The Summer of '61

From May to the beginning of July there are quite a few anniversaries in my family. Here is the last before the summer break - 61 years ago this couple posed on Upper Berkeley Street after their chuppah at West London Synagogue. They look a bit tentative here, but I can promise that they will have over 40 years together to figure things out. Remembering with love the wedding anniversary of Evelyn & Albert.

18 Years to the Day

Eighteen years seems like a long time, almost a generation. That's how long ago and far away my lovely father died. And yet he is often present in my life. His essence may be evoked in myriad ways, e.g., memories, Piglet, old friends, particular places, QPR, certain movies, music, and photographs.

Here's the thing, and it's happened a couple of times now. Sometimes he pops up in photos unexpectedly. For example the shot above we saw first in the Shoah museum in Washington DC. It is a Jewish Schools Sports Day c. 1937, in Berlin. We looked at it briefly as we walked by, and then my mother exclaimed, IT'S ALBERT! Bottom right-hand corner with the glasses. That's him.

Today I was once again looking at images from the 3rd march from Selma to Montgomery in 1965. I've shared previously some shots that vindicated my father's claim that he was close enough to MLK to have a chat and share a snack. This time I had a look at some video footage I found online.

Would you believe it, there he was again! Blink and you will miss him, but near the end (just below the YouTube arrow in the screen grab above), pale and bespectacled, his face appears briefly right behind Dr King.

I'm not ascribing any great meaning to this. But I do find it comforting to see him giving me a little wave now and then.

The loss is not so acute after 18 years, but he is still profoundly missed. On a quotidian level, just being able ask questions or to share things I've done, or to get a hug; and in terms of life, the universe, etc., to hear his thoughts on all that's going on in the world these days.

Meanwhile, I was able to visit the graves of both my parents last week. L & I said kaddish, and spent some peaceful time there amid the stones and the roses.

HaRav Uri ben Alexander Ziskind v'Sara Dina, zichrono livracha.

[If you cannot click the video, you can copy & paste this link:  https://youtu.be/fgywPx6Cv-g ]

Sixty Years Ago Today

Lots of days of remembering in the last few weeks. The final one for this section of the year is today, which marks 60 years exactly since the chuppah of Evelyn Philipp & Albert H Friedlander at the West London Synagogue. Obviously I do not remember that day, but I do remember my mother telling me that there were dozens of rabbis present as it took place during the 12th conference of the  World Union for Progressive Judaism.

The last major wedding anniversary that we celebrated together was their 40th, when they were both teaching courses in Berlin for a semester. That was a lovely party, with family & friends. I remember sitting with everyone at a cafe on the Ku'damm and my sister pointing out that, despite all the terrible experiences that our parents' generation had suffered, the bad guys were gone, and here our family was, gathered in Berlin for a celebration.

With thanks to WUPJ, at whose Youth conference my parents first met, I sit in Modena and raise a glass of fine Lambrusco to toast my parents on this anniversary of their marriage.

Rabbi Albert H Friedlander z"l 17th Yahrzeit

My father died 17 years ago today. He would have been quite happy this morning about the football, and I really miss being able to share that with him (England just qualified to play Italy in the final of the European Championships). 

This reminds me of the very last words I heard him say - I was talking with my mother on the phone from Wisconsin to London and he was watching the European Championship final in the front room. At some point he picked up the extension and said, "the Greeks have scored." A while later he picked the phone up again and exclaimed, "the Greeks have won!" He always did have a soft spot for an underdog. And those were the last words I ever heard him say live. It was a Sunday evening, and he died on the following Wednesday. 

