Chabad House, Pine Street, Philadelphia
The haggard look, unkempt beard, dreary, tired eyes; he came out to greet me with warm demeanor. His jacket on, buttoned; the left arm though, outside of it, the right jacket sleeve hanging on his back. “You must be Thomas” the rabbi said. It is actually Tomás, but I said nothing. “Yes, we spoke on the phone yesterday” I responded, “I am coming to say Kaddish.” “I am Rabbi Levy” extending his right hand, the one in the sleeve. “we are almost there, there are nine of us.” I leaned my bike on the wall. We were standing in the porch of the Victorian summer mansion, turned student fraternity, turned Chabad house on Pine Street. The white columns, 30 feet high framed the entrance. A sweet summer morning breeze whispered by, barely shuffling the leaves of the trees above us. This was a grandiose entrance. Through the window I saw a group of men. “This is their synagogue” I thought. A room, just a room. Traces of the summer mansion’s ere splendor transpired through the building’s architecture. None was left once you stepped into it. Airy rooms with high ceilings, big windows looking onto trees; the walls, once white, had shades of grey. Not dirty, but used. Very used. The first room, to my left, had two rows of tables and a third large table against the far wall. Tallit Bags were scattered on them. Opened, some with tefillim bags next or on top of them. Most of the bags were large with a thick transparent plastic cover meant to protect them for years to come. I imagine it is customary to receive this bag at one’s Bar-Mitzvah and carry it all the way to one’s grave. According to the Mishna unless the tefillim are not fit for use, one shouldn't bury them but give them to someone to go on using them after he passes away (Magen Avraham quoted in the Mishna Brura (39:26). I had no idea who he was before this very moment. His full name is Avraham Avli ben Chaim HaLevi. He lived in the 17th century. His parents were killed in the Chmielnicki massacres of 1648; he wrote commentary on one section of the Shulchan Aruch).
The tefillim I brought are borrowed; I gave mine to Rabbi Goldman yesterday. He volunteered to take mine to be checked and fixed to Brooklyn. The black color was coming off in some places, revealing a transparent plastic material that, although supposed to be a hard rectangle, was starting to bend. He lent me the ones I am carrying now. My own tefillim are not the ones from my Bar Mitzvah. Those were too small. My uncle, the one I am saying Kaddish for, gave them to me as a present about ten years ago. They were never checked since. For all I know they have never checked period. It might happen that Rabbi Goldman’s cheker (probably a Sofer) finds them non-kosher as Rabi Goldman he did with my front door mezuzah several years ago. I did not ask how much this would cost. I think $50, maybe $100. But a quick Internet search quickly reveals that “Inexpensive tefillim, those with a cost price of $300 or less, are at high risk to be found needing repair or to be not kosher even when new. These should be checked even more often. “(than twice every seven years.). I am bracing myself.
I am about to open my bag and put the tallit on when Rabbi Levy urges me “Come to the next room, you are the tenth guy.” Turns out I made mynian. With less than ten men one cannot recite certain prayers nor say Kaddish. I find this very comforting. To be in the company of others when mourning. They may not even know my uncle’s name, they may not even know who I am saying Kaddish for, but at that moment when my throat closes on on me, when tears begin to appear in my eye’s corners, when mourning swells inside me ready to burst, I am not alone. A half a tear slides down the fold next to my nose, disappearing before reaching my lips. I am proud to be the tenth man. I came for them to provide me the opportunity to say Kaddish and it turns out I am the one giving them the opportunity to conclude their prayers. Isn’t this great?
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