No one cried at Uncle Yossele’s funeral except for Rav Altschuler, whose voice trembled as he eulogized the senior member of what was left of his congregation. The mourners, many with canes and walkers, moved slowly past Eva Radinsky and her sister, solemnly paying their respects. German Jews were notorious for their stoicism; they did not advocate great displays of emotion—especially not at funerals like this one where the atmosphere was solemn and crisp, like the fall air around them.
Leeba, Eva’s daughter, stood to the side with her twin teenagers. She had no expectation that her mother and aunt would cry out in pain as the rabbi remembered the charitable acts of their brother Yossele. She had adored her uncle, a man who still treated his younger sisters as if they had pigtails and he was teaching them the ways of life. The men and women stood together around the grave. There was no mechitza—the partition used for modesty purposes at religious events to divide the sexes; such would be a rare sight at funerals. The only separation here was etched out by the earth—those that still stood above, and their departed below.
Leeba’s mother leaned against her, staring straight ahead, finally shedding a few tears as her brother was lowered into the ground. The crowd inched closer, and Leeba sensed by the slow and difficult way they moved, that they were fading—the last of the survivors, sixty years later. Here was Edith their neighbor, husband long gone, refusing help as her walker...
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