Robert J. Avrech

All through Shabbos, men from the group I fled from Friday night come over to offer words of comfort. Said one man: “Your tears said everything we wanted to say but couldn’t.” Fearing another emotional meltdown, I skip the next group meeting. Instead I stay in my room, read and nap. Karen and I take a walk around the lovely grounds. We feel peaceful and removed from the real world. It is Shabbos and some wonder if it’s proper to take part in these grief meetings, after all, on Shabbos we are commanded to rejoice.

But there is happiness in Camp Simcha. On Friday night the men sit around two large tables and fervently sing Shabbos z’miros until late at night. Even I, a loner by nature, sit nearby and allow myself to be swept along by the soaring melodies. If a stranger were to step into this room, he would have no idea that every man and woman in the room has lost a child. He would have no inkling that the men who sing with such love and devotion have had their worlds annihilated. Here are men and women who exist in a separate plane from all others. To lose a child is to live in a world that forces you to recognize a betrayal in your life and there will be no armistice.

On the last day of the retreat, I choose to attend the final group session.

The men nod at me as I take my seat. I ask the psychologist if I can say a few words. He gives me a single nod of the head.

“I’m here out of respect for this group, for all of you who sought me out during Shabbos, who offered chizuk and nechama.”

Men offer closing thoughts and before too long I am cringing. The men take refuge behind p’sukim. They wield chapter and verse like weapons. Each one trying to top the other with a more clever, a more sophisticated quote from Talmud or better yet, form some obscure work of halacha. Unlike the women who, Karen reports, speak from the gut, from the heart, who attempt to confront and analyze their innermost feelings, the men cloak themselves in the armor of chapter and verse. Schooled in the mental discipline of the Beis Midrash, the men have nothing left to fall back on.

“God has a plan, we cannot know what it is.”

“She is in a better place.”

“It’s a test.”

I stare at the floor. I don’t feel like crying.

I feel like screaming.

The death of our children deserves more than over ripe clichés. Yet I understand the impulse. In the face of the unspeakable, what is there left to say?

The man who was away from home when his son died rambles on endlessly, repeating the phrase “Gam zu L’tova.” – “This too is ultimately for the good.”

My heart beats in my chest like a trapped bird. No one objects. They all just sit here and nod. Yes, yes, they are affirming with their silence, the death of my child is tragic, but on a higher level it is acceptable.

“I’m sorry, nothing good has come from Ariel’s death!” My voice is unnaturally loud.

Gam zu L’tova stares at me; he hears the anger in my voice, he locks eyes with me and he flinches because he sees that I could easily strike him.

“Ariel suffered horribly for years and years. There was nothing good about that. Ariel wanted to live. He fought every inch of the way. He did not give up; he did not surrender. He wanted to live. He did not want to die. So there is no way you can convince me that his death, or the death of any of our children is ultimately for the good. The death of these good and holy children is horrible. I resent what you are saying. It’s an insult to me, and also an insult to my son!”

The man answers, he rambles on incoherently about God’s will, and if he says one more word I really might put a fist through his face.

Thankfully, the psychologist intervenes. He calls a halt to the conversation and he wisely ends the session. My hands are shaking so badly that I’ve spilled half the cup of hot tea on my hand. My skin is pink from the burn. I didn’t even feel it happen.

Gam zu L’tova approaches me. He offers his hand. I stare at it for a second. Then I take his hand and shake it. He has lost a son. I have lost a son. The right thing to do is reclaim some measure of kindness, find the safe harbor of dignity. If not for ourselves, at least for our children.

I tell Karen about my latest group meltdown. She offers some not-so-practical advice: “Next time you’ll just have to dress in drag and come to the women’s group. You just don’t have the typically male mentality.”

“Yes, I’m a failure in that department.”

“And thank God for that.” says Karen.

Karen adds: I have spoken to women who have attended secular therapy groups, and the contrast between male and female is universal. It is not restricted to Torah Jews. The secular men don’t have the Torah phrases to quote, but they do cling to facts, or simply do not speak at all. How many women complain that their husbands don’t share their feelings? How many women despair when they want to talk about issues, not for the sake of solving a problem, but simply for the release, the sharing, the acknowledgement? Is there a solution? Will men ever be able to reveal their fears, their weaknesses, their neediness? I don’t know, but I do think the first step is in giving them the security, the acceptance and support that they do not know how to ask for.

