Israel

Just a little on the heavy side of “middle-aged,” I had occasion to spend the better part of a week attending the wedding of a niece on my wife’s side. We arrived three or four days early because She Who Must be Obeyed had to be involved with her sisters, one of whom was the mother of the bride, in pulling off this affair of the heart. It was a beautiful wedding.

The bride’s aunt, on her father’s side, was there from Chicago with her “significant other.” His name was “Israel.” The mother of the bride and her two sisters were in their element. Each was planning the wedding, the dinner the night before and the reception afterwards. They were planning jointly and severally and were kind enough to include the sister of the father of the bride in their sessions.

The father of the bride had his own assignments which, as most men’s assignments are in a wedding, were seemingly important but essentially meaningless. You can’t ignore the father of the bride, but you don’t have to allow him to have any actual input. The other brother-in-law was something of an artist and a photographer who had some ideas which were helpful to the Three Sisters, not that they would ever acknowledge the suggestions were beneficial—they would simply listen discretely and act on it later when it could appear to be one of their own ideas. And, then, there was me. And, Israel.

We were situated in Southeast Oklahoma and Israel was from Chicago. His culture was different from ours. He was a little older and he probably had some misgivings about this strange group of people from an area we affectionately call “Little Dixie.” Since he and I had no actual purpose for being there, I was given a two-fold assignment: 1) Keep Israel with me, and 2) stay out of the way. It turned out to be a delightful assignment.

Israel, in his 70s at the time, stood about five feet, six or seven inches tall. And, he was about as round as he was tall. He was a jovial little man who spoke with an Eastern European accent. Bald headed, if he had had a white beard he would have made a perfect Santa. Except that he likely didn’t celebrate Christmas. Israel was a Jew.

As far as I could tell, he was a practicing Jew, although he didn’t seem to press issues I might have expected. But, to be fair, I really had little experience of contact with people of Jewish heritage. In the small town in which I was raised, there were two Jewish families. They ran one of the local dry goods stores which was the only place I ever saw them. If they were ever involved in the social structure of Erick, it was somewhere and in some way that our paths would have never crossed. I understood at the time that they went to Synagogue in another town which afforded them an opportunity to associate with their Jewish community.

Israel was a little quiet at first, but he quickly warmed and opened more, revealing himself, his history and life. After a few days, he was comfortable enough to tell me his story. It started on the second day when he asked me if I could tell him about my name. To me, it isn’t anything special. I told him I really didn’t know much about it. He very calmly and humbly asked if I was Jewish. “No,” I replied. “I was named after my father’s best friend who fought in World War II. His name was Hershel Sloan.” I explained that I did not know if the Sloans were Jewish. He asked me if I wanted to know what the name meant. “It means ‘Beloved one of God,’” he said. I had always had a fondness for the name, but only because my father had chosen me to honor his childhood friend. Israel added another dimension.

On the third day he was comfortable enough to tell me his story. He was a youngster in Poland when it was invaded by Germany. He was a captive of the Germans and he and his entire family were taken to a concentration camp. He was about 11 years old when he was taken to Auschwitz where he was kept until the liberation near the end of the war in 1945. He told of the hardships, the cold, the hunger and the labor. Never complaining about his lot, he told his story in a matter-of-fact manner. There were no tears as he told the story, as the tears were all shed years earlier. And then one day, a group of Jews were rounded up to be taken to another place to work. As he and his other family members were standing in line to go to the new location, his mother told him to go back in the barracks and get his coat, or what passed for a coat. When he returned to the barracks the people inside didn’t allow him to leave. He tried to get back to his family but they forcibly retained him until the group was dispatched. Of course, they were not going to another work location, they were going to the “showers” (gas chambers) and the crematoriums. He never saw them again.

Israel showed me the numbers tattooed on the inside of his arm, just above the wrist. He looked quietly at them, telling the story of his liberation and his coming to America. He told me of his marriage, his children and his business life. These were all important to him, but he spoke poignantly of that period in his young life when he was a captive in a concentration camp because he was a Jew.

We spent hours driving throughout Southeastern Oklahoma looking at the scenery, which is unusually beautiful for that time of year. We attended the wedding and then the reception. The bride and groom had provided to have a karaoke at the reception and we all took turns singing. I asked the D.J. if he had “Sunrise, Sunset” from Fiddler on the Roof. He had it and I invited Israel to join me. There we were, two fat, bald-headed men, one short and one taller, one old and one older, singing to the bride.

Is this the little girl I carried?

Is this the little boy at play?

I don't remember growing older

When did they?

When did she get to be a beauty?

When did he grow to be so tall?

Wasn't it yesterday

When they were small?

Sunrise, sunset

Sunrise, sunset

Swiftly flow the days

Seedlings turn overnight to sunflowers

Blossoming even as we gaze

Sunrise, sunset

Sunrise, sunset

Swiftly fly the years

One season following another

Laden with happiness and tears

Israel departed the next day and headed back home to Chicago. His health was failing but he had hidden it well for those celebrations. I corresponded with him a couple of times and wanted to go see him. But, like so many people, perhaps most, I put it off, waiting for a more convenient time. Finally, I heard that he was suffering from Alzheimer’s and shortly thereafter heard that it had taken a very grave turn. Quickly he had become stricken with that damnable disease and he got to where he did not even know his own children. It broke my heart to hear that. And I regretted that I had not gone to see him.

I would soon learn that he was departed from this life. I regret that I did not get to know Israel better; that I did not have an opportunity to spend more time with him. And, that I had not taken advantage of the time I did have. I wish I had asked him if it would have been appropriate to have his numbers tattooed on my arm in his honor. I haven’t done that. I simply don’t know if it would be appropriate.