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Archive for December 10, 2011
The enchanted life of Florence Taminosian Young, daughter of a whirling dervish
December 10, 2011 leoadambiga 1 comment
If there's such a thing as living an enchanted life than Florence Taminosian Young has managed it. When I profiled her about eight years ago or so she was already well into her 90s and going strong. I believe she's still among us and still active in more ways than most folks half her age. Her life has revolved around church, theater, art, business, and family. She's a keen appreciator of beauty and her buoyant personality is a thing of beauty itself. On the surface she seems like one of those impossibly idealized and stereotyped grandmothers from the Golden Age of Hollywood, only her life is far richer and more idiosyncratic than any scripted figurehead. Hers has been a rich, varied life and she comes from a family with an exotic, over-the-top past that you wouldn't expect. More than a sweet old dame, she's a savvy entrepreneur with an eye for quality and a knack for striking a good deal. And as you'll read, she's one helluva saleswoman, too.
Originally appeared in the New Horizons
Seventy-five years ago a fetching Florence Emelia Young (then Taminosian), took the stage in the Omaha Community Playhouse's first production, "The Enchanted Cottage." For the romantic fantasy the trained dancer landed the minor, non-speaking role of a sprite-like figure, but with her shapely legs, graceful movements, dark bangs and cute dimples she no doubt caught the eye of male admirers in the audience that night in 1924.
The glowing high school student, all of 17, had been urged to try out for the fledgling theater's inaugural play by her neighbor, Henry Fonda, a quiet young man two years her senior. Fonda, who practically "lived at the Playhouse," would later leave Omaha to find stardom. The star-struck girl appeared in a few more plays there. She made her mark though not as a performer, but as a devoted theater volunteer and supporter these past 75 years. Today, she is the benevolent grand dame of the Playhouse.
"I always thought she was a treasure," said the theater's former executive director Charles Jones, "because she was really willing to put herself out for the Playhouse. She was proud of selling season memberships and helping us move forward. She has this bulldog tenacity, but the most wonderful heart. She's a glorious, caring person."
Another bedrock Omaha institution in Florence's life has been Dundee Presbyterian Church. Founded in 1901, she attended Sunday School there beginning in 1910 and was confirmed in 1918. She has been an integral part of the church's life and it of hers. Dundee is where she wed, where her children were baptized, confirmed and married, where her mate of 61 years, Kenny, was eulogized, where she served as choir member, deacon, elder and Sunday School teacher. In 1991 she was ordained a Stephen Minister. Young-endowed scholarships are granted each year.
Florence has seen a century of change unfold. She's outlived many who have been dear to her. In 1979 she buried her only son, Bob, after he died of cancer. Yet, her bright, buoyant spirit remains undimmed. Whatever has come next, she "took it in stride," forging a life of infinite variety and enviable richness, one based in family, church and community. Her passions range from travel to cooking to the arts. Then, there's her entrepreneurial side. She had her own public stenographic business and real estate broker's license at a time when career women were scarce. Also a noted restorer of Oriental rugs, she continues plying the craft today.
Even now, this vivacious lady of 92 still works, volunteers and travels. Additionally, she spends time with her six grandchildren and eight great-grandchildren. She is clearly centered on the here and now, not the past.
"I have such a fascinating life," she says.
She's still very much the same charming girl who moved with the greatest of ease that night so long ago. She was recently back at the Playhouse visiting the set of "The Little Foxes," the current offering in the Fonda-McGuire Series. Looking radiant in a flowing black gown topped by an aqua blue sequined blouse, her white hair set-off like a pearl, she was every bit a teenager again, primping and preening for a captive audience — in this case a photographer. A graduate of the Misner School of the Spoken Word and Fine Arts, she glided effortlessly through the set, posing on a staircase and reclining on a chaise lounge. Ever the trouper, she responded to the photographer's every request, obviously enjoying the attention, her energy and enthusiasm belying her years. A picture of health — she takes no medicine and drives a 1986 Cadillac kept "in perfect running shape" — she believes age is just a number anyway.
"It is. It really is. I think attitude makes a lot of difference, no matter what your age is," she says in a ripened voice full of eager anticipation.
Ask her what's the best thing about being 92, she unhesitatingly quips, "Everybody is so nice to you." The worst part, she adds, is "knowing you maybe only have about ten more years left, if that many, and so much to do. Every year goes so fast."
Her long life is filled by so many telling incidents that in recounting it the tendency is to telescope events, but that would not do her justice. Her story, like the intricate rugs she restores, is a tapestry of interwoven threads that form the pattern of a life lived well and fully. The only way to get a true picture of her is to go back to the beginning.
Born at home in Omaha in 1907, Florence was the first child of John Isaiah Taminosian and the former Ellen Maria Andersson. A sister and brother completed the family the next few years. Florence and her siblings grew up in a house (still standing) on Chicago Street in Dundee.
Florence's parents each emigrated to America. He from the former Asia Minor Republic of Armenia. She from Sweden. By all accounts, her father was a charismatic fellow with a history straight out of Ripley's Believe It or Not. "He has such a fantastic story," Florence says.
Buoyed by a published interview he granted to a Mankato, Minn. newspaper in 1910, the dramatic circumstances of his coming over are known. As he told it then, he was ostracized by his family when he rejected Christianity (his father was a Congregational Church deacon) for Islam and became a dervish or kind of Muslim evangelist.
He escaped to Cairo, Egypt with the aid of a local prince. While living under the prince's protection he was ordained an Islamic priest, but after time grew disillusioned with his new calling and yearned for his old life and faith. But, rebuking Islam invited certain death. Returning home was out since Armenians were a persecuted minority. So, he enlisted the aid of Western missionaries, who secreted him out of the region.
Whirling Dervishes
He arrived on U.S. shores in 1893, not knowing English or a single soul. After a year of struggle he landed the part of "the howling and whirling dervish" in the Barnum & Bailey Circus, traveling to 29 states in two years. His talent for proselytizing and performing, as well as his knowledge of Oriental rugs, would later be passed on to his daughter Florence. His circus days ended when, struck by a second religious conversion, he became a street corner preacher with the Volunteers of America, a Christian evangelical organization ala the Salvation Army. With his dark exotic good looks, wild gestures, musky voice and turban-topped uniform he cut quite a figure. So much so he was invited to appear at the 1898 Trans-Mississippi International Exposition in Omaha. Here he stayed, finding more mainstream work with Woodmen of the World Life Insurance Co. and meeting his future wife Ellen. Later, he began selling Oriental rugs.
Grand Court at the 1898 TransMississippi Exposition
The arrival of Florence's mother is devoid of storybook intrigue but no less compelling. Purportedly descended from Swedish royalty, Ellen Maria grew up in privileged surroundings on a country estate, Borstad, near Vadsteima, Sweden. One of ten children, she attended finishing school and became expert in household maintenance, particularly sewing, a skill Florence would learn under her watch years later.
In 1903 Ellen Maria ventured alone to America, by ocean liner, and made her way to Mead, Neb., where an uncle lived. She learned English and moved to Deadwood, S.D., where she worked as a seamstress. Restless in the small town, Ellen Maria moved to Omaha and soon secured a position in the home of Herman Kountze, one of the city's leading citizens.
"She was in charge of their upstairs maids and when the family entertained she helped with the serving," Florence writes in a family history she's compiling. "She was treated just like one of the family."
