A Prayer for Mr. Feldman

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I grew up in a household of six brothers and a widowed mother. Our neighborhood was Irish Catholic, but we had a smattering of Italians, Poles, and Jews. We mixed freely because we all had poverty in common.

Mr. Feldman and his wife, both retired, lived below us in our three-story apartment. They had been very old for as long as I could remember. Mrs. Feldman was a short, plump woman with the whitest hair level saw. Her husband was tall and always wore a hat. Mama said that Jews, at least the men, always covered their heads out of respect for God. That impressed me, since I always made sure that my stocking hat was removed when I entered our church.

Mr. and Mrs. Feldman looked for all the world like Mutt and Jeff as they walked home from their trips to neighborhood stores. When I was little I always said hello to them.

"Hello, Sean," Mr. Feldman would say with a nod, "and how is your mother today?"

Then shortly before my 13th birthday, I helped Mr. Feldman carry groceries to his apartment. We spoke of the weather and the neighborhood and school. When we reached the Feldman's door, Mr. Feldman reached up with his fingers and stroked a small tube attached to the doorpost. He touched his fingers to his lips and then opened the door. I followed him into the apartment and set the bags on the kitchen table.

"What did you do that for?" I asked him. "What?" he responded.

"That thing you did at the door."

"Oh, the mezuzah." He led me back to the door.

"This contains a very tiny paper which has sacred words on it. I touch it and kiss my fingers to show respect for God's words to us."

"What does it say?" I asked.

"It is from our Torah, your Bible. It begins, 'Hear, O Israel ... Our God is One.’”

This was my introduction to Judaism.

Mr. and Mrs. Feldman started asking me now to do things for them. I never minded, and Mama insisted that I refuse the nickel Mr. Feldman invariably offered.

“They need their nickels more than you do," she said.

As our relationship grew, I felt free to ask Mr. Feldman about things I had heard about Jews.

"We don't eat pork or shellfish," he explained, "because it is forbidden in our Torah."

On certain occasions, Mrs. Feldman would insist that I stay and share their meal. She would take a set of dishes out of a cupboard and explain that these were dishes that a goy, or non-Jew, could use. They would even be washed separately from her other dishes, she told me. I didn't feel offended, though, because this was just part of their religion — and we had some pretty strange practices, too.

The Feldmans had a son, Jerry, who was away at college. When he came home it was an occasion for feasting and I was always invited. I remember being a guest at a Passover meal and hearing Jerry, then about 20 years old, ask the ageless question: "Father, why is this night different from all other nights?"

Jerry Feldman eventually joined the Marines. Early in the Korean conflict, the Feldmans were informed that their son had given his life for his country. This was in spring, 1952. I was 14.

"I know, Mrs. Patrick, that it is unusual," Mr. Feldman told Mama, "but I would so much appreciate if your family would join Mrs. Feldman and me at our Passover meal this year."

Naturally, Mama said yes.

We gathered around a table laden with things that only I had seen before: bitter herbs, chopped eggs and liver, glasses with sweet wine.

"Sean," Mr. Feldman said, handing me a small paper, "will you honor my house?"

"Why is this night different from all other nights?" I began.

I could almost feel the passage of the angel's wings that night as I took the place of a young Jew who had fallen into a glory that knew no nationality.

We ate the Passover meal. We shared the cup and we dipped our bitter herbs. Mama and her six Irish sons.

I was home on furlough from the Navy when Mr. Feldman became very ill.

"He's going, Sean," Mrs. Feldman told me as I entered the small bedroom. Mr. Feldman lay propped on pillows.

I approached the bed. Mr. Feldman recognized me and held out his hand.

"Sean," was all he could say. He had difficulty breathing. Mama, who was standing on the side of the bed with her arms around Mrs. Feldman, indicated that I should stay and let him hold my hand.

"Sean," he said again after a few minutes, "I would be honored if you would say Kaddish for me."

I looked puzzled and Mrs. Feldman gestured that she would explain later. I held tightly to Mr. Feldman's hand and looked at him, hoping that he could see me.

"I will say Kaddish for you," I told him, not even knowing what it was. He smiled and held his other hand out. Mrs. Feldman took it in hers.

He died that morning.

Later that day, because Jews do not have wakes like the Irish and usually bury their dead before sundown, I arrived at the synagogue. We were all there: Tommy, who was now a lawyer; Billy, the fireman; David, home for Easter from graduate studies at Notre Dame; Kevin, also a fireman; Danny, who was studying accounting; and me, the sailor. Six Irish lads had come, along with their mother, to share the grief of an old Jewish woman.

We gathered in the back of the synagogue because we didn't really know what to do. A man had handed us each a small black skullcap as we entered. When I reached for mine, he said I should keep my white Navy "Cracker Jack" on. Mrs. Feldman spoke with one of the men and he came to me.

"Please come with me," he said, and led me to the front of the congregation.

I stood that day with nine Jewish men to say Kaddish, a prayer recited when someone dies. I needed to lift my voice one last time for a friend.

"Hear, O Israel," I recited, ". . .Our God is One."

A bearded man put a prayer shawl around my shoulders and I continued praying in a pronounced brogue, oblivious to those in the synagogue. I knew God didn't mind if the words were spoken without a Yiddish accent: "You will love your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your strength."

The words in the mezuzah. I saw Judaism and Catholicism in those words. But most of all I saw Mr. Feldman in them. And I prayed for his safe passage to glory and for the expectation of seeing him again when I, too, would make that passage. CD