BLACK PUDDING, HAGGIS AND OTHER STUFF (Part One)

You know you’ve been on a plane too long when you start watching a Bulgarian movie with English subtitles. It was the middle of the night and I was on my way to London. After a long layover in Houston, a 4-hour nap seemed appropriate. I probably could have slept longer, but the flight attendant hit me with her cart and insisted that I have something to drink.  That’s when I discovered that the, “Friendly Skies of United” aren’t really that friendly at all, because when I woke up, I jerked and dumped a glass of water onto her feet.

The plane landed at Heathrow Airport on time, and I hustled on the 20-minute walk to the Customs Station, where I joined people from all over the world snaking their way up and down the roped off rows for 45-minutes. Finally I reached the custom officer’s desk. She looked at me a few times, but finally decided that my passport photo remotely resembled my face, and sent me on to the luggage area that was only two electric stair rides, and a 10 minute walk, away. My flight number wasn’t posted, but luckily I found my bag that I had festooned with bright colored scarves. I arrived at Terminal 2 with my 35-pound suitcase and my 20-pound carry-on. Hip, Hip, Hooray! Then I remembered that my limousine was waiting for me at Terminal 5.

Not knowing where the lift was located, I juggled 50 pounds of suitcase on the electric stairs (escalators), and then walked another 20 minutes into the catacombs of Heathrow Airport where the “train” was to take me to Terminal 5—and this was an honest-to-God real train! After a 5-minute wait, a distinguished man from Berlin was so thrilled that I could speak German that he helped me get my suitcases on and off the train.  A person can fake almost anything under duress, and I found out that a, “Bitte” and a, “Danke” can go a long way.

Finally, I walked another 10 minutes and reached my destination, and I asked a nice flight attendant (she wasn’t armed with a cart) to direct me to the pick-up area. It had now taken me approximately an hour and 45 minutes to get to my destination, and now there was no driver anywhere to be seen. Since my little cell phone wasn’t an overseas phone, the kind flight attendant called the limo service for me. The voice on the other end of the line said, in that cultured accent, “The driver left.”  My response was, “Well, send him back.” After my playing, “The Ugly American,” she advised me to take a taxi and I would be reimbursed. “That better be in American money,” I yelled. The flight attendant put me into a cab, and I assured her that she didn’t have to be nice to anyone the rest of the week.

Luckily, I had 100 British pounds in my pocket, because the cab ride to my hotel cost 80 pounds. My driver was so angry that my limo driver had left me stranded that he said, “I will write a receipt for 100 pounds, so you can make some money off of those Bloody Blokes!” I told him, “No. If I’m going to begin a life of crime, I will knock over a Royal Bank.  I’m not going to steal a ‘Bloody’ 20 pounds. Since I had been safely delivered to my hotel, I figured that I might as well begin to speak the Queen’s English. Things were looking up. I got settled in my room, took a stroll to Buckingham Palace, ate an early dinner and went to bed---at the hotel--- not the Palace.

The next morning, I rendezvoused with my friends, who had arrived 3 days earlier, and we took a limo to South Hampton, where our over-sized ship was waiting for us. She was a year old, a very big, but beautiful girl. Embarking was relatively easy, once the staff picked up an old lady whose flip-flops had gotten caught in the escalator. Watching her bounce, head first, down the up escalator, took awhile, so I found a chair. But she got up and headed for the bar, so I knew she was okay.   

My vacation had begun---(To be continued.)

Esther Blumenfeld

UNFORGETTABLE (Part Three)

It didn’t take long for my Father to play an integral part in the life of Michigan City, and he spent the next 25 years of the rabbinate in that lovely community situated on the shores of Lake Michigan. In the beginning years, there was an exclusive lakeside neighborhood called Long Beach. It was a favorite spot for summer homes for the Chicago Mafia, and driving through one could see men with big guns patrolling those homes.  Mafia was welcome, but no Jews could buy homes there. It was a remnant of the old Indiana Ku Klux Klan thinking. However, the permanent residents admired and loved my Father, so this was a true conundrum for bigots. One day, my Dad was speeding through Long Beach, when a policeman stopped him.  He said, “Rabbi, Do you know you were speeding.”  “Yes,” said my Dad.  “This is a restricted area, and I wanted to get out of here as fast as I could.”  He didn’t get a ticket. Eventually, the barriers came down.