17 years is just about a generation ago. I am middle-aged and grey. Next month it will be 50 years since the two people in this photo went to see QPR play Millwall at Loftus Road, my first ever football match. I miss him for so many reasons, but today the one taking centre stage is the love for QPR, football and sport that he shared with me. May his memory continue to be a blessing.

and Many Happy Returns of the Day to the Twins

94 years ago today my Uncle Charles & my father were born. It was a bit of a surprise to my grandparents, who had no idea that there were two babies on their way. Dearly loved, and greatly missed, I look today for happy memories of them, such as when Uncle Charles took us to the Astrodome to see a baseball game and we all shouted "Jose Cruuuuuuuuuuuz!" and, in the month when I celebrate 25 years since ordination, playing "Owl" together on the bima after my father's blessing:

Happy Martin Luther King Jr Day!

The USA is celebrating a holiday today. Although there are some fears that, with the Presidential Inauguration only two days away, there may be some violent protesting, we can only hope that the memory of Dr Martin Luther King Jr may be an inspiration for work towards healing and civic unity. To this end, I was interested to read on CNN yesterday about the Martin Luther King Day of Service (see here). Americans are encouraged to look at today as an opportunity to engage in volunteer service, rather than binging on Bridgerton.

Meanwhile, here is the annual presentation of the famous photo including my father. This is the more recently discovered version, in which you may see his entire head (+ yarmulke). It is good to have an excuse to share this once again. Hopefully I will continue to make his memory a blessing by developing what he taught us about tolerance and understanding.

Pastor Martin Stöhr z"l

During my end-of-year tidying of files on the desktop, I found this wonderful photo of Pastor Martin Stöhr, Angela Davis & my father. I'm not sure exactly when or where it was taken (or who by) - I'm guessing in the early 1980's, probably in Germany, most likely at an Evangelische Kirchentag. Out of all my parents' friends from their interfaith dialogue in Germany, I think I loved Martin the most. We lost touch a few years ago and, looking at this photo, I wondered if he was still alive. I was sad to find out that he died just a few weeks after my mother. And I remembered a conversation I'd had with my father many years ago, when at a conference where Martin was speaking. "Martin is so kind, and so good, and so smart," I said, "how could he possibly believe in something like Jesus?" My father replied, "did you mean what you said about him? So kind, so good ...?" "Of course!" I responded indignantly. "Well," said my wise father, "if believing in Jesus is part of what makes him into this person that you love, why do you question it?"

I hope I can continue to learn this lesson, going beyond tolerance to acceptance. It's hard to remember, but this photo will help me. I hope that I can bring some of it to 2021, and add to the blessing of Martin's memory.

Kristallnacht 2020

[Cannot seem to embed YouTube video so please have a look via this link:  Kristallnacht]

My father was in Berlin during Kristallnacht. Actually, his family had been warned about the possible pogrom and had gone into hiding in the attic of a house in the suburbs. They were there with about 10 other people, for quite a few days. The video above gives a brief version of what happened next. For the rest of his story, the Museum of Jewish Heritage in NYC features "Albert's Story" as an educational tool in their Shoah curriculum. You can see more of it here.

To be honest, my father never talked that much about his experiences. He always said that he would answer any questions that we had. The problem for me was, I didn't know which questions to ask. With regard to Kristallnacht, the most striking part of his story for me was always when he spoke about going back home after it was (supposedly) all over. The family travelled separately, and my father was with his father, Alex. He told me how he could feel the shards of glass as he walked along the street, he could feel them through his shoes. And he said that there was a moment in the U-Bahn when he lost hold of his father's hand. That is the memory that sticks with me, the feeling in that instant.

Today, this date also marks the moment when I went to the German Embassy in London with my mother 3 years ago and we reclaimed our German citizenship. It was not a conscious choice to have the appointment that day, yet it made sense that it was then that a smidgeon of something we had lost was returned to us. 

We mourn what cannot be restored, and we are hopeful that a new chapter of healing is now possible. There's a lot to do - let's get busy!

