Around 12 years ago our youngest son, Dani, was assigned a project at school where he was required to interview a Holocaust survivor. He asked if I thought my father, Rabbi Joseph Katz, z”l, would be a good person to talk to. Born in Guxhagan Germany in 1932, my Dad rarely spoke about his experiences growing up, but from what I knew, I told him that, if my father agreed, it would be a worthwhile pursuit. Little did I know. What I thought I knew was nothing compared to what I was about to find out.
Watching
the video of Dani’s interview, I realized that, while I had heard much of what
my father had told me, including my dad and his parents getting out in May of
1941, it wasn’t until my father said something like, “Yeah, I have my passport
in my sock drawer,” that he got my attention. I told my dad it might be helpful
for the project if Dani could add a picture of the passport to his report. My
father returned from his bedroom and placed the three passports – his and his
parents – on the table in front of us.
There are
moments in a person’s life that are so jarring that they become seared in your
memory forever. Looking at the front cover of his passport with its big swastika,
I could not wrap my head around the fact that I never knew these existed. “Dad,
did you ever think, at some point over the past 50 years, you could have found
a minute to say something like: ‘Chaim, can you please pass the salt and ‘Oh,
by the way, I have a Nazi passport in my sock drawer’?” My father responded in
his usual casual fashion, “I didn’t think it was important.”
* * *
My father
passed away on the eighth day of Sivan at 93 years old, leaving my mother, four
children, and many grandchildren and great-grandchildren. It was a life well
lived – all the more so when you consider he almost never got to the age of
ten.
Fast
forward a few years to the summer of 2019. My wife and I took a trip to Israel;
I had not been back in 34 years, ever since I led 40 teenagers on an NCSY
Israel Summer Seminar (ISS) tour in 1985. We had been gifted the trip for my
birthday from some former players I had coached, NCSYers, and friends we had
met in those intervening years. Having loosely planned our itinerary, we took a
morning to visit Yad Vashem. There is a famous section at the museum set aside
for non-Jews who helped our people survive the war years, called the Avenue of
the Righteous. Having always been interested in seeing it and paying homage to
those special people, we set out to find it. I now know it is outdoors, a few
memorials lining a sidewalk. But back then, our search took us into a building,
where we were met by a man named Ephraim Kaye. He directed us to follow him. I
had experienced plenty of silent walks like this as a child, most of which
ended up with a visit to the principal’s office. My mind danced as I imagined
what life in an Israeli prison would be like. Ephraim sat us down opposite a
desk and calmed my concern by asking, “Where are you from?” After we gave him
some general information, I mentioned to him my father left Germany in May,
1941.
“May of ’41?
You sure?”
“He has
his passport that verifies the date.”
“That’s
very late to have a passport. Do you have pictures of it?”
I told him
I had sent them in an email to my siblings and assured him I would forward them
when we got to our place in Jerusalem, which I did. His response was just a
simple “Thank you!” I thought nothing of it until one day a few weeks later, I
received an email from Ephraim asking if my father would be willing to loan the
passport to Yad Vashem for safekeeping. “We don’t have many passports from 1941,
especially as late as May of that year.”
* * *
“Dad, Yad
Vashem is very interested in your passport. Want to give it to them?”
“Nope.”
“What do
you mean, nope?”
“I mean I
don’t want to give it to them.”
“You’re
gonna just leave it in your sock drawer?”
“Why not?”
he asked almost talmudically, which anyone who interacted with him would surely
recognize.
“Because
it’s a huge part of our people’s history, and it would help expand what people
thought they knew.”
“Still,
no.”
“I’m just
letting you know that, when you go, I am going into your sock drawer and
stealing it from whomever you wanted to leave it to and then sending it to Yad
Vashem.”
“Good. Not
now.”
It wasn’t
too long after I informed Yad Vashem of my father’s response that Covid became
a worldwide issue. As most of the globe shut down, the last thing on my mind or
anyone else’s was my father’s passport. That all changed when, two years after
our first meeting, I found an email from someone else at the museum letting me
know they were still very interested in the passport. Of course my father’s
opinion on the subject stayed the same, and I told Yad Vashem if anything
changed I would contact them.
That
change occurred following a life-threatening episode when my father was
hospitalized sometime in 2022. A few weeks after surviving the hospital and
rehab stay, he asked if I could do him a favor.
“Can you
get a professional photographer to take pictures of every page of the passports
so next time you go to Israel you can give them to Yad Vashem?”