This morning a package arrives by UPS. Without looking at the return address I open it. In the box are ten copies of The Hebrew Kid and the Apache Maiden. I was not expecting this shipment until later in the week. Phoenix Color, the printing company used by Seraphic Press has been incredibly cooperative. When I asked them if they could move up the printing date so I could have the books in the stores before Chanukah, they graciously obliged me. Copies can be ordered online by the weekend of Nov. 13 at Amazon.com or Barnes & Noble.com or purchased at your local bookstore. If they don’t have it on their shelves, they can order it. The ISBN # is: 0-9754382-1-2. Karen and I insisted on producing a handsome and durable volume. The pages are Smythe sewn, not glued, and so the book lies flat when read. We used gold foil on the actual cover, as did all fine books in the olden days. The paper we printed on is non acidic and has a lovely antique sheen. Every chapter has a lovely illustration. When I was a child I loved books that were illustrated. Before I looked at the pictures, I visualized images in my mind, and delighted in comparing what I imagined with what was drawn by the artist. I can still vividly remember several illustrations from books I treasured as a child.

The question is: why am I so sad?

We have worked so hard to publish this book. We have poured our hearts and souls into Seraphic Press. I should feel like celebrating.

The questions is: Why do I feel hollow?

Karen steps into my office. She sees the look on my face and she understands. Her comprehension reaches out and caresses me like a soft hand. “It’s because Ariel isn’t here to enjoy it with us, right?”

I nod and add: “It’s also because The Hebrew Kid and the Apache Maiden would not exist if Ariel had not become ill. Seraphic Press would not exist if he had not died. This is the quandary. How can I be happy?”

“I believe that Ariel had a hand in creating this book,” Karen says. “Look how beautiful it has turned out. Ariel was helping us. He’s been looking out for us and this company. After all, we’re first time publishers, we had no idea what we were doing when we started out. Stop being so hard on yourself, Robert. This book is a wonderful memorial for our son.”

Tears leak from Karen’s eyes. We stay like this for a long moment, holding each other, holding the book.

Karen adds: Last night, which I imagine as the book’s birthday, I felt Ariel’s presence more intensely than ever. I felt like I had entered a new stage, which was both piercing with its sadness, but wonderful, because I felt close to Ariel. I could imagine looking directly into his eyes, sharing a feeling, a smile. It was if the intimacy we had was finally returning. I don’t know why this happened. Was it a spiritual manifestation? I don’t know, but I do know that I welcomed those tears. They were sweet, copious and liberating.

Karen and I did not arrive at the decision to attend the Healing Hearts program at Camp Simcha easily. It is a year and four months since Ariel ZT”L was niftar, and we have arrived at a place where daily life has become, more or less manageable. I know how to get through the day without curling up into a ball and hiding in a dark closet. The triggers that are sure to set me emotionally reeling are well known and I know how to avoid them. Would going to Camp Simcha help, or make things worse? But in the end, the argument was settled as Karen and I asked one simple question: If we don’t go, won’t we always wonder if we should have gone? Won’t we wonder if perhaps we missed a once in a life time opportunity? If there is one lesson I learned over the years of Ariel’s illness it is that ignorance is no virtue – knowledge is power. In Ariel’s case the knowledge we constantly sought was medical. We never made a decision until we had sought “coast to coast” second and third opinions. Thus, we were able to add years to our son’s life.

And so, we accepted Camp Simcha’s kind invitation.

Landing in Newark, Karen and I were picked up by a trim, middle aged Hassid, Mr. W, who wore a stylish bowler tipped rakishly on his head. He also wore a smile and had a delightful twinkle in his eye that immediately set us both at ease. Going up with us to Camp Simcha was another out-of-towner, a man of fierce intelligence and commanding presence. He lost his 17 year-old daughter about a year ago. She was a saintly young woman who was loved by friends and teachers with the kind of genuine affection that is immediately recognized as existing on a high madrega. Karen and I learned that this man’s daughter had a very special connection with our Ariel. When she learned that Ariel loved Disney movies, she raised funds and brought a portable DVD player to the hospital, so that he could watch “Shrek”, or “Toy Story”, or “Fantasia” even in bed. Whenever I am around this young woman’s father I find myself tongue-tied. I have said thank you. I have expressed my admiration for his daughter, my grief at her death. But no words seem adequate and so I usually lapse into a uncomfortable silence.

