Judi Herman writes in praise of synagogue caretakers

Last week we went to the funeral of a dear friend. The service was taken by our senior rabbi, with standing room only in the massive crematorium hall and an impressive turn out from our membership, staff and officers swelling the already huge numbers of family and other friends. Our rabbi’s eulogy was personal and detailed – we were moved to see how emotional he became. Yet the lovely man who had died so suddenly was not Jewish.

When Bruce, our congregation’s caretaker, retired just 18 months ago after many years’ TLC, the Shabbat morning service included a special appreciation of this special man. I say congregation rather than building, for Bruce really did take care of everyone who entered the building.

He had come to mean so much to so many of us and not just because he couldn’t do enough for you. You always wanted to stop and chat and have a laugh with this man with the readiest, warmest of smiles and eyes that twinkled. And there was much more besides. He was widely read, a multi-instrumentalist with an encyclopaedic knowledge of music, a deep love of nature and wildlife.

Lest readers think this is simply my eulogy for Bruce, I should make it clear that I was planning to write in praise of synagogue caretakers before we learnt of his death, a poignant topical hook I did not seek. The October 2019 issue of JR included an article on Plymouth Synagogue’s historic cemetery and how it was rediscovered by (non-Jewish) caretaker Jerry Sibley, whose passion for the synagogue’s history earned him the title Custodian of the Building.

I’m confident that other communities in every faith treasure 'custodians' with similar enthusiasm, devotion and erudition. But let’s return to mine, where Bruce ensured his succession by recommending the extraordinary, charismatic Rastafarian Paul, the fellow musician to whom he also, vitally, sold the idea of joining us. So now Paul welcomes me with a hug, catch-up and mutual exchange of compliments on our attire, our hair (his dreadlocks, mine set off with silk flowers).

Then there’s Don, who furnishes the sanctuary (main place of prayer) with a jug of water and gleaming upturned glasses, as if my rehearsals with our teenage b’nei mitzvah students were high-powered conferences. Outside he beams a welcome to visitors that instantly makes them feel at home. And the third member of our triumvirate is David, who works full-time at the Anglican church where he also worships, divided part-time between the church and us. He too cannot do enough for us and I love how tactfully all three work round me to set up the sanctuary for services as I rehearse, and stop to chat about life, the universe and everything, to quote Douglas Adams.

At Bruce’s funeral, Paul is a coffin bearer, Don a fellow mourner and there are memories to share with everyone who knew and loved him. RIP Bruce, z”l - may his memory be a blessing as his colleagues are to us daily. And to paraphrase Roman poet Juvenal: "Who will watch over the watchmen?" I’m sure they are high on the Eternal’s list.

By Judi Herman

Photos by Dom Moore