Malcolm

I never imagined that after decades of friendship we and Malcolm would become estranged,  but regrettably it happened.

He and my husband Danny roomed together in college and remained very close.  Mal was the most sophisticated one in their crowd  – he bought his clothes at Brooks,  went to Dunhill’s for his pipe tobacco,  and for years rented shares in summer houses in the chic Hamptons.

After college Mal went to Harvard for an MBA, and then worked as a business consultant,  eventually running his own firm.  He dated many women over the years but never married and lived a peripatetic life,  traveling on business a good part of every month while living with his widowed mother in the New York suburbs.

When he was not traveling he’d often meet Danny for lunch and just as often we three would have dinner together.   After his mother died we’d invite him to join us for holidays,  and when he sold her house I helped him pack for his move to an apartment in the same town.

Then a dozen or so years ago Mal suffered a stroke and could no longer work,  and it seemed his life began to spiral down.  He’d refuse our invitations and we saw him less and less.

Then one day Mal called to say he could no longer manage on his own,  and was moving to an assisted living facility,  As he had no family and considered us his closest friends,  he asked our help with the move, and hoped we’d find a home for his cat Lily.

Of course we said we would,  and arranged to meet him at his place.  Over the years we’d seen him at our home or at restaurants,  and so when we arrived at Mal’s apartment we were shocked to see that our once fastidious friend had become a hoarder practically living in squalor.

So unexpectedly we found ourselves handling not only the packing and the logistics of his move,  but hiring a company to thoroughly clean out the apartment.  Mal then told us he owed many months of back rent,  and in fact was broke.   And so we paid not only his moving and cleanup expenses,  but his back rent as well,  and found a home for his cat.

But the day we helped Mal move into the assisted living facility was the last time we saw him.  He made it clear that our visits would not be welcome,  and since then has rebuffed all our overtures,  and stopped responding to our calls and emails.

At first I was angry at his seeming ingratitude for all we’d done for him.  But I realized of course it was Mal who was angry –  at his own helplessness and dependency,  and at the loss of the accomplished and active life that had once been his.

And so for all those years of friendship we had shared,  I forgave him.

– Dana Susan Lehrman 

My beloved Rabbi Al Axelrad, who was the chaplain at Brandeis when I was an undergrad, retired many years later, but continued to lead High Holiday services until a few years ago. He was a true teacher. His services lasted a long time because he quoted from all sorts of outside texts and I always felt I came away having learned something new.

The last time I saw my father, who died on January 3, 1990, he came into Boston to see his little grandsons and spend Yom Kippur with us. I got him tickets to Rabbi Al’s service and took him over to Brandeis to show him where they were held and where he should park. He came back after the service, truly moved, saying he understood how Al had influenced both his children (my brother became a rabbi in part because of Al’s influence). Dad made a contribution to Hillel at Brandeis in Al’s honor that year. He would only live three more months, but we didn’t know that at the time.

Last visit with Dad

I was decimated by my father’s death (he died of a heart attack, alone in a hospital in Laguna Beach, CA, almost 34 years ago. I still tear up, thinking of him). At services the next autumn, Rabbi Al quoted from an essay from one of his former students: Deborah Lipstadt. She had done her Masters and PhD at Brandeis, overlapped some years with me and been friendly with Al (everyone was). Her essay was called, “The Lord Was His”, and was printed in a collection called “Jewish Reflections on Death”. Al’s quote stuck me, and I spoke to him after the service, asking where it came from. I bought the book and read the essay many times.

Fast forward: Deborah is now a professor at Emory University, a leading authority on antisemitism and the Holocaust. English author David Irving sued her for libel after she called him a Holocaust denier, but she won. The UK libel laws are much more difficult than in the US, so this was a great victory, which she wrote about in “History on Trial”. The case was turned into a movie called “Denial” with Rachel Weisz  portraying her.

She was the historical consultant for the establishment of the US Holocaust Museum and, in 2022 was named by President Biden as the US Special Envoy for Monitoring and Combating Antisemitism.

In 2019, Brandeis awarded her an honorary degree and she was the Commencement speaker. My husband and I were at the Fellows Breakfast with all the honorary degree recipients for that day. Our nephew graduated that year and my husband wanted to hurry out and get our seats so we had a good view. I told him I wanted to speak to her and tell her how much her essay had helped me to grieve for my father. I got an eye-roll, but I persisted.

I shyly introduced myself as the sister of Rabbi Richard Sarason (she had heard of my distinguished brother) and long-time friend of Rabbi Al Axelrad. I informed her of that long-ago service where Al had quoted a paragraph from her essay, which made me seek out the entire writing and how much it had helped me, as I read it year after year, trying to seek meaning and solace from my own father’s death.

Her father had left a message to his offspring, which was the point of the essay. A proper German Jewish man who sold monuments, so was involved with death, her father left instructions that the traditional hymn, Adon Olam, be sung at the end of his funeral. That song is only sung at the close of the morning Sabbath service, never at a funeral. She had puzzled about this, then finally focused on the final phrase, which is: “The Lord is with me/I will not fear.” Her father had meant that as his legacy and final message to his children and she understood. We could be sad, lonely, mourn for our loved one, but we were not to fear.