But my silence is not a problem on the drive up to Camp Simcha. You see our good natured river Mr. W and the young woman’s father, let’s call him Mr. Blue discover that they have a “kesher,” a connection. In fact, they have several connections. It is vital to understand the central role that Jewish Geography plays in Jewish life. As soon as two Jews, strangers, get together and after hello and how are you? have been dispensed with, Jewish Geography kicks in. At it’s most basic, it starts with a name. Oh, your name is Ploni ben Ploni, are you related to the Plonis in my hometown? If so, then the first kesher is made. It’s a way of feeling out social situations; on a deeper level it’s about status, acquiring it, and most often, simply retaining it. In any given JG conversation the more “keshers” there are, the better. This kesher conversation up front between Mr.W and Mr. Blue is perhaps the most intricate Karen and I have ever witnessed. In fact, if the great French anthropologist Claude Levi Strauss had been present, he would have rewritten his classic work: Structural Anthropology. There are no degrees of separation.

Once Mr. W and Mr. Blue have dispensed with the relatives, friends and simple acquaintances they have in common–a silent agreement is reached that they are both heavily endowed with yichus. Now it was time to bring out the big guns: Rebbeim. Mr. Blue draws an intricate relationship to a great Rebbe from Boro Park. Mr. W counters with his kesher to the very same Rebbe. Not to be outdone Mr. Blue parries with a kesher on “both sides of his family” to a great Rav in Monsey. Mr. W seems flustered for a moment but then jabs with his own double connection to the very same Rebbe! Mr. Blue is down for a second, but he gets right up, the sign of a masterful JG player, and proceeds to claim a kesher to a Tzaddik in Jerusalem not only through his family, his wife’s family, but also through a cousin’s marriage to a girl who is his best friend’s sister. Game. Set. Match. Karen and I look at one another wide-eyed awe. We have just witnessed one of the great JG plays of all time. It is a humbling experience. Mr. W sighs, admitted defeat by pointing out the beautiful colors of the landscape, declaring, Ma gadlu ma’asecha Hashem. How beautiful are the works of Hashem.

We arrive in Camp Simcha a few hours before Shabbos. Stunned by the beauty of the grounds, I wander around for half an hour taking pictures. The lake is framed by the leaves of autumn. I step into the Camp Simcha garden. Trees are planted for the children. There are poems etched in stone. A tiny chair makes my throat tighten. Karen is back in the room napping. One of the Camp Simcha counselors offers to walk with me. I learn that he is a student at Ner Yisroel. I stop in my tracks and say:

“Did you know my son?”

“Ariel? Yes, of course.”

I look at his name tag. It is not familiar. But then there are over seven hundred students at Ner Yisroel and Ariel must have known a few dozen, at least casually. I want to ask him about Ariel. I want him to tell me everything; I want details of all encounters, all conversations. I want a fifty page memo.

“Ariel was… well, everyone knew that Ariel was special, Mr. Avrech. He was just such a special bochur.”

I have to get a hold of myself. I must use all my self-control to keep from crushing this earnest young man in my embrace. He searches my eyes. I can tell that he’s nervous. He must have been briefed by the fine people who run this program on how to deal with bereaved parents. We are not ordinary people and care must be taken. He’s frowning now, worried that perhaps, somehow, he’s said the wrong thing.

“Thank you,” I say. “Thank you.”

He smiles.

Right before Shabbos, before we all go to shul, I sit in the kitchen area outside our room and work on my computer. A young kollel couple, Mr. Green and his wife enter and introduce themselves. They are so very young, what brings them to the retreat? Here there is no need for long overtures I have discovered. When you meet another parent it’s not unusual to exchange histories almost immediately. There is a comfort level that is simply not in existence in the real world. As Karen and I listen to Mr. & Mrs. Green tell the story of the death of their eight month old son, I feel myself going light-headed. Is this really happening? Are my ears hearing what I think they are hearing. The words come out of these two young people’s mouths in simple measured tones. But the meaning, the awful accident is simply, well, beyond my imagination. Mr. Green reminds me of Ariel. He’s not much older, yet his innocent manner, his sweet smile, his eidelket is like a template of Ariel. I want to comfort this young couple. I want to say something useful, the words that came out were something like, “It must be so hard for you, your marriage must be so strong.” When they leave the room, Karen and look at one another. We are both wondering if this Shabbos will be painful beyond measure.