Zayde’s Torah
In the winter of 1978, my parents went to Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, where my mother’s grandfather was being honored for years of service to his synagogue community. As a token of appreciation, the congregation gave him a small Torah – like the ones we have the children dance with on Simhat Torah. Later that day, my Zayde turned to my mother, who was pregnant with his first great-grandchild, “Sandy, if this baby is a boy, I’m going to give the Torah to him.” My mother, without missing a beat, responded, “Zayde, what if it is a girl?” Zayde paused for a moment. “Well, you’re a girl, and you’re not so bad. If it is a girl, I’ll give the Torah to her.”
And so it was, a few weeks later, that Zayde’s first great-grandchild was a girl, and I was the inheritor of his Torah.
I don’t know if it was the mythology of its origin story, my natural affinity for Jewish tradition, or my love for Zayde, but this small Torah became my prized possession. I kept it neatly on a shelf, in its case. I brought it with me to synagogue on Simhat Torah and danced through the aisles with it. As a teenager, I proudly located my Bat Mitzvah portion in my small Torah. It always remained a special gift.
I am lucky to have known my great-grandfather well enough to carry his memory with me into adulthood. I remember him as a funny man. Even in his old age, he rose over six feet tall. He would spend his days sitting – crouching, really – under the coat rack at the Hebrew Home in Harrisburg. I think he was the unofficial greeter of the home, always with a witty comment from under the coat hangers. The nursing home frequently brought in performers to entertain the residents. Zayde was not a fan – at least not of the musical numbers – and he let us know it with his usual humor.
We were once sitting in the lobby during a performance, and the voice of a soprano echoed through the halls. Zayde didn’t like it. “Ugh, it’s a cow,” he remarked with his thick accent. A moment later, the woman hit a high note. “A dead cow,” Zayde smirked.
I wish I knew more about the details of Zayde’s life as a younger man. Like many from his generation, he was born in Eastern Europe and moved to America as a teenager. He fought for our country in World War I. He worked for the railroad. He married a woman who had actually been born in Harrisburg, making me a fourth generation American on one side of my heritage.
My Zayde died when I was eleven. He was ninety-three years old. His was the first funeral I attended. I remember the cold January day. I felt comforted by the service in the quaint chapel. But then we went out to the grave site. In accordance with our tradition, Zayde was lowered into the ground, and the mourners were asked to do the final act of kindness, to shovel the dirt to create Zayde’s final resting place. I hated this part of the funeral, and have vivid memories of crying into my father’s coat. It was so real, an act of seemingly cruel finality. To this day I have a challenging relationship with our responsibility for taking an active role in the burial of the dead. I have seen it be cathartic for mourners, and I know it is a selfless mitzvah – an act of kindness that we know will never be repaid. Still, with great frequency, when I see a casket lowered into the ground, I remember my Zayde’s funeral. It is a vulnerability that I cling to – remembering that as clergy, I am often involved in funerals from a very different perspective. By bringing the memory of my Zayde with me, I hope to, in a very small way, identify with the mourners, remembering the pain I felt when my beloved great grandfather was laid to rest.
As much as I have always loved the Torah that was a gift from Zayde, I have also cherished the story that accompanies it. The idea that a man who had been born in the nineteenth century was able to expand his worldview to accept that a girl might be able to appreciate the gift of Torah is inspiring, and displays a sense of openness that I admire.
Still, Zayde clung to his old ways. He was already in his nineties when my sister was born. With each visit we would have to reintroduce him to her. Each time he would ask, “Is it a boy?” It didn’t matter if she was wearing a dress, this was always his first question. We would say, “No Zayde, Alana is a girl,” and Zayde would turn to my mother and say, “It’s okay, you still have time for a boy.” My parents were not planning for more children, and they would laugh and watch as Zayde began to play with his great-granddaughters – seemingly undisturbed that they were girls.
Twenty-one years after his death, we did bring a new boy into the family. I had always known that I wanted to name my child for Zayde; he had 7 great-grandchildren before his death but, until this point, he had no namesake. The night before the brit milah, Ira and I sat in the baby’s bedroom with my sister, my mother, her sister, and her mother.
Four generations in one room. My grandmother had flown in for the occasion, her second airplane ride in her 85 years of life. We told her that the baby would be known as Andrew Seth, Eliav Shalom, his first name being in memory of Zayde, whose name had been Abe, or Avraham. Zayde’s presence was immediately felt in the room, and his memory referenced throughout our visit with family.
The last few weeks have been a constant celebration in our home. We have marveled as Andrew learns and grows each day. We have enjoyed out of town visitors who have come to meet him.
And we have appreciated the kindnesses and well wishes shown by the Beth Israel community. It goes without saying that these last few weeks have been a life changing experience. Usually during the weeks leading up to the holidays, my desk is hidden under post-it notes, books and outlines. Now my post-it notes are hidden under pacifiers and burp cloths – a small price to pay for enjoying Andrew’s smiles, coos and daily milestones.
I struggled with whether to share a bit about Andrew in conjunction with the Yizkor service. Our thoughts have been firmly focused on our loved ones who no longer walk this earth.
In a sense, it is a strange juxtaposition to discuss a newborn in the moments following the service. Yet, this is exactly what the Yizkor service asks for us to do. Our tradition wisely includes space for formally remembering the dead within the context of our holidays. But we also must remember that life continually begins anew. Whether this is a source of comfort or a mere statement of reality varies with individual experiences. We, as Jews, link our generations’ one to the next through naming our children for those who have died, inextricably connecting our youngest of children to their ancestry and heritage.
On the morning of Andrew’s brit milah, I took my Torah out of the closet. I opened it and turned to the threefold blessing, which Ira and I would read to the baby during the ceremony. After the blessing that officially gave Andrew his name, we spoke to him about Zayde, and about Ira’s grandfather, from whom he gets his middle name. I told him the story of the Torah, of how Zayde had said, “You’re a girl and you’re not so bad,” and I said to Andrew, “You’re a boy, and you’re not so bad,” and I gave him this gift that had been passed to me upon my birth.
I can only hope that his love for Torah and the Jewish people is inspired by those who came before him and those who touch his life each day. And then we turned to his Torah and read:
Y’varech’cha adona y’yishm’recha
May Adonai bless you and watch over you.
Ya’eir Adonai panav eilecha vichuneka
May Adonai’s face shine towards you and show you favor.
Yisa Adonai panav eilecha v’yaseim l’cha shalom.
May Adonai turn the Divine presence towards you and grant you peace. Amen.