It was at a Kountze soiree, Florence believes, her mother and father met. Although from vastly differing backgrounds, she guesses the attraction was mutual. "My father was a very handsome man. He spoke seven different languages. He was selling Oriental rugs and I imagine, even at that time, they were highly esteemed. And he was probably doing well by then. My mother was a very beautiful, talented lady. She was always very beautifully dressed. Everybody loved her."
Even after becoming a family man and attending to business (he eventually acquired the Dundee Cleaning Co.), Florence's father still preached on the side. She saw him speak once to some long forgotten congregation. By then he was no longer the flamboyant Great Dervish, but rather a sober, chastened man of God.
"He gave a very good sermon. I think he was a very good speaker. I was so proud of him as a preacher."
In her mind, she can still see the occasion when her normally stoic father broke down after bitter news arrived from the Old Country. "The only time I saw my father cry is when he received notice his mother and father had been dragged to death by the Turks" in another round of atrocities.
The Taminosian home, a two-story wood-frame house, was always open to visitors and a melting of Armenian, Swedish and American culture.
"My mother had a regal quality, and yet our friends were always welcome in our house. There was always something to eat for them. On Sundays my mother would cook a big beautiful dinner and she and my father would invite their friends. I grew up with many different languages being spoken around me. The men would be in the living room after dinner and my mother and her friends would be in the kitchen."
Leisure time then was less hurried, more social. Cheap too.
"It didn't cost a lot of money to have fun in those days. As little girls we played jacks, hopscotch, hide and seek, things like that. When I was older a whole group of us might go dancing to Peony Park. I've always enjoyed dancing. It was just a lot of good wholesome fun. It was a lovely time."
She loved silent pictures, especially romances. She enjoyed riding with her family in their horse-and-buggy en route to picnics at Carter Lake. Autos then were still few in number. The first car she rode in was a Model-T Ford. Of all the inventions and advances she saw, the most impressive were electrical power coming into her home and the advent of radio.
Summer nights meant sleeping on the second-story porch just outside her bedroom. Doors were never locked. She always felt safe.
She received her elementary education at Dundee School, which was not yet built when she started. Therefore, she attended kindergarten in Dundee Hall and first grade in the Dundee Fire Barn, where, in the middle of class, "the bell would go off and the firemen would slide down the pole." She attended Central High School before heeding her mother's advice ('every girl ought to be able to earn her own living if she needed to') and transferring to Technical High School, where she learned typing and shorthand, two skills she would put to good use.
But the familiar red brick Tech edifice on Cuming Street was still under construction, so Florence and her mates attended classes in converted storefronts along Leavenworth Street for one year before moving to the big new Tech High building. "It was wonderful. It was the only school in the city with a swimming pool." She swam well too. Her other extracurricular activities included editing the school paper, dramatics, debate, chorus. A play she wrote, "The Stovepipe Hole," was performed on the Tech stage.
Although long closed, Florence keeps her ties to the school alive as coordinator of the annual Tech High Reunion. She's helped preserve and display school memorabilia and raise funds for a planned renovation of the building's massive auditorium. Her 75th class reunion is next year.
As a young woman she helped out in her family's cleaning business. Besides cleaning rugs, her family repaired them. Her father taught her mother all about Oriental rugs and it was under the tutelage of her mother, a master needleworker who did restoration work for individuals and museums, that Florence and her sister Eleanor became skilled.
"I apprenticed for over 30 years under my mother and I learned to be an Oriental rug expert," Florence says. "She wouldn't even let us touch a rug belonging to a customer. We had to practice on old ones."
Along with her expertise, Florence gained a deep appreciation for the rugs, which are traditionally handwoven using the choicest materials.
"They're the finest you can get. I have one rug that is 168 knots to a quare inch. All put in by hand. It has silk outlining in it. To me, rugs are like pictures on a wall, only they're on the floor."
She continues Oriental rug restoration today, refringing ends, reweaving holes and edging sides frayed from wear, pets or accidents.
"Even now, the Nebraska Furniture Mart sends customers to me who need a rug repair done. My sister has a big business doing it in Kansas City too. Neither of us ever advertise. Work just comes to us."
Over the years Florence has had clients seek her services out from as far away as New York and California. She does most of the work at home, which these days is an apartment at Skyline Manor. For a large piece, she works at the owner's home. One local couple had such an enormous rug, she says, "they built a room just for it and set-up a table for me to work on. Their cat had really injured this rug. I was there for weeks."
According to Florence, the best Oriental rugs are made in Iran and before trading with that nation was restricted some years ago she laid in a supply of native yarn that she isn't sure "anybody else has" in the U.S.
She says the quality of a fine Oriental rug is partly dependent on the area of the country it's made. "The quality of the yarn produced is determined by the water the goats drink and the vegetation they eat."
Her travels over the years took her to the Mideast, where she and Kenny bought many rugs. Native weavers working at their looms often remarked on how knowledgeable she was about their craft.
"When I was in Iran I put some stitches in a rug they were making and one of the men came way across the room and kissed me on the cheek, saying, 'You're an American, and you know how.' He couldn't believe it."
Travel was one of her and Kenny's greatest shared pleasures. Everyone who knew them say they were a perfect match.
"He was behind me in everything I did and I was behind him in everything he did. We admired each other so very much. He was a caring, intelligent man and it was just a privilege for us to live together."
The two met in the late 1920s and married in a formal ceremony at her church. A civil engineer by trade, he had his own firm and worked for Metropolitan Utilities District. He was later properties manager for the Great Plains Girl Scouts. Knowing her abilities, he encouraged her to find work and, when the opportunity arose, they bought a public stenographic business for her to run. Under her leadership, it flourished during the Great Depression.
"I built that business up to where I had three offices with a manager in each one. I also did printing and mimeographing."
She closed the company to raise her family. Once the children were grown she re-entered the business world as a real estate broker. She was a top seller. She and Kenny also built, sold and rented several homes. "We never lost a cent either." She's justifiably proud of her professional career.
"I liked business so much. I felt I had to be absolutely correct in everything I did because I was paving the way for other women."
It pleases her her granddaughters have followed her path and become business professionals in their own right. Her daughter, Helen Margaret Bucher, is a school teacher in Iowa.
Motivated by a mutual curiosity about the world, the Youngs began their travels by seeing the U.S. They eventually made it to all 50 states. From the time they started going abroad in 1954 until his death 37 years later, they visited every continent but Antarctica and a total of 125 countries. She's since added three Caribbean countries. About their travels, she says:
"Each one was so different, so precious. It's been very interesting. We both enjoyed people so much. Other people's customs, ways of living and treasures. You learn so many things. When we went to different countries we tried to learn a few of their words, and it made so much difference. The people knew we wanted to know them better. What was nice is Kenny and I traveled before everything became so Americanized."
When their children were small the Youngs took them along. "It would be so exciting to see them excited about something and learning about something," she says.
The highlights of her overseas journeys range from "the wonderful museums in Russia" to India's Taj Mahal, which "was as perfect as advertised. We were allowed to go down in the tomb and see its exquisite workmanship." Then there were the geysers Down Under, "the wonderful art and food" of Italy. In Sweden they stayed at the estate her mother grew up in. In the Mideast they visited a mosque her father sought refuge in.
"You kind of pinched yourself you were actually there sometimes. "
As an engineer, Kenny liked "climbing to the top of most everything — from the Leaning Tower of Pisa to the Great Wall of China."
They cruised on the QE2. Soared on the Concorde. During a memorable tour around the world they had a driver and guide all their own. Florence will never forget their first European jaunt in 1954. They flew from New York to London, when flying across the Atlantic was still a leap of faith.
"It was a propeller plane and I think I stayed up all night long just to see that propeller kept going."
