Thursday, April 12, 2018

Siyum in Memory of My Grandparent’s Generation, Plus Reflections on a Rough Week


I have completed maseches Avodah Zarah, in loving memory of my paternal grandmother, Lea Bodek, and my maternal grandfather’s last living cousin, Shula Kozuch.

Avodah Zarah reminds us about the proper path in life; what to avoid at all costs.

I have completed maseches Avodah Zarah, in loving memory of my paternal grandmother, Lea Bodek, and my maternal grandfather’s last living cousin, Shula Kozuch.

Avodah Zarah reminds us about the proper path in life; what to avoid at all costs.

If there was anything these incredible women imparted to me, it was exactly that. Shula was always after me about the value of education, and Bobbi was always on me about the sanctity of personal decorum. Both converged in telling me to stop slouching. Their admonishments worked.

They died within three days of each other, in what was an awful week for my family. In those three days, we lost our final family witnesses; the last who could testify and impart the horrors and the lessons of the Holocaust.

We sped around to hospital visits, funerals, and shiva calls, doing our best to be there for my family, looking after their welfare, trying not to smother.

At one point, during a shiva call for one, I had graveyard dirt on my shoes from the funeral of another. It was a heavy week, and it was distressing, but it was beneficially reflective.

For my father and his five siblings, it was especially reflective, because their father (for whom I am named) passed over 60 years ago, when all six of them were under 10 years old. Now, 60 years later, they found themselves heavily discussing their father, as would all the shiva callers, as they were finally mature enough for the experience.

In a twist of irony, my grandparents are not buried together. Bobbi is in Monroe, and my zaidy is on Long Island. Turns out, Shula is buried near my zaidy, and I was able to visit him during this week of reflection, after I helped lay Shula to rest.

My father got up from shiva, and called me to discuss his week. In order to uplift his spirits, I asked him to tell me the nicest story he heard about his mom during the week.

He relayed a story that his oldest brother had never shared before:

Purim, 1946, my grandfather was making his rounds, delivering shalach manos with my uncle in tow. He made several l’chaims along the trip.

Bobbi, as I’ve revealed, recited Tehillim daily, by heart, as part of her usual regimen, and would finish before bedtime. On Purim, she actually completed this before midday.

My grandfather returned home, stumbling up the Williamsburg brownstone, and said to my uncle, “Look at me, I was yotzeh ad d’lo yodah before midday, and you know what your mother has done? Finished tehillim! I don’t compare! How can I face your holy mother like this in my condition?”

She was the one who always admonished everyone about conducting themselves properly and elegantly, as she did with me often - and the trait that I remember her endearingly for, is also the trait most memorable to my father and his siblings during the week of shiva. This too, is what Shula was remembered for, and the trait of hers that I always discuss with my mom.

Therefore, the learning of this masechte is dedicated to them, as it is a most appropriate remembrance to them, and also to their entire inevitably-diminishing generation. I write this on Yom HaShoah 2018, two days after my maternal grandmother’s yahrzeit, who shares a yahrzeit with my wife’s maternal grandmother, compounding the call to remembrance and reflection.

I wish all of you well on this holy day.

-Mordechi Bodek