I learned that Mr. Lindenblatt was dying when I was in London this past November on business. I had awoken from a dream that his daughter Ilana, one of my oldest friends, was engaged. When I called her, thinking perhaps my dream was a sign, she softly lamented that her father was not engaged but rather nearing the end of his life due to cancer. Palliative chemotherapy had left the family uncertain about how long he had left—weeks or months—but the end was inevitable.
I hung up the phone, contemplative about Mr. Lindenblatt—Jehuda, pronounced Yehuda. Memories surfaced of him being a runner when jogging was still an emerging trend, drinking rice milk before it gained popularity, and his trademark casualness of walking around the house in running shorts. He drove Ilana and me to countless basketball games and rehearsals for “Brigadoon,” helping in ways that felt selfless and warm. He even taught me how to say, “Hello, how are you?” in Hungarian, a phrase I’ve used sparingly but cherish.
In our Brooklyn neighborhood, it felt like everyone was touched by the Holocaust's shadow. We all had stories to tell about survivors in our families—grandparents with tattoos from concentration camps or relatives who vanished in ghettos. Our yeshiva high school was steeped in Holocaust education; we studied the war's complexities deeply while barely skimming subjects like art or gym.
My resentment sometimes flared toward this heavy focus on Holocaust narratives, as I struggled to grasp how little time was allotted to topics that could have enhanced my life and career. I jokingly remarked to friends that I graduated from a school dedicated to “Jewish death studies,” yet part of me wonders if that hyperbole obscures a deeper truth. Through the lens of a student, I felt overwhelmed by the weight of history, having read Wiesel's “Night” numerous times while barely skimming American history.
Reflecting now, I see that many shared similar frustrations with their educational experiences, including my peers who excelled in their paths to becoming doctors or lawyers. I often found humor in the situation, recalling a moment a fellow classmate and I laughed about how most people knew their history but were clueless about the storylines of “Hamilton.”
Now, with Mr. Lindenblatt's nearing departure, I find myself more aware than ever of the narratives that shape our identities and how they bind us to the past—an echo of pain that informs each of our lives.