Preparing for Yom Kippur

My lovely father was quite well known for his sermons. During the year, he thought about them in advance, and made 5 or 6 notes on a scrap of paper as an aide-memoire. When the time came, he stood up and spoke without a written text. Erev Shabbat he would usually speak about what was happening in the world. On Shabbat he discussed the Torah portion. His references were often diverse - they could be anything from Hannah Arendt to Rabbi Akiva, from Homer (both the Greek poet and the cartoon Simpson) to Heinrich Heine, from Freud to Finkielkraut. He had a great sense of humour and, for me most importantly, when he spoke you felt like he was speaking to you, not at you.

For those rabbis blessed to have a pulpit position, the High Holydays can require up to 5 sermons in a 10-day period. And since the services tend to have the largest attendance of the year, there is the sense that you kind of need to wow people. In fact, these sermons were the only ones that my father would type up beforehand. Anyway, the time came when I was blessed with a pulpit position, and was required to write some High Holyday sermons.

So, I wrote my sermons and, each year, the night before I was due to preach, I would telephone my father long-distance (in the far-off days when there was no internet chat, only e-mail) and read him what I'd written so he could check I hadn't made any major mistakes. He'd make some suggestions. I'd argue with them all. I'd make some changes and then we both could get some sleep.

In 2003, just before Rosh Hashana, I phoned my father as usual, and asked if I might read what I'd written. "You know what?" he said to me, "I don't think so. You don't need me any more." I was really surprised, but didn't argue. We chatted a little and said goodnight. When I'd finished my final draft, I emailed him a copy. He wrote back that it was the best I'd written so far. And the congregation seemed to agree with him.

That was the last High Holydays of his life, as he died the following summer. And when Rosh Hashana came round again, and I cried because I couldn't phone and ask him to check my sermon, I heard his words - "You don't need me any more" - and realised that, for sermon-writing, he was right. 

I'm thinking of my father tonight, as I prepare for Yom Kippur services. I still worry about my sermons, but I mostly do ok. I'm recalling that the night before my ordination, I asked him if he had any tips he might share with me for my future rabbinate. He told me:  when preaching, remember James Joyce! I was a bit perplexed, and he explained: "the end of the book went right back to the beginning. Wherever you end up, make sure you connect back to where you started. It gives a sense of completion. And, at least be brief. You always get points for that." Now this I can do! 

Ok, time to get back to my prep. Wishing all those who fast a g'mar tov. Shana tova!

93rd Birthday for the Twins

93 years ago today in her apartment, my grandmother Sali gave birth to a baby boy. Afterwards, she got up for a cup of coffee and a cigarette, whilst her husband Alex ran to the public phone to call his friends down at the Stube. "I'm a father!" he told them, "I have a son!"

A while later, as the midwife was preparing to leave, Sali felt a bit strange. The midwife examined her and said, "there's another baby coming!" And so my father became a twin. Alex went rushing back to the phone to call his friends again, "I have a son!" he cried. "Alex, you're drunk," they said, "you already told us!" "No, no, no," he replied, "I have another son!"

On what would have been my father and my uncle's 93rd birthday, I think of them with love. This year it happens to coincide with Mother's Day, and so I think also of my grandmother, who lived in an era when twins were a surprise.

Albert with his mother in Cincinnati in 1949

Remembering Rabbi A Stanley Dreyfus z"l

Brooklyn 2005 with R Steve Arnold & R A Stanley Dreyfus z"l

Each year as the yahrzeit for my beloved father R Albert H Friedlander comes round, I'm reminded that, sadly, it is also the yahrzeit for my beloved teacher R A Stanley Dreyfus. 

During my years in Brooklyn, Stanley and Marianne were in loco parentis around the corner in Park Slope. As rabbinic students at HUC-JIR, we were often invited to their home for tea or Shabbat dinner,; to study, and to celebrate other holidays. We soon grew to appreciate Stanley's extensive textual knowledge. At my first Chanukah with the Dreyfus', there was a twinkle in Stanley's eye when he saw that I was the only one joining him in singing (what I thought were all) three verses of Maoz Tsur. I felt rather proud. He then gently recited all the other verses to us! 

