A Time to Share

My First Funeral One of the less than happy duties of my life as a rabbi has been officiating at funerals, an inevitable part of the life cycle of every community. Nevertheless, my first funeral, if it may be called that, goes back to the time long before I became a rabbi. In fact, it occurred around the time that my family and I came to America. Entrance into the United States at the present time is much easier. Not only have past restrictions been greatly relaxed, but there is massive illegal immigration accompanied by heated discussions regarding the disposition of those who crossed the border illegally. For us, it was much more difficult. Living in Germany before the outbreak of WWII, we were desperate to escape. In fact, my father had been incarcerated in the Buchenwald concentration camp for six weeks. Our hope was to be admitted as immigrants to America. There was a strict quota system at the time which allowed only a specific number of immigrants from various countries. Every candidate for entry had to prove financial responsibility. If he did not have the personal resources, he had to have a sponsor to legally assume this obligation. In other words, strict laws were extant to prevent the immigrant from becoming a ward of the state. Unlike today, it was understood that English was the legal and accepted language of the country. Signs were only in English. It was the newcomer who had to make the effort of learning the language of the country that he had chosen. One of the requirements my father had to address in order to obtain his license to practice medicine was fluency in English. I remember him frequently going to the movies so that he could learn the nuances of spoken English. The financial responsibility for my family was assumed by a Mr. Max Stern, the owner of Hartz Mountain pet foods. In later years, Yeshiva University’s division of Stern College for Women was endowed by this great philanthropist. His interest in my family, as I understand it, stemmed from the fact that my father, a cardiologist in Germany, happened to have been the doctor of Max Stern’s father. So when we arrived in America, Mr. Stern looked after all our immediate needs, which gave my father the opportunity to re-study for his medical examinations until he was finally licensed to again practice medicine. One day, our family decided that we would like to have a bird as a pet. Everyone was in agreement and there was a great deal of anticipation. After purchasing the cage, sand and bird food, we contacted Mr. Stern and asked him if we might come to his office in order to purchase a canary. He graciously consented and told us that the cost of the bird would be five dollars. The price, even at that time, was very low and I suspect that the only reason he charged anything was so that we could maintain our dignity in making a purchase rather than receiving a charitable gift. By a stroke of luck, I was chosen to go to downtown New York and purchase the new pet. I have a vague recollection of Mr. Stern being very cordial and accepting the five dollars which I handed to him with great seriousness, as if it was one of the larger transactions which he had negotiated that week. He also gave me detailed instructions regarding how to care for the bird. For reasons unbeknown to me, the canary was named Moritz. Moritz made himself at home and seemed to be quite happy. At first, no sound emanated from him. After a few days, however, we were totally enthralled to hear the most delightful tunes emanating from his tiny throat. As his arias reached a crescendo, his little chest puffed out and his feathers seemed to double in size. His concerts began in the morning and continued for a good part of the day. In the evenings, we covered his cage with a cloth and he went to sleep for the night. Little did we realize one morning that our little canary had regaled us with his last musical performance. We were very sad because it seemed to us that he knew us and that he sang his beautiful melodies just for us. The question arose as to how to dispose of our now silenced friend. We certainly were not going to throw him into the garbage or even into some bush. My brother and I decided that a respectful burial was clearly indicated. We probably would not have felt that way had we been older, but young people are still free of accepted mores and tend to forge ahead according to their personal feelings. Since we had no precedent for such an occasion, we had to improvise. We found a little box and gently deposited our beloved canary into it. After some discussion, we wended our way to Van Cortlandt Park, which was near our home in Yonkers, New York. We soon faced a lovely little hill, which we climbed and proceeded to dig a small hole into which we lowered the bird. My latent rabbinic instincts began to assert themselves. What should we do next? A eulogy or prayer seemed uncalled for, so we devised an alternate plan. Near the new grave lay a medium sized rock. With a sharp utensil, we chiseled the name “Moritz” on its surface. I don’t remember if we wrote the date. I have not been back to that area for many years. Sometimes I wonder if I do happen to find myself there one day, would I attempt to retrace my steps and try to locate that little hill? And if I did, would the engraving on that rock still be legible? It was a meaningful experience for two young boys and, in a manner of speaking, it was my first funeral.