On a bookcase in my living room, I have a number of framed family photos, including the small, original version of this picture of Al. When I look at it, I also see an image of Dave, our father. I don't know if Dave was this handsome in his young adulthood. Perhaps he was. You knew Al, and many of you knew the young man in this picture. It is quite obviously an image from very long ago-- distant by a lifetime, my lifetime in fact, and in a world that -would be hardly recognizable today. A1 sat for this studio portrait in June 1945 in Susice, Czechoslovakia, where he was part of the American Army of occupation just after the end of World mar II.
I cherish this photo because it reminds me of my earliest remembrance of A1 when he came home. That indelible child's memory, given visible form in this photograph, is reason enough to value a small visual keepsake. But there is something more, something not datable to 1945, something timeless and enduring that defined for me Ai's eighty-one years. It is in his eyes, the windows on his soul and his very personhood, showing to us his kindness, his generosity, and the depth of his feelings. And in all the years that have elapsed between the portrait of a young soldier and the old man who just left us, we could still catch glimpses of those same feeling and compassionate eyes.
Our feelings, though, do not always serve us well. A1 had a temper and sometimes it didn't take much to provoke it. He was not a saint, nor is any of us. Judaism is much too grounded in the reality of human experience not to recognize that foibles as much as virtues define our humanity. Judaism does not console us with the smug piety that we can achieve the perfection of sainthood. For us, it is burden enough to try our best in all things, to strive to do right by other people, and to realize the best within us. A1 had more than his share of both foibles and virtues as befits someone of his strong sentiments and passions. He gave his best efforts and tried to do right by others, and for this and many other reasons, we loved him.
Early on, I learned from A1 that "good enough," that simple expression justifying an incomplete or badly done job, was not really "good enough." A1 gave much of himself to whatever he set his hand to--whether it was scouting, studying, soldiering, or, much later, leading a service at Etz Chaim. He wanted only to fulfill his tasks in the best manner possible. In some ways, he was a perfectionist, and many times when I have settled for "good enough," I have thought of A1 and the possibility of doing better.
A1 loved a good story, to tell them and to listen to them. No one could take pleasure in the telling and the listening unless he truly valued people. His sometime rascibility canin no way gainsay the genuine enjoyment he took in the company of others.
I close with a brief story, one of many that A1 told about the war. I hope you will forgive a little salty language, but it is after all a soldier's story. I think occasions like this ought to permit a few smiles amid the tears. This little narrative is about wit, humor, quick thinking, and courage. It is, in other words, about Al.
In early 1945, just after the Battle of the Bulge, Al's 3rd Army engineer unit was moving so fast it went beyond its sector into the area of the 9th Army. He and some other engineers were "captured" by another American unit fearing German infiltration--soldiers speaking English and dressing like American GIs. They were taken under gunpoint to a courtyard about half-block square. A1 kept talking, explaining that he was from Indianapolis. Marciano, the captain's driver, urged A1 to stop talking: "Al, be quiet, these guys are very itchy." Finally, although he didn't really have any urgency, A1 asked if he could put his arms down, saying, "I have to piss so bad I can taste it." Everybody laughed, captives and captors alike. The lieutenant in command said these guys must be all right, and the captivity ended.
I have no more words now, only good-bye to our best brother, Al. No day will pass without our thinking of you.
Jack Glazier