Sitting Shiva

By ELLIOT FELDMAN

"Shiva," (shiv'a), is the Hebrew word for "seven". In Judaism, it refers to the seven-day mourning period, which begins immediately after a funeral and is observed at the home of the deceased. The Jewish custom of mourning for seven days is based on the verse in Genesis where Joseph mourns his father Jacob for a week. "Sitting shiva" refers to the low stools customarily used during this period of mourning. These seven intense days help survivors face the reality of a loved one's death, and help them move from mourning to living.

THE FUNERAL

1976

After the memorial service, Morris Fish's body was transported 30 miles away to the Workmen's Circle Cemetery near Mount Clemens, where two generations of Nosanchuks, Celia's family, were buried.

Workmen's Circle, an immigrant Hebrew Socialist benevolent society, established the cemetery around the time of the Great War. Despite its historical significance as Detroit's oldest Jewish cemetery, Workmen's Circle was an ugly unkempt place. Upright cracked granite headstones were crowded together and leaned at irregular angles. Most of the headstones had hand-carved Hebrew words of love and devotion. On some of the headstones, imbedded glass bubbles encased faded photographs of the deceased. Weeds and dandelions grew wild between the headstones.

Charlie wanted his father buried in the roomier and newer Machpelach Cemetery near the Michigan State Fairgrounds. Two generations of Fish and Gelbfiscz, the family's pre-Ellis Island name, were buried at Machpelach, but his mother insisted on abiding by Nosanchuk family tradition.

The bright humid late August day sharply clashed with the drab gray ugliness of Workmen's Circle cemetery.

Forty mourners crammed between the headstones and surrounded Morris Fish's coffin, which was suspended by a hydraulic device over the open grave. Charlie, Celia in her wheelchair, and Rabbi Schwarz were closest to the casket.

"Why did he die?!" Celia cried out, creating a chain reaction of sympathetic sobs throughout the crowd.

"Why did he die? Why did he die?" she shouted.

To Charlie, his mother's cries were rehearsed, false.

He thought about the old kindergarten song, "There Was An Old Lady That Swallowed A Fly."

He didn't know why this song came to him.

"Why did he die?! Why did he die?!" she screamed. The crowds' sobs grew in intensity.

I don't know why he swallowed a fly, perhaps he'll die.

Charlie smiled at the goofy song playing in his head.

Hands pushed past him, stroking and patting Celia's frail back and shoulders, shoving Charlie away from her.

"Why did he die?!" she wailed.

"He swallowed a spider to catch the fly. It wiggled and jiggled and giggled inside him. Perhaps he'll die."

A giggle escaped from Charlie's lips.

His Aunt Beatrice glared at him.

He wanted to smash his aunt's face. He wanted to kick over his mother's wheelchair.

The Rabbi began Kaddish, the prayer for the dead. Several other male voices chimed in. Charlie tried to follow along as best as he could. To get through his bar mitzvah, he learned Hebrew phonetically.

Celia looked up and scanned the mourners to see who was saying Kaddish. Her eyes locked on Ted Fish, Morris's older brother.

Her face changed from grief to rage. She pointed at him. Her finger trembled. "No! You don't deserve to pray for him, you rat! Where the hell were you when he needed you?!"

Ted Fish recoiled as if slapped. He tried to speak. Only a few words squeaked out of his throat, "I'm sorry."

Ted Fish looked almost exactly like Morris but much taller -- almost a foot taller.

"Get out of here, you rat!" Celia yelped.

Ted Fish reeled back, almost stumbling over a headstone.

"Mrs. Fish, please," the rabbi begged in a loud whisper.

Celia pulled her body up from the wheelchair. She shook a frail fist at Ted Fish. "Go to hell!"

"No, mother! Don't!" This was the first real emotion that Charlie had felt from his mother on this day.

He pushed through the mourners and threw his arms around her. Her body was stiff with cold anger, unresponsive to his hug.

"No, he's not worth it. Dad wouldn't want it this way."

She pushed him away. "What do you know about your father? You know nothing about him! You know nothing about his lousy family! How they humiliated me!"

