August 4, 2009--Landsmanshaften
This is a true story though I need to do a little disguising.
About ten years ago when one of my close relatives died, I got involved in helping to plan the funeral. According to Jewish tradition—even though neither he nor his widow were observant—it is usual to have the service and burial within as little as 24 hours. A compromise, to give family and friends time to arrange to attend, 48 hours is more typical. So plans have to be made very quickly. That is one of the reasons most Jews of the deceased’s era made arrangements in advance. They have a gravesite picked out, often a funeral home, and sometimes even a casket.
The cemetery and specific grave were often chosen and managed by an old-world Landsmanshaft—by a fraternal society made up of other immigrants from the same region of Eastern Europe, likely from the same small shtetl in Poland or Russia. These organizations were typically small with no more than 20 men (they were always made up exclusively of men but graves were arranged as well for their wives and often their children), and during members’ lifetimes they would meet frequently for camaraderie--as many of them never learned much English and life was hard, the streets in America were not, as many had believed, paved with gold—and for debates, which almost always ended in a fight, about their final arrangements.
The president of the Landsmanshaft had the ultimate power to make ultimate decisions—especially where each grave was to be located. This may not sound like much of an issue to you—a grave is a grave—but to these hard-working and self-sacrificing souls it was a matter of life and literally death. Because not all sites were to them by any means alike. And also they liked hollering at each other!
To be near a tree on the society’s plot in, for example, Mount Lebanon Cemetery in Queens, New York (where the generation of my mother’s extended family, with her as the one exception, have all found their final resting places) or to be close to Momma and Papa is better than being next to Uncle Julius who smoked smelly cigars, or Uncle Morris who borrowed money from his bothers-in-law but never paid them back, or next to Aunt Ida who could never stop talking.
But as they died off one-by-one, chronic illnesses set in, and passions abated, these wonderful disputes became muted and the meetings, which were held monthly, became semi-annual affairs; and as the men passed away—often leaving the societies with no men at all—their wives, not accustomed to this kind of formal fraternalism, had no choice but to take responsibility.
The most important of these responsibilities was to authorize the cemetery to “open” a grave (as they put it) when more and more frequently this was required. Each grave, legally, is real estate property and thus has its own deed; and before it can be used the person with legal authority to sign a myriad of official papers has to be available and compos mentis enough to do so. And, ah, again more and more frequently, there’s the rub. These final survivors are themselves now quite ancient and many of them are neither well nor very compos.
So when I called the home of the president of my departed relative’s Landsmanschaft whoever it was who picked up the phone sounded —there is no nice way to put this—like a tragically crazy person. I think it was an elderly woman who had clearly lost her mind. The words I could make out seemed more Yiddish than English; and I quickly realized what had happened and who I had reached—the widowed wife of the former president who herself by then was all-too-well advanced in her own final decline.
I said a few awkward words and gently hung up the phone.
My next call was to the cemetery itself, explained in detail the situation, including my experience with the wife of the society’s president—which did not to them seem in any way unusual. They said they would get right back to me. They knew the 48-hour clock was ticking rapidly. I heard from them within half an hour; and, with the deepest and seemingly-sincerest of apologies they were “very unhappy” to inform me that someone else was in my relative’s grave.
“What?” I screamed back at them. “In his grave?”
“Yes, occupying it.” People professionally involved with death and funerals are known for their use of euphemisms.
“How could that happen? I mean, through his dues to the burial society he paid for a grave. Actually two. One for his wife as well.”
“We checked that while we were at it. And, unfortunately, someone is also using that one.”
“This is outrageous. As soon as I hang up I’m going to call the New York Attorney General’s office to report your malfeasance. And . . .”
“We looked into that as well. The legality issues. And all the paperwork is as it should be. Mrs. Goldstein [not her real name] who became the president of your family’s fraternal organization when her husband passed away authorized those interments. And . . .”
I slammed down the phone and moved quickly to help make alternate arrangements.
Thus, I was not surprised to read in yesterday’s New York Times that since ten years ago the situation has only worsened. The experience we had is now systemic in regard to the fate of the Landsmanshaften. Richard Fishman, director of the New York State Division of Cemeteries, which is charged with regulating burial plots, put it this succinct way, “A person dies and they can’t get buried because there is no one left to sign the papers, or the guy in charge [he should have more accurately said “gal” or something] is 99 years old and in a nursing home.” (See full article linked below.)
The good news—if there can be any when it comes to this subject—is that there is a small agency of the New York State Insurance Department, the Office of Miscellaneous Estates, physically tucked away in a tiny space in the state’s Liquidation Bureau (no euphemisms here) where, as the Times put it, “burial societies go to die.”
Those who run this office have taken the responsibility to, as the manager, Robin Kraus, said, “step up and perform the functions of a burial society until all the people entitled are buried.”
Ms. Kraus, herself the child of Holocaust survivors, is so devoted to her work that almost every remaining Landsmanshaft has her phone number on auto-dial.