Probably the most poignant memory for me was after my first serious relationship broke up. The Dreyfus' took me in, letting me stay in their guest room, caring for me as I licked my wounds. I remember particularly sitting with Stanley in his study, talking it all through together as I wept bitterly. He was an older gentleman, quite traditional in many ways. Could I have expected him to listen so lovingly as I spoke about an ex-girlfriend? Of course I could! I will never forget that kindness, all his kindness, all their kindness, for he and Marianne were a great team.

Much missed, by so many, for so many reasons.

Zichrono livracha.

Installation at Port Jewish Center, Manorhaven, NY

RIP Franco Zeffirelli (The Bar Mitzvah Story)

Listening to and reading the myriad obituaries here in Italy and around the world for the director Franco Zeffirelli, I'm glad to see that many of them refer to "Jesus of Nazareth" (1977) as one of his best works. This is because both my parents were part of that production. My mother, Evelyn, was part of the post-production voice talent. My father, Albert, was invited to the film set to train the young actor playing a teenage Jesus for a scene in which he would become Bar Mitzvah. This became one of our favourite stories to tell:

After first informing Signor Zeffirelli that the ceremony of becoming Bar Mitzvah only originated in the Middle Ages, and upon hearing that the scene would still be filmed, Albert set about his task, i.e., to teach a young Italian boy to say the blessings required for reading Torah. The moment came to shoot this particular scene, and Albert stood nearby as the student began his recitation of the ancient Hebrew words. The boy stumbled, and the director shouted, "CUT!" He turned furiously towards the rabbi. "But, Franco," Albert said, "every Jewish boy makes a mistake on the day of his Bar Mitzvah." "Not," replied Zeffirelli, "NOT when he is the son of God!"

Jesus of Nazareth (Wiki)
BBC online obit
Corriere della Sera obit
the Guardian obit
Independent obit
New York Times obit
La Repubblica obit
La Stampa obit
The Times obit
Washington Post obit

Sir Roger Bannister R.I.P.

Rabbi Dr Albert H Friedlander & Sir Roger Bannister

This afternoon we heard the news that Sir Roger Bannister has died at the age of 88. Although he is best known for being the first runner to break the barrier of 4 minutes for running the mile, as I read through the obituaries and testimonials, it is clear that running was more his avocation, and medicine his vocation. Perhaps, therefore, it was all the more so thrilling for Albert to meet him and have a good conversation together.

bottom left: "Friedlander, miler"

It is a gene that lies most dormant in me, but my father both loved running and had some ability. I understand that he turned down an athletic scholarship to LSU in order to attend the University of Chicago. He could run the mile in about 4 & 1/2 minutes in the early 1940's, and his coach thought he might have a chance in the 1948 Olympics. However, his mother would have none of that (he needed to concentrate on his studies) and over the summer managed to fatten him up enough to thwart this plan!

But today is about Sir Roger, so I will conclude by stating how much Albert admired him as an athlete, and as a mensch. With condolences to his loved ones, may he rest in peace.

running with his children in the park

Appreciation from the BBC website including video of the record-breaking run, and an archival interview.

NY Times obit (behind a paywall but a few free articles available)

Daily Mirror (including several tributes & tweets)

Financial Times obit

The Guardian obit

Runners World obit (annoying pop-up ads)

Bath Chronicle (former Bath schoolboy)

Huffington Post

From Selma to Montgomery with Dr M L King

Tonight I had a thrilling surprise. A friend texted me a copy of this photo:

I consulted the Google and discovered that this photograph had been used to illustrate an article about why Dr King wore a Hawaiian lei at Selma. Here's the article if you're interested.

The thing is, well, look on the right-hand side of the photo. There is a man in a pale hat wearing dark glasses and a lei. Just above the hat is a face, well two-thirds of a face. The glasses and the shape of the head are quite familiar to me. Literally. This is the face of Rabbi Albert H Friedlander z"l. It is the face of my father.

WOW.

I immediately forwarded the picture to my mother, who had also never seen it before. Having expressed her excitement, she and I had the same thought at the same moment: do you remember the photo in the US Holocaust museum?

