He was a combination of surrogate father, mentor, confidant, friend, and, most importantly, the role model I aspired to be like

MY son Meir called me on Motzaei Shabbos at 2:30 a.m. Israel time to tell me personally rather than simply send a text. When he told me the family had asked him to inform me of the news, I already knew the reason for the call. I asked when the levayah would be.

My beloved uncle, Rav Avrohom Shlomo, whom I knew simply as Dod Shlomo, was no longer with us. His levayah was a week ago on Sunday morning. I boarded a flight to Israel later that day.

I had to go; about that, there was no question. The only question was which side of the room would I sit on at the shivah house — with the aveilim or with the menachemim?

My uncle was born in Yerushalayim on the 22nd of Elul, 5696, corresponding to September 9, 1936 — but my uncle would have been dismayed if I used the secular calendar. Even his personal checks were written with the Hebrew date.

He was a combination of surrogate father, mentor, confidant, friend, and, most importantly, the role model I aspired to be like. But I would never come close to filling his shoes.

During my years as a yeshivah bochur, his house became my house, and he and my Dodah Rivka effectively became my parents. Back then, in the 1970s, it was unheard of for an American bochur to come “home,” for Pesach or for any other reason.

Throughout my yeshivah years, I spent Succos, Pesach, and many a Shabbos with my uncle.

A Yersushalmi through and through, he was the one from whom I learned what it means to live a life of shivisi Hashem l’negdi tamid. Everything in my uncle’s life was guided and dictated by the Torah. Going to minyan meant arriving a full ten minutes before the start time and remaining 15 minutes after everyone else.

From my uncle, I learned what the true priorities of a Jew are. He hosted guests in the tiny kitchen of his modest apartment, on small, square, backless stools that could easily be stored under the table. (This allowed my aunt the floor space to cook and navigate between fridge and stove.) Even with these modest means, he generously gave tzedakah.

Torah was his lifeblood, and he could not be disturbed while learning. He completed Shishah Sidrei Mishnah over 150 times and could recite much of Shas verbatim — especially Bava Metzia.

Since my father’s petirah 26 years ago, my uncle had been the family patriarch. Every problem came his way, and he was the one to whom we all turned to daven in times of need.

His life was regimented and predictable. He ate the same foods daily for over 80 years, and he never went out to eat in a restaurant. He never drove a car — much less owned one — and he obviously never had a smartphone.

One incident from my bochurhood that illustrates his pristine, authentic Jewish life was the time I missed the daily afternoon main meal.

When he asked if I ate, I replied nonchalantly, “I grabbed a slice of pizza.”

My aunt looked at me in disbelief, wondering how I could spend seven lirot on something she would have prepared for a quarter of the price. But it was my uncle’s reaction that made the greatest impression.

Upon realizing that I was serious and I really did grab a slice of pizza, my uncle looked at me and said, “You came to Yerushalayim to eat pizza? Af paam b’chayai lo achalti pizza [Never in my life did I eat pizza]!”

Pizza never passed the lips through which Torah and chesed flowed for almost nine decades.

I miss him and cherish the memories.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1053)