She looked at me with great tenderness. This distinguished scholar and fearless fighter for human rights told me that this essay was the first piece she’d ever had published. It meant so much to her that I took the time to tell her how much the essay meant to me.

Our brief encounter meant the world to each of us.

Teacher Strike

In September 1968 I was a newly minted school librarian working in a New York City public high school when my union,  the United Federation of Teachers (UFT),  then led by Al Shanker,  voted to strike.  I joined the picket line.

The strike followed a confrontation between a newly established community-controlled school board in the largely Black Ocean Hill-Brownsville section of Brooklyn after 19 teachers and administrators – almost all of whom were Jewish  – were fired  without notice.  The UFT demanded the teachers‘  reinstatement and accused the school board of anti-semitism.

Thus the situation was complex involving racism and school decentralization,  and over 90% of the city’s teachers walked out leaving over a million children with no school.

Finally after 36 days of stalemate, protests,  and picket lines at schools all over the city,  the New York State Education Commissioner took temporary control of the Brooklyn school district,  the dismissed teachers were reinstated,  and the schools reopened.  But for his part in leading the teachers strike – illegal in New York State – Shanker was jailed for 15 days.

Later he went on to lead the national teachers union,  the American Federation of Teachers (AFT),  and In 1998,  a year after his death,  President Clinton posthumously awarded Al Shanker the Medal of Freedom.

(If you’ve just read this,  thank a teacher!)

– Dana Susan Lehrman

We are fortunate to own a historic home in the village of Edgartown on Martha’s Vineyard. Holmes Coffin House. It has a plaque above the door and for many years, was down the block from the Martha’s Vineyard Museum, which has since moved to a large campus in Vineyard Haven, but the street retains the “Cooke Legacy Garden” with the oldest house on the island still in its original location, surrounded by lovely, historic gardens. People seem to enjoy the view over the fence to the carriage house (the Featured photo, a professional photo, used by our architect on his Instagram site, web page and print ads) and I frequently come home to find people snapping photos of my property.

Side-view of my home

I will stop and engage these strangers in conversation – “Do you like the view?” “Do you want to know more about the house?” “Yes, it IS my house, aren’t I lucky?” Then, if I have time, and the people seem interested, I may launch into a little history lesson about Holmes Coffin, the stone mason, who laid the curb stone at their feet, the foundation for this house and his brother Jared’s house across the street. Jared, who was the master builder of Edgartown, built his house six years earlier than mine, in the same style as ours. We are quite friendly with those owners, which is wonderful for all concerned.

View up the street to Main Street, the court house is at the end

We are very close to the commercial district, just a block and a half from Main Street. At the end of the block is the court house, and on one corner is St. Elizabeth’s Catholic Church, where I love to watch all the beautiful weddings.

Church-house, kitty corner from mine

The original Baptist Church, built in 1839, designed by Frederick Baylies, Jr, son of the last missionary to the Indigenous people of the island, who also designed the Federated Church around the corner, and the Old Whaling Church (originally a Methodist Church) on Main Street, the three landmark churches of Edgartown, is across the street. After this church congregation joined with the Congregational, the building became a Masonic Temple, but has been a private residence since 1979. We have known the past two owners, as well as the current and have been in it many times. This is also a much-photographed building that draws many comments from those wandering down the street, so I add commentary about it as well, telling how there are multiple staircases leading to the four bedrooms which occupy the four corners upstairs. Everyone seems intrigued that it is a private residence, as it is an imposing building.

A few weeks ago, as we were all preparing for the coming of Hurricane Lee, which turned out to be a bust, I stepped outside to get some food and take photos for an upcoming Retrospect story. I ran into a nice young man, who noticed that I stumbled out the door. I muttered something about what a klutz I am and we laughed. I went around the corner for my first errand and lost sight of him. I ran into him again about 15 minutes later as I wandered up North Water Street (a main street in town). He seemed flustered. I asked if I could help. I introduced myself. He told me his name. It was unusual (and I’ve forgotten it). He said it is Chinese; he is half Chinese. He was in town for a cousin’s wedding, but people couldn’t fly in that Friday because of the storm – all the flights had been canceled (and by later that day, the ferry had stopped running as well). He seemed quite upset. I asked where the ceremony and reception would be. The ceremony was at St. Andrew’s Episcopal Church on North Summer Street (the church that had welcomed the Venezuelan refugees that Ron DeSantis had illegally flown up to us a year ago). The reception was at the Edgartown Yacht Club. Both nice, close, easy-to-walk-to locations. I tried to reassure him that all would be fine. I didn’t want to alarm him that EYC is on the harbor and can flood during a big storm with high tides and large ocean swells, but I did not share that information with him. The storm was still hours away, though the winds had already kicked up. I tried to reassure him. I told him that he knew where I lived, that I’d be in all day and the next, if I could do anything to help him, just knock on my door. I did not hear from him, the storm wasn’t bad at all but I hoped that by talking to him, I calmed him down.

Strangers are only that until we introduce ourselves. Then we can get to know them and just maybe, have a bit to add to their day or their lives.