My Name is Moshe Duvid...

When the Jewish community mourns the breach of the walls of the Old City of Jerusalem on the 17^th of Tammuz as Israel’s enemies ventured to destroy the Holy Temple; and as we begin counting the three weeks up to Tisha b'Av which reminds us of the actual destruction of Solomon’s Great Temple and our exile from Israel. My brothers and I remember our eldest brother Martin David.

Marty as we called him, was a character in his own right. He was the first of six sons born to my mother and father, Harry and Esther. Marty provided my parent with a learning experience and he was a challenge from day one. He was bright and inquisitive and gave my parents a run for their money. The more they tried to coral his raw energy the more he ran from here to there and back. In Yiddish they would say; “he had ‘shpilkas’ and he did. In the hopes of disciplining his overwhelming energy, my father, convinced Marty to join the Army and learn a trade. When Marty was 18 years old he enlisted in the Army. Early on it became evident that if an honorable medical discharge was not arranged, he would spend his military career in the stockade. With the assistance of a Congressman the discharge was arranged and Marty returned home.

Somehow Marty ended up learning to drive a ‘Big Rig’ and his career as a trucker was born. He loved to drive and it was a place were he succeeded until the sleeping and eating on the road got the best of his health. By the time he was 40 years old, Marty, although six foot tall was so obese that he had difficulty moving around and keeping himself awake behind the wheel. He could no longer sleep the weight on his chest narrowed his wind pipe he could not breath when on his back. It wouldn’t be long before he fell asleep at the wheel and ran his truck into an abutment.

Marty lost his license for the big rig and was forced to take up driving a cab. He liked driving a cab just as much and told his customers the stories of driving cross country. When the lottery became legal he would box his cab number in the lottery tickets in the hopes of winning the big one. He liked to gamble and he loved the pony’s so food and gambling became his obsessions.

Marty drove all over Long Island and New York. Frequently, when I would return home from school on an out Shabbat from the train to my parents I would travel by cab. All the other drivers knew and liked Marty. He was a conundrum in his own right.

As time went by, the wanderer in Marty took him from city to city visiting his mother and father who by now retired and were living in New Mexico. Followed by visits to each of his brothers and his Cousin Robert, all living in different places. We never knew when Marty would show up at the door with his suitcase in hand, needing a bath, clothes that needed washing, a small and reasonable wish list and sometimes, medical care. In my home the wish list had to do with foods he associated with his childhood, giffilte fish and borscht with sour cream. It was hard to watch his deterioration but easy to fill his needs. Although, admittedly, I was not as tolerant with him as Barbie, he would come and stay for several days then move on to his next port of call in the storm of life. It took a few dollars for his pocket, a suitcase with clean clothes and off he went.

My mother tells this story about Marty. Esther reported that when Marty was a little child she went shopping for groceries. His curiosity got the best of him and he wandered off. When my mother realized he was gone she became panicked and began looking all threw the large store to find him. My mother reported that she was absolutely frantic. Then without warning, a policeman approached her and asked; “did you misplace a little boy”? “Did you find him;” she asked. “Yes, I think so.” The policeman asked; “blue-eyed, blond hair?” “Yes...Yes, were is he?” “He is upfront at the service counter we’re holding him there for you”; the policeman reported. “Are you Mrs. Duvid?” the policeman asked. My mother was set a back by the question and didn't know how to respond.

My mother asked the policeman to repeat the question. Again he asked; “Are you Mrs.Duvid?” Quizzically my mother responded Mrs. Duvid? He is Martin and I am Esther Mehler, his mother. Where did you get the idea that my name is Mrs.Duvid? The policeman said; “I asked him his name and he told me it was “Moshe Duvid”.

My mother then realized that my brother had given this Irish policeman his Hebrew name and so the policeman thought his first name was Moshe and his last name was Duvid.

That was Marty's life. We worried toward the end of his life that he would be found unconscious and no one would know his name. When he passed Marty was 540 lbs. He was found alive but near death on the streets of Mesa Arizona and taken to a hospital. He had collapsed from his diabetes and other medical conditions. When the nurse called to inform us of Marty's impending death, she said my tour is almost over but I will stay with him and not leave his side until he passes.

As a young boy a policeman identified Marty and became his guardian and protective angel and as he was about to leave this world a nurse identifies Marty as needing a guardian angel to help him find his way and she helps escort him through the transition between this World and the ‘World to Come’.

There is much more to tell of Marty’s story but I will stop here since I plan to post every year on his Yartshite a story about his life. However, what resonates for me in this story, is my mother’s experience in the grocery would foretell the story of my brother Marty's life. My mother and father didn't know it then but Marty would be a wanderer and we were concerned that when his time came to leave this world, would those around him know his name. The answer came when the nurse reported that he carried my business card in his wallet. That is the only reason they knew his name and identity. To this day, I believe and I advocate, my mother watched over Moshe Duvid carefully after she lost him in the grocery.

One of Marty’s final requests was that he buried next to my mother and in accordance with his wish he lies near my mother in Sheboygan Wisconsin at the Mehler Family Grave site.

He is missed his soul is loved and the stories of his life will be told for a long time to come.