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Living a Year of Kaddish: A Memoir

Living a Year of Kaddish: A Memoir

5.0 1
by Ari Goldman

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The best-selling author of The Search for God at Harvard continues his spiritual quest in this heartfelt and poignant account of the year he spent saying kaddish for his father.

The day after Ari Goldman celebrated his fiftieth birthday his father died of a heart attack, and Goldman began the ritual year of mourning required by Jewish law. There were the


The best-selling author of The Search for God at Harvard continues his spiritual quest in this heartfelt and poignant account of the year he spent saying kaddish for his father.

The day after Ari Goldman celebrated his fiftieth birthday his father died of a heart attack, and Goldman began the ritual year of mourning required by Jewish law. There were the obligations (the daily recitation of kaddish in a synagogue quorum of ten), the prohibitions (no listening to music or buying new clothes), and the self-examination that the death of a parent and the mourning rituals triggered. Death meant coming to terms with a father he loved but never fully understood, in part because of his parents' divorce and its stormy aftermath.

Goldman explores the emotional and spiritual aspects of spending a year in mourning, as he examines its effects on him as a husband, father, and member of his community. Left without parents (his mother died four years earlier), he is no longer a son to anyone, but he comes to understand that through the daily recitation of kaddish, he can both connect with and honor his mother and his father in a way that he could not always do during their lifetimes. And in his daily synagogue attendance--usually near his Manhattan home but also, during the course of his travels in Israel, the Catskills, and France--he finds his fellow worshipers to be an unexpected source of strength, wisdom, and comfort.

Living a Year of Kaddish is a deeply affecting journey through grief, loss, and acceptance--a book that will resonate for people of all faiths who struggle with the inevitability of losing the ones they love.

Editorial Reviews

The New York Times
In his earlier memoir, The Search for God at Harvard (1991), Goldman's anger at his parents is what self-help books call unresolved...In Living a Year of Kaddish, the earlier book's tight bud of anger blooms into melancholy. It is a dark rose.—Esther Schor
Publishers Weekly
Goldman (The Search for God at Harvard; Being Jewish), a former New York Times reporter who is now an assistant dean at the Columbia University School of Journalism, offers a clearly written autobiographical memoir that appears at first glance to be simple and straightforward. In fact, it is a profound and sophisticated examination of human relationships, particularly between a son and his parents. A modern Orthodox Jew, Goldman writes about observing the ritual requirements following the death of his father, as he had done four years earlier for his mother. Among these rituals is the obligation to "say kaddish" each day for 11 months. This Aramaic poem, which praises God, is recited in daily prayer services in the synagogue with 10 men present. In the memoir, Goldman describes the people he met and the experiences he had as he fulfilled this commitment. More importantly, he uses this as an opportunity to explore his relationships with his parents, who divorced when Goldman was six. Finding himself an orphan at age 50, Goldman forthrightly shares his ruminations about the meaning of this status, and sensitively scrutinizes the implications of such insights for his relationships with his wife, children, brothers and friends. What comes across with crystal clarity is the remarkable personal growth Goldman achieved during this period. His narrative has an inspirational quality for everyone confronting the inevitable loss of parents. (Aug. 26) Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information.
Library Journal
The day after he celebrated his 50th birthday, Goldman (Columbia Sch. of Journalism; The Search for God at Harvard, etc.) got a phone call from Jerusalem telling him that his father, who had lived there since his retirement seven years earlier, was dead of a heart attack at age 77. His father had been an observant Orthodox Jew, and Goldman wanted to follow the traditional year-minus-a-day of kaddish for him. Both personal and journalistic, this is an account of that difficult, challenging, and ultimately redemptive year. Goldman struggles to find the required minyan (a quorum of ten adult Jewish males needed for public prayer), renews his own spirituality, and comes to terms with his parents' divorce and his ambivalent feelings about his father. He also begins to sense his own mortality and develops a stronger bond to his own children and a commitment to teaching them the traditions of their religion. An excellent companion to Samuel C. Heilman's When a Jew Dies: The Ethnography of a Bereaved Son but appealing to a wider audience, this is highly recommended.-Marcia Welsh, Dartmouth Coll., Hanover, NH Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
Goldman (Being Jewish, 2000, etc.) examines a central practice of his religion in this account of the yearlong mourning ritual he observed after his devout father died. Jewish in the Modern Orthodox mode, the author undertook each day from September 1999 through August 2000 to recite the customary Kaddish, a reverent prayer in honor of the dead that never mentions death. A minyan of at least ten men (though some now count women too) must pray together for a mourner to properly utter Kaddish, which requires affirmations of "amen" to the words of praise. Goldman (Journalism/Columbia Univ.) describes the varied ways in which a minyan is gathered, nicely characterizing the participants who supported him in his regular Upper West Side minyan and at gatherings overseas. As a badge of grief, mourners traditionally do not buy new clothing and avoid live music and other entertainments. Like much Jewish practice, this custom is observed according to an individual’s understanding and philosophy. The author demonstrates his own way of dealing with tradition, considering the tension between simple observance and overarching theology. He does not offer instruction for all but rather one person’s appreciation of the value of worship integrated into everyday life. His family-centered memoir memorializes his parents, divorced for many years but united in the regard and respect of their son. "The riches they left me," he writes, "do not need to be probated in court. There is no estate tax." Goldman is thankful for the far greater gift they bestowed, that of an ancient ethical tradition. A moving guide to a practice that can connect one generation with another, sure to strike a chord in readers familiarwith Judaic custom and also in those who have no notion of it. Agent: Bob Markel

