Boris, the Soldier Forever

Boris has passed on to a better world.

He was a really amazing person. Born in 1915 in Novosibirsk, Siberia, he was circumcised as a baby. The winds of modernism were sweeping through Russia, and at the circumcision, his parents named him in true modern fashion – Boris. His Jewish name forevermore.

He recalled how as a young child, he once accompanied his grandfather to the large synagogue in Novosibirsk. As the cantor and the participants chanted the unfamiliar words, his eyes wandered about him at the huge, majestic synagogue, until his gaze caught sight of the ceiling. It was domed, and just beautiful, and he stared, and stared, until suddenly WHACK! Little Boris felt his grandfather’s hand on his shoulder, reminding him that one attends synagogue to pray, not to daydream. Boris ran out of the synagogue, away from his shame, swearing to never return.

But return he did. He recounted this story some 85 years later at services in the Vladivostok synagogue. In between, were years and years of service to the Soviet Union. First, as a high ranking officer in the Army. Later, he served as chief of Intelligence for the KGB, a large area under his command. (although by all rights, his qualifications and talents, he should have been promoted to general, this rank was denied to Jews).

Even at age of 93, he walked like a proud soldier, shoulders back, head held high. But now he focuses his determination to being a soldier in G-d’s army. He felt that, at 92 years old, he now entered into a new era, a new life. He was once a communist, he would proudly say. But that was then. And now, - and of this he was especially proud – he was a returning Jew. He attended synagogue each week, listening intently, always absorbing, as the rabbi spoke. Jewish holiday and traditions once again became a part of his life.

So it was a very sad day for us when we attended his funeral. In his merit, he received a sort of Jewish funeral, a rare event in Vladivostok. There is no Jewish cemetery here, and most people don’t care enough about Judaism for a Jewish funeral. But for Boris, chapters from Psalms were read. The rabbi entreated the mourners to take on another good deed in his memory.

As we left the funeral, getting in from the literally feet numbing cold, I thought about how much this incredible man achieved in his last few years. It is truly never too late.

And I thought too, about the thousands of others out here like him, or, rather, farther removed than him. The Jews who think being Jewish means eating stuffed fish and chopped herring. Those who wish they weren’t Jewish. Those who know they are Jewish and don’t care. Those who don’t even know they are Jewish.

I uttered a small prayer for the Borises of Vladivostok, indeed, of the world, to return to their Jewish identity, to return to themselves