A father's legacy to his children

We have three beautiful pieces of furniture in our home that belie the notion that inanimate objects do not have genuine value. Outstanding French restoration cabinets with intricate inlays, balanced dimensions and exact finishing – these are products of my father’s hands and heart. 

I run my fingers over the smooth varnished surfaces, reminded that he had no formal instruction in the art of fine cabinet-making. He compensated for this shortcoming with innate skill and the diligence of a snail. He surely lived by Confucius’s advice: “It does not matter how slowly you go as long as you do not stop.” Albert Saevitzon (later “Abba Shavei-Tzion”) was a man of precision and patience.

He applied that same perseverance and focus to another of his passions: movie making, documenting life-cycle occasions and the day-to-day of family life. In the era of 8 mm film, splicing, cutting and pasting were literally that, with just a single original reel to enhance or destroy. He left us with a priceless treasure, artfully titled and edited, that has allowed me to show my grandchildren how their great-great-great grandparents frowned and smiled “in real life.” 

More than an inheritance, “Dad” left us with a heritage of commitment to kin and community – and of modesty. We moved around as a family, in both Cape Town and Johannesburg. Wherever we went, he made his mark, serving synagogue and lodge humbly, shying away from honor. With his punctuality, precision and immaculate, artistic handwriting in the pre-computer age, he had the full skill set of the ultimate synagogue secretary. He was also invited to act as treasurer, a position begged by his qualification as a chartered accountant. His refusal was based not on a reticence to serve but rather on the fact that the treasurer was one of the three officials who sat in “the box” at the front of the congregation, bowler hat and all. This recognition was way beyond his comfort zone.

He taught his four children that it is almost never too late to fulfill a dream. One of his was to settle in Israel. And then he was diagnosed with cancer. Yet he and my mother, Leonore, came despite his condition; probably even because of it. It gave him a change of name and a new life. And so he came to be buried on a continent different from where he was born, just like his parents and grandparents before him, and in all likelihood, with his children following him. 

His death at the age of 62, taught me not to procrastinate in fulfilling my dreams and beyond that, to proactively pursue them. 

My father was not a religious man but was a traditionalist in the most favorable way. To this day we end our Passover Seders with “Sabba Abba’s Chad Gadya,” almost by Divine decree. The fact that such a tune exists at all is surprising, given his extreme lack of musicality. 

WHEN THE FIRST of his kids was swayed by Bnei Akiva to observe Shabbat, it upset him initially because he valued the greater family’s Friday night get-togethers. My guess is, with the hindsight of 50 years, he feared the return of the stern-hearted religiosity of his maternal grandfather that might have cast a shadow over his childhood. 

One thing it definitely did was affirm his own Zionist ideals, which he held so dear. He soon understood that three of his kids who chose that path adopted a lighter approach, filled more with the joys of Judaism rather than the stringencies of Halacha, Jewish religious law. Yet principle was principle and I recall a screaming match between him and an atheist cousin who insisted that if his son was to have a bar mitzvah the catering should be strictly treif, non-kosher! 

My parents had a wonderful marriage, and although my father lived in an age when fathers were less present than they are today, he loved and took great pride in his kids. He also fostered the notion of mutual responsibility for family. I remember him schlepping my brother and me to countless evening choir practices. Only seven of his 12 grandchildren had seen the light of day by the time he died. But having been diagnosed with a terminal disease before his first child was married, he cherished each moment with them. A man of his time, our physical contact was generally limited to handshakes, with kisses reserved for my bar mitzvah and wedding. The first time we hugged was at my initiative while he was on his deathbed.

He could be stern yet instantly forgiving, stubborn and serious, loving and playful. He had strong philosophical and political opinions, and voiced them passionately. 

I had the great fortune of saying goodbye to him in a really meaningful way. I was invited to serve a community in South Africa over the High Holy Day Services while he was in hospital with a poor prognosis. He encouraged me to travel, and I knew he would do all he could to stay alive until I returned. And he did. But my uncertainty motivated me to write him a letter before I left, describing what he meant to me and how I valued him. 

That letter is one of my treasures, simply because I wrote it and he read it. I have learned from that experience to do the good things sooner rather than later, even if I do not always live up to my own resolution. 

The inscription on his tombstone, Tov shem me’shemen tov (“A good name is better than good oil”), was suggested by my brother-in-law David, who in the short time he knew my father, discovered how important integrity and a good reputation were to him. 

It has taken me a long time to recognize that all of us are inescapably products, in part, of our genes and early environment, and how our offspring become the memory of who we are when we pass on. I believe we only truly leave this world when the last person to remember us and our legacy passes on. Abba Shavei-Tzion left this world enhanced by his life. That aspiration would serve us all well. 

The Last Thing My Father Did For Me