Foreword

I originally wrote this piece in 1996 when I was still in the midst of grieving the loss of my daughter Elana.

The girlfriend mentioned in the story is my late wife Laurie who passed away almost 2 years ago. Laurie helped me re-embrace life at a time when I doubted such feelings would ever be possible for me again. She stored the original printout of this in a folder entitled “Noah – writings” and I promptly forgot this work – as well as many of the lessons revealed to me in this story. Last month, in cleaning out some of the remaining boxes of Laurie’s things with Caren, my current girlfriend I found that folder and this piece. In reading it, I can’t help but feel that the world opened up for me as I wrote this, and that I somehow let go my grasp on the life’s lessons that were given to me at that time. I also feel that I am going around the same cycle again, but am more ready to embrace the wisdom and opportunities presented to me. I had the privilege of having Laurie in my life for 11years. Miraculously I have recently found Caren and treasure the life we are creating together. My father is now gone but I appreciate all he gave to me more than I ever did when he was alive. My son David has matured from rebellious adolescent into a brilliant musician and artist. And Yankiv lives on in his songs and stories. They say that one should not study the Kabbalah, a book of Jewish mysticism, before one is at least 40 years of age because you will not yet have the maturity to absorb the knowledge and insights that it has to offer. Thanks to Harlow, Laurie, David and Caren I feel like I am now ready to assimilate the meaning of the life of Yankiv Gorelick described below. Enjoy.

Last Friday my Uncle Yankiv died. He was born in 1903 in a small town, Shedrin, in Belarus. Yankiv Gorelick was my grandmother’s baby brother and my godfather. He came to this country in 1918, at the apex of the Communist revolution in his home country. He had been secretary of a socialist youth group in his home town and came here by boat to stay with his sister. My grandparents were died-in-the-wool leftists and unionists, but with a strong Yiddish flavor. Yankiv fit in well with this crowd, but even at that young age he had a strong love of Jewish literature and music, both secular and religious. Like all immigrants, Yankiv worked at a variety of jobs in order to survive: package wrapper, store clerk, messenger. Throughout his life, he remained a humble “working guy” without much formal schooling to speak of. However, this is not to say that he was uneducated or uncultured.

Once established on his own, Yankiv joined and ultimately led a series of Jewish cultural clubs. These were devoted to the study of Jewish works, including Talmud, Mishneh, and all the holy books as well as the popular Jewish writers of the day, including Sholem Alichem, Sholem Asch, and the young Isaac Bashevis Singer. Yankiv also wrote and published many short stories throughout his life. Most were written in Yiddish and published in little magazines that would circulate in the community or in the big Jewish papers, the Forward (which is still around today) and Der Tug. Occasionally, Yankiv would have his stories translated and published in English. My mother was his translator for a few years in the 1960’s.

During the early twenties, Yankiv blossomed into what one of his eulogists called “a sweet singer of Israel.” He was a folk singer, a purist, who was true what he considered the romantic repertoire of his people. His booming baritone sung longingly of communion with loved ones, the old country or God himself. He performed at social clubs, bar mitzvahs, brisses, weddings, in short, wherever people gathered to share with one another. Yankiv refused to accept money for his performances. He considered what he was doing to be something pure and sacred, and if you ever heard him sing, you would know what I mean. His voice carried throughout any room he was in, and it conveyed emotion that would transcend language barriers. He shunned the popular Jewish singers of the day like Al Jolson or Sophie Tucker, because he felt their work was designed to manipulate people rather than move them. It was during this period that he married the love of his life, a young Russian girl, Bessie Pauline, or Paulia, as she was known to all. Yankiv and Paulia never had any children, but remained devoted to each other through almost 40 years of marriage.

At the funeral last Sunday, two of the eulogies jolted me. The first, from the Rabbi (who was enlisted from the funeral parlor because my father could not get a Rabbi on Saturday), spoke off an unusual commandment from God. “God is pleased not just that we perform his mitzvot, but more important that we do them with joy.” Indeed, Yankiv infused joy into every conscious act of his 93 years on earth. He would always stress the positive to me, even in my times of greatest despair. Much of my recent life has been embodied by joyless obligation and anger at the fates for my sorry condition. The idea of pleasing God has not been paramount in my mind. But more about this later.

The second eulogy was from a man about my age, Michael, a folklorist, who in recent years had come by to Yankiv’s house (although he knew him by the name Jacob), to record his songs and stories. He spoke of the gentleness of Yankiv’s soul, the purity of his art, and the treasure that it was to know and work with a sacred link to the cultural past. Despite Yankiv’s advanced years and declining health, he would always look after his elderly neighbors and would often entertain in their apartments. Michael aims to publish Yankiv’s stories and songs. Some of these may soon appear on public television in New York. I had heard stories over the years about someone recording Yankiv; I did not know at that time he was considered one of the major surviving singers of this authentic old world genre.