Wanting mementos of her adventures, she began collecting rings and dolls from every country she visited. Her large collection of dolls, each outfitted with authentic native dress and made of indigenous materials, is proudly displayed in her apartment. The Youngs documented their tours via slides and presented public travelogues. She's also lectured extensively on dolls and Oriental rugs, many of which she's given to family members.
Sharing with others is something she's always done. It's why, even now, she counsels those in need as a Stephen Minister. "I really truly like people, and if I can help in any way to relieve their problems, I like to."
Her ministerial work extends to her retirement community. She calls on a woman at Skyline every Sunday and often finds other residents opening up to her. "People often tell me their thoughts and problems." Ask if she finds the work satisfying, she replies, "Well, you would get a great deal of satisfaction if you helped somebody, wouldn't you?"
"Florence Young is a devoted, joyful servant of Jesus Christ. She's an example to members of all ages of this congregation that one never retires from service to the Lord," says Rev. William L. Blowers, pastor of Dundee Presbyterian Church. "She is a remarkable woman. An inspiration."
Just as the church is the fabric of her faith, the Playhouse is the link to her love of make-believe. The continuity of her life will find her celebrating the church's centennial in 2001 and the theater's 75th anniversary in the 1999-2000 season. She's been there for every step in the theater's history.
"It's a real part of my life. It's wonderful to know I have been a part of something like this and to have done a few things to help it grow. It's really almost a miracle the way it has grown."
The Medallion Award for outstanding promotional service is named after her and Kenny. A top seller too for the symphony and opera, she still sells hundreds of Playhouse memberships yearly. She attends every play.
"I always feel I'm not so much selling, but offering a chance for a wonderful evening. Some plays produce messages. Others are just for amusement. Others bring back memories. It is a world of imagination, isn't it? It's such fun."
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Categories: Aging, Entertainment, Entrepreneurial, Florence Taminosian Young, Omaha, Omaha Community Playhouse, Theater, Writing Tags: Florence Taminosian Young, Omaha Community Playhouse
Gotta Dance, Seniors Make Ballroom Dancing an Integral Part of Staying Young
December 10, 2011 leoadambiga Leave a comment
I don't dance. I mean, I've tried, and let's just say it hasn't taken with me. At least not in public. I sometimes do my own version of dancing, either alone or with my partner, in the privacy of our home. More for the exercise, I must admit, than anything else, though I do enjoy the intimacy of slow dancing when we're by ourselves. I appreciate those who can move gracefully and unselfconsciously on the dance floor. And so it was that I observed with admiration and some envy a group of seniors doing their ballroom dancing thing for the following story I did eight or nine years ago. Who knows, maybe my dancing years are still ahead of me?
By 9:30 on a fine October night, a downtown dance hall is abuzz with the revelry of senior couples bobbing to the sweet notes of a swinging big band. It is dim inside save for lights strung overhead to cast a warm golden glow over the scene.
Everything — from the bouncy tunes to the jitterbug moves to the elegant couples dressed-to-the-nines — hearkens back to the 1940s, when juke joints like these ruled. The only difference now is these dancers move a tad slower than they did then. No matter, this is one hideaway where numerical age means little as long as you are still young at heart. Here, where time stands still, romantic asides and whispered sweet nothings continue to be shared by gray-haired partners for whom holding hands and sneaking smooches never grows old. In the rich ambience of this jumping night spot, nostalgia reigns supreme.
Elaine McMullin, 84, and Bernie McKernan, 76, are two regulars here. As usual, their dance card is filled. These smartly turned-out partners will sweep the rest of the night away to the melodious strains of the Ron Nadherny Band at the North Omaha Eagles Club, 24th & Douglas, where every Thursday evening ballroom dancing takes center stage courtesy of Joe Mimmick's 40s Dance Club. A different band plays every week. More than a mere dance venue, this ballroom — along with others like it in the area catering to the senior population — offers a veritable fountain of youth for participants, many of whom arrive lame yet somehow turn spry once the music starts. Yes, some magic is at work in these In-the-Mood places where age is merely a state of mind.
"No matter how you feel, music will bolster your spirit and will really make you feel young again," said 40s Dance Clubber Gloria Gordon of Omaha. "Sometimes you can hardly walk, but when you get on the dance floor it seems like for some reason you have no problem at all dancing. It is a real tonic. It's give you kind of a high."
Retired local school teacher Elaine McMullin, who dances with Bernie McKernan three nights a week, could not agree more. "You forget how old you are," she said. "You forget how many aches and pains you might have. A lot of nights I'm kind of tired and I think, 'Oh, I should stay home,' and then I realize I'd just be alone feeling sorry for myself and I figure I'm a whole lot better off going out, and so I go. It's certainly an enjoyable way to spend the evening. Plus, it's good exercise."
Bill Yambor, 76, can attest to the health benefits of dance. The Omaha resident said he has lost weight, stabilized his blood pressure and increased his energy level through a steady diet of hoofing. "It's good aerobics and it's good for the legs too. I'm in good shape," said the slim Yambor. He goes ballrooming every Wednesday and Thursday afternoon at Bluffs Run Casino and every Thursday night at the Eagles Club. He works in an occasional Tuesday night at the Millard Legion Post 374. He puts in as many as nine hours of dancing a day — rarely sitting out a turn. "If there are 15 dances, I dance every one of them. I don't miss one. I like them all." The only concession to age he makes is not dipping his partners anymore.
A typical ballroom program offers a wide variety of musical numbers and dance styles — from swing to the foxtrot to the polka to the rumba to the waltz. "I like to do them all, but personally the waltz is my favorite dance, especially the Viennese Waltz," said Elaine. "It's the smooth, even, gliding, free flowing movement I like. And when I dance I like to close my eyes and block out everything except to listen to the beat and to the shuffle of the feet on the floor. You hear the music, you feel the movement and you glide around. It's like your floating. It's a wonderful feeling."
Swept away by the thrill of it all, ballroom dancing enthusiast Jerrie Kraniewski of Omaha said she sometimes feels transported on the dance floor — as if she is "almost in another world." Bob McEniry, who has been Gloria Gordon's steady dance mate the past 10 years, said getting caught up in the moment — with the soothing music and the seductive movement — induces a kind of meditative state that triggers memories of old times. "You'll hear a song and it brings it all back. That's part of the reverie. It is a form of trance — you're way off there by yourself. It's trance dancing."
For Shirley Sailors, dancing is "the nearest thing to heaven there is." Shirley and her husband Ken come all the way from their Dunlap, Iowa home to kick up their heels in Omaha. Appropriately, the pair met at a dance. The circumstances of their meeting echo that of many senior ballroom dancing couples. Both had lost a longtime spouse and in the process of getting back into the social swing of things, they found each other. Dancing had been a shared love of Shirley's and her first husband's but she was unsure if it "could ever be the same again with someone else." To her joy, she discovered she "enjoyed it tremendously" with Ken too.
When Omahan Bob McEniry retired a decade ago, the widower didn't know what to do with himself — until he rediscovered a passion for dancing grown dormant during years spent working and raising a family. "I saw an ad in the paper that said, 'Dancing,' with a phone number. I dialed it right away. The fella answering said, 'We've got free dancing every Wednesday afternoon. Why don't you come over?' I went over and I've been at it ever since. It's been a fabulous find. It's just been delightful. It's brought it all back for me. It's a great way of staying young."
