I’m Running Kaddish

When I first started running a few years ago, I looked for quiet roads without traffic, crosswalks, stoplights, train crossings and other roadblocks to urban runners. I fortunately live in Chicago, a city rich in cemeteries. Within a 10-mile radius of my house, there is a trove of necropolises well suited for runners.

One of my favorite courses, Mount Olivet Cemetery, has serious Chicago street cred. It is the final resting place of Catherine O’Leary, the “Mrs. O’Leary” of Great Chicago Fire infamy, a resident since her death in 1895. Another notable gravestone belongs to Al Capone, although he is no longer buried in that plot. Capone was buried in Mount Olivet upon his death in 1947, but neighbors living near the cemetery complained after the mobster’s grave became a lively tourist attraction. Capone’s remains were disinterred and moved to Mount Carmel Cemetery in west suburban Hillside, a graveyard that also houses the remains of Chicago archbishops, including Cardinal Joseph Bernardin.

Another of my favorite courses is Mount Hope, a 16-acre cemetery. Its beautifully landscaped grounds are a runner’s paradise with plenty of loops, dips, hill climbs and even a set of stairs within the many oak trees. Mount Hope also has its share of famous names, most notably George “Buck” Weaver, a member of the 1919 Chicago Black Sox.

As I ran past the many Frawleys and McCarthys, I was surprised to see a grave marker reading: “Lovingly George O. Zorn 1896-1983.” A Jewish star was next to his name.

My Far South Side neighborhood of Beverly has one of the city’s largest Irish Catholic populations. I’m one of a handful of Jewish residents. The living population is reflected in Mount Olivet and Mount Hope, with their considerable concentration of graves with Irish Catholic residents.

But one day, as I ran past the many Frawleys and McCarthys buried in Mount Hope, I was surprised to see a grave marker reading: “Lovingly George O. Zorn 1896-1983.” A Jewish star was next to his name. No family was buried on either side. It was a surprise to see one of my Jewish co-religionists on my running trail within a cemetery of largely Catholic residents. “We’re everywhere,” I thought and kept going.

But Zorn isn’t the only Jewish soul resting at Mount Hope. A few months after stumbling across Zorn’s gravesite, I saw another Jewish grave: Garald Schwartz 1908-1920. He was laid to rest on the other side of the cemetery trail. Because of his age, it was possible he was a victim of the flu pandemic. Like Zorn, there were no family names within sight.

I kept running. But the names remained transfixed in my mind.

In Judaism, there is a tradition of leaving a small stone when visiting a grave. As with many Jewish customs, its origin is best explained by Tevye, the protagonist in “Fiddler on the Roof”: “How did this tradition get started? I’ll tell you. I don’t know. But it’s a tradition.” One possibility is that during biblical times, leaving a pile of stones was the only way to find the location of where someone was buried, as well as protect the body from being dug up by animals.

But there is another school of thought, both simple and profound: Floral arrangements, while beautiful, wither and die. Stones hold fast, serving as a reminder that for those who have gone before us, the persistence of their memory should be everlasting.

Every runner has their rituals, and honoring these graves became part of mine.

Yet Zorn and his young neighbor Schwartz seemed lonely, forgotten by the decades. I felt compelled to remember them. Every runner has their rituals, and honoring these graves became part of mine. Every time I ran past their final resting places, I scooped up a little stone, placed it on their grave markers and recited a few lines of the Mourner’s Kaddish, the Jewish prayer for the dead.

It became as important a ritual as picking the right shoes or warming up. My running took on an unexpected dimension. The cemetery was no longer just a great running course: It was now a place where I could honor my kinsmen in a centuries-old tradition. I was a custodian for the continuum of memory.

Research on Zorn and Schwartz turned up little information. Zorn’s wife, who preceded him in death, was buried in Michigan. Zorn was born in south suburban Blue Island, which borders Mount Hope. For the boy, I found only the names of his parents.

As my miles piled up, so did the stones. I left them with every run, whispering those few words of the Mourner’s Kaddish. A few months after my ritual began, I found another small pile of stones marking Schwartz’s grave. Someone else was remembering this child now a century dead. Someone else was reciting the Mourner’s Kaddish for Garald Schwartz.

The source of these new stones was a mystery to me, perhaps as my stones were to this visitor. I have since found other Jewish graves in the cemeteries where I run. Leaving stones for these departed souls has added a spiritual quality to my runs. I don’t pretend to be a rabbinical sage as to the meaning of any of this, but in my own way, leaving a small memorial at a lonely grave is important. I am running Kaddish.

This article originally appeared in the Chicago Tribune

More on Kaddish:

The Meaning of Kaddish
Saying Kaddish for 500 People
How to Maintain Your Connection with a Deceased Parent