The Name of One Person

by Randi Brill, Am Shalom Board Member and Cuba Trip Participant

January 28, 2014

Today at the United Hebrew Congregation Cemetery in Cuba—we remembered. As we stood at that tiny Holocaust memorial monument just inside the entrance, we said Kaddish for the six million Jews who perished as well as for the people we’ve personally lost, those we continue to remember in our hearts. As I uttered the all-too-familiar words, I felt the pain of my own newest loss so acutely. How could it be possible that I am truly standing in Cuba on this stunningly bright and beautiful day saying Kaddish for my mother exactly nine months and one day after her death? How?

My mother would have indeed taken Jewish worry to entirely new heights at the mere thought of her daughter being in Cuba at all, and “Oy, in an old cemetery, no less.” As I acknowledged how fresh this loss of my amazing mother still remains, I realized yet again the common denominator of loss. Everyone in this cemetery became a loss to someone—hopefully.

Her funeral was in Pittsburgh. I have no family anywhere else. Three days later, we held a last night of shiva at home in Glencoe. Rabbi Steve came to the house that afternoon with candles, prayer books, and a little stuffed bear sporting a T-shirt. While it was for the girls, since that day and by tacit understanding, this little bear remains steadfast at its post in my office. Each night, as I repack briefcases, untangle tech cords, and other such prep, this little bear stands by. In these quiet hours, the pain’s been known to seep in. Or is it out? Either way, this bear is fine company as its T-shirt reads, “We all laugh differently, but we all cry the same.”

How fitting to remember that in this country so rich with differences, in this cemetery so full of people and lives to be remembered. We do all cry the same. As our group began to explore, our mission was as follows: “Find and remember the name of just one person buried here. Many may have no family left in Cuba, no one to remember them.” Here I am, able to cherish everything from big moments to little pearls of wisdom from my mother. Some days, I can still almost remember the sound of her voice. Yet many of those buried in this cemetery may not be remembered at all—by anyone.

So I set off to find “my” name. I walked from headstone to headstone, hoping a name would resonate. I looked for graves where no one had placed any tiny stones to signal remembrance.  I’d see a name and realize how young so many were when they died. How could I possibly know which name to choose? I was becoming convinced I should try to remember them all when my husband called me over to one particular grave.

There, with no tiny stones on top, was the grave of a man born in 1888 who died in 1936, just 48 years later. The name on the headstone read “JOEL ROSENHOCH BRILL.” That is certainly a name I’ll remember. While he may or may not be a REALative, this man is now family.

And to think, I’d been relieved my mother had no idea I was in Cuba. She always was a woman of few words, and today it feels like the word was only one. BRILL.