These are the people ...
Everlasting Stuff I learned from my Father, who, at 86 years of age, is a practicing dentist and grandpa in Chicago, IL.
1. Whichever teeth you do not wish to retain in your latter years, do not floss them.
2. If and when your kids have tossed your hat out of the window on the interstate, do not become angry.
3. No matter how old and grown up your children are, kiss them.
4. What you wish for your grandchildren do so for their parents.
5. Encourage your high schoolers to read lots of books over summer break.
6. The police officer is your friend unless he's thrashing you with his schtekl.
7. Do not walk down Michigan Ave. dressed like a "zhlub".
8. Call your kids even if and especially if they don't call you.
9. Talk to your mother regularly.
10. It's okay for a man to be sentimental, even weepy when appropriate.
11. Inquire after the well-being of an "ex" for (s)he is a parent of your grandchildren.
12. Look illness in the eye and tell it to "piss off"!
13. Smile a lot and not just because your father is a dentist.
Alan D. Busch
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Thursday, November 8, 2007
Reflections on the People Who Have Touched My Life
These are the People ...
Harold Grossman: My Stepfather
He relished telling the story of how his mother would hang kosher salamis
to dry them out on the back porch, but that he and his brother Jack would
invariably eat them before they ever finished aging.
Harold Grossman was a gutte neshuma, a good soul. He was my mother’s
second husband and a good provider under whose roof I lived for a longer
period of time than I had with my dad.
Of his many attributes, there was one in particular that left me
with an abiding affection. Harold never sought to usurp my father's
role. Even though I lived in Harold’s house together with my brother Ron and
my mom for more than ten years, he respected the fact my dad was
just a short drive away in Chicago and with whom my brother and I maintained
a close relationship. Though I do not know what child support arrangements my
dad and mom had worked out, I do know that Harold supported me in countless
ways over the years.
He was a generous man by nature, soft-spoken and very dignified.
What Yiddish I know I owe to Harold. Of greater importance
than the words I have retained is the appreciation for the colorful
expressiveness of the mamaloschen Harold imparted to
me. What he remembered from his boyhood he recalled with genuine
glee and gladly shared with me.
Harold, his brother Jack, sisters Dorothy and Jane were blessed with
beautiful and wonderful parents: Morris and Eva Grossman, truly lovely and
gracious people, whom I was privileged to know as a boy. A tiny twosome,
Mr. and Mrs. Grossman were a handsome couple-one might even
describe them as “quaint”- each crowned with snow white hair. Their language
was a dialect of “Yinglish,” neither Galician nor Litvish. They sounded like
Myron Cohen. (Do you remember him from the Ed Sullivan Show?) It was exceedingly
difficult not to love them.
I believe it was Erev Shabbos when Harold, my mom and I stopped by to visit
the Grossmans in their apartment on Briscoe Court. The hour was after sundown when
we arrived. Harold’s parents would not have answered the phone had we called
them or, I suspect, invited us over that night because-much to our dismay-
their apartment was enveloped in pitch darkness.
Naturally curious why all their lights were out, we noticed them sitting quite
comfortably on their plastic cover-fitted sofa as if nothing were amiss. Not one
ray of light could be had. To this day some forty years later, I do not know if
the Grossmans had their lights on timers but had neglected to set them in time
before sundown or forgotten to turn on their Sabbath lights, but a fond albeit
befuddled memory it remains to this day!
"Pa," said Harold, always the dutiful son but who had forsworn observance
when he enlisted in the Navy after Pearl Harbor, "you're ‘gonna’ sit here in the
dark?! Just lemme tu ..."
"Zol zein shtil, Herschele! 'Don' touch!” barked Zayde who did not
pronounce the 't' in ‘don't’.
"But, but ... " Harold blurted out.
"But, but 'nuting'! Shah!" Zayde let forth.
"Ma!?" pled the son.
"It'll be fine tatele. Listen to your father," she counseled.
"Mom, why are we sitting in the dark?" I asked.
"Shah! Listen to Bubbe."
If only Mel Brooks had seen this.
We did not stay much longer. Leaving behind the magical, albeit dark
wonderment of Erev Shabbos in the apartment of Morris and Eve Grossman, we
returned home to a Friday night, however well-lighted.
