“I see,” he acquiesced, softening slightly. “I’ll take you there, but you will have to go out on your own. I’m going to stay in the car the entire time, to protect the car — and myself.”

I was fine with that, and the rest of the trip was uneventful. As we neared our destination, I felt a little apprehensive, especially since it would be deserted in these hostile times. But I knew I was doing it for my mother aleha hashalom. No doubt she would watch over her Kaddish’l.

When we arrived at the cemetery, I was shocked to discover a group of black-hatted men davening at a grave near my mother’s. A quick head count told me there were eight men. I approached them and asked if they would join me for Kaddish.

“We’re only eight,” they apologized. “You make nine. But we’re still short one.”

And then I remembered the driver—but I also remembered our deal.

I strode toward the taxi. He was sitting ramrod straight, on high alert, hands gripping the wheel. I told him about the other eight men and asked if there was any chance he would be our tzenter.

The brawny Sabra loosened his grip and undid his seatbelt. “Your mother’s neshamah will surely protect me and my car,” he said.

Humbled, I gave him the yarmulke from under my hat, and we walked toward the kever. Together, ten Yidden broke the deathly silence and united in the ultimate sanctification of His Name.

Chaim Somner is an accountant in Monsey, New York.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 830)