To say I
was a little surprised would be an understatement. “Who are you and what did
you do with my father?”
I reached out to a
good friend of mine, Israel Orange, who was very meticulous and could not
believe what he was shooting. He kept mumbling things in Hebrew. I only wish I
knew then what I know now; I could understand him now. I contacted Yad Vashem;
they were thrilled, to say the least. We set up a time for that summer, and the
woman asked if I could provide her with as much background information as
possible when we arrived. My father did his best, but my instincts told me that
a lot of the information he relayed came through the eyes of the nine-year-old
boy who arrived on Ellis Island, Labor Day 1941.
At our meeting in
Jerusalem later that summer, my instincts were confirmed. It took the woman
quite a while to actually find information on my grandfather – more because I
couldn’t spell Guxhagen than anything else - but once she did, she told us she
had found a 100-plus-page document of financial transactions between my
grandfather and various Germans and Americans as well as both the German and
American embassies. Being fluent in German, she looked through them for a few
minutes, then said, “It seems there is a gap in payments. There are a couple of
years of payments. Then, in 1939, there is a large payment, after which
payments stop until a bit later in 1940. There is another large payment in 1941,
and that’s where the transactions end. Can you ask your father if he knows
anything about this?”
“Dad what happened
in 1939?”
“What do you mean?”
“It seems there
were some kind of payments that Zeidy was making to people, which stopped in
1939 after a big payment and then a few months later continued until right
before you got out in 1941. Did anything happen in 1939 that you know about?”
“Well…” Again, for
anyone who knew my dad, they will recognize that when he started sentences in
such a manner, information was on its way. “In 1939 I was taken to the American
embassy.”
“Uh huh.”
“We were preparing
to leave Germany. They were weighing me and taking my height and a few other
things. They were talking to me in English. I didn’t understand English.”
“So what did you
do?”
“I spoke to them
in German.”
“And there wasn’t
anyone at the embassy who spoke German?”
“I don’t know.
They kept asking me questions, and I kept telling them in German I didn’t
understand what they were saying. I kept yelling at them, ‘I don’t understand
English, I don’t understand English.’”
“What did they do?”
“They yelled back
at me and eventually didn’t let us into the United States because they thought
I was crazy.”
“And you thought
this information wasn’t pertinent to tell me? What happened after that?”
“I took a walk.”
“You did what?!”
“I walked out of
the embassy and took a walk down the block.”
“What did Zeidy
do?”
“He eventually
caught up to me…”
“You’re a seven-year-old
Jewish boy in Nazi Germany taking a walk?”
“Yup.”
“So what you’re
telling me is you’re yelling at these people and then went for a walk?”
“This is what
happened.”
“Dad, you’re
saying you are basically the same person at 91 as you were at seven?”
My father smiled
and broke out into the little laugh he had and said, “Yeah, pretty much.”
* * *
My father, along
with his parents and grandmother made his way to Brooklyn, New York, where he
went to Kaminetz yeshiva and eventually the Mir. As my brother says, he entered
the Mir at 17 and left at 93. In between, he completed his Brooklyn College
degree in psychology, taught in various universities and, most importantly,
dedicated himself to working for and on behalf of the Jewish people. He spent 24
years teaching and eventually became the principal in the day school in
Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania. He felt he needed to move on, however, after the
board decided to turn a bit toward a more progressive Judaism. After stints in
Annapolis Hebrew Academy, the BJE in Rockville, along with a couple other ventures,
he found his true calling as the campus rabbi for Baltimore area colleges. [See
the sidebar for some of his students’ recollections.]
* * *
I could go on for
days, but I hope I was able to give you a snapshot of the world my father, z”l, lived in and the legacy he
left behind. Allow me please to close with a personal note: A little over a
year ago I sat down with my father and told him I got a job offer in Israel. We
told him we were moving to Israel, but I felt I needed to ask his permission to
go because of his health at the time. His first response pretty much settled it
before I could even address the issue
“That’s wonderful.
Do you have a place to live?” Looking back, I know I was not the son my father
had imagined or hoped for. My two brothers, b”H,
were. I struggled in learning, which I know frustrated him to no end, and soon
enough he stopped learning with me as a child because of that. It wasn’t
working for either of us. Torah simply did not speak to me in my youth. I was
an athlete and would much rather do something competitive than learn some
Talmud. My father, on the other hand, did not have an athletic or competitive
bone in his body, and the only thing he wanted to do was study Torah. We were
pretty much exact opposites, and I believe that was why, at times, we struggled
to relate to one another.
