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essays Seymour Fromer z"l tzaddik stories

anyone who is hungry, let them come and eat

The tzaddik grew up in the Bronx, across from Yankee Stadium. That must say a lot about him, but I’m not sure what exactly. His family lived in a shvitzy little apartment, overcrowded with uncles and cousins and such. That was in addition to mamma, poppa, the tzaddik and his two younger brothers. Of course, […]

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essays tzaddik stories

epitaph for a tzaddik

New Orleans. With the voudon priest. Again. He gives me a reading. And one of the things he says is: “Don’t go to the cemetery. He’s not there. Go to the place where he still resides. The place where he still lives.” And all I can think of is well, where is that? Where is […]

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a kaddish for Caprica

Something was bound to go wrong on the Tzaddik’s first Yahrtzeit. It was a day I had hoped to bring my mother to the cemetery for the first time — for she herself had been too gravely ill to understand at the time that he had actually died. In the next room. In her house. […]

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essays tzaddik stories

the tzaddik and the vavlings

A tzaddik walks into a bar, and … I really want to start that way, only the Tzaddik didn’t pick up the vav in a bar. The tzaddik has only been in a bar once in his life and that was when he was stranded (with a vavling, actually) in the middle of nowhere and […]