Harold and his brother Jack were fine men, founders and owners of Jarold
Manufacturing in St. Louis, Missouri, who provided steady employment to many
men over thirty years in business. I worked there too during summer vacation
and came to know many of the employees whom I knew to be sincere in their
devotion to Harold as a man and employer.
It was my privilege to memorialize Harold. We are diminished now that he’s
gone, but the world is a far better place for his having been here!
"Zichron l'vrocha" ... May his memory be for a blessing!
Alan D. Busch
11/2/07
Harold Grossman: My Stepfather
He relished telling the story of how his mother would hang kosher salamis
to dry them out on the back porch, but that he and his brother Jack would
invariably eat them before they ever finished aging.
Harold Grossman was a gutte neshuma, a good soul. He was my mother’s
second husband and a good provider under whose roof I lived for a longer
period of time than I had with my dad.
Of his many attributes, there was one in particular that left me
with an abiding affection. Harold never sought to usurp my father's
role. Even though I lived in Harold’s house together with my brother Ron and
my mom for more than ten years, he respected the fact my dad was
just a short drive away in Chicago and with whom my brother and I maintained
a close relationship. Though I do not know what child support arrangements my
dad and mom had worked out, I do know that Harold supported me in countless
ways over the years.
He was a generous man by nature, soft-spoken and very dignified.
What Yiddish I know I owe to Harold. Of greater importance
than the words I have retained is the appreciation for the colorful
expressiveness of the mamaloschen Harold imparted to
me. What he remembered from his boyhood he recalled with genuine
glee and gladly shared with me.
Harold, his brother Jack, sisters Dorothy and Jane were blessed with
beautiful and wonderful parents: Morris and Eva Grossman, truly lovely and
gracious people, whom I was privileged to know as a boy. A tiny twosome,
Mr. and Mrs. Grossman were a handsome couple-one might even
describe them as “quaint”- each crowned with snow white hair. Their language
was a dialect of “Yinglish,” neither Galician nor Litvish. They sounded like
Myron Cohen. (Do you remember him from the Ed Sullivan Show?) It was exceedingly
difficult not to love them.
I believe it was Erev Shabbos when Harold, my mom and I stopped by to visit
the Grossmans in their apartment on Briscoe Court. The hour was after sundown when
we arrived. Harold’s parents would not have answered the phone had we called
them or, I suspect, invited us over that night because-much to our dismay-
their apartment was enveloped in pitch darkness.
Naturally curious why all their lights were out, we noticed them sitting quite
comfortably on their plastic cover-fitted sofa as if nothing were amiss. Not one
ray of light could be had. To this day some forty years later, I do not know if
the Grossmans had their lights on timers but had neglected to set them in time
before sundown or forgotten to turn on their Sabbath lights, but a fond albeit
befuddled memory it remains to this day!
"Pa," said Harold, always the dutiful son but who had forsworn observance
when he enlisted in the Navy after Pearl Harbor, "you're ‘gonna’ sit here in the
dark?! Just lemme tu ..."
"Zol zein shtil, Herschele! 'Don' touch!” barked Zayde who did not
pronounce the 't' in ‘don't’.
"But, but ... " Harold blurted out.
"But, but 'nuting'! Shah!" Zayde let forth.
"Ma!?" pled the son.
"It'll be fine tatele. Listen to your father," she counseled.
"Mom, why are we sitting in the dark?" I asked.
"Shah! Listen to Bubbe."
If only Mel Brooks had seen this.
We did not stay much longer. Leaving behind the magical, albeit dark
wonderment of Erev Shabbos in the apartment of Morris and Eve Grossman, we
returned home to a Friday night, however well-lighted.
Harold and his brother Jack were fine men, founders and owners of Jarold
Manufacturing in St. Louis, Missouri, who provided steady employment to many
men over thirty years in business. I worked there too during summer vacation
and came to know many of the employees whom I knew to be sincere in their
devotion to Harold as a man and employer.
It was my privilege to memorialize Harold. We are diminished now that he’s
gone, but the world is a far better place for his having been here!
"Zichron l'vrocha" ... May his memory be for a blessing!
