The Book of Job, a
book which challenges traditional notions about God is appropriate to quote
when speaking about Herman Taube. It
says, “Yesh lakesef motza, umakom lazahav
yazoku:
“There are mines for
silver, and places where gold is refined.
Iron is taken from
the earth, and copper is smelted from rock.
But where can wisdom
be found, and where is the source of understanding?”
“Talmid chacham im met, mee yavee lanu
temurato?
For when a person of
wisdom dies, who can replace him?”
Herman Taube was such
a man – a man of wisdom and of understanding; a man who is truly irreplaceable. There will not be another one like him. We have lost one of God’s precious treasures. Now that he is gone, we ask:
Where will we go to
find wisdom and understanding --- especially of the incomprehensible? Who will be the voice of the people the Nazis
murdered and sought to silence and extinguish?
Where will we go to learn of the beauty of our tradition, the richness
of life in the shtetl, and to teach us of the fabric of our precious heritage? Who
will speak up with compassion for the ideals of our faith? Who will write poems and stories that will
move our souls, touch our spirit, send chills down our spines, and summon us to
act?
How fortunate we
were to have known him, and to have had him in our midst, as a teacher, a
friend, a colleague, a parent, a grandparent.
Herman was a witness
to a vanished world; a window to a world that was vanquished and is no
more. With anger, but not malice, his writings
took us back and recreated and brought to life those whose lives were taken so
cruelly, and the way of life that was destroyed.
His images of
cobblestone streets and of open fields were so descriptive. One poem is about a stone he picked up from
the street where the Warsaw ghetto uprising took place and brought home with
him. In one of his poems, he wrote:
“Often, when the
house is asleep and visions
Burn my mind
I take the stone
Into my hands;
Like friends, we
share
Our secret memories.
The stone has a
heart…
Sometimes past
midnight
I think I hear the
stone cry:
Why? Why? Why?...
I take the stone,
Hold it to my face
And wash it with my
tears.”
When he saw the
display of suitcases at Auschwitz, he wrote movingly about the suitcase of his
beloved grandfather, who helped to raise him after his parents died at a young
age. His grandfather kept a suitcase
packed so they would be ready when the messiah arrived to be able to go to
Eretz Yisrael. Looking at the pile of
suitcases, he asked what happened to his grandfather’s dream and promise?
One of my favorite
poems was one of his most powerful, “A Single Hair”. It is the voice of a single hair in the
display case of hair at Auschwitz, which beckons the tourists gazing at the
glass case to realize that it once was on the head of an 18 year old girl who
loved life. What a keen eye and mind he
had to think in these terms. He wrote
that if only the hair which once was caressed could break out of the glass
case, to be blown into the eyes of the world’s leaders “to irritate and disturb
their vision enough to make them feel a little sting.”
But he did not only
dwell on the past. He had a great
appreciation for modernity and progress and was not mired in the past. In addition to the poems and over 20 books he
wrote and translated he would send by email weekly Shabbos messages, which told
us what “Popsie” was thinking or what was happening in his life or the lives of
his family. He loved God’s creation, and
so he also often sent out beautiful images and pictures of nature and God’s
glorious world.
When you think about
it, it is remarkable how quickly he learned to use a computer, and adapted to
and embraced modern technology. He had
the ability to straddle many worlds.
Herman was the moral
conscience of the Washington Jewish community.
He was the thread that tied together Holocaust survivors in Washington,
Baltimore, and around the world, having founded survivors and Yiddish groups in
Washington and Baltimore. He was a
volunteer at the Holocaust Museum, and involved in planning the World Gathering
of Holocaust Survivors. He prodded us to do more to ensure that Holocaust survivors
would live out their lives in dignity.
He helped to guide a new generation of lay leaders to create Capitol
Camps. He reminded us of the importance
of observing Yom HaShoah, but also of remembering the anniversaries of
Kristallnacht, the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising, the Night of the Murdered Poets and
the Doctor’s Plot, so that the victims would not be forgotten.
Anyone who ever met
Herman immediately sensed his decency and his kindness, and instantly knew they
were in the presence of a very special person, a gutte neshama, someone who was
precious, who epitomized the qualities our tradition says we should try to live
by. He had a wonderful smile and sharp
mind. Like Will Rogers, Herman never met
a person he didn’t like, and no one who ever met Herman did not love him
instantly and feel his love in return.
Most of all, of
course, he loved his family. He loved
Suzi, his beloved wife of 69 years, about whom he constantly worried, his children
and grandchildren and great grandchildren, and was so proud of all of them. And we
thank you his mishpoche, for sharing him with all of us.
