A tribute to my father

There are so many words to say and then again not enough words. My father was born over 96 years ago in another century and world. His small little Jewish village called Saleist in Yiddish was probably typical for Jewish towns in the Ukraine. He would describe the streets with funny names and many shuls that were in the town. The “muddy street” was probably near the river “the sandy street “ was very sandy for no particular reason. The tailors shul or the shoemakers shul or the Rabbis shul they would come up when he described the Shtetl or Alte Heim.
As he was orphaned at a young age this almost mythical place for me at least became a very difficult place to be for him and his siblings. Nonetheless it never lost its beauty and warmness and he never really left it though he last saw it about 70 years ago. This village like so many like it was destroyed by the ultimate evil of our times. But to my father and his contemporaries it was very much alive.
They would talk about who lived where and where they are today. How and if they survived the war and where they lived. Those who survived the war or left the shetetel before the war were scattered around the world and my father seemed to know them all. He was a living remnant of a time and place that is no more. He grew up in the atmosphere of the spread of Zionism among Jewish youth in eastern Europe. At the same time the Hassidic backdrop of the Shetetel and his own fathers fervent Hassidic customs had a profound effect on him. His love and longing to live in Israel were apparent very early in his life as he was jailed in Germany while trying to get to Palestine on a clandestine ship.

His survival instincts were very keen as he knew to leave the Shtetl before it was destroyed by the Nazis later on. He was always haunted by the fact he could not take any brother or sister with him as they may of survived with him. As it turned out one sister survived and one sister and two brothers were murdered. He was especially haunted by his sisters disappearance and her subsequent murder. No one till this day knows exactly what happened to her and how she died. This lack of knowledge always tormented him.
His love for Jews and their land were a pillar stone for me growing up. His worry about Jewish soldiers and Jewish children who were poor were extreme.
He was a great crier who could cry at the drop of a hat for things that were important. For his children and their Simchas and for things that reminded him of the warm parts of the Shtetl.
He suffered greatly in his life but never gave up his belief in the greatness and eternity of the Jewish people. He longed to see his parents that he lost at such a young age and he often spoke about what he would say when he met them.
His passing is the end of an era , the end of the surviving Shtetl Jew that picked himself out of the ashes and continued no matter what.
May his memory be a blessing to all he helped and loved.

His grieving son

דוד מרדכי