Alan D. Busch
11/2/07
Monday, November 5, 2007
"The White Rose"
“The White Rose”
Wherein the Enlightenment had so radiantly shone ...
descended a darkness o'er the land,
a blackening,
not of locusts sent by God ...
but of a more stubborn Pharoah
whose heart was even harder ...
whose command over masses numbing,
but which failed to blot out the light of day.
Had there been no foreshadowing of the darkness?
When the land forgot Moses Mendelssohn,
and bore Adolph Eichmann?
Had not Heine known wherein books are burned,
so will humans eventually be?
Where the din of the mob drowned out
the admonitions of the few prophetic voices
and cynical lawlessness foreshadowed transcendent evil.
When the fearful apathy of a once upright citizenry
began to terrorize living space and individuality's resistance little remained.
Where Jewish blood-letting became a national pastime, an opiate to
drug the masses and passive stupidity replaced the spirituality of free thought.
Not all debauched themselves on the altar of this golden calf.
Hans and Sophie Scholl refused to forsake the ageless distinction between right and wrong,
the primal lesson from the innocence of mankind.
The Gestapo executed Hans and Sophie Scholl
whose parents had taught them diligently and ...
spoken to them of good and evil at home.
Nurtured these young people on individuality's inquisitiveness,
enough so that when almost all had become bad,
Hans and Sophie believed in the courage of adherence to good.
When the many hysterically applauded tyranny's hypnosis,
this brother and sister had the presence of mind
to stand up and proclaim freedom's stubborn persistence.
while the deluded majority clung to falsehoods tenaciously.
Hans and Sophie held that living a lie was a betrayal of life.
Our sages knew few are the righteous who defy evil
across death's yard to the guillotine.
Blossoms push out the rot of weeds and beauty overtakes ugliness.
For who could have foreseen that a WHITE ROSE ...
would burst forth naturally in a land where the ashes of
auschwitz,
dachau,
buchenwald,
treblinka
fertilized
Berchtesgaden.
Where the presumption of guilt
became the obscene standard of perverse justice.
Good people ... tried and condemned perfunctorily
who had managed to remain human in a country
where despotism reigned not because
there were no good people left,
but that there remained so few.
Alan D. Busch
11/5/07
Wherein the Enlightenment had so radiantly shone ...
descended a darkness o'er the land,
a blackening,
not of locusts sent by God ...
but of a more stubborn Pharoah
whose heart was even harder ...
whose command over masses numbing,
but which failed to blot out the light of day.
Had there been no foreshadowing of the darkness?
When the land forgot Moses Mendelssohn,
and bore Adolph Eichmann?
Had not Heine known wherein books are burned,
so will humans eventually be?
Where the din of the mob drowned out
the admonitions of the few prophetic voices
and cynical lawlessness foreshadowed transcendent evil.
When the fearful apathy of a once upright citizenry
began to terrorize living space and individuality's resistance little remained.
Where Jewish blood-letting became a national pastime, an opiate to
drug the masses and passive stupidity replaced the spirituality of free thought.
Not all debauched themselves on the altar of this golden calf.
Hans and Sophie Scholl refused to forsake the ageless distinction between right and wrong,
the primal lesson from the innocence of mankind.
The Gestapo executed Hans and Sophie Scholl
whose parents had taught them diligently and ...
spoken to them of good and evil at home.
Nurtured these young people on individuality's inquisitiveness,
enough so that when almost all had become bad,
Hans and Sophie believed in the courage of adherence to good.
When the many hysterically applauded tyranny's hypnosis,
this brother and sister had the presence of mind
to stand up and proclaim freedom's stubborn persistence.
while the deluded majority clung to falsehoods tenaciously.
Hans and Sophie held that living a lie was a betrayal of life.
Our sages knew few are the righteous who defy evil
across death's yard to the guillotine.
Blossoms push out the rot of weeds and beauty overtakes ugliness.
For who could have foreseen that a WHITE ROSE ...
would burst forth naturally in a land where the ashes of
auschwitz,
dachau,
buchenwald,
treblinka
fertilized
Berchtesgaden.
Where the presumption of guilt
became the obscene standard of perverse justice.
Good people ... tried and condemned perfunctorily
who had managed to remain human in a country
where despotism reigned not because
there were no good people left,
but that there remained so few.
