So who am I really? I am my grandfathers grandson. A great man to some, an idol to me, but a man with many flaws. He was not a smart man, not by a long shot, he was always told what, how, when and never why and he was ok with it, but he could teach a thing or two about loyalty to a German Shepard who is standing between his owner and a possible threat ready to pounce even if it means his life. He could teach about honor to those who define the word it self.
At age 15 he lied to the army recruiter and went to fight the invading Germans. Survived Leningrad, and then got badly wounded in the Baltics. From that day to his last day on this planet he had a bullet half an inch from his heart that could not be removed. For those of us that knew him, knew that when the weather was bad, or when the winter set in he was in pain.. But to the rest of the world he was a happy man.
After the war, while most would sit and cry with self pity, he set him self on a path to find his brothers and sisters and put his family together, which he did. And then he put them through school, while working multiple jobs to provide for them.
Later on in life, when i had the privileged to sit on his knee and listen to few war stories and play with his medals (my most valued possession ) I would ask:
Deda why did you do this and he would tell me: Thats cause its a mans job to do.
Deda why do you never cry when you are in pain: Men dont cry
Deda why do you never complain: Men dont complain.
He would say mens job is to do his job.
I grew up listening to that and thats what i was until the age of 30-31 when the cracks in the dam started to appear.
Next generation:
My mother, what can i say about her, loving caring selfless and selfish woman. What is the difference between a pit bull and a jewish mother? Well at some point a pit bull will leave you a lone. My mother, will never do that until she gets her way.... She does things out of love, out of care, out of deep belief that since she is my mother she knows best and i am an idiot...
From my mother i learned the art of censure, the art of avoidence, the art of keeping things hidden deep inside... And life was good up until the age of 31-32.
Last year i got a call one Sunday morning from my dad telling me that my grandmother has passed. Thats when all hell has broken... I was in JFK in 2 hours, on a flight to Israel an hour later, at a cemetery 15 hours later. I didnt stop moving, i didnt cry, i didnt complain for i could not, I had a crying mother on my shoulder, i had to be a man.
The rabi told me, my mother and her sister to come with him and pay our last respects to the body... My uncles and cousins grabbed me and told me not to go because i would not handle it so i listened to them and stayed. I got a bit a head of my self here, while my grandfather was my idol and my hero this woman was my life, while i hated her for how she ruled the family as a king, i also loved her more then anything.
Once she was buried, all the men who are not direct family (some jewish tradition) began taking turns with the shovel and covering the grave... Yet again i was denied....
Few hours later, after the ceremony where these family members stood and told how much they loved her and all that bull shit, (where were they when she was sick? where were they when they didnt need anything?) we came back to home... Knowing i needed to be a lone, that i need to stop moving, i took a bottle of some alcohol, pack of smokes and wandered of into the Negev desert (The first dunes started 50 feet from uncles house, the city of Arad is built in the middle of the desert) and sat down on the rock and stopped moving for the first time in 24 hours and allowed the days events to catch up to me... To be honest i stopped moving for the first time in 20 years. My first grandfather died, i shower no emotions, my second grandfather died, i showed no emotion, now my grandmother died, and it brought me to a stand still. I sat on the stone for few hours with no control over emotions until i was ready to return to society, to be strong for my mother, my aunt, my couzins...
While i recovered that time, the first cracks in the damn showed up and they would just get worse...
But thats another story................
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