A Stone for Danny Fisher (1952)

T
HERE
are
many
ways
to
get
to
Mount
Zion
Cemetery.

You
can
go
by
automobile,
through
the
many
beautiful
parkways
of
Long
Island,
or
by
subway,
bus,
or
trolley;
but
this
week
there
is
no
way
that
is
not
crushed
and
crowded
with
people.
For
it
is
the
week
before
the
High
Holy
Days.
During
these
six
days
you
devote
yourself
to
acts
of
charity
and
devotion.
One
of
these
acts
is
the
annual
visit
to
the
dead.

And
to
make
sure
that
your
visit
to
the
departed
will
be
noted
and
the
proper
credit
given,
you
will
pick
up
a
small
stone
from
the
earth
beneath
your
feet
and
place
it
on
the
monument
so
that
the
Recording
Angel
will
see
it
when
he
comes
through
the
cemetery
each
night.

You
meet
at
the
time
appointed
under
an
archway
of
white
stone.
The
words
M
OUNT
Z
ION
C
EMETERY
are
etched
into
the
stone
over
your
head.
There
are
six
of
you.
You
look
awkwardly
at
one
another
and
words
come
stiffly
to
your
lips.
You
are
all
here.
As
if
by
secret
agreement,
without
a
word,
you
all
begin
to
move
at
once
and
pass
beneath
the
archway.

On
your
right
is
the
caretaker’s
building;
on
your
left,
the
record
office.
In
this
office,
listed
by
plot
number
and
burial
society,
are
the
present
addresses
of
many
people
who
have
walked
this
earth
with
you
and
many
who
have
walked
this
earth
before
your
time.
You
do
not
stop
to
think
of
this,
for
to
you,
all
except
me
belong
to
yesterday.

You
walk
up
a
long
road
searching
for
a
certain
path.
At
last
you
see
it;
white
numbers
on
a
black
disk.
You
turn
up
the
path,
your
eyes
reading
the
names
of
the
burial
societies
over
each
plot
section.
The
name
you
have
been
looking
for
is
now
visible
to
you,
polished
black
lettering
on
grey
stone.
You
enter
the
plot.

A
small
old
man
with
a
white
tobacco-stained
moustache
and
beard
hurries
forward
to
meet
you.
He
smiles
tentatively,
while
his
fingers
toy
with
a
small
badge
on
his
lapel.
It
is
the
prayer-reader
for
the
burial
society.
He
will
say
your
prayers
in
Hebrew
for
you,
for
such
has
been
the
custom
for
many
years.

You
murmur
a
name.
He
nods
his
head
in
birdlike
acquiescence;
he
knows
the
grave
you
seek.
He
turns,
and
you
follow
him,
stepping
carefully
over
other
graves,
for
space
is
at
a
premium
here.
He
stops
find
points
an
old,
shaking
hand.
You
nod
your
head,
it
is
the
grave
you
seek,
and
he
steps
back.

An
aeroplane
drones
overhead,
going
to
a
landing
at
a
nearby
airport,
but 
you
do
not
look
up.
You
are
reading
the
words
on
the
monument.
Peace
and
quiet
come
over
you.
The
tensions
of
the
day
fall
from
your
body.
You
raise
your
eyes
and
nod
slightly
to
the
prayer-reader.

He
steps
forward
again
and
stands
in
front
of
you.
He
asks
your
names
,
so
that
he
may
include
them
in
his
prayer.
One
by
one
you
answer
him.

My
mother.

My
father.

My
sister.

My
sister’s
husband.

My
wife.

My
son.

His
prayer
is
a
singsong,
unintelligible
gibberish
of
words
that
echoes
monotonously
among
the
graves.
But
you
are
not
listening
to
him.
You
are
filled
with
memories
of
me,
and
to
each
of
you
I
am
a
different
person.

At
last
the
prayer
is
done,
the
prayer-reader
paid
and
gone
to
seek
his
duty
elsewhere.
You
look
around
on
the
ground
beneath
you
for
some
small
stone.
Carefully
you
hold
it
in
your
hand
and,
like
the
others,
one
at
a
time,
step
forward
toward
the
monument.

Though
the
cold
and
snow
of
winter
and
the
sun
and
rain
of
summer
have
been
close
to
me
since
last
you
were
here
together,
your
thoughts
are
again
as
they
were
then.
I
am
strong
in
each
of
your
memories,
except
one.

To
my
mother
I
am
a
frightened
child,
huddling
close
to
her
bosom,
seeking
safety
in
her
arms.

To
my
father
I
am
a
difficult
son,
whose
love
was
hard
to
meet,
yet
strong
as
mine
for
him.

To
my
sister
I
am
the
bright
young
brother,
whose
daring
was
a
cause
of
love
and
fear.

To
my
sister’s
husband
I
am
the
friend
who
shared
the
common
hope
of
glory.

To
my
wife
I
am
the
lover,
who,
beside
her
in
the
night,
worshipped
with
her
at
the
shrine
of
passion
and
joined
her
in
a
child.

To
my
son
—
to
my
son
I
know,
not
what
I
am,
for
he
knew
me
not.

There
are
five
stones
lying
on
my
grave
and
still,
my
son,
you
stand
there
wondering.
To
all
the
others
I
am
real,
but
not
to
you.
Then
why
must
you
stand
here
and
mourn
someone
you
never
knew
?

In
your
heart
there
is
the
tiny
hard
core
of
a
child’s
resentment.
For
I
have
failed
you.
You
have
never
made
those
boasts
that
children
are
wont
to
make;
“My
daddy
is
the
strongest,”
or
the
smartest,
or
the
kindest,
or
the
most
loving.
You
have
listened
in
bitter
silence,
with
a
growing
frustration,
while
others
have
said
these
things
to
you.

Do
not
resent
nor
condemn
me,
my
son.
Withhold
your
judgment,
if
you
can,
and
hear
the
story
of
your
father.
I
was
human,
hence
fallible
and
weak. 
And
though
in
my
lifetime
I
made
many
mistakes
and
failed
many
people,
I
would
not
willingly
fail
you.
Listen
to
me
then,
I
beg
you,
listen
to
me,
O
my
son,
and
learn
of
your
father.