His other love was Yiddishkeit
– which meant - Judaism, the Jewish people, Israel, Jewish values, Jews, as
well as all of humanity. His love for
clal yisrael, of his fellow Jews and of Jewish traditions oozed from every
ounce of Herman’s being and was the quintessence and source of his
strength. Writing, which he began doing
at a young age, was the means whereby he could convey his innermost feelings,
his theology, experiences, reflections and emotions.
I first met Herman
when he was working for UJA Federation, over 30 years ago, and immediately fell
in love with him. He was the hardest
working employee there. I don’t think he
ever missed a Super Sunday, and he worked longer and harder than people half
his age. When he worked at Federation and
when he was a volunteer, he would always try to make one more call, encourage
us to make one more solicitation, because he knew the donations were a lifeline
that kept people alive.
One time a number of
years ago, I saw him at the UJA office when it was on Wisconsin Avenue. It was the day before Thanksgiving, and before
I left he wished me a gut yom tov.
“Gut yom tov?” I said to him, expressing surprise that he
would call this secular holiday a yom tov, the Yiddish word for holiday. He said to me words I will never forget and
that I recall every Thanksgiving since then. “Yes. This is a yom tuv,” he said. “The fact that I can walk down a street and
not have someone pull on mein beard, or knock off my yarmulke if I choose to
wear one, that I can live here in this country as a proud Jew, that I do not
have to live in fear – yes. This is a
yom tuv.”
He loved
Israel. I would take his book, “Land of
Blue Skies” with me and read selections whenever I take a group to Israel. His poem, “Shehecyanu” describes the joy he
felt when in Israel.
“For being able to
visit Israel:
Cities, kibbutziem,
settlements,
From Rosh Pina to
Eilat.
For the opportunity
to pray,
To dance with new
immigrants
At the Western Wall,
To cry at Yad
Vashem, Mt Herzl,
Rejoice on Yom
Ha’Atzmaut at the Knesset,
For having known Chaim Weizmann,
Chaim Nahman Bialik, Ben Gurion,
Zalman Shazar and Golda,
For having witnessed the shaping of
their ideals
into reality: The transformation
Of “sharit Hapleita” from lands of
oppression
into a nation living in dignity…
Admiring the
reflection of
The blue sky in the
Kinneret,
The green fields and
orchards
Of the kibbutzim.
I lifted my eyes to
The heights of Mt.
Hermon,
Inhaled the cool
air…
I felt a desire to
sing—
To rupture the
stillness
Around me with a
prayer:
Shehechyanu.”
What a blessing it
was to be Herman’s friend. He was a
teacher and a mentor to so many in our community.
At a time when few
believed it would be possible, he encouraged me to start my synagogue, and
spoke at our very first Selichot service as well as at our groundbreaking
dedication ceremony.
Shortly after B’nai
Tzedek was built, and we moved into our new building, there were times when I
would come back to my office after being out at a meeting, and my secretary
would give me a message. She would tell me, “Your grandfather called.” Sometimes it would be – Your grandfather
called to tell you he loves you. I knew
right away. It was Herman who had called
and left those messages. He was a
beloved grandfather to all of us.
To most of us he was
a survivor. But he was always careful to
point out that Suzi was a survivor, but that since he had not been in a
concentration camp, he was not. Herman
served as a medic in the Polish army during the war. His whole life was about healing, helping
others, remembering and honoring the victims, and preserving and perpetuating
Judaism.
After serving in
Baltimore in the Histadrudt and as a writer for the Jewish Forward he came to
Washington. In addition to working at
Federation, where he was the very heart and soul of Federation, for years he
continued to work as a volunteer chaplain.
He loved visiting people and being able to fulfill the mitzvah of bikur
cholim, of cheering them up. He
dedicated himself to helping others and to transmitting his love for the
principles that guided him throughout his life, for his whole life was devoted
to serving God and the Jewish people.
What a loss this is,
a loss for all of us, a loss for the Jewish people. How fortunate we were to have him for 96
blessed years. I was fortunate to have
visited him twice last week and to hear his voice, feel his gentle touch,
reminisce, tell him a story, and know that he felt fulfilled.
Although he would
surely bristle at the characterization, I hope you will forgive me Herman, but
he was a tzaddik. For as long as I have
known him, I have always thought Herman was a Lamed vavniknik, one of the 36
righteous people on account of whom, according to legend, the world
exists.
It is my hope and
prayer that each and every one of us who knew Herman, who was touched by him,
who was inspired by him will remember him fondly and often. His words will continue to inspire us. His poem, “A Single Hair” concludes:
“Have you someone
dear
Who has long hair?
Please, when you see
her, touch her, think of me, remember me,
A little hair
In the corner of a
showcase
In Auschwitz…”
Let us honor him and
his memory by seeking to keep alive his love of all that was precious and dear
to him.
