UNFORGETTABLE (Part One)

My Father, Rabbi Karl Richter died ten years ago at 95 years of age, but his kindness, indomitable spirit and keen wit are still woven into the memories of so many people whose lives he touched.

In 1939, as refugees from Nazi Germany, my Father, my Mother and their toddler daughter (me), settled in the foothills of the Ozark Mountain, where he became the Rabbi (teacher) of a small congregation in Springfield, Missouri. Being proficient in six languages, he had also studied a bit of English in high school. Luckily, he also had the gift of a photographic memory, and memorized the English Dictionary aboard the ship that brought us to the United States. However, none of that helped with the pronunciation of English words, and I am sure that his congregants depended more on faith than lucidity to get them through some of Dad’s first sermons.

After his first eulogy, at the funeral of a Mr. Goldberg, the President of the congregation told Dad that, “For future reference, Mr. Goldberg was deceased, not diseased.” Oh, that English language!

When invited to the home of a synagogue member, the lady asked my Dad, “Rabbi, would you like a piece of the store bought cake or the home made?” And Dad replied, “Thank you.  I think I’d prefer the house made.” Dad knew he had to improve, but didn’t know where to turn until he discovered the American motion picture.  For thirty-five-cents he could improve his vocabulary. However, one day the President of the congregation took him aside and said, “Rabbi, why do you snarl like the gangster actor, Edward G. Robinson?

On December 7, 1941, at 7:55 a.m, on a bright, peaceful sunny morning in the beautiful Hawaiian Islands, Japanese planes sank or damaged nineteen American ships, and 2,300 human beings were dead. The United States declared war on Japan on December 8^th, and on December 11^th, Germany and Italy declared war on the United States of America. That morning the phone rang at our home and the chief of police informed us that we were enemy aliens, and had to come to his office to register.  As soon as my Father hung up the phone, it rang again.  It was the Mayor, who was calling an emergency meeting and asked Dad to serve with him on the Civil Defense Committee. Dad explained, “I’ve just been classified as an enemy alien.” The Mayor said, “Hogwash! In Missouri, we know our friends.”  Dad became an air-raid warden, and when the siren blew for “Black-Out,” he put on his helmet and patrolled his assigned area.  He had to make sure that there were no lights turned on in the cemetery.

We left Missouri, when Dad was offered a pulpit in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. That, too, was a small congregation and my Father was the only rabbi in the entire State. Adjustments were to be made. The President of the congregation wore a cowboy hat and boots, and when pheasant season coincided with the High Holy Days, men left their shotguns outside the Synagogue door.

Esther Blumenfeld—(To be continued)