Alan D. Busch
11/5/07
Monday, October 29, 2007
Up Heaven's Slope/Revised
"Up Heaven's Slope"
Dedicated to Our Kedoshim
Up heaven's slope wearily trod
stooped figures transparently grey,
memories of long before had been …
For them we clamor that this day
shall happen Never Again!
Why wrenched from hearth and home
O'er hills and fields whence they came
while dreaming did thus freely roam
Awaken morn cold and lame
Unlike Goliath in days of old,
A dark travail numbed,
that even David who fought so well
soon that night succumbed.
Prayerful hopes shoes be found
for souls bereft and torn,
a moment to rest, a breath to breathe
for spirits dulled and worn.
Should there not have been the one
for whom faith steadfast but rare,
that his would be ennobled by Thee
to seek his just and fair?
Who glimpsed the light but touched it not
whose spark had begun to wane
next day ere long gathered clouds again
for fewer who remain.
Bowed under lash by day,
by night a storm did rage
Why had He not shown His way
a war He would have waged?
Still in death's kingdom reigned
a way, a light, a day,
when dawn’s rising would eyes see
of whom did faith sustain.
Aside bodies on planks they lie
whose heat what little remain,
dreaded welcome soon might bring
next to whom they had just lain.
The world we choose can point the way
down paths long sought by peace,
in whose gardens we plant the seeds
lest memories tragically cease.
Revised 10/29/07
Alan D. Busch, copyright 2007
Dedicated to Our Kedoshim
Up heaven's slope wearily trod
stooped figures transparently grey,
memories of long before had been …
For them we clamor that this day
shall happen Never Again!
Why wrenched from hearth and home
O'er hills and fields whence they came
while dreaming did thus freely roam
Awaken morn cold and lame
Unlike Goliath in days of old,
A dark travail numbed,
that even David who fought so well
soon that night succumbed.
Prayerful hopes shoes be found
for souls bereft and torn,
a moment to rest, a breath to breathe
for spirits dulled and worn.
Should there not have been the one
for whom faith steadfast but rare,
that his would be ennobled by Thee
to seek his just and fair?
Who glimpsed the light but touched it not
whose spark had begun to wane
next day ere long gathered clouds again
for fewer who remain.
Bowed under lash by day,
by night a storm did rage
Why had He not shown His way
a war He would have waged?
Still in death's kingdom reigned
a way, a light, a day,
when dawn’s rising would eyes see
of whom did faith sustain.
Aside bodies on planks they lie
whose heat what little remain,
dreaded welcome soon might bring
next to whom they had just lain.
The world we choose can point the way
down paths long sought by peace,
in whose gardens we plant the seeds
lest memories tragically cease.
Revised 10/29/07
Alan D. Busch, copyright 2007
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Dedicated to the Kedoshim ...
"Up Heaven's Slope"
Wearily they trod up heaven's slope,
fatigued, in pain, forlorn
awaiting freedom desperately
that soon it might be born.
Prayerful hopes shoes be found
for souls bereft and torn,
a moment to rest, a breath to breathe
for spirits dulled and worn.
A moment’s dark travail numbed
Goliathan was the fight,
even David who had fought so well
soon that night succumbed.
Why wrenched from hearth and home
O'er hills and fields whence they came
while dreaming did thus freely roam
Awaken dreaded morning cold and lame
Marched back and forth thin and wane
stooped figures transparently grey,
next day ere long gathered clouds again
for fewer who remain.
Should there not have been
the one for whom faith
steadfast but rare,
that his would be enobled by Thee
to seek his just and fair?
Who glimpsed the light but touched it not
whose spark had become so dim,
for them we say such a day,
Never Again! Never Again!
Bowed under lash by day,
by night a storm did rage.
Why had He not shown His way,
A war He would have waged.
Still in death's kingdom reigned
a way, a light, a day,
when dawn rising would eyes see
of whom did faith sustain.
Aside bodies on planks they lie
whose heat what little remain,
dreaded welcome soon might bring
next to whom they had just lain.
The world we choose can point the way
down paths long sought by peace,
in whose gardens we plant the seeds
lest memories tragically cease.
Alan D. Busch, copyright 2007
"Up Heaven's Slope"
Wearily they trod up heaven's slope,
fatigued, in pain, forlorn
awaiting freedom desperately
that soon it might be born.
