GONE, BUT NOT FORGOTTEN

A few weeks ago, I conducted the funeral of Ron Plotkin, former owner of Monster.com and once a leading philanthropist in Los Angeles. In recent years, his life changed drastically—from prominence and influence to obscurity and hardship.

I knew Ron at his height and stayed in touch as others drifted away. By the time he died, there were no resources left—not even enough for a burial. We arranged for him to be laid to rest through charitable means at the Jewish cemetery in Commerce, California.

Sadly, we struggled to find ten men to attend Ron’s funeral so Kaddish could be recited. A group from my synagogue agreed to come, but there were only nine of us. We stood in the blazing sun, waiting for a minyan.

Suddenly, a tenth man appeared: Shalom Raichik—originally from Los Angeles, now living in Baltimore—was at the cemetery just at that moment and agreed to join us.

After I recited Kaddish for Ron, Shalom asked if we could gather at another nearby grave to say Kaddish again, along with a memorial prayer.

“Who is it?” I asked. Shalom’s answer sent a chill through all of us. It is a story I cannot put out of my mind—a story about reclaiming someone who had disappeared from history.

We often think of death as a single, final event. But Jewish tradition introduces a powerful idea: a person can die twice. The first death is physical. The second is when they are forgotten—when no one remembers their name, or visits their grave, or even knows they existed.

The man we said Kaddish for that day is marked as “Ploni ben Avraham”—the Jewish equivalent of John Doe. We don’t know his name.

His story is tragic yet extraordinary: he survived the Holocaust, came to America alone, had no money and no family, and lived quietly in New York in obscurity.

At some point, he sought the help of Dr. Maurice Frey, a dentist and fellow refugee who had escaped Europe during the war. Dr. Frey was known for caring for penniless Holocaust survivors, and treated this man without charge.

The patient, wanting to keep his dignity, insisted on giving something in return and arranged to donate his body to medical science, requesting his skull be given to Dr. Frey for educational use.

Years later, long after the encounter had been forgotten, a small package arrived containing the man’s skull. Dr. Frey tried to transfer it to the NYU School of Dentistry, but when they declined to take it, he kept it.

After his death, Dr. Frey’s widow moved to California, bringing the skull with her. There, she sought its disposal according to Jewish law and was directed to Chabad, who helped arrange a proper burial in 2021. Though only a skull remained, they honored the survivor and fulfilled the obligation to respect even the smallest remnant of a Jewish life.

Still, something was missing: there was no name, no marker, and no memory. Visitors to the cemetery unknowingly walked over his grave. A man who had survived the worst horrors was, even in death, being trampled, not by malice but by ignorance.

Finally, a small group decided to act, and this past January, they placed a modest stone, simply acknowledging that Ploni ben Avraham had existed and was not forgotten. And a few weeks ago, someone finally said Kaddish for him at his grave.

At Ron Plotkin’s funeral, having just buried a man once surrounded by success and admirers, but who died nearly alone, and then walking over to the grave of Ploni ben Avraham, I was struck by how fragile life and legacy can be.

Ron had a name and achievements, and was once celebrated, but at the end, there were barely ten people at his funeral. Ploni ben Avraham had no name or notable achievements, and no family to remember him—yet, by chance, both were remembered on the same day. Their second death was averted.

At the end of Sefer Vayikra, in Parshat Bechukotai, the Torah presents consequences for the Jewish people’s fidelity or disregard for their responsibilities. It seems like a strict formula of reward and punishment: follow God’s laws and you’ll receive blessings; abandon them, and hardship will follow.

And yet, within this passage, there is a quieter message. After the warnings and descriptions of suffering, the Torah offers a redemptive promise (Lev. 26:42): וזכרתי את בריתי – “I will remember My covenant,” says God.

That is the turning point. Even if everything falls apart—even if the people are scattered and shattered—God says: I will remember, I will always remember.

God teaches us that memory is the foundation of meaning. In Jewish thought, remembering is not merely recalling; it is restoring. When God says, “I will remember,” it is an active commitment: no matter how far we fall, we are never erased.

That is why we say Kaddish—not for the dead, but because memory sustains identity. It ensures a person’s life continues to echo in this world. We mark graves, tell stories, and cling to names—because the greatest tragedy is being forgotten.

That is why we tell stories about the dead, and that is why we refuse to let people disappear after they’re gone. Because the ultimate curse is not suffering, or even death. It is oblivion. And the ultimate redemption is not just survival. It is being remembered.

When we remember someone, we return them to the narrative. We restore their place in the story of our people. Ploni ben Avraham had no land, no family, and no possessions. He didn’t even leave a name. But we still remember him, and that is his redemption.

That day in the cemetery, I was reminded that in the end, what matters is not how loudly a person’s life is celebrated at its peak, but whether it is remembered after they are gone. And sometimes, in the most unexpected ways, we are invited to be part of that remembering.