When Dad visited one of his congregants, Mrs. Cohen in the hospital, he said, “I asked her how she was feeling, and she said, ‘I can’t complain,’ and then proceeded to do so for the next 30 minutes.”’  “However, in the next bed I saw Mrs. Ida Johnson, and visited with her for a few minutes.  She told me, ‘Rabbi, I am so proud of my Jewish blood.’ I said to her, “Mrs. Johnson, I didn’t know you are Jewish.”  “I’m not,” she replied, “But I needed a transfusion and Mr. Siegel, who volunteers at the hospital, was the same blood type as me.”’

Dad was invited to speak at a Catholic School. The woman who introduced him was quite flustered, and after a few nice words, said, “And now, I’d like to welcome Father Richter.”  Dad stood up, faced the audience and said, “Biologically, Yes.  Theologically, No.”

Shortly before he retired, he was asked to officiate at a funeral, but the deceased was to be buried in a cemetery in Chicago. Mr. Carmichael, the funeral director, picked up my Father, and they drove to the cemetery in Chicago where Dad conducted the burial service.  On the way home, Mr. Carmichael said, “Karl, I am really hungry. Let’s stop for dinner at that famous restaurant where the waiters are rude but the food is really good.” Dad agreed, so they proceeded to the Rude Restaurant. As luck would have it, Mr. Carmichael found a parking place right in front of the restaurant. Before he could turn off the engine, the waiters ran out of the restaurant, shouting, “No! No! No!  You can’t park that hearse in front of our restaurant.” Whereupon, Mr. Carmichael said, “If you give us a good table, I’ll move.”  It was a done deal.

After my Father retired, he and my Mom moved to a Senior Residence in Florida, and for awhile, Dad became a “Cruise Rabbi.”  In those days, every ship gave a free cruise to clergy and their spouses. My parents were fortunate enough to take a cruise around the world. On this cruise, my Dad befriended a young priest. One day the young priest came to my Dad quite upset. The night before he had participated in some lively group dancing, and some busybody had criticized him for doing so. He said, “Karl, do you think I did something wrong?” Dad said, “Did you have impure thoughts?”  “Not at all,” said the priest.  “I was just having fun.”  “Well, then,” said Dad, “You go to your priest and tell him you had special dispensation from your Rabbi.” 

An elderly lady, called my father to come to her cabin.  He really didn’t want to do that, but she insisted that she needed him. So reluctantly, he went.  He was very relieved when he returned and told my Mother, “She needed someone to help her flip her mattress.”

And, when the ship got to the China of Mao Te-Tung, where the crew was treated better than the passengers, because they were part of the proletariat, a crew member urged Dad to put on a sailor hat and join them. When they left the ship to attend a banquet, a Chinese official pointed to Dad and said, “He doesn’t look like crew.” An officer, replied, “He is our Celestial Navigator.”

Always the Celestial Navigator, Dad was the first person to comfort a woman at their new Senior Residence after her husband died.  He said to her, “Would you like me to say a prayer for you?”  “Karl,” she replied, “You know I am an atheist.” “Well,” he said. “I could always say, To whom it may concern.”

When he died, a busload of Catholics, a busload of Methodists, and many Episcopalians from his Senior Residence arrived at the synagogue for the funeral. He was a man for all people--- a man of mercy and justice---and a man who walked humbly with his God.

Esther Blumenfeld  

UNFORGETTABLE (Part Two)

Although my parents had applied for United States citizenship, their paperwork had not yet been processed. So, as much as he wanted to, Dad could not get a commission in the military. However, he became a civilian chaplain at the Army/Air Force Base where they trained all the radio operators for the Flying Fortress bombers. Dad joined three clergymen to travel to various installations to speak to the troops.

On May 7^th, 1945 Germany surrendered to the Allies, but we were still at war with Japan, so the whole 8^th Army/Air Force was transferred to Sioux Falls expecting to go to the Pacific to fight the Japanese. Thousands of additional troops were coming to Sioux Falls. Three additional Jewish chaplains came with the Division as well as Christian clergy. Our home was a welcoming place for all clergy and many priests, rabbis, ministers as well as soldiers walked in our doors that were always open. One solider from the South came regularly to take a bath, which was a luxury not afforded him at the base. On August 6^th, 1945, the Enola Gay dropped the atomic bomb, named “Little Boy” on Hiroshima, Japan. Three days later, another bomb was dropped on Nagasaki. The war was over and we celebrated VJ Day on August 15^th.