That desire to recapture a glint of youthful vitality crops up time and again in conversations with the senior dance crowd. Gloria Gordon loved to dance as a young woman but fell out of practice while married to a man without an ounce of Fred Astaire in him. After being widowed, she struck up a friendship with McEniry and was delighted to find that, like him, "it just came right back to me."
In the case of Elaine McMullin, she and her husband Jim shared a passion for dance they often entertained until he suffered such severe heart problems that it curtailed his physical activities and effectively ended their arabesques together at night spots like Peony Park, the Music Box and the Charemont. "We both missed it a lot." After Jim died, she waited a year before she went back dancing. Now, she might as well be a blushing bride of 18 again when circling the ballroom in the arms of Bernie McKernan, her friend and partner these last several years.
Vivacious Elaine is lovely to look at on the dance floor. She sashays with the gentle, effortless ease of a twirling leaf in the wind. Her body is relaxed. Her feet step lively yet gracefully to the beat. There is nothing out of place — from her high wavy set hair to her fabulous dress (she makes her own fancy dance dresses) slit just so to show off her still shapely legs. Where she grabs attention, Bernie, a retired building inspector, complements her with efficient if not flashy leading. Together, they make a pretty picture on the hard wood, their limbs entwined in close embrace one moment and swaying apart the next. They are made for each other.
"Having a good partner is an important part of it," Elaine said. "When you can move together as well as Bernie and I do, it really makes it good. When he pulls me up close on some of the slow music, which he calls cuddle dancing, our bodies just blend together and we kind of move as one." As for the dapper Bernie, who took dance lessons as a boy, he deflects any praise for his footwork to Elaine, saying, "After you've been dancing awhile the lady gets accustomed to you and things just come naturally. She can feel and anticipate what the next step's going to be. With her, well, she's a great dancer. She makes me look good out there." The pair never practice. Instead, they simply work out their steps on the floor.
Like many older people who suffer the loss of a spouse, Elaine and Bernie sought solace when tragedy struck and they found it in a support group for widows and widowers. Soon after meeting they learned of their mutual fondness for tripping the light fantastic and began making the local ballroom circuit together (Omaha, Millard, Lincoln, Blair and across the border in Minden, Iowa). They have been an exclusive dance floor couple ever since. Besides cutting a rug, they enjoy going out to dinner. Bernie also helps Elaine maintain her large house and yard. For them, though, dancing is the cat's meow. They plan their weeks around it.
Elaine, who studied dance from age 8 through her teens, said, "I've always loved to dance. Now, more than ever, I look forward to it. It is an occasion. It is a dress-up occasion. I plan the next night out what I'm going to wear and the fun I'm going to have and the music I'll enjoy dancing to. And there's a lot of camaraderie in places like this. I've met so many friends over the years just because of dancing."
To a man and woman, ballroom fanciers cite companionship and interaction as among the main attractions offered. The 40s Dance Club is rare in actively seeking senior singles. More than a few romances have blossomed in its ballroom. Take Ed and Gratia Setlak, for example, comparative youngsters at ages 55 and 65, respectively. He was divorced and she widowed when they met at a club function a few years ago. Sparks flew on the dance floor. "Right off the bat I sensed an honest openness in Gratia, and that said a lot to me," Ed recalls. "We danced twice that night. It was about three weeks before we got back together. We started dating and eventually we married." Dancing defies age in inspiring such interludes. After all, it is an intimate, seductive and sensuous mating ritual. "I love the rhythm. I love being held held by somebody,' Gratia Setlak said. Beyond the physical closeness it provides, her husband added, "It brings you together emotionally."
Ballroom dancer Ken Sailors said displays of endearment are only natural on the dance floor. "You'll see dance partners kiss each other on the cheek. It's a loving you don't see other places. There's nothing wrong with showing affection for the lady I love out on the dance floor." Romance aside, social dancing offers a relaxed and festive setting whose banter and gaiety are infectious. "One of the biggest joys I get at this dance club is seeing the pleasure these people are getting," Shirley Sailors said during an intermission at a recent 40s Dance Club program.
Bill Yambor and his late wife were crazy about dancing. After her death, he found a steady ballroom partner but she died too. Today, he is an unattached bachelor and equal opportunity dancer. "I don't want to get hooked up with one partner all the time, so I try to dance with all the ladies. Once in a while I'll take one out on a date." He said as long as his "body holds out," he expects to keep right on punching his dance card. "I'd probably be bored with my life if I didn't have dancing to do. It's one thing I really enjoy. It's a really good pastime. I meet a lot of nice people and make a lot of friends. I'd recommend it to anyone." Jerrie Kraniewski and her partner Irl C. Andis say they would miss dancing more than life itself. "I'd hate to have to ever give it up," Jerrie said. "No, we're not going to give it up as long as we can move," Irl added.
More than a few ballroom devotees carry on despite artificial knees and hips. Then there is Bernie McKernan who, after an unexplained cardiac event last June in which he collapsed unconscious on a Millard dance floor, now cha chas with a pacemaker in his chest. Bernie recalls little about the incident, but Elaine does. "It sure was scary. I didn't know what to do. Luckily, a nurse was there and she administered CPR. He was rushed to Methodist Hospital and I spent the evening with him in the emergency room," she said. All Bernie knows is that he "keeled over on the dance floor and woke up four days later with a pacemaker." Then, as if to prove his ballroom devotion, he added, "When I came to, I asked the doctor, 'How soon can we go dancing?' and he said, 'In a few days,' and so we did."
Asked what could possibly inspire such fierce ardor for this recreation activity, Elaine searched for words and said, "There's just something about dancing. It really makes you feel good. We both love it." Or, as Bernie simply puts it, "Well, it's fun."
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Categories: Aging, Dance, Entertainment, Music, Omaha, Writing Tags: Ballroom Dance, Ballroom Dancing, Dance
Holocaust rescue mission undertaken by immigrant Nebraskan comes to light: How David Kaufmann saved hundreds of family members from Nazi Germany
What makes someone a hero? Does it require exposing oneself to physical danger? Or is it taking an action, any action, that no else is willing or able to take in order to save a life or at least remove someone from harm's way? If you agree, as I do, that doing the right thing, whether there's the threat of bodily harm attached or not, constitutes heroism, then the late Grand Island, Neb. businessman David Kaufmann qualifies. He repeatedly signed letters of affidavit that allowed family members to leave Nazi Germany for America and freedom. By acting as their sponsor, he not only helped give them new lives here, he essentially saved their lives by getting them away from the clutch of Nazis bent on The Final Solution. When Omaha authors Bill Ramsey and Betty Shrier collaborated on a book about Kaufmann titled Doorway to Freedom I ended up writing several stories about Kaufmann and his actions. Two of those stories follow. These are among some two dozen Holocaust-related articles I've written over the years, several of which, including profiles of survivors, can be found on this blog.
David Kaufmann
Holocaust rescue mission undertaken by immigrant Nebraskan comes to light:
How David Kaufmann saved hundreds of family members from Nazi Germany
Originally published in Nebraska Life Magazine
Grand Island, Neb. Jewish German emigre David Kaufmann is recalled as a Holocaust hero today despite the fact he never fired a shot, never hid anyone, never bribed officials, never forged documents. What he did do was sign letters of affidavit from 1936 to the start of World War II that enabled scores of famly members to escape genocide in Nazi Germany. With strokes of a pen this private citizen did more than some entire states in responding to the Nazis' systematic eradication of Jews.
As the Holocaust unfolded an ocean away, he extended a lifeline from the middle of America to endangered family in his homeland. His sponsorship booked them safe passage, thus sparing them from near certain death. What makes this rescue effort unlike others from that grim time is that this merchant-entrepeneur managed it all from the small Midwest town he adopted as his own and made his fortune in.
