At my father’s funeral my rabbi cousin eulogized saying, “Ernie taught us how to be Americans.” I always thought that to be a profound statement, and after what will be twenty-one years in a month, I still believe it to be profound. Often, I’ve thought about the meaning.
Being twelve years my cousin’s junior, his experience as a young person in this country having fled Germany as a three-year old, and mine, was worlds apart. My aunt and uncle (his mother and mine were sisters) were never in the kind of peril as were my parents. As a matter of fact, his mother was the one who told her husband, “If you don’t want to leave, that’s your business, but your son and I are leaving as soon as possible.” I was told that my uncle was a nationalist; had he not had to say Heil, Hitler! he might never have left.
On the other hand, my parents got out in the nick of time, and had circumstances been different they might never have left either…we know why. When my father came here and became a citizen he enlisted as quickly as he could. His commendations and medals for his bravery during battle attest to his devotion to America, to his new country, in which he was determined to live in freedom and raise whatever children he would have as 100% Americans. I was it…and he did.
My father did not seek vengeance. In the late 1970s German towns and cities invited their Jewish citizens back, all expenses paid. Despite all that had happened, my parents went to my mother’s hometown and were wined and dined. There was a very fancy party given by the municipality and also the prince who lived in the Castle Hohenzollern on top of the mountain. The group made my father the spokesperson and when I listened to the tape of the evening, something disturbed me. I just couldn’t put my finger on exactly what it was. Weeks later it hit me. I called him and said, “Dad, you delivered the entire talk in English. What happened?” He told me, “I was called on to speak but not a word of German was in my head, so I gave my talk in English!” (Purposefully they spoke German at home so I would learn the language unlike parents who spoke Yiddish, etc. so their children wouldn’t understand what they were saying. I was lucky that way. His English was excellent)
(Speaking of fathers, mine stood at the window of our post office. The clerk held up a package and said, “I’m not sure if this is for you. The name is obliterated.” “Not for me,” said my father, “the name is Grumbacher.” A postscript: that’s a joke that originally had “Shapiro” as the name of the man. Now a story about a boo-boo my dad made: my father took two paper bags when he went out for the day. He tossed the garbage and brought the shirts to the cleaners. When he emptied the shirt bag, all the garbage came spewing all over the cleaner’s shop. Eight dress shirts went to the trash heap!)