His day begins with routine
As it will end
At 98 this keeps him going
But the precision is remarkable.
Each day the coffee awaits him,
As he emerges fully dressed and immaculate.
Followed by the davening, Tallis and T’fillin
The retzuos (black straps) wound precisely equidistant on the arm
White hairs peeking between the black lines
Then wrapped around the batim (phylacteries)the identical way daily.
The tallis folded in quarters then doubled over to fit the blue velvet bag.
Now to the cereal, only half the bowl mind you,
he always makes sure to leave half,
And nothing over the minimum that will satiate him, not a morsel more.
(Can one forget the solitary mango that arrived from India annually
As he dissected it into 6 exact slices and passed to each at the table
Or the slicing of a turkey with surgical precision)
Where did he learn this (Vienna no doubt).
Exercises with Ganadi follow a precise course of calisthenics
The bends, push-ups, the range of motions, weights,
All in spoken in German to allow the trainer
to learn a new language from Dad.
Now the art instructor arrives
and he chooses his portraits and carefully measures
the blank sheet for his drawings with ruler and pencil,
more like an architect, so as to
produce as best a replica.
(unlike Mum’s impressionist landscapes that provide a mood and effect).
I never realized until I was house sitting,
just how regimented he is with himself
I remember as a child his morning rise for Shul no matter the weather,
and his moderation at the table,
But now?
He stands at the door at 8:55am on Shabbat morning
For “services begin at 9am” even though he knows
That there will unlikely be a minyan for quite a time,
(This little shul struggles to survive
on the goodwill of its few surviving octogenarians
members with attrition by the year).
This tiny Germanic shul (once Traditional not Orthodox)
Where Ben Gurion used to come to write his speeches,
Now provides a local minyan for those willing
to sit on the wooden benches for some 2 hours.
We return home for Kiddush and while washing the dishes
I see he only drank a sip of the Kummel.
I am in awe of this self-discipline at 98!
This Prussian sense of duty and order.
And, when I get too teary-eyed in front of Mum by her bedside,
Knowing what I know with the gnosis of only a physician,
He chastises me for exhibiting such emotionalism.
He is not for sentimentalism.
In fact I only saw him cry once
And break down (in Sobibor Concentration Camp) on the phone.
Other than that I never saw him laugh either, to excess.
His humor is sardonic, that Viennese type
that mocks the world and the foibles of others
The very opposite of the self-deprecating British
It also has to be very clever with a semantic pun or a quip.
“Zag der emir tzu dem sheikh”
“shtei du!”
Perhaps this is the key to his longevity.
I know one thing…
I have neither the discipline nor the stamina to live such a regimented life
The end does not justify the means for me.
I think he did not respect my gushiness
(As a child he was furious when I cried
And I cried a lot!)
He had no patience for this little brown-skinned snively, whiny kid
Who was not very good at sport.
His love of the classics and quoting Greek and Latin proverbs
As well as nuanced German words that gave more meaning to a sentiment
Albeit in multiple syllables!
He is at the end of the day a “continental” gentleman
With a British stiff upper lip.
No wonder I feel more comfortable with the
easy going if naïve American
With little for way of layers of sophistication or kultur.
But this weekend I realized the secret to his longevity.