"Yeah, Nebraska's one of the last places one would think of to find a guy like that," said retired Omaha Rabbi Myer Kripke, who presided over Kaufmann's 1969 funeral in Grand Island. After years of ill health, Kaufmann did at age 93, his rescue work little known outside his extended family.
Kaufmann undertook this humanitarian mission at the height of his success as a business-civic leader with retail, banking and movie theater interests. Known as "Mr. Grand Island," he's best remembered for Kaufmann's Variety Store there, the anchor for a south-central Nebraska chain of five-and-dimes.
But he did not act alone. The first family he got out of harm's way were cousins Isi and Feo Kahn in 1936. With his help the young couple fled Germany for America. They headed straight for Grand Island, where their daughter Dorothy Kahn Resnick was born and raised. Resnick, who lived and worked in Omaha for a time, now resides in Greeley, Col. Her father worked in Kaufmann's store until opening a used car dealership. Her mother was a "key" confidant of Kaufmann's in the conspiracy of hearts that evolved. She kept in touch with family abroad and fed Kaufmann new names needing affidavits of support. Feo even brought Kaufmann the forms to sign.
Anti-Semitism made life ever more restrictive for Europe's Jews, targets of discrimination, violence, imprisonment and death. People were desperate. Official, legal channels for visas dwindled. You needed a sponsor to get out. Dorothy said her mother went back repeatedly to Uncle David, as he's referred to out of respect, saying, "'Here's someone else.' Some were very distant relations. But she told me he never questioned her. He never wanted to know who they were and how they were related. He relied on her. He trusted her. He put his faith in her that if she said it was OK, he signed it. Uncle David and my mom just did the right thing. Maybe the simplicity of it is what's so beautiful."
"While Mr. Kaufmann had the wherewithal to do what he did, God bless him, it never would have happened without Feo," said family survivor Guinter Kahn. "It was Feo's doing — her persuasion — that got his agreement to get the others over."
Kaufmann's aid even extended after the war to those displaced by the carnage.
No one's sure of the exact number he rescued. How he delivered people to freedom and therefore a new lease on life is better known. Escaping the Holocaust meant somehow securing the proper paperwork, making the right connections and scraping together enough money. No easy task. Even family living abroad was no assurance of a way out. It was the rare family that had someone who could take on the legal-financial burden of sponsorship. Then there were the shameful restraints imposed by governments, including the U.S., that made obtaining visas difficult. Nationalism, isolationism and anti-Semitism ruled. Apathy, timidity, fear and appeasement closed borders, sealing the fate of millions.
Few stepped forward to offer safe harbor in this crisis. One who dared was Kaufmann. On regular visits and correspondence home this self-made man kept abreast of the worsening conditions and made a standing offer to help family leave. When Isi and Feo took him up on his offer, they became liaisons between him and asylum seekers. Not all chose to leave. Most who didn't perished.
Kaufmann didn't need the risk of assuming responsibility for the welfare of distant relations during the Great Depression, when riches were easily lost. Not wanting publicity for his actions, which went against the tide of official and popular sentiment to keep "foreigners" out, he carried on his campaign in near secrecy. Despite all the reasons not to get involved, he did. This unflinching sense of duty makes him a laudable figure, say Omahans Bill Ramsey and Betty Dineen Shrier, authors of a forthcoming book on Kaufmann called Out of Darkness.
In their research the pair found a handful of signed affidavits of the many they determined Kaufmann signed. The affidavits represent perhaps dozens, if not hundreds of lives Kaufmann saved. He apparently left no record of how many he aided nor any explanation of why he did it. His legacy as a rescuer went largely untold outside family circles until a couple years ago. Kaufmann rarely, if ever, spoke of it. There are no press accounts. No mention in books. No journal-diary entries. Other than a letter he wrote a family he helped flee Germany, scant documentation exists.
Related by blood or marriage, the refugees included the Kahns, the Levys and other families. Most settled outside Nebraska. The few that began their new lives in Grand Island or Omaha eventually left to live elsewhere. The only ones to stay in-state were Isi and Feo Kahn, who in later life moved from Grand Island to Omaha, and Marcel and Ilse Kahn, whose two sons were born and raised in Omaha. The two Kahn couples saw more of Uncle David than their relatives and came to know a man who loved to entertain at his comfortable stone home, which sat on well-landscaped grounds. At sit-down dinners and backyard picnics he and his second wife Madeline gave, the couple regaled visitors with tales from their world travels.
Family, for this benevolent patriarch, was everything. Wherever family settled, he kept tabs on them. Upon their arrival in America, each received a $50 check from him. His support was far from perfunctory, just as the affidavits he endorsed were far from idle strokes of the pen. As their sponsor, he was responsible for every man, woman and child listed on the documents and liable for any and all debts they incurred. As the story goes, no one abused his trust.
As if to please him, Kaufmann's charges distinguished themselves. "We've not met or talked to anyone yet that wasn't very successful. There are doctors, lawyers, researchers. I mean, they were driven by this legacy. He gave them a chance to do something with their dreams and they made the most of it," Ramsey said.
Underscoring this rich legacy of accomplishment is the fact none of it would have been possible without Kaufmann's intervention. "The common thread is, If it wasn't for him. we wouldn't be here — our lives would have been lost. And they're eternally grateful. That's the message that goes through the whole story. They love this man. It just comes through," Ramsey said.
"You needed someone to sponsor you and it took someone who had the resources, and Kaufmann was a king among kings in Grand Island," Marcel Kahn said.
Kaufmann leveraged his wealth against his faith the refugees would succeed despite limited education and few job prospects. He vouched for them. If they failed, he was obliged to bail them out. "Keep in mind, it was the 1930s, a time of dust storms and depression," Kahn said. "And for him to take the initiative that he did to sponsor as many as he did, it was just unreal."
In February 1938 Marcel Kahn came over at age 6 with his brother Guinter and their parents on the maiden voyage of the New Amsterdam ocean liner. Months later the former Ilse Hessel made the crossing with her parents on the same ship.
The Kahns settled in Omaha. The Hessels in Astoria, New York, where she first recalls meeting The Great Man. "There was such excitement that Uncle David was coming," she said, adding "if the President himself" came there wouldn't have been more anticipation. "Whenever he would come we would put on the highest level of adoration you could imagine." The best china was laid out. A lavish meal prepared. Everyone dressed in their go-to-synagogue finest. While always gracious, Kaufmann carried an "executive" air, Marcel said, that made others defer to him in all things.
On the eve of Uncle David's 80th birthday, in 1956, Ilse and her aunt Frieda Levy discussed how the family might express their thanks to him.
"We knew we wanted to do something to honor this man because of what he had done for us," Ilse said. "He gave us our lives. We talked about it for a while and we came up with a Tree of Life. I found an artist who painted it." The painting included the names of families Kaufmann rescued. Trees were planted in Israel to symbolize the gift of life they'd been given. In return, Kaufmann planted two trees in Israel for every one his family did.
To Grand Islanders, Kaufmann was a businessman-philanthropist. To his family, he was a savior. Few knew he was both.