***

1966

Grandma Rifka Fish's casket was inside the lead hearse parked in front of the Machpelach Cemetery's memorial chapel. A second hearse for immediate family members was parked behind it. The rear passenger doors were wide open.

Mourners exited the one-story nondescript chapel building. Beatrice Sternbaum and her husband Sheldon, and Ted Fish and his wife Esther were at the head of the pack. They entered the hearse, closing the doors behind them.

Charlie, his mother, and his father were among the last mourners to straggle out of the chapel. Charlie pushed his mother's wheelchair.

Celia was crying too hard for the occasion; she really never liked Grandma Rifka. Behind Celia's back, Grandma Rifka used to call her "the cripple".

Morris Fish was visibly moved. His eyes were red-rimmed. His nose was running. His cocky John Garfield tough guy strut was gone. He moved cautiously, his body heaving with each step.

Charlie had never seen his father so emotionally devastated, even at Grandpa Aaron's funeral five years earlier.

Through her "grief," Celia Fish noticed Morris's brother and sister sitting inside the second hearse. "There's Beatrice and Ted," she said to Morris, then waved to the relatives.

The Sternbaums and Fishes didn't wave back. Beatrice Sternbaum turned her head away. Ted Fish's face turned a shade of red.

Celia always felt socially inferior to the Fishes, especially to Beatrice Sternbaum. Her sister-in-law was a Wayne State University graduate. Celia dropped out of high school in eleventh grade, after her mother died.

"We'll ride with Bea and Sheldon," said Celia to Charlie and her husband. Charlie pushed her wheelchair toward the hearse. Morris followed, his gaze downcast.

Ted Fish's eyes frantically searched the crowd of mourners, as his brother approached the hearse.

"Hesh! Heshy!" Ted bellowed and waved.

Herschel Gelbfiscz, a distant cousin that worked as a clerk at Ted's East Detroit hardware store, walked to the hearse.

He was a roly-poly man that had never lost his old country accent. His tiny dour wife, Belle, was with him.

"C'mon, Heshy! Belle! Get inside!" shouted Ted Fish.

"'You sure dot dere's room, Ted?" shrugged Herschel Gelbfiscz.

"Yeah. Yeah. There's plenty of room!" Ted opened the passenger door for them. The Gelbfisczs climbed inside.

"What are they doing in that hearse?" Celia whimpered to Charlie.

Morris Fish jerked to a stop, as if blindsided. Charlie stopped, too.

"C'mon, Morris, Charles. It's a big car. There's still room inside," Celia insisted. Charlie moved the wheelchair toward the hearse.

"Wait for us, Ted!" Celia called out with a bright smile.

"Hurry, Morris. You don't want them to leave without us," she called over her shoulder.

Morris Fish followed tentatively.

Ted Fish smiled at Celia, but looked straight at his brother. "Sorry. No room."

All color drained from Celia's face. "Bea?" she pleaded for an opinion from her sister-in-law.

Beatrice Sternbaum looked away.

Ted Fish reached over laps and slammed the passenger door shut.

The lead hearse's engine started with a roar. The family hearse started with a louder roar.

"Of all the nerve!" whined Celia.

Morris Fish began to sob.

Charlie had never seen his father cry out loud. He walked to his father and put his arm around his shoulders. "The hell with 'em, dad. They're cockroaches," he said this quietly.

Morris sobbed harder, his shoulders shaking violently. Charlie hugged him tight. "You don't need them You've got me and mom."

"Charles! Morris! Let's go to our car! The funeral procession is starting!" said Celia.

Charlie gave his father one last squeeze, then released him. "Let's go, dad. Let's show 'em that we're bigger than the whole bunch put together. They can all go to hell!" Charlie said this in a clear enunciated tone for all in earshot.

"Watch your mouth, young man. We're in public," said Celia through clenched teeth.

Morris's tentative steps accelerated to his normal stride. Charlie pushed the wheelchair. They headed for his father's brand new Pontiac Bonneville in the chapel parking lot.

On this day of his grandmother's funeral, Charlie eased into his "legacy" of being the black sheep son of the black sheep.