CLOSE-UP

als)," Mr. Techner says.
"But by trying to hide the
pain, we only make it
worse."
Mr. Techner feels espe-
cially strong about children
and death because of his own
experiences; when David
was 9, his grandfather died.
"He and I were close," Mr.
Techner says. "But I didn't
have any part of the funeral,
and to this day I still feel
that loss."
Sarah's family leaves at
4:10 p.m. Mr. Techner is al-
ready late to a funeral. He's
in his car, makes a quick call
to his wife, and is on his way
to the cemetery.
He doesn't go to all funer-
als; Kaufman handles about
600 each year. But this is a

special case. A young woman
died of AIDS, the result of a
blood transfusion. Against
her parents' wishes, the
woman insisted on crema-
tion. Mr. Techner has ar-
ranged for burial of the
ashes, a gesture for which he
receives no fee.

But public relations is the
name of the game in the fu-
neral business, he says. And
that's why he's sensitive to
criticism that funeral direc-
tors are greedy and over-
paid.
"I work very hard and I
don't make any apologies for
wanting to earn a good liv-
ing," he says.
Mr. Techner is adamant:
he never presses anyone to

111• ■••■•■■••■■■ •11.11.111,41•1
1111.1116.M.111. ■■■■■■■■■■■■■■11

David Techner
with a client:
"The most
painful thing a
family faces is
not just the loss
of a loved one,
but all that goes
with that loss."

26

FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 22, 1991

spend more than he can af-
ford. "What good is it going
to do me if a family picks out
an expensive casket and
they can't pay for it?" he
says.
"It's critical there be no
misunderstandings. If peo-
ple think I've ripped them
off, that's a PR nightmare. I
can do 60,000 funerals that
will all be great. But if
there's a problem with just
one, you'll never hear the
end of it."
The most expensive aspect
of the funeral is the coffin.
Price depends on the
availability and thickness of
the wood. A major expense is
shipping from New York.
Both Kaufman and Chesed
Shel Emes provide free ser-
vices for families who cannot
afford burial and for in-
digents.
"All the rabbis in town are
very understanding that
when we do a funeral for
nothing, they do it for
nothing," Mr. Techner says.
"And frankly, they're glad
to do it."
Mr. Techner also says
Kaufman does not take
payment for children's fu-
nerals, regardless of the
parents' financial situation,
unless the family wants
something exceptionally
elaborate. "That's not how I
want to make my money,"
he says.
Mr. Techner arrives at the
cemetery at 4:35 p.m., just in
the nick of time. The ashes
rest in a small box sitting on
astroturf. The family
gathers for the ceremony.
The rabbi delivers a brief
eulogy. As he speaks, his
breath hangs in the air like
wisps of smoke.
The rabbi, affiliated with a
local Reform temple, gathers
words for his eulogy from
family members.
"My greatest responsibili-
ty is to listen to what they
say," he says. "In my eulogy,
I want to reflect how people
saw the deceased." He tries
to say kind words, "because
we can never know all the
mitzvot she did."
The rabbi meets with the
family, attends the
memorial service and funer-
al and makes several follow-
up visits.
Mr. Techner speaks highly
about Detroit's rabbis.
"This is a town of excep-
tional clergy," he says.
"From Reform to Orthodox
— I'd put them up against
anybody. And that's impor-
tant for my work. I can do a
wonderful job of putting
together a service, but if the
rabbi delivers a lousy
eulogy, that's all the
families remember."
Mr. Techner feels strongly
that families should be com-
forted by the funeral — even
if it means violating

