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Menachem's Writings Sitting shiva for an old parent is very, very sad. But it is natural. "A generation leaves, another arrives — the world continues its existence." It is far sadder when parents are in the prime of their lives. Sitting shiva for a younger sibling too is difficult. It is not the natural progression of life. Parents bring us into this world and therefore are deserving of respect. In some ways siblings have a similarity and familiarity greater than parents. First is their closer genetic makeup. Second, they possess many shared experiences that are solely theirs. My brother Dennis Lawrence, שמעון אברהם ז״ל, passed away, based on the Tora reading in Ereẓ Yisrael, on shabath Emor. The parsha commences with laws of mourning. Also on this shabath we read in Pirkei Avoth, עֲקַבְיָא בֶן מַהֲלַלְאֵל אוֹמֵר, a mishna often recited at funerals. Immediately after shabath we were informed of Dennis's passing. We had been scheduled to have arrived in Sydney two days earlier. Sadly, due to a string of unfortunate coincidences, we were unable to board the flight. My brother was named after two very holy Jews, our mother's grandfather, Shimon Glück and our father's, Rav Avraham Prager, the saintly Rav and Av Beth Din of Topoľčany, a large country town near Pressburg. Dennis's other English name, Lawrence, is after our uncle Laurie Glück, who was the sibling born after our mother. No-one knows his fate. He was seventeen when all the Jews of their city were deported. Our mother always said he was too clever to have been caught by the Germans. She was so certain that he was alive, somewhere, that she continually expected him to phone her, from wherever he was. Sadly, the call never came. Two of our cousins were similarly named after Laurie. During shiva for Dennis, our house was continuously full of people. I repeated aspects of his life many times. This process, a part of healing my great loss, allowed me, even forced me, to think about my brother in many dimensions. I started to understand things that had occurred over the decades in different lights. I decided to write down, as usual principally for my own record, many of the things that were spoken over this week. We were born into a family in Sydney, Australia, indeed into an entire community, who had suffered more than any post Beth haMikdash destruction generation. In 2,000 years of persecution, no Jewish cohort had suffered more pogroms, expulsions, forced-conversions, murder, starvation, forced labour and humiliation than those living during the Nazi shoa. I was born less than eight years after the liberation of Auschwitz, followed by Dennis just three and a half years on. Our parents suffered greatly during that period, losing much, in our father's case all, of their immediate families and much more. Almost everyone around us in Coogee in those early years had been afflicted by comparable chronicles. And almost exclusively, none spoke much, if at all, about the trauma that had transpired so recently in their lives. Our parents were very different from the surrounding Sydney population, including its prewar Jews. We were all keenly aware of this, sometimes even embarrassed. They only wanted the best for us, to the superlative. In return however they had very high, often unreachable, expectations of us. Subconsciously they expected us to live the lives that had been stolen from them. Educationally we were provided as much opportunity as they could afford, to the extent of their personal sacrifice. However each time we almost reached the bar they set for us, it had been raised. Our parents could not rely on any backup. Grandparents were an almost unknown to our generation. Most landed in Australia possessing very little. They had to work themselves up from the bottom. On arrival they spoke little or no English. Their previous qualifications were often not recognised. Our father was a trained electrician, though had spent most of his working years in the office of his uncle's large granary business. He tried to find similar work but encountered antisemitism in country Victoria. I remember the first time I saw my little brother. Without grandparents and an 8-9 day hospital stay for birthing mothers, I was sent to somewhere in Mosman. I wonder exactly what kind of facility this was. Perhaps an orphanage? I remember our father picking me up with a very large toy bus to compensate his absence from my life. I came into our flat and was taken into a room furnished with only a crib, a little baby inside. "This is your baby brother Dennis", I was told. My little brother had entered into my life. We traversed a long, at times difficult, journey together. Life in our generation involved many complexities. We lived in a world of silence and secrecy. At the same time it often screamed at us, without us understanding what and why. We were different. We knew from an early age that something terrible had occurred to our parents and to their central-European accented contemporaries. They chose, for various later understandable reasons, not to discuss their immediate past. We learnt never to question