Before he was a hero, he was a dreamer. In Germany, his rural Orthodox family was in the cattle and meat business in Munsterifel, near Cologne. He left home for the city and found success as a retailer. He came to America in 1903, at age 27, with no prospects and unable to speak English. As an immigrant in New York he mastered the language and entered the retail trade. Then his path crossed with a man who changed his life — S.N. Wolbach. A native New Yorker, Wolbach followed Horatio Alger's "Go west, young man" advice and found his pot of gold in Grand Island, where he owned a department store and bank. On a 1904 buying trip back east he visited the Abrams and Strauss store in Brooklyn, where the industriousness of a young clerk named David Kaufmann caught his eye. Wolbach convinced him his fortune lay 1,500 miles away working for him at Wolbach and Sons. Flattered, Kaufmann accepted an offer as floorwalker and window trimmer.
No sooner did he get there, than he wanted out. Ramsey and Shrier have come upon letters he exchanged with his brother in Germany in which David bemoans "the lack of pavement, the all-too frequent dust storms and the unimposing buildings." Shrier said Kaufmann even asked his brother to find him a retail opening back in their homeland. By the time his brother wrote back saying he'd found a position for David, things had changed. "There was something about the old town that made me like it," Kaufmann reflected years later in print. "There were no big buildings, but that doesn't make a town. It's the people who live in a place that make you love it. There was something about those old-timers and the ones who came after me that made me like Grand Island. There was something about the businessmen and the people…their willingness to cooperate in all worthwhile undertakings, that makes it a pleasure to work with them."
Only a few years after his arrival, he went in business for himself, opening his store in 1906. He was a young man on the move and he'd let nothing stop him. "Some people would make a success at anything. All they need is an opportunity," Marcel Kahn said. "I'm sure he would have been a success at just about any endeavor."
Ramsey sees S.N. as "The Great Man model" Kaufmann aspired to. "Kaufmann was a doer and Wolbach was a doer as well," Ramsey said. "He did a lot of charitable work. He was a well-to-do, respected person. And you get the feeling Kaufmann looked up to this man and figured maybe this is how you become a success."
There is a perfect symmetry to the story. Just as Wolbach helped Kaufmann realize the classic immigrant-made-good success story and American Dream, Kaufmann helped his family achieve the same. The fact he brought them over at a time of peril makes it all the more poignant.
It may be, as survivor Joseph Khan surmises, "doing this good deed might not have been a big deal" to Kaufmann. "I'm not suggesting or implying it wasn't. It was. Perhaps he was motivated to bring people over here so they could enjoy the same fruits of their labor as he did. That might have been as much a reason as anything."
"The man came over with nothing and succeeded and he shared his success with his brothers, his cousins, his neighbors, his friends," said Erwin Levy, of Palm Desert, Cal., who along with his brother Ernie survived the death camps before coming to America under the auspices of the Jewish aid agency Hais. The brothers were offered help by Kaufmann, though distantly related to him by marriage.
Survivors fully recognize what Kaufmann did was extraordinary.
"Mr. Kaufmann had the money…was in the United States…had the possibilities. Mr. Kaufmann used those possibilities and didn't hold back at all. For this, he must be given credit. A rare person. An uncommon man. In the early 1930s he saw what was happening" in Germany and "he got us over. He really saved these families, including mine, and there's no way we can express that thanks," said Guinter Kahn.
No one asked Uncle David why he did it. For a man of such "humility," it seemed an imposition. Ilse and Marcel Kahn have many questions today. She asks, "What did he know about the world war and Hitler? What thoughts did he have on the situation in Europe?" Marcel wonders, "Do you suppose he knew more than us?" He also wonders, "What made him do it, realizing there would be a lot of dollars involved if we were to default? And what did we display to make him confident to do such a thing?" He suspects Uncle David knew the family's attitude of — "Just give us the opportunity" — mirrored his own enterprising spirit. They only needed a chance like the one S.N. gave him. "That's all we were asking at the time," he said.
As "he never talked about it," Dorothy Kahn Resnick said, we're left to guess. A great-nephew, Mayo Clinic researcher Scott Kaufmann, speculates Uncle David's actions may have had something to do with "the upbringing" his great-uncle had in Germany. "His parents may have raised him with the idea that this is what you do for family." He said the patriarchal role Uncle David filled was ironic given he had no children of his own, but the nephew recalls him as "always gracious and happy to see family members," especially children.
Remarks from an acceptance speech Uncle David made may reveal a clue into what made him reach out to others. "Most of us have more good thoughts than we have bad ones," he said, "and all we have to do is follow the good thoughts. The handicap is, the good thoughts are often not followed by required action."
What makes his actions historic is that they may constitute the largest Holocaust rescue operation staged by a lone American. Omahan Ben Nachman has researched the Holocaust for decades and he's sure what Kaufmann did is unique. He learned of Kaufmann's deeds as an interviewer for the Survivors of the Shoah Visual History Project filmmaker Steven Spielberg launched after Schindler's List.
"After having learned of the rescue of a family by David Kaufmann I began a search in an attempt to learn if any other American had done anything near what Kaufmann had done," Nachman said. "In this search I was unable to find anyone who had" brought "as many families out of Germany, to this country…Additionally, I could not find anyone who had brought this many people out and assumed total responsibility for them. All of this done quietly with no publicity for his actions. If only there had been more David Kaufmanns."
"The story is important, for Kaufmann was one of the 'silent heroes' who made it possible for over 100,000 Jews to be saved immediately before and after the Shoah," said Jonathan Sarna, the Joseph H. and Belle R. Braum professor of American history at Brandeis University. "These heroes provided guarantees, jobs and funds — often for people they had never met, and usually with no thought that they would be reimbursed. We know all too little about these people. Most of the literature concerning America and the Holocaust describes what was not done. Happily, the Kaufmann story reminds us of what was done."
Survivors were motivated to do well as repayment of the debt owed Uncle David. There's no doubt of "the gratitude" survivors like Marcel Kahn say they feel for being what his wife Ilse calls "the recipients of his goodness."
Marcel's brother, Guinter Kahn, a Florida physician and the inventor of Rogaine, said, "Had he not done what he did, we probably all would have been gassed. It's incredible. What luck. Talk about hanging from fine threads…Everybody has their saints, and he's ours." Guinter said there's no way to repay such a gift but to make good on it. "I've always thought, I'll do as well as I can, because I've been given a chance." "No one went on the public dole. He never had to support any of the people he sponsored," said Joseph Kahn of Pennsylvania. Joseph was 8 when he came with his twin brother Hugo, sister Therese, parents and grandfather. The Khans settled in Omaha, where Joseph and Hugo attended school.
"I realize he signed an affidavit of support for me and was responsible for me. But in no way did I want him to be that," said Fred Levy, who immigrated from Israel, where he and his family fled before the worst of the Holocaust. "I felt an obligation when I came to this country to meet him and thank him in person." It was Levy's way of telling him he would carry his own weight.
Ilse Kahn said the family "was too proud" to ever ask for "charity." This, despite "the tough time" they faced getting along, Marcel Kahn said. "Most of us, fortunately, became successes. Certainly, the second generation really did well in terms of financial success. But without that opportunity, my goodness, we'd be nothing more than a pile of bones or ashes," he said. "One would assume our successes made him that much happier."
Success was indeed enough, said Ilse Levy Weiner, an Illinois resident who came with her folks on the S.S. Washington courtesy of Uncle David. "He told my father once that as many as he brought to the United States nobody ever bothered him for one nickel," she said. "I never forgot that. He was so proud of everybody he brought to this country because they all worked really hard and nobody ever asked him for anything." "He just wanted them to find their way, get settled and become good citizens," said Kansas City resident Joe Levy, who was a boy when he, his brother and their parents arrived here. The Levys lived in Omaha for a time.
The kindness Uncle David showed his family was consistent with his giving nature.