Prayerful hopes shoes be found
for souls bereft and torn,
a moment to rest, a breath to breathe
for spirits dulled and worn.
A moment’s dark travail numbed
Goliathan was the fight,
even David who had fought so well
soon that night succumbed.
Why wrenched from hearth and home
O'er hills and fields whence they came
while dreaming did thus freely roam
Awaken dreaded morning cold and lame
Marched back and forth thin and wane
stooped figures transparently grey,
next day ere long gathered clouds again
for fewer who remain.
Should there not have been
the one for whom faith
steadfast but rare,
that his would be enobled by Thee
to seek his just and fair?
Who glimpsed the light but touched it not
whose spark had become so dim,
for them we say such a day,
Never Again! Never Again!
Bowed under lash by day,
by night a storm did rage.
Why had He not shown His way,
A war He would have waged.
Still in death's kingdom reigned
a way, a light, a day,
when dawn rising would eyes see
of whom did faith sustain.
Aside bodies on planks they lie
whose heat what little remain,
dreaded welcome soon might bring
next to whom they had just lain.
The world we choose can point the way
down paths long sought by peace,
in whose gardens we plant the seeds
lest memories tragically cease.
Alan D. Busch, copyright 2007
Sunday, October 14, 2007
I Look at You ...
I look at you
Quietly thinking,
Words so many dare I speak.
Return my stare,
Hear you wondering …
Worrisome concerns, burdens linger
Many the questions still unuttered
Hints of solitude do I seek?
None I say but truth be told,
Fears are mine I’ve become too old,
Though age, its distance not yet torn
plagues me, hopelessly forlorn.
Those moments when closeness none more
Beseeching you in words unspoken
Whether you, I, we will be as time before …
It’s not my fault life’s changes did befall
My body shakes, my speech stumbles,
Hard to say and for you to hear,
What hope is there to come this year?
I think back to touches when
In hours abandon,
Gaity, laughter,
Together we spent
Now our posture is so different
My life as is I resent.
Passionate kisses, bodies aflutter,
holding you then as mine alone,
When we were is no longer,
So many questions yet to utter.
Alan D. Busch
10/14/07
Quietly thinking,
Words so many dare I speak.
Return my stare,
Hear you wondering …
Worrisome concerns, burdens linger
Many the questions still unuttered
Hints of solitude do I seek?
None I say but truth be told,
Fears are mine I’ve become too old,
Though age, its distance not yet torn
plagues me, hopelessly forlorn.
Those moments when closeness none more
Beseeching you in words unspoken
Whether you, I, we will be as time before …
It’s not my fault life’s changes did befall
My body shakes, my speech stumbles,
Hard to say and for you to hear,
What hope is there to come this year?
I think back to touches when
In hours abandon,
Gaity, laughter,
Together we spent
Now our posture is so different
My life as is I resent.
Passionate kisses, bodies aflutter,
holding you then as mine alone,
When we were is no longer,
So many questions yet to utter.
Alan D. Busch
10/14/07
Friday, October 12, 2007
Lamentations
“Lamentations”
The pain of a broken heart is reminiscent of
bereavement. My marriage to Kallah ended after a brief fifteen
months, a mournful experience not unlike the personal grief from which
I have suffered since November of 2000 when my first-born child
Benjamin died.
The three weeks prior to the Tisha b' Av is a period of time when we
purposely deny ourselves many enjoyments and comforts culminating
in this solemn fast day characterized by the reading of the
Book of Lamentations, communal mourning for the destruction of the
Beis Ha Mikdash and a heightened awareness of our Jewish
national identity. Our tradition holds that many other historical
tragedies befell the Jewish people on this joyless day.
It happened toward the end of the “Nine Days.” Minyan was scheduled
for 8:00 that evening. Arriving about fifteen minutes early, I saw
an elderly man sitting in the social hall. He appeared to be preoccupied though
patiently awaiting Mincha. He looked sad, so I approached him with a smile.
"Good evening, Sir,"
"Good evening," he responded, seemingly happy someone had come
by to chat with him.
“I was worried we would not have a minyan. It's nearly 8:00 o’clock
now, and I've yahrzeit for Maariv.”