Halachah. In addition to do-
ing embalming, Kaufman
Chapel will arrange for
cremation, which is also for-
bidden by Jewish law.
"Do I agree with crema-
tion? Absolutely not," he
says. "Would I consider it for
myself? Absolutely not. But
I don't have to agree with
what people choose for them-
selves. I'm here to give you
the funeral you want."
The only requirement is
that the service be perform-
ed by a rabbi. "If a rabbi of-
ficiates, that makes it a Jew-
ish funeral for us," Mr.
Techner says.
After the burial of the
ashes, it's back to Kaufman
Chapel. Mr. Techner checks
on a few last details for
Sarah's funeral. tomorrow.
It's 5:18 p.m. and for the first
time all day, Kaufman's is
not filled with the sound of
ringing telephones. In the
hallway, the shomer chants
psalms for the three bodies
in the freezer.
One of the shomrim is a
JARC resident. He was the
first JARC resident to be
hired for a full-time job. An-
other is a rabbi in town who,
like the JARC resident,
takes his work as a guardian
"very seriously," Mr.
Techner says. A third is the
father of five. Five shomrim
work at Kaufman's. All are
men; all are observant. One
is always present at the fu-
neral home.
This evening, Mr. Techner
is on his way to speak with a
group of nursery-school
teachers. The topic: children
and death. It is a subject
with which he is familiar not
only because of his work, but
in his own life.
David Techner's first
child, Alicia, died 13 years
ago because of a misdiagnos-
ed case of meningitis. She
was 8 months old.
"Not a day goes by that I
don't think of her," he says.
"I look at other girls her age
and I wonder, 'Would my kid
be this cute? What would she
look like? Would she have
braces?' "
People often ask how he
survived Alicia's death. Mr.
Techner tells them, "I don't
know." He adds, "You never
get over it. You get used to
it."
This constant pain binds
him to other parents who
must bury their children.
But he's cautious never to
say, "I know what you're go-
ing through." That's the
worst thing to tell anyone
grieving, he says.
Mr. Techner has seen his
share of grieving, from sin-
gle tragedies to major
disasters.
In the middle of an eve-
ning out with friends several
years ago, he was called to a
home where a woman and

her daughter had been shot
dead. The father said he
discovered the bodies when
he walked in the front door;
later, he was convicted of the
crime.
Mr. Techner also worked
with the victims of Nor-
thwest Flight 255, which
crashed in August 1987, kill-
ing all but one of the passen-
gers on board. One of those
who died was a little boy,
traveling with the mother
who had recently adopted
him. Kaufman handled the
funeral. The father could not
bear the agony, telling Mr.
Techner, "If we hadn't
adopted him, our boy would
still be alive."
After his evening talk, Mr.
Techner returns to Kaufman
at 10 p.m. Long days like
this are typical. He works
six days a week and spends
any free time with his chil-
dren. He has hobbies — golf,
travel and watching "L.A.
Law" — and he's involved in
community activities like
the Temple Israel Bereave-
ment Support Group, which
he founded. He's also chair-
man of the National Funeral
Directors Association PR
Committee. But mostly, it's
work at Kaufman Chapel.
"I've yet to learn how to
master the art of saying no,"
Mr. Techner says.
At 10:15 p.m., Mr. Techner
checks his messages. He re-
views funeral arrangements
for the next day and makes
certain chairs for Shiva, the
week-long mourning period,
were delivered to the home
of Sarah, the suicide. He re-
views his records, which in
remarkable detail tell every-
thing about the chapel's
work: the name of each of
the deceased, the kind of
coffin he was buried in,
which worker helped the
family.
"We document every-
thing," Mr. Techner says.
When he leaves at 11 p.m.,
Mr. Techner locks the front
door on a calm, quiet
building. The soft light from
inside is almost soothing.
Inside in the back freezer
are the three corpses — the
elderly Mrs. Green, Mr. Z.
and Sarah, whose wedding
ring sits on the front desk at
Kaufman. Her husband ask-
ed that it be placed on
Sarah's finger before she is
buried.
Inside on the right is the
office, where a worker is
ever present. The phone is
ringing even as Mr. Techner
closes the door. This is not
the kind of business that
ever shuts down.
And straight ahead sits
the shomer, reciting psalms.
He will stay there until
twilight, the gentle protector
for three souls who will
never even know his
name. Ell

