Honoring Hanoch Kohl’s Legacy: A Tribute
I just returned from Hanoch’s funeral and felt moved to write.
In a small box, his ashes were lowered through a deep hole in the earth. Two custodians held the box using two blue straps. I worried the straps might slip and the box would fall. I was mesmerized. Perhaps I underestimated their experience—everything went smoothly.
Hanoch had donated his body to science and asked to be cremated. Elisheva chose to bury his ashes in the family plot at Eden Cemetery—a hilltop resting place with wide, peaceful views. On the phone, she told me that when her time came, her body would be laid to rest on top of his. I said, “He would love that.” She replied, “Yes, he would.” We laughed.
Hanoch was 70 years old. Just a week before his passing, he celebrated his birthday in Las Vegas—his favorite place. I can only imagine how many thousands of dollars he left on those casino tables.
I met Hanoch when I was 11. He had married my cousin, Elisheva. They were like fire and water. He was the fire—an immense fire. My childhood impressions of him remain vivid: handsome, tall, fair-skinned, with long hair, big sideburns, and probably a mustache. He was the first in our family to settle in Los Angeles. A few of us followed. He paved the way.
Hanoch radiated energy. He was the natural leader of his circle. His warmth was infectious. He was caring, generous, and larger than life. When he entered a room, his presence filled it—his energy, his voice, his being.
We both grew up in neighboring cities, Bat-Yam and Jaffa. Our parents were Holocaust survivors. I always felt a certain kinship—an unspoken understanding—between us.
👉 I share more about growing up in Bat Yam in my Biography.
There were times I was scared of him. His temper could flare without warning. You never quite knew what would set him off. He was fiery, strong-willed, and always certain he was right. But never malicious. His outbursts were never personal. He was simply a passionate man.
Once, at the Las Vegas airport, he got into a heated argument with the airline rep. We ended up driving back instead of flying.
What always amazed me was his decades-long business partnership with Nachume. Forty years! That kind of partnership is rare. They were opposites, yet they were best friends. David and Jonathan come to mind.
Years ago, they took me on a flight in their Cessna to Big Bear. We had lunch and flew back to Northridge. I remember the view—it felt like we had the mountains in our hands. But I hadn’t anticipated how loud or bumpy the ride would be.
Hanoch and my uncle Zvi surprised me at my USC graduation. I never expected it. It meant the world to me.
Hanoch and Nachum—more Nachum, I think—connected me to an automotive accessories distributor who took on a product I was involved with. It didn’t succeed, but that’s how you learn. Later, a company I worked for placed an order with Hanoch’s business. Things didn’t go well, and my boss didn’t pay the invoice. I was embarrassed. Hanoch was hurt. We never spoke about it. I never made amends. I regret that.
Over time, Hanoch changed. He softened. I think Nachum’s calm nature had an effect on him. In later years, the scars from his long battle with skin cancer became more visible. Ten years ago, he had a procedure that removed part of his jaw and neck. But Hanoch didn’t flinch. Come to think of it, he never did. It just wasn’t in his nature.
If anything, he became more devoted to his physical routine. And it showed. He remained strong—masculine—nearly to the end. Beny, his friend and tennis partner, said Hanoch took great pride in his physique. And why not? People who stick to their self-care inspire me. I try to follow that lead.
Since COVID, he’d send me schmaltzy music clips from the ’70s—our music: Tom Jones, Charles Aznavour, Engelbert Humperdinck. The soundtrack of our youth.
Ryan and James, his sons-in-law, wrote beautiful eulogies on Facebook. Thoughtful, tender men—a reflection of the kind of father Hanoch was, and the kind of daughter Elisheva is.
I called him a few days before his death. He answered. I’m grateful for that call. I told him, “I love you. I’m thinking of you as you begin this new, experimental treatment.” I told him I was grateful for all he had been in my life. He said, “I’m planning to be around for many more years.”
His passing was swift, though not unexpected. Hanoch and I saw each other sporadically over the years, but he left a lasting imprint on me—and on so many of us.
He taught us a lot, by how he lived, and by his unspoken motto: Work hard. Play hard. Life is short.
He will be missed.
May his soul rest in peace.
November 2020