Memories

Herb 1946

My childhood friends were Kläre Kahn, Egon Steinhardt, Walter Bach, and Lutz David. Egon and Walter and Kläre did not survive the war, but Lutz ended up in the U.S. Knowing now what happened to those other kids (and thousands like them), I realize that my parents showed extraordinary foresight and courage in sending us abroad.

Read Herb’s Memories

Pilgrimages

Lisa (holding Julian), Rachel, and I.

It was Lisa’s idea to visit the places of my childhood with me. Historians love site visits, and I, knowing that she’s intrigued by her international ancestry, jumped at her invitation.

Read A Pilgrimage
Read A Pilgrimage, Part II

Poems

Irene & Herb

Whatever happened to that brash 13-year-old

who shamelessly threw her arms around my neck

and locked the gaze of her hazel eyes on mine?

Read Memory, Long Term and Short..
Read Herb’s poems…

Travels

Five dogs pulling Rachel and Herb

Our drill included tending the dogs—feeding, watering, and scooping—before breakfast. The pens are a cacophony of canine vocalization. Forty or sixty dogs awaiting food, and the activity to follow, can be mighty boisterous.

Read A Different Kind of Vacation…
Read about Herb’s travels…

Stories

I’m apprehensive as Tuesday approaches. That’s my morning in Family Court, where I’ve been working weekly as a volunteer mediator for almost ten years — almost five hundred days — almost a thousand cases.

Read Tuesday Morning…
Read more stories…

MEMORY, LONG TERM AND SHORT

Whatever happened to that brash 13-year-old
     who shamelessly threw her arms around my neck
     and locked the gaze of her hazel eyes on mine?

Whatever happened to that 14-year-old in the Juliet cap,
     whom I sought so eagerly when the curtain parted
     at the end of the worship service?

Whatever happened to the girl whose cheek I kissed,
     leaning out the window in that precious last second
     before the train began to move
    — a kiss that would sustain me for months to come?

We were children, uprooted from parental home
     by persecution and war,
     deposited in a strange country where people spoke
     a strange language,
     and after five loveless years we had found each other.

But postwar reunion with parents, who had been denied
     bearing witness to their child’s flowering,
     was just as disruptive as the original parting.

Preoccupied with memories of suffering
     they had barely survived,
     they had little patience with my romantic awakening,
     did not rejoice with me, did not allow my adolescence
     to run its natural, happy course.

Fearful and suspicious, they maligned, blocked, warned,
     and thereby sullied our parent-child relationship.
     What a shame they didn’t simply let youth’s fancy
     bloom and wither of its own accord.

Seventy years later — years of maturity,
     settled with life partner, children, grandchildren —
     she vividly remembers that lush oasis
     in the desolate landscape of our childhood.

But the present eludes her.
     She forgets my answer
     to the question she asked just minutes ago,
     even forgets that she asked.

So she asks again,
     and asks again,
     and forgets both answer and question each time.

That’s what happened to her.
     She did not choose what to remember
     and what to forget;
     her illness mercifully chose for her.

Mercifully, because forgotten questions can be repeated,
     over and over until remembered,
     but forgotten memories of youth are lost forever.

    

WORDS FOR A SACRED PLACE

I look, I listen.
I feel an indefinable presence.
In the majestic woods, in whose embrace this sacred place is nestled,
I feel it,
though my eyes see only trees and the sky above.
In the ground on which we stand, so full of life and the remains of life deceased,
I feel it,
though my ears hear only the occasional birdcall and the random rustle of leaves.
I sense a hand beckoning and a voice softly saying,
“If you are moved by what you’ve felt here,
then, in your good time, come to me, add your voice to mine,
so that together we may afford the same experience to those you’ve left behind.”

Meditation Garden, a place for quiet and contemplation in the woods at Medford Leas, underwent extensive reconstruction in the summer of 2013. These lines were written for its dedication on November 7 of that year.

A MOST PRECIOUS GIFT

The love of a friend is unlike any other,
Unlike husband for wife, unlike sister for brother.

It does not compete, it does not displace,
But claims in your heart its select, reserved space.

It’s not rooted in task, in advancement, or duty,
It’s a bond, pure and simple, and there lies its beauty.

It is honest, sincere, has no need for disguise.
Its embrace is for all, the naïve and the wise.

It is food for the intellect, food for the soul,
It nurtures the spirit and renders it whole.

Should you be despondent or feel cast adrift
Think of a true friend and your spirits will lift

…Indeed,

The love of a friend is a most precious gift.