Product Details

Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Publication date:
Product dimensions:
5.22(w) x 8.01(h) x 0.85(d)

Read an Excerpt

Chapter 1
The last time I saw my father was in August 1999, one month before he died. I was in Israel on university business, mapping out a trip to the Holy Land as part of a spring seminar that I teach at Columbia University’s Graduate School of Journalism. At that point, I hadn’t seen my dad in a year and I could tell immediately that his health had deteriorated.
My father was a vigorous man who, curiously, became more relaxed and more adventurous with age, especially after he moved to Jerusalem in 1992. Six days a week he went to a daf yomi class in the Orthodox neighborhood of Geulah, a short drive from his home. Daf yomi is a system of study in which a folio page of Talmud is studied each day; at that rate, the entire Talmud (all 2,711 pages) is covered in a little over seven years. For my dad, daf yomi was part intellectual, part devotional (the study of Talmud is in itself meritorious), and part social event. His daf yomi study group was made up of about thirty men in their seventies, eighties, and even nineties, most of them from the United States, but some also from England, South Africa, and Australia. English was the language of discourse, although the text was read in the Talmud’s original Hebrew and Aramaic.
The class was led by Rabbi Eliezer Simonson, who like many of his aging daf yomi students was a retired American pulpit rabbi. My father had spent his life buying, selling, and managing real estate in Hartford, Connecticut, and retired to Israel at the age of seventy. But he too was a rabbi, privately ordained in 1944 after graduating from Yeshiva University in New York. Several of the other men in his Jerusalem daf yomi class were, in fact,classmates of his at Yeshiva University. Here, some fifty years later, after raising families and building careers, they were together again, reading the very same texts they had studied as young men. Shira, our kids, and I spent the academic year of 1997–1998 in Jerusalem, and during that time, I sometimes joined Dad at daf yomi. He introduced me to his friends with great enthusiasm, and then we sat down to study. I was surprised by how easily I fit into his world of Torah learning, a world I had drifted away from.
In the year since I’d last seen him, Dad’s doctors had discovered cancer in his right lung. They had taken out the lower lobe and were confident that they’d gotten all of the cancer, but the operation seriously weakened his heart. He recovered enough to resume his cherished daf yomi routine, but he could no longer drive to the class in his own car. Either friends would pick him up or he’d take the Number 14 bus right on his corner. He walked slowly and with a cane. But his spirits were good. He was excited that I was visiting and he encouraged me to stay in the extra room in his apartment on Lloyd George Street. But I was traveling on an expense account, I told him, and I was looking forward to staying at the new Jerusalem Hilton. I promised to take my Shabbat meals with him.
I arrived in Israel on a Friday morning, took care of some business, tried to catch up on my jet lag (I can never sleep on the plane), and then met Dad at his apartment for the walk to synagogue. It was a walk that we’d taken together many times before—down the main thoroughfare of Emek Refaim, across the railroad tracks over which trains never ran on Shabbat to the neighboring community of Bakka, and then down Yair Street to the old domed-roof Yael Synagogue.
My father’s gait was unsteady, and he leaned heavily on my arm. What was normally for him a fifteen-minute walk, was taking twice as long. He stopped often, ostensibly to point out a new store along Emek Refaim or to listen to my answer to a question he asked me about my children. I remember feeling frustrated at how slowly he was walking and how often he stopped, especially on the way home from shul. He never complained about feeling sick, so I thought he was just dawdling. But by the time we returned to his apartment and he assumed his place at the head of the table, it was like old times. He sang Shalom Aleichem, the opening song of the Friday-night Sabbath meal, made kiddush over the wine, made hamotzei over the challah, and sang his traditional family Sabbath songs. His wife, Teme, served a home-cooked dinner of gefilte fish, salad, chicken soup, and chicken. Dad ate with obvious pleasure, brought me up to date on our many Israeli relatives, and asked me for more news of my children and of Shalom and Dov, my two brothers, who also live in America and made regular visits to see him in Israel.
I told my father about the project that had brought me to Israel, and how I planned to return with my class in March 2000 for the expected visit of Pope John Paul II to the Holy Land. We spoke about the possibility of my bringing my family along, either before or after the class trip. Dad said that if we all came, he’d make a special bat mitzvah party for Emma, just like the bar mitzvah party he’d made for Adam in 1997, during the year we had spent in Israel while I was teaching at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. “I may not believe in equal rights,” he joked, “but I believe in equal opportunity. Emma should have a party too.”
Sitting in my father’s apartment, I found it easy to forget how frail he had looked during our walk to and from the synagogue. I focused instead on how vigorous he seemed at the table. We spoke eagerly about the future.
