Sunday, October 10, 2010
Abram and I met in Julie and Paul's home late in life, both his and mine. He spoke in the soft, measured, and precise way of successful diplomacy because, I think, he was a gentle and thoughtful man, who knew that words matter. Abram wanted to understand and to be understood. He sought common ground and mutual respect. He cared, and he wanted you to care. I once gave him a book about the difficult interwar period in Polish Jewish life--that is, about his youth. When I saw him again on his next visit to Julie and Paul, he shook my hand and said earnestly in his calm and understated way, "Ihr Buch . . . es gefällt mir." I can still hear his voice--a bit raspy, every vowel and consonant clearly articulated, and generously sincere. Abram was a kind and sensitive soul who also had an inner strength that carried him through some of the darkest pages of human history. Somehow, he emerged from his ordeal as an exceptional human being. Abram, we shall remember you, and we shall honor you by striving to live more like the exceptional Mensch you were.
