Rabbi's Derasha

Boris was born to Berl & Ida Rashkovskiy, in Moscow in 1936.  His brother Nahum, who just passed away a few months ago, followed a few years later.  The central event of Boris’s childhood, which he repeated often, was the death of his father after Germany turned on the Russian army in Operation Barbarossa in 1941.  Although his mother ultimately re-married, and had a third child, Sima or Simcha, his father’s death left him bereft.

His army service in the mid 50s was in Baku, which turned out well for him because he met Sophia there.  He brought her to Moscow as he entered university but he had to leave college to go to work to help his family.  Eventually he had a job at an electronics factory.  He worked there for 30 years, through the birth of his son Oleg in 1961, and Oleg’s marriage to Reema in 1984, and the birth of his granddaughter Yulia in 1986.  

The political winds began to blow differently at the end of the 80s, and the Rashkovskiys were able to leave the Former Soviet Union in 1992.  They joined Sima, who was in Los Angeles.  And through his Aunt Sima, Oleg got his break.  In LA, that phrase usually means getting into show business.  But for Oleg, the break was finding a job in San Jose.  Eventually, Boris and Sofia followed Oleg and Reema and Yulia to the South Bay.  They were living in Sunnyvale when Oleg passed away suddenly during a business trip in Russia around Sukkot in 2007.  Sofia, heartbroken, passed away a year later, again leaving Boris bereft.  

We met Boris around this time, as he was saying Kaddish.  And he became a regular presence at Emek Beracha for about 10 years, until his ailments kept him home.

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Boris loved to laugh.  That was his first instinct, and reflected his basic manner.  As I mentioned, he carried his father’s death around with him but it never dampened his overall spirit.  His humor was irrepressible, whether he was kibitzing with Ilya, joking with Morad, or making his way in a combination of Russian, Yiddish, and a little bit of English (and lots of hand gestures) with members of the community.  

It was also his basic instinct to know deeply that he was a Jew.  He told me once that he only started to use Yiddish when he came to America because only here did it become useful.  He had picked it up through his mother; it was a true mama lashon.  He also enjoyed the contact with Shuls -- with Chabads all over, and with Emek Beracha -- that he could enjoy in America.  

He also knew that being a Jew included a relationship with Hashem.  That was the source of his consternation, expressed in his repeated question, “Rabbi -- why am I still here and my son and my wife are not?”  The inability to discern what Hashem had in mind for him and his family was his constant frustration.  

This is the image of him at Emek Beracha: Coming every morning, kissing the memorial plaques for his wife and his son as he left the sanctuary, and then joining us in the kitchen.  We had a breakfast club -- with Morad, and Vitaly Katznelson, a grad student at Stanford, and Boris.  He would bring the cereal and the peanut butter he received from the US government.  He couldn’t eat it but he could share it.  We called it Obama food.  And that’s where he would ask his question -- “Rabbi: Why am I here and they are not?  What is Hashem thinking?” There are no answers to these questions, at least not at my pay grade, but I know that Hashem loved to hear him ask.  Hashem could see that Boris Davened with these questions, and lived with them, as we all must.  Yehi Zichro Baruch.