David Seidemann: The gift of education

From the other side of the bench

By David Seidemann

Issue of Dec. 26, 2008 / 29 Kislev 5769

Chanukah gifts come in many forms. For some it’s money, and for others chocolate. For others, it’s toys ranging from dolls to electrical devices. And while all those might be appropriate, Chanukah is a holiday whose message is education; a message of perseverance; a message of battling against greater forces be they mortal enemies or one’s own evil inclination to cut corners in service of G-d, and in one’s way of dealing with his fellow man.

Sometimes the gift of education is wrapped and delivered in a class; in a scholarly discourse; in a book. Other times that gift of education is delivered by examining the life of one who embodies the synthesis of all that is good and proper in ones everyday affairs.

He was an accountant by trade and his partner for all those years was his wife. That fact alone speaks volumes of the man. He had so perfected his respect for his fellow man, that he could successfully spend all his days and all his nights with his wife, without argument or spat. His chosen profession was tailor made because he made sure that his personal ledger was reconciled not at the end of his life, but every day.

He was not wealthy but he was oh so rich. And while he gave charity way above his means, his greatest acts of charity were the invoices of balances due to him, which he ignored. His greatest acts of charity were the warmth, love, guidance and advice, smiles and encouragement that he gave his family, his friends, his community and his clients.

He loved everyone and everyone loved him. His friends could be found in Hassidic circles, European Jewry and American Jewry spanning generations.

Throughout his entire life he was known as a peacemaker often between non Jewish business partners and non Jewish husbands and wives. But his most pronounced trait was the personification of our Rabbis teaching to “say little and do a lot.”

He ran from honor like an Olympic sprinter and so in keeping with another Rabbinic teaching, Honor followed him.

His grandchildren were his children, his nieces and nephews were his children. There simply was no difference. He was generous with his time, love and humor to the same degree with all of them. Two weeks ago he flew in from Florida to attend his great-niece’s wedding. For that also was one of his traits. No matter how distant the relation; no matter how distant in miles, no matter how difficult the trip, a family simcha was a family simcha. It was a special wedding for him because his great niece was marrying the grandson of a man who he served as “best man” for, at that man’s wedding years ago. That dance was not easy, because four and a half years ago, he suffered a stroke which took away his ability to speak and to move freely. So this dance was accomplished by his sons lifting him out of his wheel chair for but a few minutes to lock arms and memories with his good friend.

The stroke prevented him from working. But it didn’t prevent him from putting on Tefilin every day, from going to shul three times a day, from learning and from continuing to inspire no longer wit words per se, but with a half smile that G-d allowed to remain permanently on his face, after the stroke.

It took him longer to get out of his chair to stand for Shmoneh Esrai than it takes most of us to pray the Shmoneh Esrai, but he insisted in doing so.

He made the best out of every situation and encouraged others to make the best of their situation. One of his sons once bought couches that he was told were leather, which he found out later were nothing buy cheap vinyl. When his son called him and expressed his frustration at being duped by a sleazy furniture salesman, he comforted his son with the following lesson is perspective. “For two and a half years you were happy, you believed they were leather. Hold on to that belief, and you’ll hold on to that happiness.”

I would sometimes wonder why a man with so much to offer would be afflicted with a stroke that affected his speech. But as I sat at his funeral a few hours before lighting the first Chanukah candle, I was able to place it in perspective. His affliction of not being able to speak much was actually an affirmation of his entire life, for that is how he lived. He spoke very little compared to his actions. That is how he lived and that is how he will be remembered, and that is the “educational gift” I will give myself this Chanukah.

And so we laid my dear sweet uncle, Leon Zehnwirth, to rest this past Sunday next to my mother, may she rest in peace, and we went home to light the Menorah, the ultimate symbol of the triumph of the pure and holy.

David Seidemann is a partner with the law firm of Seidemann & Mermelstein. He can be reached at (718) 692-1013 and at ds@lawofficesm.com.