a spirited person couldn’t subdue the Angel of Death.

When the time came, I settled at my computer in my Jerusalem apartment and clicked the link to the levayah at Shomrei Hadas in Boro Park.

Three, maybe even four generations of people filled the chapel. On the men’s side were black hats, demure suits, a few rebbishe silk frocks and round hats, an occasional blue button-down shirt. On the women’s side were dark colors, conservative sheitels along with some beanie-fall combos, puffer coats for the younger generation and classic wool coats for the older women.