A Jewish Sports Day in Berlin in 1937. Part of a face in the bottom-right corner, wearing glasses. It's Albert! It all seemed a bit Zelig to me, except that Albert was really there.

Anyway, a bit late for MLK Day in the USA, but I wanted to share this with you all.

19.1.18 Update

I did not see the movie "Selma", mostly because I was put off by advance notice via clips and photographs that Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel had been edited out of the story. I grew up with the notion that R. Heschel and Dr King were friends and the photo of them marching together at Selma symbolised that the black and Jewish communities worked together for civil rights. Here is a HuffPost article by Peter Dreier that examines this situation: "Selma's Missing Rabbi"

Remembrance Sunday/Veteran's Day 2017

Ideally I am a pacifist. And I acknowledge that I am able to hold such a view because of people who fought and died for my right to have freedom of thought.

There are not many veterans in my family, as they were mostly too old or too young for World War I (I'm still trying to figure out from a couple of letters we have exactly what happened to my grandfather Alex - he may have been a POW in Russia just before the Revolution), & during World War II if they had not been imprisoned or murdered then they were fleeing and living a refugee life. Albert's eyes were too bad for him to be allowed to serve as a chaplain in Korea, although he did try to enlist. However, his twin, my Uncle Charles, went to Berlin with the US Army in 1945, and remained as a reservist for the rest of his working life.

Charles was a physiotherapist, working with children in a Houston hospital. Every Xmas, he would don a Santa suit and bring gifts to the kids (we have some interesting photos with Albert and with me in that Santa suit!). One year, his army buddies helped him arrive in style via helicopter.

Today remembering all veterans and those who fell. Let us not waste the chance we still have to make tikkun olam in this world. Shavuatov.

Love Your Neighbour As Yourself

“The late Rabbi Albert Friedlander impressed upon me the importance of the biblical commandment “Love your neighbour as yourself.” I had always concentrated on the first part of that injunction, but Albert taught me that if you cannot love yourself, you cannot love other people either. He had grown up in Nazi Germany and as a child was bewildered and distressed by the vicious anti-Semitic propaganda that assailed him on all sides. One night, when he was almost eight years old, he deliberately lay awake and made a list of all his good qualities. He told himself firmly that he was not what the Nazi’s said; that he had talents and special gifts of heart and mind, which he enumerated to himself one by one. Finally he vowed that if he survived, he would use those qualities to build a better world. This was an extraordinary insight for a child in such circumstances. Albert was one of the kindest people I have ever met; he was almost pathologically gentle, and must have brought help and counsel to thousands. But he always said that he could have done no good at all unless he had learned, at that terrible moment of history to love himself.”

From “12 Steps to a Compassionate Life” by Karen Armstrong

Rabbi Albert H Friedlander z"l

He would have been 83 today, as would his brother Charles. Sadly missed and happily remembered - the father of ravaj.

rabbi albert h friedlander z"l

today, the 8th of july, is the fourth yahrzeit of my father. there are still so many of us who love him and miss him. while we feel the holes in our lives that once he filled, i am glad that he did not have to suffer the indignities of old age, or endure a slow and painful death. i only have one true regret: it is a shame that he never got to meet his darling grand-daughter, or she him. baruch dayan ha-emet.

a plaque

my dear departed father now has a plaque on the door of the leo baeck college library at the sternberg centre in london. it was affixed earlier this week, and the mother of ravaj was there to observe the affixation. hurrah.

ps after consultation with the mother of, i have learned that the plaque is not on a door but rather the end of a stack of bookshelves within the library. it is a custom of the college so to do.

rabbi albert h friedlander z"l

ahf by kitaj
yesterday, hrhg would have been 81 years old. this is a drawing kitaj tore out of his notebook (and apparently he did not usually do that). it is in the hall to the left of the front door, so it is one of the first and last things one sees upon entering or leaving the flat. *sigh*