The Jewish cemetery in Staten Island was impossible to reach. Jacob had to travel by subway, bus, and taxi. The journey had taken ninety minutes with traffic. When he finally did arrive, he was transported back to a ghetto in prewar Europe. A large cement arch with a wrought iron gate marked the entry to the burial ground. Baron Hirsch Cemetery and the year 1880 were etched into the arch. Inside the gate were containers of stones that a visitor could bring to the gravesite and place on top of the headstone, evidence that a loved one had been there. The custom of leaving a small stone on the grave came from the awful truth of long-ago burials. If the bereaved did not cover the gravesite with rocks, then wild animals could dig up the remains. Now, a stone was a calling card.
The graves were a tangle. Headstones leaned at odd angles, all different shapes and sizes—like the people they represented. Jacob’s grandfather had purchased the family plot years ago. His grandfather had immigrated to New York from Poland in 1937, in time to escape Nazi atrocities. A few other survivors from his village relocated to New York after the war. These wanderers banded together and bought family plots adjacent to one another on Staten Island. Together in death, they re-created their long-abandoned village. The Weintraubs rested near the Plonskys, the Feinsteins overlapped the Goldbergs.
Jacob knew where his family was located—the far west corner, the corner facing Jerusalem. His grandfather was proud that he could pay extra for this choice piece of real estate. In life, the man rented a cramped tenement. In death, he faced Jerusalem—a landowner. He was, at last, a wealthy man.
Jacob came upon Julia and the children’s resting place. He had been here only once, on the day they were buried. There was little he could recall of that day. He’d never seen their headstone. The family had put the marker in place when he was gone. The children had been buried with their mother.
One headstone spanned the graves:
Julia Fisher—Age 32
Beloved wife, mother, and daughter
Yossi—Age 8
Miriam—Age 6
Sarah—Age 4
Beloved children of Jacob and Julia Fisher
Generations from now, a stranger in this cemetery would look at the singular end date and know that they had all died together. They would shake their heads and wonder what tragedy could have befallen such a young family. The vision of an exploding bus assaulted him.
“I’ll wave until you disappear,” he heard himself say out loud.
Jacob lightly traced the engraved names of his wife and children. He kissed the granite, disappointed that it was inanimate. Jacob wanted to say Kaddish, the mourner’s prayer. He had said it only once, on the day his family was buried. Was the desire to pray so ingrained that he would say the words even if he no longer believed? Validating God was the reason for the prayer. Orthodox Judaism required him to say Kaddish daily for a year after his family’s death. The ancient rabbis knew that if they required people to recite the prayer each day—a prayer that never mentions the dead, but instead praises God—then those who hated God for taking their loved ones would be pulled back into the community by simply following the laws.
The laws. They were meant to tell you how to be Jewish, but more importantly, they were meant to keep you Jewish. Jacob was compelled to say the words of Kaddish, but without a minyan, the requisite ten men, he was breaking a rule. He’d been breaking rules for so long, this transgression didn’t matter. His need to say the prayer—with only the sky as his witness—reached far beyond any religious restrictions.
He began reciting the mourners’ prayer in a whisper, but slowly his voice increased in volume until the final phrases echoed his powerful voice throughout the cemetery. The word “amen” bounced off thousands of headstones. The dead served as his minyan. Here were his witnesses.
Jacob lingered in the cemetery as long as possible. There was a chill in the air as the sun went down. He spoke softly, telling Julia and the children all about Brent, the choir, and Mr. Day. He told them about Rosie and Mo and Langston. He sang the song he wrote for Gospel Sunday. He whispered words to his wife and asked her for understanding, pressing his face close against her engraved name. Before he left the cemetery, Jacob reached into his pocket and took out a stone, Langston’s lucky rock. He placed the treasure tenderly on the headstone, turned, and walked away.
Once a week, Jacob joined his mother for dinner. Hava would take great care to prepare his favorite foods, and she’d pack up leftovers to tide him over for a few days. They were polite with each other, talking about safe subjects until they could go back to their own corners.
One night Jacob cleared the dishes and turned on the water to wash up. He stood at the kitchen sink, looking out at the Brooklyn night. His mind wandered. The tap water whined as it left the spout, the same sound it made in Brent. Jacob allowed his mother’s kitchen to become Rosie’s.
Hava approached and turned off the tap. “You’re wasting water.”
Deep in thought, he didn’t react.
She touched his arm. “Your life is here.”
Jacob shook his head. “I can’t find my way back into this life. I don’t fit.”
Hava knew her son was tormented. His mental health depended on structure and familiarity. He needed to put one foot in front of the other and slowly walk back to some kind of normalcy.
“You know David’s grandmother, Esther?” Hava asked. “She was the only member of her family to survive the concentration camps. Even after her baby was taken from her arms, she moved on. Even after her husband was killed, she moved on. She’s ninety-one now, a lifetime beyond that horror. I once asked her how she had the strength to start over. She said, ‘It has nothing to do with strength. People are meant to love.’”
Jacob took in the story. The message was clear. His mother and his community expected him to make a new life.
He leaned down and kissed his mother’s cheek.
Jacob slept fitfully. The covers were askew and one arm was flung over his forehead. His face was knotted in concern. The recurring dream plagued him. Each time familiar, each time disturbing.
In his dream, Jacob made his way to Penn Station in a taxi and magically found himself on a train, like some chaotically edited movie. While he was waiting in line in the dining car for a cup of coffee, Yossi appeared next to him and asked him where they were going. His response was instinctive: “We’re going home.” Jacob was shocked that he could ever—even momentarily—consider anywhere else but Brooklyn home, but that was the word that came out of his mouth, and it felt right. He took Yossi’s hand and returned to their seats, where Miriam and Sarah sat coloring.
Even in deepest sleep, Jacob smiled.
The train slowly pulled into the station. His children were no longer with him. Jacob disembarked. He wore a simple white shirt and black pants. His beard was full, specked with first grays, neatly trimmed. He wore a black kipah on his head. As he stopped on the platform to breathe the loamy, damp smell of the South, he heard the insistent greeting from the cicadas. He shifted the cumbersome duffel bag on his shoulder and began to walk. Julia, suddenly at his side, begged him to slow down. She always complained when they walked together that his legs were so much longer than hers.
Now was the time he half awakened.
Now was the moment he willed himself to complete his mind’s imagining.
Jacob slowed his gait to accommodate his wife’s. Her smile was serene, and her eyes, reassuring. When they were shoulder to shoulder, she took his hand, and they walked through the magnolia-lined streets of Brent, past the diner and the market, past the familiar steps of First Baptist.
Finally, in a desperate haze of memory and heartache and restoration, they arrived. Together, they stepped into Rosie’s welcoming embrace.
The growing light pulled him to the surface of reality. His body unfolded filling the mattress with a satisfying stretch. As he did each day, he sat on the side of the bed and permitted the nourishing dream to ebb.
His cellphone buzzed—his mother was texting him. She must have forgotten the time difference. He’d answer her after coffee.
Purposefully, Jacob walked across the sparsely furnished apartment, opened the window, and allowed in the day. The air was fresh, the sky perfectly blue. He treasured the vitality of this hour, when beginning felt sacred. On the horizon he could see the sun glinting off the iron beams of the Golden Gate Bridge. No time to idle. A roomful of boisterous teens expected him. He taught his first choral class at nine.