About ten years ago when one of my close relatives died, I got involved in helping to plan the funeral. According to Jewish tradition—even though neither he nor his widow were observant—it is usual to have the service and burial within as little as 24 hours. A compromise, to give family and friends time to arrange to attend, 48 hours is more typical. So plans have to be made very quickly. That is one of the reasons most Jews of the deceased’s era made arrangements in advance. They have a gravesite picked out, often a funeral home, and sometimes even a casket.
The cemetery and specific grave were often chosen and managed by an old-world Landsmanshaft—by a fraternal society made up of other immigrants from the same region of Eastern Europe, likely from the same small shtetl in Poland or Russia. These organizations were typically small with no more than 20 men (they were always made up exclusively of men but graves were arranged as well for their wives and often their children), and during members’ lifetimes they would meet frequently for camaraderie--as many of them never learned much English and life was hard, the streets in America were not, as many had believed, paved with gold—and for debates, which almost always ended in a fight, about their final arrangements.
The president of the Landsmanshaft had the ultimate power to make ultimate decisions—especially where each grave was to be located. This may not sound like much of an issue to you—a grave is a grave—but to these hard-working and self-sacrificing souls it was a matter of life and literally death. Because not all sites were to them by any means alike. And also they liked hollering at each other!
To be near a tree on the society’s plot in, for example, Mount Lebanon Cemetery in Queens, New York (where the generation of my mother’s extended family, with her as the one exception, have all found their final resting places) or to be close to Momma and Papa is better than being next to Uncle Julius who smoked smelly cigars, or Uncle Morris who borrowed money from his bothers-in-law but never paid them back, or next to Aunt Ida who could never stop talking.
But as they died off one-by-one, chronic illnesses set in, and passions abated, these wonderful disputes became muted and the meetings, which were held monthly, became semi-annual affairs; and as the men passed away—often leaving the societies with no men at all—their wives, not accustomed to this kind of formal fraternalism, had no choice but to take responsibility.
The most important of these responsibilities was to authorize the cemetery to “open” a grave (as they put it) when more and more frequently this was required. Each grave, legally, is real estate property and thus has its own deed; and before it can be used the person with legal authority to sign a myriad of official papers has to be available and compos mentis enough to do so. And, ah, again more and more frequently, there’s the rub. These final survivors are themselves now quite ancient and many of them are neither well nor very compos.
So when I called the home of the president of my departed relative’s Landsmanschaft whoever it was who picked up the phone sounded —there is no nice way to put this—like a tragically crazy person. I think it was an elderly woman who had clearly lost her mind. The words I could make out seemed more Yiddish than English; and I quickly realized what had happened and who I had reached—the widowed wife of the former president who herself by then was all-too-well advanced in her own final decline.
I said a few awkward words and gently hung up the phone.
My next call was to the cemetery itself, explained in detail the situation, including my experience with the wife of the society’s president—which did not to them seem in any way unusual. They said they would get right back to me. They knew the 48-hour clock was ticking rapidly. I heard from them within half an hour; and, with the deepest and seemingly-sincerest of apologies they were “very unhappy” to inform me that someone else was in my relative’s grave.
“What?” I screamed back at them. “In his grave?”
“Yes, occupying it.” People professionally involved with death and funerals are known for their use of euphemisms.
“How could that happen? I mean, through his dues to the burial society he paid for a grave. Actually two. One for his wife as well.”
“We checked that while we were at it. And, unfortunately, someone is also using that one.”
“This is outrageous. As soon as I hang up I’m going to call the New York Attorney General’s office to report your malfeasance. And . . .”
“We looked into that as well. The legality issues. And all the paperwork is as it should be. Mrs. Goldstein [not her real name] who became the president of your family’s fraternal organization when her husband passed away authorized those interments. And . . .”
I slammed down the phone and moved quickly to help make alternate arrangements.
Thus, I was not surprised to read in yesterday’s New York Times that since ten years ago the situation has only worsened. The experience we had is now systemic in regard to the fate of the Landsmanshaften. Richard Fishman, director of the New York State Division of Cemeteries, which is charged with regulating burial plots, put it this succinct way, “A person dies and they can’t get buried because there is no one left to sign the papers, or the guy in charge [he should have more accurately said “gal” or something] is 99 years old and in a nursing home.” (See full article linked below.)
The good news—if there can be any when it comes to this subject—is that there is a small agency of the New York State Insurance Department, the Office of Miscellaneous Estates, physically tucked away in a tiny space in the state’s Liquidation Bureau (no euphemisms here) where, as the Times put it, “burial societies go to die.”
Those who run this office have taken the responsibility to, as the manager, Robin Kraus, said, “step up and perform the functions of a burial society until all the people entitled are buried.”
Ms. Kraus, herself the child of Holocaust survivors, is so devoted to her work that almost every remaining Landsmanshaft has her phone number on auto-dial.
posted by Steven Zwerling at
7:02 AM
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