Our relationship
thawed out when I began working for NCSY in my late teens. I think my job there
alleviated a fear he may have had that I would not be religious. Years later,
when I grew up enough to finally appreciate Torah, we both learned Daf Yomi and
were able to finally talk in learning after all the years we struggled to
communicate on his favorite subject matter. Eventually, he asked me to attend a
fantastic Yerushlami shuir given by
Rabbi Yankel Herskovitz, and we finished Mesechtas Brachos together before the shiur moved to nighttime. He continued
to attend, but it was almost impossible for me due to my basketball schedule. B”H, I am still learning Yerushalmi
today.
I do believe a
special turning point in our relationship happened during his hospitalization
in 2022. We spent some very meaningful time and long hours together. I could
sense something change in him as it related to me, and it was during that time
when I understood why he never spoke about his life before he came to America.
I will keep those conversations to myself, begging your forgiveness, but will
forever cherish those moments as just ours, something shared between a father
and his son. That said, I would be remiss if I didn’t add one anecdote about
his time in rehab, when he sort of showed that, as frustrated as he was at
times, I could still get a laugh out of him.
“Chaim, you have
to get me out of here. This is the worst place I have ever been in my life.”
“Dad, you were
born in Germany.”
“Okay, so it’s the
second worst place I’ve ever been in my life.”
* * *
My father was niftar on motza’ei Shavuos, and I left Eretz Yisrael as soon as I could.
I was not able to make the funeral
and told my brothers not to wait for me as I did not believe it was fair to my
father’s neshama to make him wait for
my arrival. As my brother and I had spoken about, it was a huge bracha that he was buried the same day
he left this world. However, because of that, I was unable to say good-bye to
him, so to speak. I hope you will forgive me for doing so here.
Dad, I know I
wasn’t what you hoped I would be, and I gave you more problems than you ever
thought possible. I am truly sorry for that. But I wanted to thank you for all
you gave me: the lessons you taught me, be they good or not so good, the
example you set for me and my children, and our time living in Baltimore
together. We were able to talk to each other, and I am extremely grateful for
that. Regardless of our personal relationship in my youth, you were an awesome
grandfather to our children and grandchildren, ka”h. They looked forward to seeing you and, when they moved away,
made it a point to visit you each time they returned.
I never truly
appreciated how hard it must have been for you to come to this country at nine-and-a-half
years old and become so proficient in English that people who knew you for more
than half a century had no idea you were born in Germany. As someone who works
hard each day to learn Hebrew, a familiar language, I appreciate how impressive
that actually is. You taught me how important it was to always be learning and
growing and taught me that integrity is not just a hypothetical. You were a
listening ear and a valued opinion, a dedicated Jew, and an honest man. Your
life was an example of Torah values and commitment to things that are important
in our world. The love you had for your Creator was underscored by the delicate
care you showed for His people. Your quiet concern for your fellow man is
evidenced by the countless visitors during shiva
who told us things about you we had never known. I was amazed by the number of
students who told me they learned b’chavrusa
with you while studying in college. When did you have the time?
Dad, I am thankful
we got to spend 61 years on this earth together. Unfortunately, I was unable to
be there at the end of your days on this planet, but I do hope you found peace
and realized how impactful the life you lived was on most everyone you came in
contact with. I am happy that the Holy One got to finally acknowledge the
hidden things you did on His behalf and for His people. I hope your return
meeting with your Maker is even more than you expected, and I hope your seat is
one with a great view someplace near Him. It is my fervent prayer that some day
very soon, when Mashiach makes his long-awaited appearance, we will see each
other again, and together we will be able to enjoy the holy city of
Yerushalayim along with the rest of klal
Yisrael. And as we walk those streets,
you can see for yourself all the things I have been telling you about for the
last year. May he come speedily in our days.
Thank you, Dad. I
miss you already, Chaim
sidebar
Students Reminisce
“The Neve Shalom Synagogue massacre had just
happened, and we were all so upset. The JSA organized a candlelight vigil to
end up in front of the library. It was Rabbi Joseph Katz’s first event
with us and the first time he was there with all the Jewish students. I
remember wondering what he was going to say and what impression he would leave
on so many people at such a difficult time. We walked with our candles, and all
of us ended up in front of the library. Rabbi Katz stood in front of all those
shaken students and stunned us with his amazing words – gave us comfort, made
us not feel alone, and inspired us. It was at that moment I knew he was just
what the campus needed. It was the start of a long and deep friendship, with
deep purpose and lots of successes along the way. I will miss him.”