I went about my business during the next few days, planning the upcoming trip. I met with tour operators and with religious and government officials, and I journeyed to the north of Israel to visit some of the kibbutzim where I was thinking of housing my students during our trip. I checked in with Dad by phone each day. He was very interested in the places I was visiting and in how I was getting around by train and bus. I told him I’d be back on Wednesday and had an 8:00 a.m. flight to New York the next morning. “Don’t check back into the Hilton,” he pleaded. “You’ll have to get up at 4:00 in the morning and leave for the airport at 5:00. It’s not worth it.” I reminded him that I wasn’t paying for it myself. “C’mon,” he said, “stay with me. I’ve got the room.”
It means a lot to him to have me under his roof, I realized. As a father myself, I know how good it feels to go around to all the bedrooms of my home late at night and see my children sleeping, safe and sound. When I’m home, it’s my nightly ritual. Why should I deny my dad that pleasure? God knows, he didn’t have that feeling often as a young father. I imagined him in Hartford, going around to the rooms where my brothers and I used to sleep and seeing only empty beds. After my mother left him in 1956, the three of us lived with her in New York and saw my father only on occasional weekends and Jewish holidays. How hard it must have been on him. “Sure,” I said. “Why check into a hotel? I’m staying with you.”
When I got to his apartment, we talked more about my sojourn up north. My father, who was just discover- ing public transportation after a lifelong love affair with cars, questioned me about routes and schedules and timetables. I told him about the great views of the Mediterranean on the train trip from Tel Aviv to Haifa, about how modern the trains are (they even have outlets for laptops), and about the seedy Tel Aviv bus station, where I picked up a bus to Jerusalem. He seemed to delight in my ability to get around without a car (I happen to hate driving). “I’m very proud of the way you did that,” he said. The words struck me. I stared at him, sitting in his V-neck T-shirt and pajama bottoms, with a cup of iced coffee in front of him. In a sense I’d been waiting to hear that my whole life. “I’m very proud of you.”
My dad did not support me in my career choice; he wanted me to be a doctor. He was certain that journalism would be the death of my Orthodoxy. “How can you be a Sabbath observer and a journalist?” he asked. “Impossible,” he answered. I’ve spent my life trying to prove him wrong. I believed—and continue to believe—that I can at the same time be true to my faith and excel at my profession. Sure, I’ve made some compromises along the way, but even after all these years and all those compromises, my essential Orthodoxy remains intact. In my twenty-five-year career, I’ve written more than 1,000 articles for the New York Times. I wrote a book (which I know he didn’t like for a myriad of reasons, including its portrayal of my parents’ divorce), and I became a professor at Columbia. None of it seemed to please him. Why now, after mastering Israeli public transportation, was I a source of pride? Was he talking about my ability to navigate the Israel he loved, or was he taking the whole measure of my life and finding me suddenly worthy? I wasn’t quite sure, but I do remember that I went to sleep quite happy that night.
My father wasn’t much of a sleeper. Insomniac might be a better word. Soon after I got up at 4:00 a.m. to catch my plane, I heard him in the living room. He was opening and closing the glass doors of the wooden breakfront. He wished me a particularly enthusiastic “good morning” and mischievously handed me a silver kiddush cup and a silver bessomim box, the spice holder used during havdala, the prayer said at the conclusion of Shabbat. “These are for you,” he said. “I want you to have them.” My first reaction was: I wonder if he asked Teme. She was particularly proud of their silver collection and here he was giving part of it away. But she was fast asleep in their bedroom, and that wasn’t for me to worry about. When he gave me these gifts, I felt additional confirmation of his approval. Perhaps he was trying to let me know that I did, after all, find favor in his eyes. I carefully wrapped the cup and the spice holder and put them in my suitcase. Outside, the driver of the cab that was taking me to the airport honked his horn and raced the motor. I hugged my dad, inhaled his musty morning smell, and kissed his stubbled cheek. “Love you, Dad,” I said holding on tightly. “See you in April.”

Copyright© 2003 by Ari L. Goldman

Meet the Author

Ari L. Goldman is a professor at Columbia University’s Graduate School of Journalism and was a reporter for The New York Times from 1973 to 1993. He lives in New York City with his wife and children.

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Living a Year of Kaddish 5 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 1 reviews.
Guest More than 1 year ago
Living a Year of Kaddish portrays one man¿s search to come to terms with the loss of his father. But it does more than that: it shows, with vivid and stirring vignettes, how the most painful pages of a life (divorce, estrangement, and death, to name the ones Goldman grapples with) need not be turned with the bitterness of a victim, but can be read with the openness of a student who is willing to learn, and to grow. Goldman is an Orthodox Jew, and as the title of his book makes clear, he draws first and foremost on the religious and cultural traditions that have shaped his family for generations. But he does not write for fellow believers alone. A keen-eyed observer with a gift for distilling the universal from the particular, he speaks in terms that will resonate with a wide and varied readership.