The End of an Era: Mattityahu Tsevat and Eric Werner.

Prosopography is one of my favorite words. Wikipedia defines it as, "an investigation of the common characteristics of a historical group, whose individual biographies may be largely untraceable, by means of a collective study of their lives, in multiple career-line analysis." This is perhaps its broadest meaning. A narrower one is, "Who in the past knew whom."

It can often take an unusual turn. For example, Gershom Scholem and Abraham Joshua Heschel did not care for one another personally. Yet each in his own way was very close to Henry Corbin, one of the outstanding scholars in the past century of mysticism in Islam.

This past Saturday, Matitiahu Tsevat, professor emeritus of Bible in Cincinnati, passed away. I came to know him slightly when I worked at the Klau Library in Cincinnati for six months in 1973, but became better acquainted with him after I came to New York. The last time we saw one another was in June of 1993, at the Shabbat morning at services held at the College, where he was honored with an aliyah in honor of a "special birthday," (i.e., his 80th). At the festive kiddush that followed, he and I talked of Dr. Werner. And before we parted, he made me promise that I would visit him when I was next in Cincinnati. Sadly, the next occasion was perhaps five years later and my colleagues told me of his failing health and that he was not receiving visitors. Now, with his passing at 96, I feel that an era has truly ended.

One of the closest personal friendships I have enjoyed at the College-Institute was with the eminent musicologist, Eric R. Werner (1901-1988), and it was Dr. Werner who told me of his personal relationship with Professor Tsevat, and after Dr. Werner's death, Dr. Tsevat filled in gaps.

Dr. Werner and Dr. Tsevat met in Breslau in the 1920s. Dr. Tsevat was a student at the Gymnasium where Dr. Werner's father was a professor of classics. (Dr. Tsevat's name originally was Pinczower before he hebraized it.) Werner's father and Tsevat's fathers were fraternity brothers at university and often spent time in the company of one another. Werner was at that time a junior faculty member at the Jewish Theological Seminary in Breslau.

The young Pinczower was recognized early for his academic brilliance, and although there was a difference of a dozen years between Eric Werner and Mathias Pinczower, the two became close friends. Indeed, Eric told me that Matt tutored him in Hebrew (admitting that it was never one of his strong suits), and he in return tutored Matt in music theory. At that festive kiddish in 1993, Dr. Tsevat smiled broadly, as he recalled the many hours they studied together the polyphonies and counterpoint in Palestrina.)

Each had told me how Dr. Werner had approached Dr. Nelson Glueck, president of Hebrew Union College, and made the strong case for admitting the young Matt Tsevat to the Graduate Program (from which he earned his PhD. in 1953), as well as bring him on the faculty. Dr. Tsevat told me he never had such a "melitz yosher" as he did in Dr. Werner.

Their close personal friendship was further cemented when Dr. Tsevat asked Dr. Werner to serve as sandak at the berit milah of his son, Daniel. In the spring of 1987 Dr. Werner and I were having lunch together at Swenson's (now Dojo, across the street from the College, on West Fourth Street). Dr. Werner told that he had served as sandak at Daniel Tsevat's berit, to which I said, "Nebech" (not to be confused with the Yiddish word, often spelled the same way in English. In Yiddish it can also be a phatic expression of sadness.

His hair-trigger temper instantly exploded. "Why, what do you mean 'Nebech'?" I told him how Daniel Tsevat, 33 years old, had died suddenly in April, 1985 of an allergic reaction to sulfite in wine he had drunk, and he was mentioned by name in an article in the New York Times during the summer of 1985 about the FDA's investigating sulfite in foods. Without a further word, Dr. Werner sprang to his feet and ran out of the restaurant. I was close at his heels, except the manager grabbed me, afraid we were skipping out on the meal.

I came to the fourth floor in time to hear his voice raging over Helen Farber's as he pushed his way past her into Paul Steinberg's office. (He was perhaps the only person ever to do so successfully!) With tears in his eyes, Dr. Werner repeatedly pounded on Dr. Steinberg's desk, saying, "Why did no one tell me of Daniel's death?" Dr. Steinberg, who knew Dr. Werner well, silently went to a file and brought out a photocopy of the NY Times Article. Then he and I walked with Dr. Werner to the lounge area of that floor. Dr. Werner sat there silently as he read the article, and from the length of time it took, it was clear that he had read it several times. With tears in his eyes, he faced us and said, "I was not there for my dearest friend at his time of loss... What shall I do ... and after such a long time?" He arose, resumed his gruff character, and said that he was going home to contemplate how best to contact the Tsevat family.

About a year later, Dr. Tsevat was in New York and visited the College. By this time, Dr. Werner's health was failing and he no longer came down to the College. I asked Dr. Tsevat if he knew that Dr. Werner was not well, and he replied that he suspected for they had not been in touch for several months. I offered him my office and the telephone so that he might call his old friend. Afterward, Dr. Tsevat thanked me warmly, adding that he was taking a taxi immediately to Washington Heights to visit Eric and Elisabeth Werner.