“At the time I started Hopkins,
the school was too small for a Hillel, but they shared a campus rabbi with
other Baltimore colleges, and Rabbi Joseph Katz was newly hired for that
position. I met him just minutes after I moved into my dorm, before I had
even met my first college friend. Yes, I learned Torah from him, sold my
chametz through him and, once a
semester or so, spent Shabbat off-campus at his house. But I’ll always be most
grateful for that day during my sophomore year when I felt that I was in personal
crisis and, perhaps drawing on his psychology degree, he counseled me to break
down my issues to smaller steps – advice that was much needed and golden at the
time.”
“This past Shabbos, I looked at my
ketubah and saw Rabbi Joseph Katz’s
signature as an eid. I feel so
fortunate to have known him and enjoyed a warm relationship with him. Without a
doubt, his support helped me transition smoothly to becoming more observant in
my Yiddishkeit. Throughout college, he supported me, whether in conversations
on campus or in his home, along with Rebbetzin Mashe Katz. I honestly cannot
count the number of Shabbosim I spent together with the Katzes, but I know that
their home made me (and my friends) feel wanted and special. Rabbi Katz would
come to campus to pick us up on Friday afternoons, and he would drive us back
to campus on motza’ei Shabbos. It was common on Friday nights
for us college students to stay up quite late into the night chatting after
dinner – and we always ate very well with the Katzes.”
“As students at Johns Hopkins from
1993 to 1999, we appreciated the Jewish community Rabbi Joseph Katz helped
build, a space where Orthodox students could find a religious home and
those of us who were still learning were fully welcomed along our journey. Over
time, we both became religious through our experience in the Jewish Students
Association at Hopkins and remain committed Torah Jews more than 25 years
later. When my wife knew she was in the process of becoming religious, she
confided this to Rabbi Katz. He said, “Just make sure no matter what you do or
where you go, you can always still recognize yourself in the mirror.” This
became a watchword for her as she continued her journey, which she has
shared with many others – the understanding that there is no need to give up
your identity, your self, in order to become an Orthodox Jew.”
“Every so often, Hashem gives us a
gift, and we encounter one of those truly exceptional people, the kind of
person whose very existence literally changes worlds just by virtue of who they
are, how they lead their lives, and how they change and inspire all those
around them. Needless to say, Rabbi Joseph Katz was such a person. Rabbi Katz
was pure. He was not naïve, and I’m sure he wasn’t perfect. (Only Mrs. Mashe Katz
can really say.) But he was utterly authentic and his own person. To be sure,
he represented a particular way of life. And for so many of the college
students he met, he was probably the only German-born (pre-war!),
yeshiva-trained, hat-wearing (gray!) Torah-observant Jew they had ever met – a complete
and utter novelty. He was, frankly speaking, pretty much the last person you
might have imagined being a university chaplain, and I’m fairly certain there’s
no one quite like him in the current JLIC world, which tends to favor younger,
more “relatable” couples. But that’s the thing: Maybe Rabbi – and Mrs. Katz – weren’t
what you expected, but together they simply lived their values, which included
the most open doors in Baltimore, support for students no matter what, and true
care and love for those students. In turn, the students received so many
precious gifts: a window into what a Torah-observant world could look like, a
model of parents who articulated an uncompromising love for their own children
and grandchildren, a sense of stability when it might otherwise have been
elusive, and a timely and often wry suggestion at just the right moment.”
“Rabbi Joseph Katz created a
vibrant and inclusive Jewish community at Johns Hopkins, making everyone feel
welcome and valued. His dedication to nurturing Jewish life and learning on
campus left an indelible mark on countless students, including me, shaping our
understanding of our heritage and our place in the world.”
“Rabbi taught me about kindness,
humanity, how to be a mensch, how to daven with kavana. He and Mashe were my teachers and my friends in Wilkes
Barre, Pennsylvania, when I was in elementary school. I spent many a Shabbos
with them, and I will always feel lucky to have been one of the students taught
by this tzadik.”
“Rabbi Joseph Katz would meet me
outside the basketball office at Towson University to learn Torah during my
time on the team. His kindness and guidance were always so welcoming and
spiritually uplifting and meant so much to me. He would study lulav hagazul with me, and I know it
made an impression on Coach Allen, too; he even commented on it. In the often
competitive and high-pressure world of college basketball, Rabbi Katz’s
presence gave me a sense of peace and made me feel at home.”
