flashquake Editor's Pick — David Shapiro

Saying Kaddish
by Wayne Scheer

I thought this story gave fresh meaning to old traditions in a moving exploration of how people turn to ritual to process grief. The details were rich and the characters strong and true.

Mark Richter sat in the back of the synagogue wondering why he was there. He hadn't been to a Saturday morning service since his Bar Mitzvah, almost twenty years earlier. He watched the old men mumbling ancient chants in Hebrew, yarmulkes covering their heads, prayer shawls hanging from their shoulders. Periodically, they'd stand and bend from the waist demonstrating respect for the Word of God.

Whatever respect Mark might have had was lost when his wife and daughter were killed in an automobile accident a month earlier. His Jewishness had never meant much more to him than an identifying marker he used when filling out forms, like his eye color or Social Security number. Now it meant even less.

So why was he sitting in the back of a synagogue, he asked himself. It wasn't to pray, for he and God hadn't been on speaking terms for a long while. He didn't suddenly become a believer in the face of tragedy. Instead, Mark was angrier now than he had ever been as a rebellious teenager. Still, he felt compelled to go.

Would the ritual and prayer help relieve the pain? Not likely, Mark sneered.

Would he ever not hear the awful guttural cry his wife made just before impact or see his one-year old daughter in a pool of her own blood?

He observed the sparse surroundings, the dark, wooden pews, the well-worn prayer books and the alter containing the Torah, the source of Jewish law and knowledge. With great reverence, the rabbi took the Torah from the hand-carved wooden ark. His assistant held it while the rabbi methodically uncovered it in the exact manner Mark remembered from his youth.

The congregation stood as the rabbi revealed the Torah. Mark remained seated.

As the rabbi read the ancient Hebrew, Mark observed the hushed silence. Even the few children present were stilled, awed by the moment. Mark wondered if any of the people had even an inkling of what the rabbi was saying, yet they sat expectantly as if all knowledge would soon be theirs. Mark shook his head in amazement. Empty words, he thought. Mere sound devoid of meaning.

Mark wasn't interested in knowledge. He had already seen too much.

A drunk driver, he was told later. A fucking drunk driver. The bastard probably never even saw the red light.

Mark sat in the cold, poorly lit synagogue. Why am I here? "Why?" He asked aloud wondering whom he was asking.

An elderly man Mark had never seen before reached across from the pew in front of his and touched him on the knee reassuringly. Mark pulled way.

The rabbi was speaking in English now, translating and interpreting the Torah portion he had just read. He may as well have still been speaking in Hebrew as far as Mark was concerned.

Instead, Mark replayed with remarkable clarity what he and Carole were talking about just before the accident. "We need to stop at Kroger's," she was saying. "Toilet paper is on sale this week. Charmin. And I have to pick up some coffee and milk for the baby."

"Oh, is Emily taking milk with her coffee now?"

"Very funny," she said turning towards Emily. "Your daddy thinks he's a very funny man. Yes, he does."

Emily said something resembling, "pleshhhht," and they all laughed. Mark could still hear Emily giggle. Moments later, he heard Carole's horrible guttural cry.

The congregation was now reading an English translation after the rabbi chanted in Hebrew. Mark couldn't make out much of what was being said, but each refrain began with "Blessed be God ..."

Bullshit be God is more like it, Mark thought. What's there to bless? The Maker of drunk drivers and accidents? Oh, that's right. There are no accidents. Killing innocent children is part of His plan. Well, fuck His plan!

Mark slammed his fist into the pew in front of him. The stranger who had reached out to him earlier turned, startled by Mark's violent outburst. He stared into Mark's eyes, lowered his own and sighed before returning to his prayer book and the rabbi's sermon on why God is so specific about dietary laws.

Mark felt bad about disturbing the man's peace. In a sense he was envious. Maybe if he cared about the proper way to slaughter a lamb he wouldn't see Emily's blood whenever he closed his eyes? Mark cried again, this time silently, feeling his body tremble and the back of his throat burn.

The congregation was singing now, melodies he recalled from his childhood. His parents didn't go to synagogue often, but they would dress him in itchy dark pants and a starched white shirt and drag him to temple whenever his grandfather stayed with them. He recalled his grandfather confiding in him one Saturday morning as they dressed for worship. "You vant to know vat's truth, boychic?" he asked in his heavy Eastern European accent. "I only go to shul vhen I'm here." Then he smiled as he knotted his short, black knit tie. "For you, I go."

The service was almost over. It ended as Mark remembered it always ended — saying Kaddish, the prayer for the dead. Members of the congregation who had recently lost loved ones rose. Without thinking, Mark stood, feeling his knees almost buckle under him.

"Yit-ga-dal ve-yit-ka-dash..." The ancient sounds came back to him, as he thought of his family.

Mark noted that the man in the pew in front of him also rose to say the prayer. When services ended the man turned, extended his hand and wished Mark a good Sabbath. Mark took the old man's cold, bony hand and, as they shook, the man's shirtsleeve lifted just enough for Mark to see a faded number tattooed across his wrist.

Without a word, Mark turned and walked out of the synagogue into the blinding midday sun. He wasn't sure if he felt better or worse. His mind was on the old man.

Copyright 2002 by Wayne Scheer

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