And he didn’t even try to hide it. When he tossed soil onto Max’s coffin, I was afraid he would fall into the grave. I could see the tears stream down his cheeks, even though he clumsily tried to wipe them away. “Barukh atah Adonai Eloheinu melekh ha’olam,” Eli mumbled in Hebrew. It meant: Blessed are you, Lord, our God, sovereign of the universe. After that, he tore so violently at the collar of his shirt that his top button flew into the grave. Rending one’s clothes was part of the Jewish burial tradition, but Eli’s interpretation was in a class of its own. He had started drinking before Max’s funeral, and started right back up after the ceremony, out of a pocket flask. Some of the attendees eyed him in amusement, my uncle Dennis in concern and Silberstein in disapproval. Silberstein’s expression augured a short career for Eli in the governing bodies of the Helsinki Jewish congregation. This time, none of the glares had any effect on Eli. He could be thick-skinned, especially when drunk.