How many persons today are so fortunate as to have personal friendships that last more than sixty years? Dr. Werner and Dr. Tsevat were two such fortunate individuals. Intellectually and personally they also represent for me the finest and most endearing qualities and values of that final generation of German Jewry born before World War I. Now they are gone. The final door on that era has truly closed.

How fortunate I was to have known them.

Remembering Alfred Gottschalk

The late Alfred Gottschalk was a commanding and dominating presence throughout my career at the College-Institute. He clearly relished such occasions as Opening Ceremonies, Founders' Day, Graduation, and Ordination-Investiture. But it was on Founders' Day here at the New York School that he waxed truly eloquent about Rabbi Stephen S. Wise and the Jewish Institute of Religion, where Dr. Gottschalk attended classes while still a student at Boys' High School in Brooklyn. With Founders' Day approaching, and the six month anniversary of his death, I find myself thinking about Fred and our personal interactions over the decades.

One incident stands out above all that I would like to share with you, dear Readers, an incident where I saw him at a moment of deep sorrow, but a moment that encapsulated who he was and how he came to be.

During the summer, almost six years ago, Ardon Bar-Hama, a specialist in digital photography, was working at the Klau Library, New York, digitizing manuscripts sent from the Klau Library, Cincinnati. One afternoon Fred came to my office with several worn and tattered prayer books. "Can you arrange to have these rebound?" he asked. I examined each and saw that these Roedelheim prayer books from the mid-nineteenth century, were beyond rebinding, for the paper was brittle and the bindings were shot. There was no way they could survive the process.

I explained to him what the problem was and suggested that mylar encapsulation was one possibility, but that it was costly. I jokingly asked if he did not have newer prayer books to pray from.

Fred carefully opened the books and showed me inscriptions on the fly-leaves written in Hebrew, German in Hebrew characters, and German. Among these inscriptions were recorded the dates of birth and death of several generations of the Gerson family.

I knew that Gerson was his mother's maiden name and understood how precious these data were to him. These prayer books had belonged to his grandfather, his great-grandfather, and his great-great grandfather.

The only thing I could suggest was that he tie them with string or a ribbon and place them on a shelf to pass on to the next generation at the appropriate occasion/

He then extracted from one of the volumes a single piece of paper that measured perhaps four by six inches. It was thicker than paper but lighter than what we call "paper-board." This piece of paper was indeed so worn and fragile that it was translucent. Near the upper edge of one corner I saw the words, "Feld-Karte ___, 191-."

It was a "post card" provided to German soldiers during World War I upon which to send messages home. One could not read the writing on it that was in pencil, for the writing was so faded.

"But what can I do with this?" Fred asked. He explained it was the last message his grandfather has received from one of his sons who died in action during the War.

In a moment I can only call "inspired," I brought the slip of paper over to Mr. Bar Hama and asked if his camera could recover any writing on this piece of paper. It took only a matter of seconds, and handwriting in the "chicken scratch" cursive used in Germany before World War I flashed on the screen. Mr. Bar-Hama slipped a blank CD into his computer and copied the text. In less than twenty seconds from start to finish, Fred had the CD in his hand. He looked at me in utter amazement. "Who know such things existed?!" he said.

A day or two later I saw Dr. Gottschalk sitting on the Conference Level, drinking a cup of coffee. He waved me over, so I drew myself a cup from the urn and sat down. After exchanging pleasantries, I asked if he had had the opportunity to read his uncle's message.

For a moment he looked as if someone had punched him in the solar plexus, as his eyes became rimmed in red. Pausing to blow his nose, he regained his composure. His normally robust voice, however, became a mere whisper. He said that the message was dated only a few days before his uncle had died and the message was two lines written twice.

"I am so cold and hungry. Please food. I am so cold and hungry. Please food."

Gustav Gerson, Alfred Gottschalk's grandfather, had three children: twin sons, Alfred and Berthold (born October 9, 1895) and one daughter. Alfred Gerson died on October 21, 1915 and Berthold Gerson on October 26, 1915.

After a few sips of coffee in silence, Fred went on. It was by the merits of these uncles that his mother and he escaped from Nazi Germany. His father had succeeded in leaving in 1938, but his mother was unable to obtain the necessary permits to emigrate.

Gustav Gerson went to town's chief of police, who was an old acquaintance, but also a card-carrying Nazi. Gerson pleaded with the police chief, that his two sons had died fighting for the Fatherland. All he was asking was that his daughter and grandson be allowed to leave. With the prospect of having two fewer Jews on his hands, the police chief agreed and issued the exit papers.

The memory of those uncles, both of whom had died fourteen years before Fred was born and for one of whom he was named, was especially precious to Fred Gottschalk, for he was ever mindful of them, their sacrifice, and how their role in his survival.

I enjoyed a warm relationship with Dr. Gottschalk, especially after he settled in New York in 1996, but it became especially close after that conversation over cups on coffee on that morning in August in 2004. I can only conclude by saying how honored I was that he chose to share this story with me. And I hope that you come away with a deeper understanding and appreciation of him.