Posted in: World Events
Published on Oct 30, 2020 by Phyllis Chesler
Published by New English Review
When Death Comes to Call
2020 is the year in which hundreds of
thousands of
human beings died in a plague unleashed by Communist China and mishandled by
dazed and un-informed countries everywhere.
The horrific global
death toll had been a statistic, too overwhelming to process personally.
And then, Mr. Death hit
closer to home. Within eight months and twelve days, I lost seven people,
five of whom were very dear to me.
2020 is the year
in which I lost Fred (January 18th); Channa (June 29th); Diana (July 28th);
Helen (August 12th); my brother Jack (August 14th); Sher (September 9th); and
my cousin Harriet (October 1st).
So many deaths, so close
together, made it impossible for me to mourn each death properly. Until I felt
compelled to write this, I did not even realize how many deaths there were.
These deaths were also
somewhat unreal, surreal. I attended only one in-person Memorial Service at the
beginning of the year; all the rest were zoomed Memorials or
grave-site funerals. Death was at a remove. It was reduced to a TV reality
show, and with two exceptions, there was no pressing of the flesh, no in-person
visits to the mourners.
Thus, I am memorializing them
here.
January 18, 2020
First, my good friend
Fred Feirstein, the playwright, poet, and psychoanalyst just up
and died. He was visiting his psychiatrist when he suddenly keeled over
and was gone. I thought: Was this his final and ultimate critique of
psychiatry?
But how could this be, we
just had dinner the previous week…
Fred—of the warm smile and
the worn sneakers—how could this be? Fred. His cardiologist had just
pronounced him in good enough health but Death, nevertheless, “kindly stopped
for (him)” the very next day as he waited in yet another doctor’s office. A
nurse pounded on his chest, the doctor tried mouth-to-mouth resuscitation but
to no avail. Death had to take him by surprise, there was no way he would ever
have “stopped for Death.”
Mr. Death left me quite alone
for five months but then he came to call; actually, he came to stay.
June 29, 2020
Channa Uncyk was in her
late nineties and she’d been sick for a long time. But still, she hung on, she
refused to go, she would not give in. Of course, she was a Holocaust and forced
labor camp survivor and so, she still fought Death as if he were Hitler. She
conducted herself as if she was indestructible. Like me, she was a Brooklyn
“girl,” as is her daughter Pearl, who is my son’s mother-in-law and his wife’s
grandmother. Channa revived my nascent Yiddish and always smiled—no, she
beamed—when we talked. I did too. Channa was short and tough and funny and
sharp and her three children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren loved her
so. Channa used to call into to Sean Hannity’s program and was so much of a
“regular” that he sent a condolence basket. Amazing. Touching. Passing strange.
And, although we were quarantining, in this case, cheesecake in hand, I drove
to far-off Brooklyn to pay a shiva call and we all sat in the backyard and
dined on food sent by the family’s shul.
July 28, 2020
Dr. Diana Russell, a great
feminist scholar and activist with whom I’ve worked since the mid-1970s, died
quite unexpectedly. Suddenly, she was gone. Diana was from South Africa and her
mother had been a British aristocrat. She was tall and had a wry sense of humor
but she published many serious and important studies about the sexual violence
women faced both at home, on the job, and in life. She published influential
works about pornography—and co-organized the first-ever International Tribunal
of Crimes Against Women, which took place in Brussels in 1976. She also
published a work about South African Apartheid and about the women who
courageously opposed it. She was one of them. Darling Diana was ill-treated by
the academy and fell on economically hard times. But nothing ever stopped her.
She was working on a multi-volume Memoir when she died. We spoke about half a
dozen times a year, but year after year. I now wish that I had called her more
often and more recently. Her work will forever speak for her “in the gates.”
But she is gone. I cherished her—and she is forever gone.
August 12, 2020
Helen Freedman was a gallant
and indefatigable warrior. She was a strong and passionate advocate for Israel.
Over the years, we met at many demonstrations, she interviewed me and I
interviewed her, and we developed a friendship and remained in each other’s
lives for more than fifteen years. Her office was nearby and she would
sometimes call and just drop in. Helen would always visit me when I was
recovering from surgeries. Above all, she was kind. She fiercely
battled the cancer that would eventually kill her; she had no self-pity; and
she continued to turn up at demonstrations even in a diminished state. I will
always miss her bright and optimistic energy.
So many people have
been part of the tapestry of my life, and that tapestry has been unraveling for
a long time. Beloved figures have been fading away, disappearing, since the
mid-1940s, when my maternal grandparents died and then, in 1967, when my own
father died.
I refuse to remove the names
and contact information of those who have died from my various lists. By now,
there are many hundreds of names whom I still keep close to me, whose names I
see whenever I consult my contact lists. It is my way of remembering them, of
refusing to allow Death to part us.
August 14, 2020
Jack, one of my two brothers,
died. We had not been in touch for the longest time. When he was eighteen years
old, his motorcycle crashed and sent him into a six-week coma. After that, his
personality changed and not for the better. After he tried to have me killed,
and then sued me, I no longer tried to “save” him. He cut ties with everyone,
did not speak to his grown children or to our other brother, moved away to make
a new life. He was a terrifying wife and child abuser who left devastation in
his wake and the rabbi who buried him believed him to be a good man. Had
he only known the truth “he would have tried harder to get him to repent.” My
brother Jack, the little boy with shining curls who used to follow me around
when he was three years old, left his estate to eleven charities and not a
penny, not a grosch, not a prutah, to his three children.
It is a myth that all Jewish
families are close, warm, loving, and stable. Some families
are downright dangerous and if one is lucky one flees them as soon as
possible. I did. And I have always suffered from survivor guilt because my two
younger brothers never made it out.
September 9, 2020
Sher Hite was a hugely
successful feminist author and sex researcher. Sher was beautiful, charming,
generous, and offbeat. Whenever she stayed with me, she’d visit the nearby
thrift shops and buy vintage clothing. Once, she did not want to leave...
enough said about that. Sher wanted to be remembered and taken seriously by
feminists and often felt that that was not the case. She was very close to my
darling Barbara Seaman (who is also dead—I hope they’re enjoying each other’s
company wherever they may be). Ah, I remember Sher’s Fifth Avenue ground floor
duplex apartment right opposite Central Park, with its grand piano on which her
first husband Frederick used to practice and perform. I remember her calling me
to ask whether I thought an advance of $850,000.00 was really enough for the
paperback rights to The Hite Report: A National Survey of Female
Sexuality. “Sher,” I said, “hang up, take the money, and run.” This was
way back in 1976, just yesterday. I am so sorry she is gone, she was an
innocent and whimsical presence here on earth.
October 1, 2020
My cousin Harriet, a
beloved primary school math teacher, died on my birthday after having battled
cancer for a good long while. I am eternally in her debt for how well she
treated my eight-year-old son when he was a student at her school. Alas, alas,
Jewish families... to my sorrow, she could never get over my not having invited
her to a family celebration. I thought she was close to my brother Jack and
could not risk his turning up and creating a scene, since his ex-wife and
daughters would be there. Despite all my explanations and apologies, she
refused to talk to me ever again. But her death shocked and saddened me. I
remember her older brother, Ken, who reached out to me so lovingly before he
died of cancer; and I remember her parents well. I even remember when she and
her younger brother Marc, (an exceptionally decent fellow), were born... just
yesterday, a lifetime ago.
I lost a friend and gained
some new ones in the wake of all these deaths.
I have only this to say: May
they all rest in peace and may their families and loved ones be comforted.
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