A Visit

March 28th, 2025

I took Asher to visit the old man and his wife. The term “old man” is relative. Many people would consider me to be an old man, but the person we went to see is old enough to be my father. I think he is 91 years old now. He is in excellent shape. His mind is sharp and his body functions pretty well. I would be thrilled to be as spry as he is when I get that old, if I get that old.

I know the man and his wife from our old synagogue. We don’t go there anymore because the shul is no longer in existence. For years, the population of the synagogue declined until there weren’t enough men to form a minyan (a minyan is ten adult Jewish males). I hadn’t seen this couple for almost three months, not since the synagogue closed its doors. The congregation dispersed, and now we are spiritually homeless. It takes time to find a new place to pray.

The old man and his wife are immigrants from Ukraine. They left there when the Soviet Union imploded. The old guy grew up in Stalinist Russia. When he was a boy, not much older than Asher, he and his grandfather had to flee to Kazakhstan to avoid the Nazi invasion. Both of his parents were officers in the Soviet Army during WWII. His family suffered intense antisemitism in Ukraine, despite the fact that his mother and father fought for their country. His son was also an officer in the Soviet Army. The son fought in Afghanistan and was severely wounded. The old man and his wife buried their boy two years ago. I was there at the funeral.

The old man and his wife love Asher dearly. What’s there not to love? Asher is an amiable four-year-old. He’s smart and articulate. The elderly couple has been asking me to bring Asher for a visit for months. We finally got around to it yesterday.

The old man thinks Asher is a nice Jewish boy. My grandson does have a Hebrew name. The old guy is convinced I’m Jewish. In his mind, if I am his friend, I have to be. I love the man, so at least for him, I am Jewish.

The couple live in an apartment complex in downtown Milwaukee. The old man greeted us at the door and led us to their tiny home. It’s a bit cluttered, but then so is my house. A person accumulates many things during the course of a long life. Most of the articles scattered around the apartment were memory aids. On the bookcase is a black and white photo of their son in his Soviet Army uniform. There is a small Israeli flag. Near the television is a glass paperweight engraved with the Star of David, the image of a Torah scroll, and a menorah. The small table is littered with mail and other documents. Books in Russian and Ukrainian line a shelf. Bottles filled with prescription meds are laying around in seemingly random locations.

The old man sat down on the couch and started talking with Asher. He spoke with a strong Slavic accent. I took off Asher’s coat and told him to show the man his new sweater. The man asked him,

“Who made for you this nice sweater?”

Asher smiled and answered, “Oma made it.”

“Oma? She has a knitting machine? Yes?”

I replied, “No, my wife, Karin, did it all by hand.”

The old guy exclaimed, “All by hand? It is wonderful. It must have taken a long time.”

Asher told him proudly, “It’s got elephants on it.”

The man laughed. “It does!”

His wife prepared something for us to eat. She brought out a box of small donuts for Asher. Her hands shook as she placed them on the table after shoving the papers aside. He took one and started to eat it. She went back into the kitchenette and pulled a bottle of apple juice from the refrigerator. She had to ask her husband to open it. Her hands and wrists are weak. She painstakingly poured the juice into a cup and gave it to Asher. I told him to be careful not to spill it. He held the cup with both hands as he sipped the juice.

I sat and talked with the old man. His wife came out with homemade bread and cheese. She cut an avocado in half for us. She gave Asher a large bowl of strawberries. He ate as many as he could. She did not talk very much to us. Even after thirty years, her English is not the best. She struggles to find the right words.

The man asked Asher to recite the alphabet. Asher got as far as “E” and then lost track of the letters. The old guy asked Asher if he would like a small toy car. Asher said he would. Then the man asked him what kind. Asher told him he wanted a monster truck. That confused the man. Finally, Asher told him he would like a dump truck. The old man nodded and smiled at the boy.

The woman brought out glasses for coffee. The glasses contained steaming hot water, and she gave us instant coffee to mix with it. The old man poured condensed milk and sugar into his coffee. I drank mine black.

Asher got bored.

He told me, “I want to go home.”

I told him, “We’ll go when I finish my coffee.”

Asher leaned up against me and snuggled.

“But I want to go now.”

‘Wait for me, or I will tell Oma not to let you watch a movie.”

Asher gave me a despairing look and said,

“Nooooo…”

“Yes. Just wait. It won’t take long.”

The old man asked me,

“Have you found a new synagogue?”

“No. Not yet. Ken goes to WITS, but they start the service too early for me to get there on time.”

He replied, “WITS? Wisconsin Institute for Torah Study? I don’t like them too much. They are black hats. Too strict. I want a normal Orthodox shul. I am thinking about going to Chabad. Lubavitch. It is only three blocks from the bus stop.”

I told him, “Let me know if you go. I don’t want to go to a new place alone. I can give you both a ride there.”

He nodded.

Asher got impatient and whiny. I finished my coffee and helped Asher put on his coat. I told him,

“Give them a hug, or maybe a handshake.”

He shook both their hands. They smiled at him.

The old man told me as we walked toward the door,

“I will tell you when I want to go to a new shul. I do not want to go to a new synagogue without you.”

We hugged. Asher waved to them as we left the apartment.