Rochester

I spent the last several days in Western New York in my hometown of Rochester. Early morning temps in the 50s rising to a nice 75 degrees, it was an exceptionally pleasant time of year to visit my parents and their friends at the Britton Road cemetery, where an area is dedicated to the members of the Kippel Volin shul, my family’s synagogue for 40 years. A monument erected in 1991 at the entrance to the cemetery memorializes those who died in 1941 in Kippel (aka Kupel), Russia, my ancestors among them, at the hands of the Nazis. I walked among the headstones, some of which were discolored and slightly tilted from years of settling into the ground after decades of deep winter snows. A few moss-covered rocks had been carefully placed on the headstones, left by visitors who had come by to pay their respects. Leaving a stone at a gravesite is a Jewish tradition signifying enduring love and remembrance. As I walked along, I recognized the names of many of my parents’ friends: Stoler, Pies, Katz, Cantor, as well as those of near and distant relatives: Cresov, Lederman, and Ressel. With Rosh Hashanah almost upon us, my thoughts drifted to memorable times with my family at the Kippel Volin shul on Joseph Avenue, celebrating the Jewish High Holidays.

This was a long-delayed visit to the cemetery. I had promised my mother before she died that I would come back regularly, and my last visit was pre-COVID. On the final day of my stay, I went to the Jewish Home for the aged, where I read from my book, Leibisch’s Journey, to a room of elderly but still sharp and curious residents, a handful of whom, like myself, were descendants of the Kupel shtetl in Russia. It is a tribute to both my parents and an honor for me to return to my hometown to speak about my father’s journey to America and to Rochester.

Seeing all the headstones from years ago, some dating to before WW1, I am proud to say I am a Kupel descendant.