T

he year was 1976.

The three Goldman boys had lost their father six months before.

The boys — Baruch, 15; Yosef, 13; and Moishe, 11 — were now forced to come to shul every Shabbos without a father.

Each Shabbos, as they entered the shtibel where their father had davened, they knew all eyes were staring at them. As they slowly made their way to the table where their father had sat for the last 20 years, they could almost hear the thoughts of every man there. Nebach, those poor boys. Who knows what will become of them?

Never were these words verbalized, but the boys could still hear every word. As the boys looked into the eyes and sorrowful faces of the men, they knew exactly what they were thinking.

The necessity for the boys to recite Kaddish only complicated the already uncomfortable situation.

Men who had never said “Good Shabbos” to them now gave unsolicited and unwanted instructions on how to say Kaddish with an authoritative and commanding voice.

“Say Kaddish louder,” one man would say. A second later, another “expert” would demand, “Do you have to shout the Kaddish? Do you think we’re deaf?”

Despite their pitying stares, it was clear that some of the men in the shtibel viewed the three boys as nuisances who should not even be in this “men’s club,” as they viewed their shul. Many of the men felt they had the right to discipline the boys and instruct them in proper decorum; few, if any, ever bothered to take any real interest in them or attempt to show love, compassion, or any real or meaningful consolation.

Except for one man, that is. A man by the name of Willie.

Willie knew the pain of being an orphan. He had been separated from his parents at age nine and placed alone on a Kindertransport in Vienna — specifically on condition that his parents make no effort to join him — bound for a non-Jewish home in England.

He was shuffled from family to family, ending up in the orphanage where he celebrated his bar mitzvah, alone and sad.

Willie watched over these orphaned boys and became their protector.

He was a powerful man. He was able to lift the air conditioners, which he installed and maintained for his livelihood, with his bare hands. When there was a need for someone to do hagba’ah on a particularly heavy Torah, all eyes turned to Willie.

One day, one of the men felt the youngest of the three boys had overstepped his boundaries and in a rage he threw the boy out of shul, shouting, “And don’t you dare ever come back!”

Willie ran out of the shul after the young orphan. When he caught up with him, he put his large arm around the boy’s shoulder and guaranteed his protection if he agreed to come back with him to shul.

As soon as they entered the shtibel, Willie turned to the man who had spoken so callously.

“This boy is an orphan! I know how it feels to be without parents. You had no right to speak to him that way. Hashem commands us to be extra compassionate with His yesomim. This davening will not continue until you ask mechilah from Moishe, and you all give me your word that from today on he gets treated with respect!”

The man meekly obeyed Willie’s directive, and from that day on the three brothers felt welcomed in the shtibel.

I know all about Willie and his kindness, because Willie — Binyamin Zev Herzka z”l — was my father-in-law. His 12th yahrtzeit was this past Adar.

He was my hero, and I miss him very much. (Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 709)