May they rest in peace - The Jewish Standard

In a peaceful corner near the fence of Israel’s Old Herzliya Cemetery lie my parents, Ida and Samuel Litwak. They were buried in that space years after they had fulfilled the enormous mitzvah known as aliya, which they performed when Dad was already 80 years old. At that mellow stage of life, when most people content themselves to do only what they easily can, they chose to become energetic olim chadashim, new immigrants, and to begin their lives anew, far from their New Jersey roots, far from the routes they had long traversed, and far from all that they knew, and move across oceans and seas to finally fulfill their dreams of living in Israel.

That giant step ultimately culminated with their perpetual resting place in that pristine cemetery, with its devoted care and mixture of graves of immigrants, natives, soldiers, and some who had died long before their time. I think of the basketball hoop erected by the parents of a teenager, which was artistically rendered to memorialize their son as part of the monument erected in his memory. Each time I visited my parents I would pass by that matzeva, which was always startling and profoundly moving, and I’d hear the dreamlike resounding cheers of the ball entering the heavenly basket. May he rest in peace.

In all of our lives there is only one guarantee. We shall all die. Most of us will be blessed enough for burial in cemeteries. Some will not. But, like all of life, even cemeteries have distinct differences.

A few years ago we visited the grave of Zayda, my father’s father, in the Jewish cemetery in North Arlington. For years we had not known where he was buried but finally a bit of research revealed that he, as well as several other family members, lay within a half hour of our West Orange home. My tormented recollection of that visit was published in the New Jersey Jewish News; it haunts me still. We did not find a peaceful place. We found an abandoned field in an industrial neighborhood with snakes slithering among the gravestones and rabbits frolicking without fear, and time-desecrated, rotted coffins, graves emerging from the ground, some actually open, and an administration building that was sinking into the earth, soon to be completely absorbed. We did not find a place of shelter for the precious remains of loved ones. We found only horror.

Zayda, a builder of lovely homes, would not have wanted his eternity to be in such a place. But the chevra kadisha of our shul, whose large metallic sign rests on the ground, destroyed, like pieces of a puzzle that, if rebuilt, would clearly identify our shul by its name, Rodfei Shalom, chose a place for their Beit Kvarot that seemed appropriate. Sadly, they could not have foreseen what became of this ultimate destination.

The Old Herzliya Cemetery is a different story. It has now been replaced by the New Herzliya Cemetery across the street, and it is available only for those who have prebought plots next to loved ones. Operated by a dedicated chevra Kadisha — a burial society — it is truly a place of peace, small and easily navigable by foot, surrounded by plants and flowers with lovely pathways and graves that are a fascinating testament to the different cultures that comprise Kibbutz Galuyot, the ingathering of the exiles. So here lie Sam and Ida, from faraway New Jersey. They share the hallowed earth with immigrants from throughout the world, Jews from Russia whose graves invariably bear their permanent photos, young Israeli soldiers who gave their very lives to sustain the land, and rest in a designated space, and Zeev Goren, our brother-in-law, who served Israel in all of its 20th-century wars and was a devoted husband to my sister.

Years ago, my husband and I were in Poland, looking for family graves near the shtetels, the city of Bialystok, and the town of Augustow, where our forefathers had lived. We found no one in those desecrated cemeteries where our ancestors lie buried. How blessed are Ida and Sam and Zeev that their graves will be forever places, guarded by the people of Israel in perpetuity, and they shall lie in peace.

My husband and I long ago decided that we would be buried where we die. Hence, if we die in New Jersey, it shall be there, and if we die in Israel it shall be there. Others make different choices. No choice is right for everyone, but we feel such closeness to both of our lands that making the decision would be impossible. Of course, if we do not die together, we shall be joined in the end.

His parents are at peace right here in New Jersey, but their own chevra kadisha chose this as the place for their congregants. There the paths have names so someone could be buried on Ruth Street, for example, and follow the map to that destination. I have never checked whether Waze would lead you there, but contemporary cemeteries often now have computers in their administrative buildings, or online, that identify graves by the deceased’s name and provide the address within the confines of the cemetery. No email addresses included or needed.

When my in-laws died, we were given the responsibility of choosing the headstones, as we had done in Herzliya. In Herzliya we erred! We chose black granite, beautiful and gleaming but prone to dust, requiring constant attention. Dad, who survived Mom for several years and visited her grave very often, always took rags and a container for water, usually an empty soda bottle, so that he could spiff up the grave. Now that job has fallen to my sister, who no longer lives in Herzliya. Such are the foibles of life!

We chose the stones for Alvin’s parents more wisely, and with perpetual care. But we wanted their epitaphs to represent who they were. We did not want them to be generic. We feel we did them justice so anyone who visits their graves will know something about each of them, something descriptive.

My mother-in-law is marked for eternity as a spirited woman. She was! And my father-in-law was called a gentle man. He was indeed!

In a couple of well-considered words we let their personalities shine through forever.

Z”L.

Rosanne Skopp of West Orange is a wife, mother of four, grandmother of 14, and great-grandmother of nine. She is a graduate of Rutgers University and a dual citizen of the United States and Israel. She is a lifelong blogger, writing blogs before anyone knew what a blog was! She welcomes email at rosanne.skopp@gmail.com

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