A Daughter Says Kaddish For Her Father

by Ellen Brazer

 

Dad was a religious man. He went to the conservative synagogue every Saturday. He was blessed to have my brother and me, seven grandchildren and five great grandchildren. After services every Saturday, he would call each of us to wish us a Shabbat Shalom, never pushing his beliefs on any of us. When I would call him later in the day, on the Sabbath, and ask what he was doing, he would always say the same thing: “My Shabbas thing. I am reading and relaxing.”

 

I can still envision my family sitting in a circle in the rabbi’s study the day after my father passed away. As is the custom in Judaism, we took turns talking about him as the rabbi listened.

 

When it was my turn, I told the Rabbi that my father used to tease me, saying he wanted me to recite Kaddish for him when he died. Kaddish for a dead parent entails eleven months of going to synagogue every day to say a prayer that does not even mention death or the departed. It is a prayer of thanksgiving, praise of G-d and concludes with a prayer for peace.

 

I always replied to my father’s request by insisting he was not going to die and then add, “Please don’t lay that on me!” We would laugh.

 

When I told the Rabbi my father’s request, I really expected him to reply, That’s very nice. I think it would be lovely if you went every Saturday. What I did not know was that the Conservative Movement had changed. Women were now counted in the minyan. A minyan is a quorum of ten Jews over the age of thirteen needed in order to recite the Kaddish blessing aloud. The rabbi looked at me and smiled. He said, “I think that it would be wonderful for you to fulfill your father’s wishes.”

 

Looking back, I know I would have fulfilled my father’s wishes regardless of what the Rabbi might have said that day. In my heart, I had made a promise to my father, even if I never made that vow aloud. How could I not? My father had set a lifetime example for all of us, and I felt obligated to honor his commitment to Judaism.

 

Dad was sixteen years old when his father died leaving four children, a wife and no money. Dad was a teenager and a star basketball player in High School (1936), but he attended synagogue every day for the eleven months. He did the same a lifetime later when his mother died at the age of ninety-eight.

 

When my mother passed away in 2005, after a marriage of sixty plus years, my father said Kaddish yet again, even with his broken heart. At that time, I said the prayer everyday by myself in my home, just Mom, G-d and me. It was not that I loved my mother any less than I loved my father, it was just never even brought up: that I should go to synagogue to say Kaddish for my mother.

 

The commitment of saying Kaddish got Dad out of bed early each day. He made new friends: like-minded people who shared his faith and devotion. I believe it helped get him through that first year. I didn’t know it at the time, but it would do the very same thing for me. The moment I made this commitment to myself, my life changed.

 

The Cuban Hebrew Congregation was the only conservative synagogue near my condominium on South Beach that had morning services. Services were at 7:30 AM. I remember that first day as if it were yesterday. First, I could not find a place to park. The doorway into the building is around the back, and I could not find my way in. By the time I figured it out, I was already late and crying. Swiping tears from my face, I finally found my way inside.

 

I had my father’s tallit, prayer shawl, and his yarmulke with me in the frayed blue velvet bag he had used for over fifty years. I brought the yarmulke to my mouth to kiss it before putting in on my head. The little round gold embroidered head covering still smelled like my father. I could not believe it! I could sense him through his scent. As I sat down, I wrapped that tallit around my shoulders, feeling as though my father was hugging me.

 

Something magical was taking place, but it didn’t last long. By the time I figured out what book to use and what page they were on, I was frantic—a stranger in a strange land. I had learned Hebrew twenty-five years earlier for my Bat Mitzvah, but the letters had drifted from my memory. The Hebrew looked so foreign, it might as well have been written in Chinese.

 

To make things worse, I did not know that on Monday and Thursday they read the Torah, which added a half hour to, what I considered, an already too-long service.

 

So now here I was beginning my sentence: to attend synagogue seven days a week for eleven months! When the Torah was carried down the aisle, I knew enough to use my prayer shawl to kiss the scroll. A man about my father’s age, a man I later learned was named Rav Malka, began reading the designated weekly portion from the Torah. After he finished reading, the old rabbi turned to me.

 

“You are here to say Kaddish?”

 

I nodded.

 

“Come,” he said, beckoning me forward. “What was your father’s name?”

 

“Irving Glicken,” I replied.

 

 “What was his Hebrew name?”

 

I was horrified as I shook my head, and my eyes filled with tears. I didn’t know.

 

“Shh. It’s okay,” he whispered. “You can find out. What is your Hebrew name?”

 

That one I knew, and I told him. Then he said a prayer over me, just words in Hebrew that I didn’t understand. But those words swirled around me as if he were taking me into his arms.