Ben and Sonya

WE always said the world wouldn’t be the same without them. In fact, the world wouldn’t be.

How right we were.

When Sonya died, a deep darkness fell over Ben.

No wonder.

Sonya was the arm, Ben was the leg. You pick the metaphor. Never have two people so perfectly flowed into each other’s lives.

And the two of them together flowed into so many other, countless other, lives.

They invented the word “fun” for Ben and Sonya.

Actually, they invented a lot of words for them.

Fun.

Jokes.

Practical jokes.

Gentle jabs.

It is said that after 120 G-d will take each of us to task if we fail to enjoy those parts of the universe that give joy.

His mountains.

His lakes, and good weather, and sites and scenes and colors and outbursts of friendship and camaraderie.

No worries.

Ben and Sonya will not be called to task on this account.

Not a chance.

What a beautiful love of live they exuded; what beautiful lives they lived.

Because they invented a lot of other words, too, for Ben and Sonya.

Reverence.

Respect for Torah, and for Torah scholars.

Integrity.

Friendship.

I never knew any two people who more perfectly integrated the joy and seriousness that life should prompt.

It seemed good to leave Atlanta, their beloved Atlanta, if their destination could be the Holy City, Jerusalem.

So they made it so.

In the Holy City they learned to pray with still deeper feeling, and learned to have fun with their shul mates and fellow Atlantans on aliyah with an even greater joie de vivre.

Oh, those jabs.

Ben knew how to find your weak spot, and dig in just enough to make you laugh, and laugh, and pull you up speechless.

Only he could get away with this even with his mentors and rabbis and teachers.

Ben’s love had so much class and sincerity that he could shower it on anyone, his way.

BEN was born in Charleston and Sonya in Atlanta. My wife Elaine and I first met them in 1978, when some of their kids were teens. How Ben and Sonya loved those kids of theirs and those children-in-law, and later those grandchildren. Ben was moved to tears when his great-grandchild was named Sonya.

Half their lives, it seemed, were spent finding just the right gift, not just for their grandchildren, but for everyone else’s. If anyone I ever knew became an unofficial grandmother and grandfather, or uncle and aunt, of so many countless kids around the globe, it was Ben and Sonya.

Half their lives was their present-buying schedule.

Ben and Sonya became a backbone of the super low key and super effective informal Jewish outreach of Atlanta’s Congregation Beth Jacob, under the inspiring and extraordinarily wise and deft leadership of Rabbi Emanuel Feldman.

The Rabinowitzes — Ben and Sonya’s last name — loved the Torah and mitzvos Rabbi Feldman taught, and showed them to all comers with their low key yet palpable friendship and love of people. With the Rabinowitzes — and with others like them — the congregation grew from a minyan to some 500 families.

Now, the world is no longer the same. Sonya died some six years ago, and Ben, I just learned, to my shock and sadness, a number of weeks ago. Not that it required any special insight, but, yes, the world is not . . . it’s just not, without Ben and Sonya.

For all the hundreds of people, young and old, who laughed and smiled, no matter what mood they began with, just for being around Ben and Sonya, there are countless more who will never know them and never understand how big the hole is.

SOMEONE died? Sonya was there with meals “around the clock.” In her case, this was not just an expression.

People got angry? Ben and Sonya were there and made peace.

A person was short on Judaism? Ben and Sonya’s home suddenly became available for Shabbos.

Soviet Jews were not free? The lead man in the Soviet Jewry movement in Atlanta was Ben Rabinowitz.

A yeshiva high school was needed? Ben Rabinowitz was founding president.

Community leaders can be detached. Try this anecdote; it is as revealing as anything I know about the soul of a person who notices every human being:

There was a certain beggar at the Western Wall — a “regular” — whom Ben befriended. Not too many people pay beggars much attention. But Ben so enraptured the beggar that the beggar wished to show his appreciation, but what could he do? What did he own? No choice — he took some of his change and put it in Ben’s hand.

The Torah says: to “know the soul” of the oppressed.

Ben knew.

TO my knowledge, Ben had no higher education. But could he write. When he put pen to paper about Israel, the words came out crisp and powerful and convincing. Israel, too, has lost an outsized friend.

The last thing I read of Ben’s was his memoir of his friend Jack Perry, also of Atlanta, and later, like Ben, an immigrant to Jerusalem. Jack was a survivor, Ben was born to freedom in America. Jack had to learn a new language, Ben did not. Jack and Ben both struggled in the early years to make a living. Mostly, though, they struggled together to embrace Yiddishkeit, and marveled at how two people, both of such radically different backgrounds, could end up such deep friends, growing and taking eternal pleasure in the Yiddishkeit they embraced.

And passing it down to the next generations — to their families and beyond.

Jack died a couple of years ago, and we visited his widow Lila in Jerusalem — Lila, also a southern belle, sweet and kind like Sonya. In fact, when our daughter Shana was born a couple of weeks after we arrived in Atlanta, Lila, a perfect stranger, moved into our house to take care of the kids while Elaine was in the hospital. Lila came in as if we were her own family. Lila and Sonya were like sisters.

How Lila kvells over her Israeli  grandchildren, including two barely 20 years old who’ve opened a successful business feeding much of the huge Mir Yeshiva with a fabulously successful cholent, hundreds of pounds of which are sold each Thursday night in their small restaurant nearby. What a journey to Jerusalem, what nachas: the next generations, thriving as observant Jews in the Holy City.

SOME of our most treasured memories, and mementos, revolve around Ben and Sonya. Purim in 1978 — we still laughed, recalling it decades later. The pictures of Ben with our little kids. The time we visited Sonya in the hospital — there she was, projecting her southern charm and smile, despite weakness that took her life only two days later.

Sum it up with the “business” cards and bumper stickers that Ben gave out from his print shop, “Toco Instant Printing.” Ben busied himself, besides with business, with a bumper sticker that, it turns out, has made its way around the word, and with a business card perfect for spurious tales of woe.

Ever seen that bumper sticker, or heard the phrase, “Hang in there — Shabbos is coming”? That’s the creation of Ben Rabinowitz.

And he made that “business” card,  even though it could be used only rarely, at just the right moment, for only the right person.

I pulled it out a few years ago when a close friend greeted me sourly on the plane after he’d gotten up at three in the morning to catch a very early flight, only to see it delayed for hours, then cancelled. He ended up on my flight and I thought to myself — perfect timing, perfect person, for Ben’s card:

Your story has touched my heart.

Never before have I met anyone with more troubles than you have.

Please accept this expression of my sincere sympathy.

LAUGHS and exasperation and speechlessness greeted me.

Yes, if you pull out this card aptly, you’ll emulate Uncle Benny, as we affectionately called him, who always put things in their proper perspective, as only good humor can.

And now he is gone . . .

Only he could comfort us . . .

At least, this I know: the last times we spoke, I told him how much I and my whole family loved him.

He knew.

It’s all we have left: He knew.

Copyright © 2011 by the Intermountain Jewish News