A KADDISH FOR A KADDISH

Rabbi Dovid Goldwasser, the Rabbi of Congregation Khal Bais Yitzchok in Brooklyn, New York tells this story in his book Missing Letters Published by Judaic Press, New York.

One summer evening as Rabbi Dovid Goldwasser entered his shul to daven the evening prayers, he noticed a tall, muscular young man, not one of the usual congregants, sitting at the far end of the Bais Hamedrash. The man was holding a siddur in his hands staring straight ahead without blinking an eyelid. The Rabbi noticed that the young man was not wearing a yarmulke on his head.

He approached the young man and asked him if he would perhaps want a yarmulke?

“No, I don’t!” the young man retorted in a very clear emphatic tone.
Bewildered, the Rabbi proceeded to his place to daven as the prayers began.

At the conclusion of Maariv, the Rabbi walked down the block on his way home and when he reached the corner, standing rigidly near a street lamp was… the bareheaded man who had earlier so rudely refused a yarmulke!

“Do you want to know why I’m not wearing a yarmulke?” the man asked gruffly.

The rabbi simply answered, “No, that’s alright. It’s your personal business:’

Continuing as if the rabbi wasn’t there, he related, “Several years ago I used to attend shul regularly. I was a religious young fellow, happily involved in every aspect of my kehillah (community). “Then I had a falling-out with the shul administration over some minor misunderstanding which escalated into a public verbal attack one Shabbos morning, as the synagogue began filling up with congregants for Shacharis.
“No attempt was made by anyone to intercede, to disrupt the diatribe, or to encourage reconciliation in any way. My fellow congregants’ thoughtless behavior hurt deeply and —“
The young man suddenly stopped talking. His shoulders were slouched and he was gazing at the floor.

“What happened after that?” Rabbi Goldwasser asked.

“I decided that if this is what characterized religious people, I wanted no connection with them. Thus, I stomped out of shul and never looked back.

“Last year, my heartbroken father passed away. His oldest son, the cause of all the heartache and pain, didn’t even bother saying Kaddish for his deceased parent. I refused to step into any shul, although my conscience intruded on my days and nights with strong pangs of guilt.
“Today is my father’s yahrtzeit, and I decided to visit his grave. I stood alone in the large cemetery, trying desperately to retain my composure. Father seemed to be begging me to return, but I didn’t want to hear his message.

“A religious Jew approached me with a heartfelt request. ‘Please: he begged, ‘please join us! Today is my father’s yahrzeit and I want to recite Kaddish. Can you please join our minyan?’
“I looked at him silently, formulating my firm, negative response. Before I could utter a word, the man continued with his cajoling.
“I feel that this is all I can do for my father right now. Please, you must understand!’
“I joined their minyan and then promptly returned to Father’s grave. Reciting Kaddish was so important for the bereaved son. Did my current wrongdoings exempt me from presenting my father with the greatest gift possible?
“Filled with remorse, I came to shul to offer Father the gift of Kaddish. I came to pray in honor of my father. But putting on a yarmulke is quite a different story. That has absolutely nothing to do with Father, and therefore, I just don’t need it!”
He folded his hands across his chest in a feigned display of defiance.

Rabbi Goldwasser took up the conversation and began discussing various topics in Yiddishkeit with him.

The time flew by and finally glancing at their wristwatches they realized that it was… 3 AM!

The rabbi and the young man agreed to continue their discussions the next evening in the same place. Every night that week, after maariv, the two talked on the street corner. Hours were spent in serious discussion, and covered vital aspects of Jewish life. David (they had by now formally introduced themselves) began warming up to the idea of religion and Rabbi Goldwasser was hoping to catalyze David’s complete return to his former religious practices.

One night, after almost an entire week of these nocturnal discussions Rabbi Goldwasser stood waiting for David, but he did not show up. The Rabbi became concerned and continued to wait hopefully on the same street corner for several nights.

Sunday night, three full weeks after Rabbi Goldwasser’s initial meeting with David, as he entered the bais hamedrash for maariv and looked towards the last row where he had first seen David. The rabbi couldn’t believe it! There was David and he was wearing a yarmulke on his head!

“David!”

David ran over to Rabbi Goldwasser, while self-consciously holding the yarmulke on his head. “Hello there!” he exclaimed. “I’ve really missed you, Rabbi!”
“David, what’s been going on? When did this happen?” pointing to the yarmulke crowning David’s head.

David winked mischievously, saying, “I really don’t understand you! When I wasn’t wearing a yarmulke you seemed very surprised. Now that I have finally put it on, you look shocked!

“Seriously speaking, Rabbi, it was those long discussions that did the trick. I’ve been away on a two-week business trip, and I spent most of the time thinking about your words. I realized that the incident at the cemetery was a clear example of Divine Providence. Father is looking out for me, and he’s working hard to get me back home!
“The rest, as they say, is history. As soon as I came back to town this morning I ran to a local Judaica store and bought this beautiful yarmulke”

Rabbi Goldwasser stared at David in wide-eyed astonishment, relieved and strengthened at the miracle that he had merited to be a part of.

David’s return to the heritage of his fathers was in itself the greatest Kaddish that could be said by mortal man.

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