"Oh," I sought to quickly reassure him. "We'll have a minyan.
Guaranteed. Please do not worry about that. Your name is, Sir?” I
asked.
"Talisman, Irving Talisman," he said.
I saw he had almost said "Yitzhak," his Hebrew name, but chose not
to do so. I looked at him intently. He was dressed in casual slacks, a pale yellow
golf shirt and a perspiration stained cap, his focus on
my words suggested that he was a bit hard of hearing.
"Reb Talisman," I addressed him. "For your wife, your parents,
you have yahrzeit?” Twisting his left forearm over with the
assistance of his right hand, he revealed the six green
numbers. I was speechless. I had seen such tattoos before, but the manner in which
he exposed it staggered me. His quiet dignity left me unsure if he bore the tattoo
as a badge of honor or shame. He looked up at me with glistening eyes
and whispered "my parents.” His eyes, sunken and sallow, were
underscored by dark rings-an image almost as indelible as his
horrific tattoo. I just wanted to take care of this man.
"This way, Reb Talisman," inviting him toward the Rabbi Aron &
Rebbitzen Ella Soloveitchik Beis Ha Medrash. I accompanied him
down the hallway. Together we opened the door. Reb Talisman
paused. "Should we enter? There seems to be a bar mitzvah lesson
going on." Indeed there was.
Looking quite grumpy after a typically long day of meetings,
Rabbi Louis was finishing up with the bar mitzvah bocher after
discovering that a ceiling ballast had blown out. It was an especially
busy night at shul. The sisterhood was holding a program and the
junior minyan was learning with Rabbi’s son. Seeing that I was
escorting an elderly gentleman to minyan, Rabbi saved his upset for
the next two hapless fellows who followed us in after we had shut
the door.
"Close it!" Rabbi barked.
"Abba, it’s 8:05, time for Mincha. We have a minyan," announced
Rabbi’s older son who, as it happened, was one of the two who came
in after us.
I directed Reb Talisman slowly toward the one chair unlike any
other in the beis medrash, a comfortable seat though not of the
stackable variety, well-cushioned and distinctively but peculiarly
pink in color. It had been the favorite of Reb Helman, the late father
of Rabbi Louis's wife Saretta. When I turned to check on him
however, he had chosen to sit by the “omed” opposite the Ark.
“As long as he’s comfortable,” I thought.
Rabbi Louis gave a klop on his shtender. "Ashrei yoshvei
v'secha,” we davened Mincha after which Rabbi lectured about
the laws of Tisha B’ Av. Several minutes later, we prayed the Maariv
service, but, by which time, I had lost all my concentration. Now I
know one should look to the heavens should he feel his devotion
waning, but I simply could not. I was thinking of Kallah. She filled my
head, and I knew she'd not be there when I arrived back home. I closed my
siddur and stared out the window.
"Maybe she'll pass by," I mused, "or drop in to see me." I turned to
the doorway thinking I had heard a feminine voice.
“Oh … just one of the younger guys,” I muttered to myself.
"Amen. Yehey shmey rabba ..."
The beis medrash emptied. I escorted Reb Talisman to his car.
"Good night, Sir," I smiled.
"Good night," he said. I touched his arm comfortingly.
I watched as he got in his car and drove away. I fumbled for my keys.
"There surely has to be a lesson here," I reflected, turning on the
ignition. During the minute that it took me to drive home, I
fantasized about seeing her car in the driveway, but realized
The One Above had sent Reb Talisman to remind me others are
grieving too. An act of chesed brought a smile to an elderly Jew.
How I would have liked to share this story with her … perhaps tomorrow.
Alan D. Busch
Revised 10/12/07
The pain of a broken heart is reminiscent of
bereavement. My marriage to Kallah ended after a brief fifteen
months, a mournful experience not unlike the personal grief from which
I have suffered since November of 2000 when my first-born child
Benjamin died.
The three weeks prior to the Tisha b' Av is a period of time when we
purposely deny ourselves many enjoyments and comforts culminating
in this solemn fast day characterized by the reading of the
Book of Lamentations, communal mourning for the destruction of the
Beis Ha Mikdash and a heightened awareness of our Jewish
national identity. Our tradition holds that many other historical
tragedies befell the Jewish people on this joyless day.