them. We knew the pain was great but not exactly its source. It wasn't until the late eighties that our mother and her contemporaries opened up. Sadly by then our father had not been with us for over twenty years. He passed away just after my bar mitzva. Dennis then was only nine! To us our father's former life remained a blank slate. I often wonder whether Dennis experienced the closure I had following our father's early demise at the age of fifty. He passed away on a shabath afternoon. I was out of the house, off with friends. I can only imagine what Dennis saw and felt. He was whisked off to a neighbouring aunt and then to family friends. He did not return home for three days. I do not remember what he was told and when. I, on the other hand, was rushed home, not informed as to what had transpired. It was surreal. My mother and other women, relatives and neighbours, wailing in the lounge-room. I did not initially fathom what had taken place. Later I was taken into the bedroom as the Ḥevra Kadisha were about to remove our father's body. So I would see him one more time. I was at his funeral two days later. I shovelled dirt onto his lowered coffin. I said kadish by his fresh grave. Dennis only returned home after the burial. Sadly these events and closure were little discussed between us. I thought our father was an old man. There were just a few men in our shul who were older. Most were a little younger than our father. We did not know until ten years after our father's passing that he was previously married. Coincidentally we each found out at almost the same time, from two different cousins, on two continents. I was about to leave Australia to spend time learning in yeshiva in Yisrael. I visited my father's cousins, to whom I was very close, to take leave. My cousin, a community rabbi, wished me all the best to learn much Tora, adding his favourite joke, "Don't come back a rabbi. It's not a job for a Jewish boy!" He added, "You'll come back from yeshiva and then you'll get married". To which I responded, "I'm only 23. Why are you rushing me? My father didn't get married until he was 35!" His response was unanticipated. It bowled me over inside. "But that was his second marriage!" While this was the first inkling I had of this reality, I externally nodded assent as if of course I knew. This reaction may seem strange. We had been brought up never to ask. This was not the only question that, over the years, I wish I had asked. By the time I overcame my reticence, the opportunity for questions had vanished. Just a few weeks earlier, while Dennis was doing an elective term at the old Sha'arei Ẓedek Hospital in Yerushalaim, he visited another cousin. They were chatting as Ali pulled an album of prewar photographs from the shelf. "This is me before the war with your late aunt ... this was the town centre ... this is your father with his wife and daughter" And Dennis's reaction? Identical to mine. As we were then geographically far apart, we did not have the opportunity to share these experiences for another year. We were, as usual, on the same page. I subsequently asked our mother about our father's previous marriage. "He never wanted to talk about it. It's a total blank to me. Don't ask me again because you now know as much about his past as I." Over the years I managed to piece together some aspects of his earlier life, based on things his cousins and landsmen subsequently related to me, on reading histories of the time, and based on things he had said to me, which at the time, as a child, completely lacked context. Armed with this knowledge, I was able to somewhat piece together a part of his life's narrative. I have written quite extensively on his biography. Many asked during the shiva if Dennis and I had other siblings. Two was after all the default number of children for survivors. I always answered, "No. We had a sister, who was murdered during the shoa before she was one year old". Yes it is a shocking answer. In recent years I have felt a strong affinity to her. I think often about our sister and have written possible, imagined scenarios of her life. Our father had a heart attack at the age of 47. I remember visiting him at Sydney Hospital. I recall the beautiful view from his bed of the park below. He seemed to me to be fine. In fact three years later, he visited his cardiologist for a periodical checkup. The doctor patted our father on his back saying "You're doing well Mr Kuchar. Just keep it up and you'll be fine." He died the next day. His cousin told me that she believed his weak heart was a result of a near death experience as a partisan. As a result of our father's coronary disease, Dennis became a cardiologist. I remember him telling me during his residency that he had retrieved our father's medical record, still sitting in the hospital archives. My brother was an amazing physician. I knew this all along. He spent more time with patients than most, wanting to understand the person in front of him. During the shiva many people told me how Dennis had been their parents' cardiologist, some were even amongst his patients. One told me, "I was his patient before I came to live here ... and also he saved my brother's life!" Another told me Dennis was his cardiologist and his father's too. Everyone was full of praise for his level of care and personal concern for them. Amongst his many talents Dennis was a prolific painter. He started painting relatively late. For him it was a way of relaxing, detaching, unwinding from his very stressful professional life. He told me a number of years ago that he was going to cut down working late hours and come home earlier to paint. He completed a painting every two days. As with everything he did, he brought his art to a very high level. Sadly, as his disease progressed, he was not able to continue. His right hand was the last of his limbs to become useless. I remember asking if he was still painting. "I can barely hold a brush. I think the painting I am doing now will be my last." Right through his body failing him, he remained in good spirits. He was resigned to his fate, making the most of every moment as well as he was able. When Dennis first became sick, I and many others prayed each day for his health and recovery. I must admit that as he deteriorated, very rapidly, I wondered about this important act. Does one continue praying for the health of someone whose demise may be imminent? How imminent? Do we say that haShem is always approachable, that He can perform a miracle at any time, that one should never give up hope, even when sitting at the precipice? I continued to pray for my brother's recovery three times every day, for many months. Ironically I still prayed for his health after he had passed, not yet informed of his demise. The Talmud Bavli in Baba M'ẓiya 84a describes Ribi Yoḥanan's mourning for his ḥavrutha and brother-in-law, Ribi Shimon ben Lakish. In the midst of a serious halakhic discussion, Ribi Yoḥanan had inadvertently made a disparaging remark about Ribi Shimon ben Lakish's past. The latter was very offended. As a result of this insult, he became so sick that he soon passed away. Ribi Yoḥanan fell into a state of severe depression and could not be comforted over the loss of his beloved student and study partner. He was unable to function, physically and intellectually. Unconsolable, he too fell into serious illness. He walked around, rending his clothes, weeping and saying, "Where are you, son of Lakish? Where are you, son of Lakish?" He screamed until he lost his mind. The Rabbis, his students, prayed and requested haShem to have mercy on him and take his soul. Subsequently Rabbi Yoḥanan too passed away. The Talmud in K'thooboth 104a relates Ribi [Yehuda haNasi]'s demise. On the day of his passing the Sages decreed a day of fasting and prayer, beseeching haShem that he should not die. A servant in Ribi's household ascended to the roof of the house. She said, "The upper [realms] are requesting Ribi's presence, while the lower [also] request his presence; may it be [haShem's] will that the lower should impose on the upper". However when she noted how many times he entered the bathroom, removed his t'filin, exited, put them back on, and she saw how intense was his suffering [from intestinal disease] she said, "May it be His will that the upper should impose on the lower". And Ribi died, unknown to the Rabbis who continued fasting and praying. The second prayer of the servant was heeded over that of the Sages of the last generation of Tana'im. A friend told me that when his father was dying he asked him not to pray for his recovery but instead for haShem to take him quickly. My friend told his father that he couldn't do that. Instead he would pray to haShem to do what is best for him. Perhaps he meant for Him. Dennis suffered from ALS for months. His condition deteriorated rapidly. He told me early on that he had six more months to live. He reached the stage where he was unable to use his limbs. He needed to be fed. He was in pain. He told me a couple of weeks ago that, while still able to speak, he felt this function too had begun to wane. For someone as outgoing, connected and people-oriented as my brother, this would be tragic. The thought of him in such a state is truly horrific — to be fully cognisant but unable to express oneself, to be wholly present but unable to communicate. For some reason Dennis expected early on that he would not exceed our father's years. I don't know why he thought this. Five years ago, he underwent six bypasses. I understood that he had recovered, returned to his previous vigour. Seemingly his heart was not the best. Last Friday he had good day. After he and I spoke, Ari took him to Bondi Beach, one of his favourite spots. Seated facing the ocean, he was calm and relaxed, enjoying the salt air. That shabath evening ten grandchildren were at the house for dinner. While it was lively, even noisy, Dianne and Dennis together reaped pleasure from their offspring. The next morning Dennis awoke. A few minutes later his ALS-weakened heart gave out. He was gone. haShem had taken him before his condition became increasingly unbearable. Rest well my little brother. יהי זכרו ברוך
Menachem Kuchar, 15th May, 2022 Please feel free to Writings Homepage Shoa Writings Homepage Photography Homepage |