There was a small crowd at Yankiv Gorelick’s funeral on November 18. This can be attributed to the fact that he died on a Friday afternoon, so it was impossible to post notices in the Jewish papers as well as with the major remaining Jewish fraternal organization, the Workmen’s Circle. It is also important to take into consideration that most of Yankiv’s peers are over 80, and my father set up the funeral at a parlor on East 10th street and Second Avenue. Historically, this was the center of Jewish theatre in the twenties and thirties; many social clubs from the Lower East Side existed at one time in this area. However, Yankiv had lived on West 28th street and 9th avenue for the last 25 years, and most of his neighbors were unable to make the trip across town to pay their respects. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not faulting my father – he was devoted to Yankiv. Although not a blood relative, he visited him weekly, sometimes twice a week to help him shop, clean up, and manage his affairs. My father is 74 himself, and I know that it is not always easy for him to get around. But this devotion and scheduling embodies the whole karma of my father and myself; try and remain centered and stable when the world is swirling around you. Put others first, put your needs second. Sometimes make bad decisions (like scheduling a funeral across town) even though you have good intentions. And above all keep plugging. At this point I’ve got to say my father has either resigned himself to this role or has embraced it, I’m not sure which. I on the other hand see myself genetically predetermined to walk this path and sometimes try to fight it. But ultimately, I walk this path because, well, because I must. I can’t say that I’ve walked it with great joy so far.

After the service, we got into the limo to go to the gravesite in New Jersey. I sat in the back seat with my brother and his wife, Michael and his wife sat in the middle bench, and my father sat on the passenger side with the driver. Michael and my father soon started swapping Yankiv stories. “I remember whenever we would record tales about the old country, he would always preface them by saying the full names of all the people he would be describing. I asked him, Jacob why do you need to mention all this information to me. It is not important to the story. He would reply, I mention their names because it is important that they are not forgotten. And when he would have something to say about someone which was not particularly flattering, like this one was miserly, that one cheated on her husband, he would always have me turn off the tape recorder first.”

My father told of how particular Yankiv was about every little thing, how it was such as struggle to get him to go to a doctor to get a hearing aid, or to go to a bank to get a safe deposit box to put his 70 years of accumulated bonds and important papers in.

My brother, like many people when feeling intense emotions tends to speak a lot to calm himself – my style is more to remain silent – perhaps in this way he is healthier than I am. Of course, quiet was not possible in this circumstance. Several times my brother implored Michael with questions such as “Don’t you think it’s interesting that he never rejected the old ways or embraced the American culture like most immigrants?”

Michael replied that Yankiv embraced what he found pleasing and rejected what felt wrong to him

“Yeah but don’t you think it’s strange that he never wanted to make a lot of money and go on stage before thousands of people.”

There were at least a half a dozen more “Don’t you think its strange” type questions from my brother met by his wife’s gentle restraining hand when she tried to curb his excesses. Then my father would get into the act and start yelling at his 44 year old son as if he was 15. My brother of course would then slip into 15 year old mode and play out the old father-son dramas. Completely understandable and predictable and of course I often do the same thing myself. All in all though, a pretty uncomfortable, cringing ride for me.

When we got to the cemetery we had to wait for half an hour as there were several burials scheduled before us in the area where Yankiv’s plot was. I thought of the last two funerals I was at and how distinctly different they were from this. Three years ago my 7 year old daughter Elana died. I was completely dazed at that event. She was a sweet and beautiful child, and as the Rabbi put it, her neshuma, her soul was pure. He was sure she was with God now. But what kind of God is it that takes away the most wonderful and precious gifts he bestows upon us. I am still reeling from this event – emotionally, physically, and spiritually.

Two years ago, my aunt Bea, my father’s sister died in a car accident. Everyone was stunned of course, but all were concerned about my father. He had lost both his parents at an early age, his wife had been chronically ill for years, he had lost a brother in the ’48 war in Israel, he had to face the challenge of raising me and my brother, two difficult boys, largely alone. He had also lost a granddaughter – the list went on forever. And yet Harlow, or “Oskie” as he was known to the family kept on plugging. Helping out the older relatives, giving a few bucks to the struggling younger ones, seeing his grandson once a week, making funeral arrangements when someone passed on. What else could he do?

Finally we went to the gravesite. We said the prayers and Yankiv’s coffin was lowered to lie next to his beloved Paulia. Yankiv’s had been a considered, honorable and joyful life. We were all sorry to see him go, be we celebrated his life and spirit which continues to live within each of us.

As we made our way back to the limo, my father stopped us and asked us to accompany him to my mother’s grave which was close by. I had not been back there but a few times since my mother died 11 years ago. I still harbor much anger towards the woman who was unwilling or unable to be present for me when I was a young child. Yet when I saw her pink tombstone with the distinctive handclasp emblem that she designed, I felt not sadness but empathy. She was as I am a limited human being and parent. She did the best she could with what she had and sometimes she didn’t do the best she could. Just like me. She was 61 when she died and I am 41, but we have arrived at the same place. We both had to deal with angry rebellious adolescent boys who see us as a lightning rod for their rage.

What is the lesson of all of this? I think it is that we can live our lives and deal with obligations and despair and experience joy, or we can do all of these things and not experience joy. I do believe that there is something transcendent about this joy thing – despite all my grief over Elana’s passing, the joy we shared still resonates within my heart. I have a girlfriend now, and although my burdens are objectively no different now than they were before, they at least feel a little different. And I feel more connected to my friends and family. Someday, I will understand how this is all tied together and what God’s plan is. I can’t possibly know this now, as I am mortal and mortals are not capable of knowing. Until then I continue on the path, my path and my father’s path. And hopefully like Yankiv, I sometimes can share my song with others.