Being the only Rabbi in South Dakota meant that Dad flew hither and yon when called upon by an isolated family in the hinterlands. Called to Deadwood to conduct a funeral, he was flown there in a small plane by Joe Foss a wartime hero and ace, who shot down twenty-six Japanese planes and was awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor. He later became the Governor of South Dakota. Naturally, it was snowing in Deadwood when Dad arrived, and he had to don hip boots, and trudge through the snow, past the graves of Calamity Jane and Wild Bill Hickok at Boot Hill, to reach the Jewish Cemetery.

When he returned home he had a call from the President of Augustana College who said, “Our French Professor had a nervous breakdown. Can you fill in for her?” Dad told him, “I studied French when I was in high school.”  “Good enough!” said the President.  So, a rabbi from Germany, who recently learned English was teaching French at a Norwegian Lutheran College. Where but America?

Finally, my Father was notified that his citizenship papers had arrived, and went to pick them up. However, in true governmental fashion, there had been a glitch in my Mother’s paperwork and hers would not arrive until the following year. Naturally, she was very disappointed, but she said to Dad, “Now that you are back, I need to go to the grocery store. Could I have ten dollars please?”  Dad responded, “That’s the trouble with you foreigners, you are always asking for money.”

I loved Sioux Falls, but my Father had been offered another pulpit in Michigan City, Indiana near Chicago, so it meant starting over again.  I asked him, “Dad, will it be difficult for you to move again?”  And he responded, “Not as long as I have my books. My books are my portable homeland.”

Esther Blumenfeld---(To Be Continued)

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)

ROCK AND ROLL (Part Two)

Before we left the party, we wanted to thank our host. We found him sitting on the steps with a screen door lying across his lap. W.S. couldn’t resist saying, “I hope you didn’t strain yourself,” but it didn’t matter because I got the feeling that Walker didn’t recognize us anyway.

We found our car and W.S. slid into the passenger seat.  “I think you’d better drive,” he said.  “I really don’t feel very well. I’m never going to dance again!” “You don’t think that maybe you drank too much of that Tijuana Tequila?” I said. “Just get me home,” he moaned.

“Okay,” I said. “Point me in the right direction.” I pulled off the gravel road and onto the expressway. There wasn’t much traffic, so I kept saying to myself, “I can do this. I can do this.” And W.S. kept burping.  Then I spotted the light behind me. “If I didn’t know better,” I said to W.S., “I’d think that car is following us.”

“Slow down and let them pass,” he groaned. I slowed down. The car slowed down. ”They aren’t passing,” I said, and observed, “It isn’t a police car.” I was driving the speed limit, and although we still had an Indiana license plate on our car, I knew we were well within the time limit to obtain a California plate.

“Pull off!” W.S. shouted, “I’m going to barf!” I drove down the next exit off the expressway, and the car followed us. By now, my hands were glued to the steering wheel. My husband was going to toss his cookies, and the only weapon in our car was an umbrella.

I stopped. The car pulled up beside us. I grabbed the umbrella, and W.S. threw open the door. A sailor rolled down the window in the other car, and shouted, “Hey, where are you from in Indiana?” W.S. stumbled toward them, and let go with a green stream of vomit all over the side of their car.

I could imagine the guy mumbling, “Oh, Yeah, that place,” as they sped off. Miraculously, 30 minutes later, I pulled into our garage that we shared with our neighbor. Very considerately, W.S. missed their car when he let go one more time. He knew that he’d have to get up very early to clean up the mess before they woke up. After all, we had just moved in and this was not a good way to meet the neighbors.

I helped him up the stairs and left him sitting on the bathroom floor. Three hours later, I handed him a bucket of soapy water and a mop. Chastened, he slunk down the stairs toward the garage.

Later, when we met our neighbor for the first time, he said, “I can’t believe it. I have never had neighbors who wash a garage floor. My side of the garage looks even better than yours. Thanks a lot. Do you wash cars?”

“Nope,” answered W.S. “We don’t mind dirty cars. Just can’t stand a filthy floor.”

Esther Blumenfeld, CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld, c. 2006

                                   The end

                                  EPILOGUE

I was happy to share CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT with you.  It has not been published, but now has been read.  If I learned anything from writing this book, it’s the certainty that people who value their lives no longer ask me to bake a pie for the potluck. Now they realize that my expertise is limited to mixed nuts.