"At the center of the book is the generosity and the goodness of this man," said author Bill Ramsey. Uncle David's good will extended to caring for a sister struck down by polio, arranging for Grand Island restaurants to feed the homeless on holidays and setting up a Self-Help-Society that supplied hard-on-their-luck folks food and clothing in exchange for work. Long before it was common, he paid sales staff commissions and offered employee sick benefits.
He led drives and made donations to build and improve the community. "He was involved with the Salvation Army, the American Red Cross, St. Francis Hospital…and every board he served on he rose to be the chairman," Ramsey said. Even in death he keeps giving via the Kaufmann-Cummings Foundation begun by his second wife, Madeline. It awards scholarships to Grand Island area students and recently made a donation to help with the restoration of the Grand Theatre the couple owned.
For Ramsey, the book project is "a labor of love." The manuscript has made the rounds with editors and publishers, attracting much interest, but so far no deal has been struck. Ramsey and co-author Betty Shrier are in search of funds to underwrite the cost of printing enough books to provide one in every school and library in Nebraska. Nebraska Educational Television is weighing a possible documentary based on the book.
Family members who owe their lives to Kaufmann appreciate the fact this chapter in history will be preserved. "Because of this book I've learned a lot more details about Uncle David and his involvement in the community, civic responsibilities, duties, charitable causes and so on," Marcel Kahn said, "and just how great of an individual he really was. It's probably a story that should be told for generations."
A Man Apart: David Kaufmann's Little Known Rescue of Hundreds of Jews
Originally appeared in The Reader (www.thereader.com)
As the shadow of the coming Holocaust darkened Europe, those sensing the dangers ahead looked for any means of escape. But getting away meant somehow securing the proper paperwork, making the right connections and scraping together enough money. No easy task. Even family living abroad was no assurance of a way out. It was the rare family that had someone who could take on the legal-financial burden of sponsorship. Then there were the shameful restraints imposed by governments, including the U.S., that made obtaining visas and entering another country difficult. Nationalism, isolationism and anti-Semitism ruled the day. Apathy, timidity, fear and appeasement closed borders, sealing the fate of millions.
Few stepped forward to offer safe harbor in the looming humanitarian crisis. One who dared was the late Jewish-German emigre David Kaufmann, a prominent business-civic leader in Grand Island, Neb. When others looked on or averted their eyes, he reached out and offered a lifeline to those facing persecution and peril. Recalled fondly as a philanthropist, he used the wealth and position acquired from his variety stores to spearhead community betterment projects. But he was far more than a good citizen. He was a hero unafraid to act upon his convictions.
David Kaufmann is pictured behind the lunch counter of Kaufmann's Variety Store in Grand Island with one of his employees and a customer reading the menu. For more information on this photograph or other Hall County history, contact the Curatorial Department of Stuhr Museum of the Prairie Pioneer, 3133 W. Highway 34, Grand Island, NE 68801; 385-5316; research@stuhrmuseum.org; orwww.stuhrmuseum.org.
From 1936 until America's engagement in World War II, Kaufmann responded to the growing threat overseas by endorsing affidavits of support for perhaps 250 or more people. The documents provided safe passage here under his patronage and his guarantee the refugees were sound risks. Affidavits were issued individuals, couples, siblings and entire families. His help extended to the post-war years as well, when he sponsored war victims displaced by the hostilities.
Kaufmann's rescue of oppressed people from near certain imprisonment and probable death went untold outside his own family until last year. He rarely, if ever, publicly spoke of it. There were no press accounts. No mention in books. No radio-television interviews to shed light on it. Other than a letter he wrote a family he helped flee Germany, scant documentation exists, except for the few surviving affidavits of support he signed. More powerfully, there is the testimony of the men and women, now in their 70s, 80s and 90s, who found sanctuary here thanks to Kaufmann's efforts to remove them from harm's way.
These survivors came as children or young adults. Those that came during the Nazi reign of terror were fully aware of the terrible fate they avoided through his good graces. Some didn't make it to the U.S. during the war. They escaped on their own or with the aid of family to havens like Palestine, where Kaufmann sent for them. Those that didn't get out endured years of physical and emotional torture as prisoners, then more privation in refugee camps, before Kaufmann's helping hands caught up with them and secured their travel to America.
Once here, the refugees received money and counsel from Kaufmann.
Some ended up in Grand Island and worked at his store. Others settled in Omaha. Most opted for big cities — New York, New Orleans, Chicago, et cetera. Wherever they went, Kaufmann kept tabs on how them. Over time, the family tree grew. Their American ranks must now number in the high hundreds. They own a rich legacy in America, too, where many members have distinguished themselves.
David Kaufmann's gift of life only grows larger with each new birth and each new generation. Yet his name and good works remain obscure outside the clan and his adopted home. That's about to change, however. The righteous actions of Kaufmann are the subject of a book-in-progress by Omaha authors William Ramsey and Betty Dineen Shrier that details all he did to ensure his family's survival in the Shoah. Nebraska Educational Television producers are considering a documentary film on the subject. There is urgency in having the story recorded soon, as with each passing year fewer and fewer of the original Kaufmann wards survive.
Collaborators on two previous books, Ramsey and Shrier were approached with the idea for the Kaufmann book by Ben Nachman, a retired Omaha dentist who's devoted the past 30 years to Holocaust research. In the course of Nachman serving as an interviewer for Steven Spielberg's Shoah Visual History Project in the early 1990s, he came upon survivors aided by Kaufmann. He knew it was a story that must be shared. Ramsey and Shrier agreed, accepting the assignment. They began work on it last year and have since interviewed dozens of figures touched by Kaufmann.
"This sounded like a big story. A national or international story. And I thought it was a story that had gone untold too long. That's what really drove me," said Ramsey, a well-known public relations man. "People of all backgrounds are moved by what happened in the Holocaust. And with it being the 60th anniversary of the end of World War II and the liberation of the death camps, the timing was perfect."
For co-author Shrier, the sheer humanity of it all hooked her. "I think that I have never come across anyone who was so generous across the board to so many different people as David Kaufmann was," she said. "And he didn't discriminate with race or creed or philosophy. It made no difference to him. He was good to everybody. And I've never met anybody or heard of anybody with that kind of openness. The thing about it is, he was a great businessman. He was stern when it came to business principles, but he still knew how to give."
Good works defined Kaufmann's life. The entrepreneur was among a handful of Jewish residents in the south central Nebraska town, yet he assisted all kinds of people in need. His largess extended to everyone from relatives and friends to complete strangers. His contributions to various building committees helped transform Grand Island into a modern city.
Kaufmann kept his most personal good works quiet. Until the Grand Island Independent began reporting last winter on the book project, which has led the authors on repeated research trips there, few residents knew Kaufmann's name and fewer still his legacy as a Holocaust rescuer. Before he became a hero, he was a man on a mission — hell-bent on improving himself and the lot of his family.
Uncle David, as he's called in family circles, epitomized the great American success story. He came to this country in 1903 not knowing the language, but through his industriousness he mastered English, he worked his way up the retail trade, first in New York and then in Grand Island, and he soon went into business for himself. Only a few years after arriving here, he'd built a thriving chain of five-and-dimes and put his imprint on all aspects of community life. As Grand Island's leading citizen, he didn't need the hassle of vouching and assuming responsibility for the welfare of a sizable number of distant relations. He especially didn't need the risk to his riches and reputation in the Great Depression, when fortunes and good names were easily lost. Not wanting publicity for his actions, which went against the tide of official and popular sentiment to keep "foreigners" outside the nation's borders, he carried on his rescue campaign in near secrecy. Despite all the reasons not to get involved, he did. This unflinching sense of duty makes Kaufmann a compelling and laudable figure and is the focus of Ramsey and Shrier's book.
