Mar 12, 2024
At the conclusion of the last episode, in late November of 1965, I was having a happy life as a normal sixteen-year-old eleventh grader. Things were going well and everything seemed right on track.
However, even though I had hardly noticed, a few things happened, which in retrospect could be seen to have been subtle warnings of a coming change. First, my father had told me that he would never be a grandfather and given the fact that my brother’s wife was seven months pregnant, that meant that he had less than two months to live.
Then I had unexpectedly ran into an old comic book that had two mysterious stories concerning Abraham Lincoln and death, which I found to be hauntingly disturbing. Again, I paid no real attention to any of these at the time. But two more events were about to happen that would take things to another level.
The first one happened on a Saturday morning as my father and I were sitting in services in a modern synagogue near our home in Elkins Park. He was thinking about changing our affiliation, as we still belonged to our original temple, but it was a twenty-five-minute drive each way. This place was close enough that we could walk, which was a dream come true for him.
Toward the very end of every Jewish service, a prayer is recited called the Mourner’s Kaddish. It is one of the keystones of the religion, and every congregation does it, all over the world. Interestingly, even though it’s done to honor the dead, it never once mentions death or dying. It’s a prayer of praise, and the idea is that you always praise God, no matter what happens. As much as your heart may be broken, the teachings say that there’s always a pathway that leads to salvation.
As we sat there, the rabbi invited the mourners to rise to say Kaddish, and one of the kids from my school stood up, which surprised me. “I know that kid,” I whispered to my father. “I didn’t know anybody in his family died.”
Suddenly, to my surprise, my father got extremely serious. “This Kaddish prayer is much more important than you know,” he said, speaking in a tone of voice I had never heard before. It was incredibly solemn and I could barely tell it was him.
“I want you to promise me that after I die, you will come to services and say Kaddish for me, every morning, and every night. And that you will do it for the full eleven months.”
It was a strange moment for me. I had never heard him that somber before and besides, it didn’t make sense - he was only fifty-two. There was no question that I would say Kaddish for him after he died but that was twenty or thirty years down the road. “Of course, I will, Dad,” I said matter-of-factly. “You know I will.”
Then the weird got weirder. “We’re in synagogue,” he said, still in that extremely somber tone. “We’re in front of the Torah and I want you to make a solemn vow to me now. And understand, this is a vow that you are making before God himself.”
Now, we were extremely close and nothing like this had ever happened between us. He had never asked me to promise him anything before in my entire life. It seemed like a bizarre request, coming from him at this point in his life, but if this is what he wanted, why not? “OK,” I said, concealing the fact that I was slightly taken aback.
“Good,” he said. “Now, repeat after me.” He paused, and then, like a judge administering an oath of office, he slowly recited the vow, one sentence at a time. And I repeated it after him, word for word.
“I promise before God, that after you die, I will come to services and say Kaddish for you every morning and night for the full eleven months, so help me God.” When I said the last phrase, he exhaled deeply and slumped forward in his seat, with his eyes closed.
He didn’t move a muscle and for a second, I thought he might have passed out. It could have been for just an instant or it may have been much longer. I don’t remember now. What I do remember is that there was a deep sense of completeness in that moment. But it wasn’t a positive feeling. It felt more like the completeness of the grave.
The next thing I knew, they started singing the last song of the service, which is a happy, cheerful hymn. Whenever I heard that song it always lifted me up, basically because I knew that services were over. My father opened his eyes and looked relieved. He seemed like his normal self again and started singing along with the song. Whatever that strange spell was, it was over.
When we got outside, it was a beautiful day and we were both happy as we walked home in the bright sunlight. I always loved that time right after services. I had fulfilled my obligation to God and to my father, and I could finally get on with the carefree part of my weekend.
***
Then, a short time later, on Monday night, November 29th, I had a deeply disturbing nightmare. Someone was trying to kill me. I was desperately running for my life on a deserted part of the beach in Atlantic City, in front of the Boardwalk. It was daytime, but the atmosphere was dark and foreboding, like a major storm was brewing.
As I ran frantically, the would-be killer kept firing a gun at me. But the assailant, the gun, and the bullets were all invisible. Still, I could hear the loud crack of the gunfire and feel the sharp zing of the bullets as they whizzed past my head and exploded into the sand in front of me. The assassin was hell-bent on my destruction, relentless and getting closer all the time.
In sheer terror, I ran under the Boardwalk to hide. But once I did, the whole scene immediately changed. Suddenly I was standing in a dark cave and everything was completely silent. Before, when I was running for my life, I heard the panting of my breath, the thumping of my feet on the sand, and the hiss of the bullets as they flew past my head. Now everything was dead silent and absolutely still.