It happened toward the end of the “Nine Days.” Minyan was scheduled
for 8:00 that evening. Arriving about fifteen minutes early, I saw
an elderly man sitting in the social hall. He appeared to be preoccupied though
patiently awaiting Mincha. He looked sad, so I approached him with a smile.
"Good evening, Sir,"
"Good evening," he responded, seemingly happy someone had come
by to chat with him.
“I was worried we would not have a minyan. It's nearly 8:00 o’clock
now, and I've yahrzeit for Maariv.”
"Oh," I sought to quickly reassure him. "We'll have a minyan.
Guaranteed. Please do not worry about that. Your name is, Sir?” I
asked.
"Talisman, Irving Talisman," he said.
I saw he had almost said "Yitzhak," his Hebrew name, but chose not
to do so. I looked at him intently. He was dressed in casual slacks, a pale yellow
golf shirt and a perspiration stained cap, his focus on
my words suggested that he was a bit hard of hearing.
"Reb Talisman," I addressed him. "For your wife, your parents,
you have yahrzeit?” Twisting his left forearm over with the
assistance of his right hand, he revealed the six green
numbers. I was speechless. I had seen such tattoos before, but the manner in which
he exposed it staggered me. His quiet dignity left me unsure if he bore the tattoo
as a badge of honor or shame. He looked up at me with glistening eyes
and whispered "my parents.” His eyes, sunken and sallow, were
underscored by dark rings-an image almost as indelible as his
horrific tattoo. I just wanted to take care of this man.
"This way, Reb Talisman," inviting him toward the Rabbi Aron &
Rebbitzen Ella Soloveitchik Beis Ha Medrash. I accompanied him
down the hallway. Together we opened the door. Reb Talisman
paused. "Should we enter? There seems to be a bar mitzvah lesson
going on." Indeed there was.
Looking quite grumpy after a typically long day of meetings,
Rabbi Louis was finishing up with the bar mitzvah bocher after
discovering that a ceiling ballast had blown out. It was an especially
busy night at shul. The sisterhood was holding a program and the
junior minyan was learning with Rabbi’s son. Seeing that I was
escorting an elderly gentleman to minyan, Rabbi saved his upset for
the next two hapless fellows who followed us in after we had shut
the door.
"Close it!" Rabbi barked.
"Abba, it’s 8:05, time for Mincha. We have a minyan," announced
Rabbi’s older son who, as it happened, was one of the two who came
in after us.
I directed Reb Talisman slowly toward the one chair unlike any
other in the beis medrash, a comfortable seat though not of the
stackable variety, well-cushioned and distinctively but peculiarly
pink in color. It had been the favorite of Reb Helman, the late father
of Rabbi Louis's wife Saretta. When I turned to check on him
however, he had chosen to sit by the “omed” opposite the Ark.
“As long as he’s comfortable,” I thought.
Rabbi Louis gave a klop on his shtender. "Ashrei yoshvei
v'secha,” we davened Mincha after which Rabbi lectured about
the laws of Tisha B’ Av. Several minutes later, we prayed the Maariv
service, but, by which time, I had lost all my concentration. Now I
know one should look to the heavens should he feel his devotion
waning, but I simply could not. I was thinking of Kallah. She filled my
head, and I knew she'd not be there when I arrived back home. I closed my
siddur and stared out the window.
"Maybe she'll pass by," I mused, "or drop in to see me." I turned to
the doorway thinking I had heard a feminine voice.
“Oh … just one of the younger guys,” I muttered to myself.
"Amen. Yehey shmey rabba ..."
The beis medrash emptied. I escorted Reb Talisman to his car.
"Good night, Sir," I smiled.
"Good night," he said. I touched his arm comfortingly.
I watched as he got in his car and drove away. I fumbled for my keys.
"There surely has to be a lesson here," I reflected, turning on the
ignition. During the minute that it took me to drive home, I
fantasized about seeing her car in the driveway, but realized
The One Above had sent Reb Talisman to remind me others are
grieving too. An act of chesed brought a smile to an elderly Jew.
How I would have liked to share this story with her … perhaps tomorrow.
Alan D. Busch
Revised 10/12/07
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