"At the center of the book is the generosity and the goodness of this man," said Ramsey. Kaufmann's good will towards his family, including caring for a sister struck down by polio, was part of a pattern of kindnesses he exhibited in his lifetime. For example, he arranged for Grand Island restaurants to feed the homeless on holidays, reimbursing the eateries himself. He set up a Self-Help-Society that supplied hard-on-their-luck folks food and clothing in exchange for work. He sprung for free sundaes — preparing them himself — when employees did inventory on weekends. Long before it was common, he paid sales staff commissions and offered employee sick benefits. He hosted backyard picnics that fed small armies of friends, neighbors and workers. He led drives and made donations to build and improve the communities he lived in and did business in. "He was called Mr. Grand Island by many. He was involved with the Salvation Army, the American Red Cross, St. Francis Hospital…and every board he served on he rose to be the chairman," Ramsey said.
Kaufmann died in 1969, but even in death he keeps on giving via the Kaufmann-Cummings Foundation started by his second wife, Madeline.
Then there's the ripple effect his good works have had. Ramsey, Shrier and Nachman say that almost without exception the people he sponsored, as well as their descendants, have been high achievers, motivated to do well as repayment of the debt owed Uncle David for affording them America's opportunities.
"We've not met or talked to anyone yet that wasn't very successful. There's doctors, lawyers, researchers. I mean, they were driven by this legacy. I think they felt their lives were saved, and they probably were. He gave them a chance to do something with their dreams and they made the most of it," Ramsey said. "I think they were trying hard to please him because he sponsored them and they didn't want to be a burden on him or on the United States. That was part of each affidavit he signed. It said he was responsible for these people if they don't make it here. He was putting his name and fortune and everything else on the line."
S.N. Wolbach
The only recompense Kaufmann wanted for his assistance was the assurance his wards were not a drag on society. That alone was reward enough for him said Bourbonnais, Ill. resident Ilse Weiner, who was 17 when she and her parents, Ludwig and Frieda Levy, came on the S.S. Washington courtesy their affidavit of support from Kaufmann. "He told my father once that as many as he brought to the United States nobody ever bothered him for one nickel," she said. "I never forgot that. He was so proud of everybody he brought to this country because they all worked really hard and nobody ever asked him for anything."
The gratitude felt by Kaufmann's charges made them strive to please him. "I realize he signed an affidavit of support for me and was responsible for me. But in no way did I want him to be that," said Fred Levy, whose affidavit from Kaufmann enabled him to immigrate from Israel, where he and his family fled before the Final Solution.
"I felt an obligation when I came to this country to meet him and thank him in person." It was Levy's way of telling him he would carry his own weight.
Even after her family established themselves here, Weiner said, he would visit them on buying trips to Chicago, always bearing gifts and making sure they were getting on OK, offering help with anything they needed. She said once when her father had trouble finding work, Kaufmann put in a good word for him. She said Kaufmann even aided a friend of the family, no blood relation at all, in relocating to America.
Survivors hold Kaufmann in the highest esteem. "They love this man. It just comes through," Ramsey said. Weiner said, "He was a warm man. Thoughtful. He gave good advice. When we arrived in The States, he sent gifts and a check for $50. He was very generous. He was fantastic to us. He was such a good person. How should I say? We looked up to him like if he was God, because he saved our lives. What more can I say? He saved our lives." The most famous family survivor, Rogaine inventor and medical doctor Guinter Kahn, has said, "Everybody has their saints, and he's ours."
Example of an Affidavit of Support
On his 80th birthday, Kaufmann was presented "a family tree" that relatives commissioned an artist to paint. It includes the names of those he rescued and refers to trees planted in Israel to commemorate his life saving legacy.
If Kaufmann was inspired in his good deeds by anyone, it may have been S.N. Wolbach, the figure responsible for bringing him to Grand Island. A native New Yorker, Wolbach went west himself as a young man and found his pot of gold on the prairie, where he opened a department store and held banking interests. On a 1904 buying trip back east he visited the Abrams and Strauss store in Brooklyn, where he was impressed by the salesmanship and work ethic of a young clerk named David Kaufmann. Wolbach convinced Kaufmann his fortune lay 1,500 miles away working for him at Wolbach and Sons. Flattered, Kaufmann accepted an offer as floorwalker and window trimmer. Only nine months after his arrival in America, the enterprising emigre headed west to meet his destiny.
No sooner did he get there, than he wanted out. Authors Ramsey and Shrier have come upon letters Kaufmann exchanged with his brother in Germany in which David bemoans "the lack of pavement, the all-too frequent dust storms and the unimposing buildings." Shrier said Kaufmann even asked his brother to find him a retail opening back in their homeland. By the time his brother wrote back saying he'd found a position for David, things had changed. "There was something about the old town that made me like it," Kaufmann reflected years later in print. "There were no big buildings, but that doesn't make a town. It's the people who live in a place that make you love it. There was something about those old-timers and the ones who came after me that made me like Grand Island. There was something about the businessmen and the people…their willingness to cooperate in all worthwhile undertakings, that makes it a pleasure to work with them."
Ramsey speculates Kaufmann's mentor, Wolbach, "was The Great Man model" he aspired to. "Wolbach was a doer as well. He did a lot of charitable work. He was a well-to-do, respected person. And you get the feeling Kaufmann looked up to this man and figured maybe this is how you become a success," Ramsey said.
As the Nazis came to power in Germany, Kaufmann was already a self-made man. In his occasional visits and regular correspondence home he kept abreast of the worsening conditions for Jews there and made a standing offer to help family leave. His first affidavit got Isi and Feo Kahn out in 1936. The young couple moved to Grand Island, where their daughter Dorothy Kahn Resnick was born and raised.
Dorothy said her mother was a "key" conduit and emissary in the conspiracy of hearts that evolved, staying in touch with family abroad and feeding Kaufmann new names needing affidavits of support. She even brought him the forms to sign.
As the Nazis clamped down ever more, "people were desperate," Ramsey said. "They could see what was happening." Official, legal channels for visas dwindled. Affidavits of support, forged documents or bribes were the only routes out. Dorothy said her mother went back repeatedly to Uncle David with new names, saying, "'Here's someone else.' Some were very distant relations. But she told me he never questioned her. He never wanted to know who they were and how they were related. He relied on her. He trusted her. He put his faith in her that if she said it was OK, he signed it. Uncle David and my mom just did the right thing. They just did it. Maybe the simplicity of it is what's so beautiful."
As "he never talked about it," Dorothy said, we're left guessing why he acted. Remarks from an acceptance speech he gave may be as close as we'll ever get to knowing what made him do it. "Most of us have more good thoughts than we have bad ones," he said, "and all we have to do is follow the good thoughts. The handicap is, the good thoughts are often not followed by required action." Hundreds lived because Kaufmann heeded his better self to take action.
A Not-so-average Joe Tells His Holocaust Story of Survival (leoadambiga.wordpress.com)
New deal on Holocaust-era archive expands access (seattletimes.nwsource.com)
Introducing…The World Memory Project (blogs.ancestry.com)
Categories: Bill Ramsey, Books, David Kaufmann, Entrepreneurial, Holocaust, Jewish Culture, Social Justice, War Tags: David Kaufmann, Doorway to Freedom, Grand Island, Holocaust, Holocaust Rescuer
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