I was standing in front of an old, brown wooden cross, with hundreds of lit candles all around. A monk in a dark-brown, hooded robe stood in front of it. The hood concealed the monk’s face entirely.
“Behold! The cross of the Crucifixion!” I seemed to somehow hear it inside my mind, but I knew it was coming from the monk. Then oddly, a few complete ideas appeared in my consciousness at the same time. Unlike linear thinking where one thought follows another, they all became clear to me at once.
I knew this was the actual cross from the actual crucifixion and that things were serious. I understood that the cross was a symbol for death, commonly used to mark a grave. And the final message was – “You have come upon it.” I looked at the monk, then back at the cross. Everything seemed frozen in time, like a still picture. The candles had stopped flickering, nothing moved and the stillness seemed to have a presence all its own.
Suddenly, I felt a sharp slap in the middle of my chest, right on my sternum. I gasped in an enormous amount of air and the next thing I knew, I was lying in my bed, in my pajamas.
I was in my room, it was morning, and I realized it had all been a dream, a terrible nightmare. My right hand was resting on my chest. I must have stopped breathing in my sleep and then subconsciously slapped myself awake.
I was shaken and didn’t move for a few minutes. I finally got up, got dressed, and had my breakfast. But as I started driving to school, I was still disturbed. I hardly ever had nightmares and certainly never anything like this before.
By the time I pulled into the school parking lot though, I was much more relaxed and decided to let the whole thing go. After all, it was just a bad dream. Maybe it was something I ate. The rest of the day was uneventful, and everything seemed fine.
And it would have stayed fine, except that night, Tuesday, I had the same exact nightmare again, right down to the tiniest detail, through to the very end. Now I was rattled. This was more than just a nightmare, it was a recurring nightmare, which made it doubly serious.
Then, to my extreme shock and dismay, the next night, Wednesday, I had the exact same dream. Again, I was being chased along the beach by an invisible killer, firing invisible bullets at me. I ducked under the Boardwalk, and it turned into a cave. There was the cross and the monk. Again, I got the same set of inner understandings, ending with the message - “You have come upon it.” And again, I slapped myself awake.
I didn’t know what to do. Three straight nights of this recurring nightmare was unnerving. And on top of that, the fact that it had a big cross in it was deeply disturbing. The truth is, I didn’t like crosses. They always made me feel uncomfortable. And it wasn’t due to any differences in religious beliefs either. It was much deeper than that…a visceral feeling, like getting punched in the stomach.
I felt it the very first time I ever saw a crucifixion statue, which was when I was about six. We lived in the Northeast section of the city, across the street from a church and I was having a catch with a friend. The ball flew over and landed near the front door of the building. When I went to get it, I noticed that the church door was open. The place had always been mysterious to me, so I thought I’d go in and take a peek.
The very first thing I saw in there was a huge cross with a lifelike porcelain statue of a nearly naked man nailed to it. The guy was dead. And there was a crown of sharp thorns stuck into his head, with blood streaming down his face.
Thorns! I couldn’t believe it. My mother grew rose bushes and always warned me to be careful of them. Still, I got stuck in the finger once. It bled a lot and it really hurt. Seeing a bunch of thorns stuck in this poor guy’s head was revolting. The rest of his body was a real horror show too, with whip marks all over it and nails hammered into his hands and feet.
It was easily the most gruesome sight I had ever seen in my life. It made me sick to my stomach and I ran out of the church at full speed, crossed the street and collapsed onto our lawn. My head was spinning, and I was out of breath. But the firm ground and familiar smell of the grass made me feel better. After a few minutes, I calmed down.
Then, out of nowhere, an unexpected rush of rage came over me. Filled with anger and fury, I thought, “Look what those goddamn bastards did to him!” I was only six, but it wasn’t the thought of a child. I felt like I wanted to kill somebody.
Crosses always bothered me after that. Later, in college, I studied the symbol’s deeper meanings, along with the concepts of sacrifice, grace, forgiveness, the soul’s triumph over death, and its eventual reunion with the immortal father. And while they’re all ennobling ideas, the cross still reminds me of humanity at its worst, and of things gone horribly wrong. And I still get the same visceral feeling.
The jarring symbol had now played a central role in three recurring nightmares, and I decided if it happened again, I would talk things over with my mother. Maybe it was time for me to go see a doctor or something.
Well, as far as the ongoing narrative is concerned, this is an ideal place for this episode to stop. All I have to say at this point is – fasten your seat belts! As always, keep your eyes, mind and heart open and let’s get together in the next one.