My father, Walter Hes, he-chaver Binyamin ben Mordechai, z”l, was given the greatest bracha by the Almighty, that of arichat yamim ve-shanim. And not only did he live a long life, but he lived a full and productive life. But just in case you thought his length of days was genetically predetermined, a little history is in order first. My father was orphaned at the age of 17—and both of his parents died of natural causes. While being looked after by an uncle and aunt, he travelled to the Wurzburg Seminary in northern Germany, where he learned Torah, chazanut and other aspects of klai kodesh. In 1937, he was notified that a small shul nearby was in need of a chazzan. My father applied and got the job. There he met a young lady by the name of Luise Moses, who in 1939 became Mrs. Luise Hes.
Shortly after my parents were married, the Nazis threw them into jail. The warden had a small streak of decency and released them after two weeks. He also suggested that they leave the country as soon as possible. Through some connections, my father was able to travel to England and, shortly thereafter, was successful in obtaining a visa for his wife and sister as well. My mother left Germany immediately and traveled to England. His sister wanted to pack a few belongings first and follow them to England a few days later. But by then, there were no more ways to England, and my aunt never got out of Germany.
My parents arrived in New York on Erev Pesach 1940. I was never told whether they burned chametz that day, but they certainly felt great gratitude to Hashem for having escaped a churban. In 1941, the United States entered the World War, and my father was given a physical to qualify him to fight for the Allies overseas. But when they administered an EKG, a minor flaw was detected. He was thus exempted from combat duty and became instead an Assistant Chaplain in the Army, travelling with my mother all over the country. Fortunately, despite the minor irregularity in his heart, his last birthday was his 101st. Perhaps we should all wish for a similar flaw in our hearts!
Who was my father? Some years ago, I had a weekly chavruta with a friend, and we decided to learn the Rambam’s Mishneh Torah together. When we started learning Hilchot De’ot, the Rambam’s prescription for how to live one’s life, I kept thinking to myself: “Hey, you know what? That’s my father!” The essence of the Rambam’s recommendations is to follow derech ha-emtza’it – the middle path. Don’t do anything to excess – not too much, not too little. My father personified the Rambam’s derech ha-emtza’it. He did nothing in extremes, and he was always in full control in all aspects of life. The Rambam virtually assures us that if we can manage to live according to this middle path, God will grant us a long and blessed life.Who can argue with the Rambam?
My father didn’t see the inside of a hospital room as an in-patient until he was well into his 90s. And even then, most of his hospital visits involved false alarms or matters easily taken care of. Indeed, as already mentioned, my father was blessed to live through his 101st birthday—75 of those years with my mother, his late beloved wife. This was a classic case of the fusion of two disparate personalities into a unit full of mutual love and affection for each other from beginning to end.
My father was also the most dignified man I have ever known. He was proud of who he was, but he never showed it. There was no hint of ga’avah or conceit. My father was a man of shalom. He dealt with many situations that could have led to machloket, but he wanted no part of it. He was a person with every positive middah (attribute) you could want in a man. He led his shul for decades and was the embodiment of a klai kodesh. He was neither the Rabbi nor the President, but he did it all—chazzan, ba’al koreh, administrator, maggid shiur, choir director, Bar Mitzvah teacher—and I’m sure I’ve left out some other things. He also ran the Talmud Torah, which helped put dozens of young men and women on the right path in Yiddishkeit—some of whom have made indelible marks on their own respective communities.
But most importantly, and most important to our father, was his family. I’ll put it this way: Just about everything that I am, I owe it to him. He was my role model. Unfortunately, I could never live up to the high standards he set for himself, but he made everything as easy for me as he could. Day or night, I could always count on his wisdom, guidance, eitzot tovot. Whatever the situation, I always knew I could sit down with Daddy, and he would make it all okay. When he would address a problem in his reassuring, calm way and look me in the eye as if I was the only one that mattered to him, I knew everything would be fine. And it always was. His counsel to me and so many others was invaluable.
What didn’t he do for me? He would type my term papers because I was too darned lazy to do it myself. I goofed off in class, and he was there to study with me for the big tests and relished the chance to teach his son. He became a baseball fan so he could relate better to Ezra (my brother) and me. He hated the Yankees, but, then again, who’s perfect? (I was a Yankee fan in those days.) When I messed up in driver’s ed, who was there for me to teach me how to drive? Yes, reliable and trusty Daddy.
This was my father. Humble, multi-talented, undemanding for his needs—everything was good enough for him. He did nothing to excess. His life was one of Avodat Hashem. When the Ribono shel Olam brought him back to shamayim, He must have said (ki-vi-yachol): “Yeyasher Kochacha—you lived your life the way it was meant to be lived!”
By David Hes
