LITMIR.BIZ

      Hershel saw the crowd the moment he turned the corner of the street leading to the Barlak’s house. He drew up his horse, and his mind swiftly reviewed what the reason could be for the assembly, then he saw a wagon draped in black waiting in the yard, and he kicked his horse into a fast walk.

      A short distance away, he dismounted and tied his animal to a rail, and then strode rapidly to the house. He spied Jakob at the entrance and made his way through those standing around him.

      “Jakob,” he said, coming up.

      The Hasid turned. There was great sadness in his face.

      “What’s going on?” asked Hershel.

      “Mr. Barlak,” said Jakob huskily. “He died yesterday morning from a heart attack.”

      “Oh, my God!” exclaimed Hershel. He peered through the doorway. It was next to impossible to single out the people inside. He turned back to Jakob. “Hanna and the children must be shattered.”

      “They all are, but Hanna refuses to show it. I’m afraid she will have a breakdown before the funeral is over.”

      Soon the pallbearers brought out Israel on the stretcher, the same black blanket covering his body. Those waiting in the yard drew aside to let it pass and be placed on the wagon. Hanna and the children followed, and behind them was his brother, Samuel, and his children.

      Hershel was surprised at the large number of people forming behind the family–sixty-five or more. Old Katzman from Kaunas was there, the man who financed Israel’s first boat, reputed to be ninety-five-years-old, brought from his home in a specially cushioned carriage. He got out and took ten feeble steps as a sign of respect before being helped back into the vehicle. Walking by themselves followed a group of gentiles, farmers and merchants who had dealt with Israel during his boating ventures, and even the seniunas of the village, elected by the people. A smaller group followed at the rear, Russian businessmen and farmers, who felt uneasy at a Jewish affair attended by equally despised Roman Catholic Lithuanians.

      As Hershel took his place beside Jakob, he could not help wondering how utterly inane was the death of Israel. From Jakob’s account, Hanna had gone into the bedroom to bring her father his morning tea, and had found him stiff as a board. He must have died in his sleep. It just did not seem right, he reasoned, for a man like Israel, who had scraped and fought his way up from the most menial work as a hod carrier to a successful career in boating, who had lived with a disability, which would have crushed much stronger men, lost a wife who was larger than life, then, on sheer guts, had picked up the pieces and taken the lead again. A man of that nature should have died in the boat accident while saving his cargo or rescuing one of his crew or by having put a bullet through his brain at the loss of Motlie, instead of in his sleep from a malfunctioning organ. A forty-one year-old-man, with his zest for life, should leave this world with the sound of kettledrums beating in his ears.