Accepting and resisting Jewish resting places

Who among us enjoys visiting cemeteries? It’s an exhausting experience, often filled with sadness, grief and remorse. But consider the fate of countless Jews and other martyrs, who were denied proper burials or any words of blessing or farewell.

I do not come from a family of cemetery visitors. My mother’s kin were buried in another corner of the country, and my father knew only one of his grandparents. Both my parents also had siblings who died far too young. My parents observed some yahrzeits at temple, but their clearest response to death was living full and vigorous lives. Even when on vacation, they seldom found time to rest.

My family was in one way blessed when marking a relative’s end of days. My mother’s uncle was a rabbi, and he officiated at many of our family funerals. Although usually a stirring and verbose speaker, he also knew when brevity and silence should prevail. In a somewhat humorous tone, he often cautioned congregants against boasting and bragging because of the common destiny that awaits us. 

If I can think of a somewhat humorous response to mortality, however, it involves my father-in-law, who bought a dozen plots in his congregational cemetery north of Boston.  While wanting to spend eternity with loved ones who might choose to be buried beside him, he abhorred the idea of being neighborly to acquaintances he couldn’t stand.

My article about the strange gateway to Newport’s Colonial Jewish burial ground was published in 2009 in the journal of the Rhode Island Historical Society. I had endeavored to solve a riddle: how could such a landmark be built in an Egyptian-revival style? Suffice it  to say that it was fashionable in the 1840s, Masonic symbolism was appropriate for Jewish members, but Jews were not consulted on the gateway’s design.

I have been privileged to visit and photograph several other historical Jewish burial grounds. Some of the most intriguing have been in Philadelphia; Charleston, South Carolina; Savannah, Georgia; Bridgetown, Barbados; and Athens. Of course, Berlin felt like nothing but a Jewish cemetery. 

As a result of my genealogical research and searching nearly every grave in Zion Hill Cemetery, in Hartford, Connecticut, I found the resting places of my father’s maternal great-grandparents, which he had not known about.

Nevertheless, my recurring response to historical Jewish burial grounds has also been upsetting. I find it difficult to honor once vibrant, willful and caring people within walled, cluttered or deteriorating surroundings. Notions of physical decay and spiritual beauty undermine each another. Eyes cannot measure what the heart beholds.

Perhaps I often feel repelled by Jewish cemeteries because death seems so alien to the Jewish sanctification, celebration and exultation of life. Yet, the Kaddish, among other holy watchwords, teaches us otherwise.

My favorite exceptions to the Jewish acceptance of mortality are found in two scenes of a Jewish cemetery, on Amsterdam’s outskirts, created by Jacob Van Ruisdael. A leading 17th-century Dutch landscape painter, Van Ruisdael was a gentile. I believe that the true subject of his stormy works, which belong to art museums in Detroit and Dresden, Germany, is nature’s power, especially its triumph over humankind. If Van Ruisdael’s paintings depict the folly of hope, belief or reason, then they clash with Jewish teaching.

I must confess that, as my years in Rhode Island have grown, I recognize more and more names in its Jewish cemeteries. These include individuals whom I have known and embraced and others I have encountered through historical research. For many years I have also driven a former Rhode Islander on his annual pilgrimage to his family’s graves in Lincoln Park. How could I not empathize with his sadness and anguish?

My brother, sister and I recently reached a point in our lives when we can ask ourselves about the meaning of our parents’ resting places.  Dad and Mom are buried in a sprawling ecumenical Jewish cemetery, close to their last home. Despite Southern California’s scarcity of water, there is much greenery, which, exemplifying life, brings comfort.  All gravestones, restricted to a uniform size, hug the mostly level ground. The cemetery’s chapel, gently arched but open on three sides to the elements, is graciously unpretentious.

It sounds petty, but I once objected to the modest inscriptions on my father’s grave. The words are as meaningful as they are simple, but I did not care for the style of calligraphy or a few decorative carvings.  When a cemetery official explained to me that my mother had chosen this design, I was willing to back off and accept the equivalent for her grave.  Nevertheless, I still struggle with the eyes’ and heart’s irreconcilable differences.

So what have Betsey and I planned for our own resting places? To live a lot longer!  Rabbi Leslie Gutterman once explained that buying a cemetery plot demonstrates that a person finally accepts his membership in a community.  

I suppose that we would also like to remain closer to at least part of our far-flung family.  Thus, my father-in-law’s invitation is welcome, especially in view of our children’s needs.   I’ll try to ignore any of his annoying acquaintances who may surround us.

GEORGE M. GOODWIN is beginning his 13th year as editor of Rhode Island Jewish Historical Notes.  He recently began a third term on the board of the Rhode Island Historical Society.