A little more about someone really special.
Reb Stern asked me always when we would learn, did I have time. I'm an idiot for not having taken more advantage. When we finally got a chance, he spoke with me about how I would go with him to a slaughterhouse to make sure I had what it took to learn shechita. I thought the process would be fast. No, he told me, there's so much to learn. He knew the books front and back, and I bought my own set of Beit David to keep up with him. Those books are back on the shelf in America, gathering dust. Funny how life catches up with us. But I'd never give them away.
When I left for what was supposed to be a trip to Poland in 12th Grade (which eventually got cancelled) he was the last person I saw before, because I knew he would want to know that I was going. He would want to talk with me before and after about the important things to learn, and the stories, just so I would hear them again.
I surprised him with a visit several years ago. He was so happy to see me on one of my trips home. He talked with me about everything, anything I could tell him. And he offered me a Chalef, the knife used for shechita. They're hard to come by, he told me. I told him I'd come back for it when I'd learned, when I'd gotten my Ktav Semicha in Shechita. He told me, "all the better, your Mother would run you out of the house if you brought that home". I'm still working on that, Reb Stern, but I'll need to find a Chalef of my own.
When I saw him last, he told me that I should tell him when I got married. That he would make the schlepp to Israel for it if he could, that it would be worth it to travel for that. Maybe I should have gotten married younger.
And I keep thinking about him today. Because he was just so, so special. He was the Pashuteh Yid you read about in Chassidishe stories, and I can tell you that because I see him in my mind when I read them. He was one of the throwbacks to the old Hertzberg's crowd in Baltimore, one of the type who are hard to come by these days, a special group of survivors and their friends, who called our Shul their home, and made it that way for those who came after.
He was such a part of the Old Country and the Old, Old Country. And he was an integral part of our Simchat Yom Tov and Oneg Shabbat, as he would pull up to our house and my parents would send me out to schlepp the massive box of meat from the slaughterhouse. And of course, he would come in, to listen to everything we could tell him, and שעפ נאחעס from what he would hear. A few things I clearly remember: the feel of his hand and his hug, the sound of his voice, and the light which came across his face when my father gave him a berry from the liqueur he had made. Little moments of memory.
I will forever feel grateful for having known someone so special. And I'll probably beat myself up for having not spent more time with him. And then remind myself that he wouldn't have wanted that.
Thank you for being who you were, Reb Stern, and thanks for the stories and the memories. Your family were lucky to be yours, and for what few Simanim we got through, I'm lucky to have been your student. If I ever do finish learning Shechita, it'll only be to hopefully give you a bit more Naches, or to have something, anything, in common with such an incredible person
וְהַמַּשְׂכִּלִים יַזְהִרוּ כְּזֹהַר הָרָקִיעַ וּמַצְדִּיקֵי הָרַבִּים כַּכּוֹכָבִים לְעוֹלָם וָעֶד