Goodbye for now, Santa Fe

Gau-Algesheim. Langgasse.

Gau-Algesheim. Langgasse. (Photo credit: Wikipedia) Where They Started

I’ve now completed my research of the American Seligmans, or at least those I know to be related to me.  I have added a page with a family tree and descendant chart to the blog that you can find by clicking on the label in the menu box at the top of the page.

For a number of reasons, this has been the easiest branch of the family tree to research.  First, I was fortunate to find my cousin Arthur “Pete” Scott, who is the great-grandson of Bernard Seligman and the grandson of Arthur Seligman.   He had already done a lot of work on the family history in New Mexico and was very generous in sharing his research and photographs with me.  He also had published a great deal of it on the web at vocesdesantafe.com.

Secondly, Bernard and Arthur Seligman were public figures—men who were often written about during their lives in newspapers and after their lives by historians.  Their fame made it much easier for me to find sources and information to learn about their lives and the lives of their families.  (Although it was easier to find information, it also was a lot more work to read it, digest it, and analyze it all.)

Bernard Seligman and other merchants

My great-great-grandfather Bernard on the fronteir

Also, there were not a lot of descendants to trace.  Sigmund Seligman never married, James Seligman in England had no children, and Bernard only had three children who lived to adulthood—my great-grandmother Eva and her two brothers James and Arthur.[1]  Eva’s family I had already researched in doing the Cohen branch, James had only one child who lived to adulthood, and Arthur had one biological child and a stepdaughter.  So compared to the thirteen children of Jacob Cohen, some of whom had over ten children themselves, this was a much smaller family to research.

I still do have work to do, tracing the German Seligmanns and seeing if I can learn what happened to them.  That is a task I will continue to work on, but it will be slowed by the inaccessibility of German records and my inability to read German.  I am ordering copies of the records I posted about here, but I hope to be able to learn more.  Once I know more, I will write about it on the blog.

But for now I will move on from the Seligmans in my writing and begin the next branch of my father’s father’s family, the Nusbaums.  As far as I know, there are no famous people on this branch, but time will tell.  I am hoping that my cousin Pete will be able to help me here as well since he also is a descendant of Frances Nusbaum Seligman.  I have already learned some interesting things about the Nusbaums and am eager to learn more.

Arthur Seligman, Marjorie, and Eva May Cohen, 1932 Atlantic City

Governor Arthur Seligman, Marjorie, and his sister, my great-grandmother Eva May Seligman Cohen, 1932 Atlantic City

Before I move on from the Seligmans, however, I have a few concluding thoughts about this branch of my family tree.  Unlike my Cohen, Goldschlager, Rosenzweig, and Brotman branches, the Seligmans were in the public eye and not able to lead the private lives that my other relatives lived and that most of us live.  They were subject to much scrutiny—Bernard was a wealthy merchant and public servant, Arthur a mayor and governor, and Morton a Navy hero.  Their actions and character were criticized at times, but each in his own way managed to rise above that criticism.   They were loyal, decent and honest men who served their communities with honor.

What the Seligmans share with the rest of my ancestors is the story of Jewish immigrants in general—whether they came in 1850 or 1890 or 1910, whether they came from Germany or England or Romania or Galicia.  All came here for a better life, all were brave enough to leave their homes and their families, all took a risk that living in America would be better for them, their families, and their descendants.  Some may have come with more than others, some succeeded more than others, but all were undoubtedly better off here than they would have been had they stayed in Europe.  With hindsight we know what would have been their fate if they had still been in Europe in the 1930s and 1940s, as was the fate of some of my German Seligmann relatives who did not leave Europe in time.

Once again, I feel grateful for the risks that my ancestors all took and for their courage and hard work, which made it possible for me to be here today, remembering them all.

 

Bernard Seligman

My great-great-grandfather Bernard Seligman, born in Gau-Algesheim, a pioneering leader in Santa Fe, and father of a US governor

 

 

 

[1] Adolph did have children, and I’ve traced all of his descendants, but out of privacy concerns have not written about them since many of his grandchildren are still living, and I have not been in touch with them.

 

Yom Kippur

First, I want to thank everyone who reached out to me in response to my post yesterday about Luna.  Every comment both on the blog and elsewhere made me feel a little better, just knowing that others understood what I was feeling.  Thank you.

Second, I once again need to take a short break from my family history research.  Starting at sunset tonight through sunset (and then some) tomorrow, I will be observing Yom Kippur.  My children and my grandsons will be here, and I look forward to the time with them all.

I find that Yom Kippur can be the most meaningful holiday of the year for me.  I try to spend time reflecting on the year that has gone by—thinking of all the things I’ve done, all the good times and the bad times. My goals are to think about all the people in my life and wish for them a year of good health and happiness.  To think about how I could have been a better person in the past year.  And to think about what I hope for the coming year—for myself and my family and friends and from myself as well.   Sometimes the day is not as meaningful—I am distracted, bored, hungry, grouchy.  Fasting is never fun, but sometimes it seems painless.  Who knows what this year will be like.

So I haven’t made a lot of progress this week on the family research, but I will return with more on my Wild West ancestors, the Seligmans, after the holiday.  See you then.

To all who observe, I wish you a meaningful and easy fast.

Luna

009 (2)

Anyone who knows me at all and anyone who reads this blog regularly knows how much I love my pets.  In fact, I just listed my love of animals as one of seven things to know about me.  So you will know that losing one of my pets is heartbreaking for me.  This one was particularly difficult.

Luna was only six, and as far as we knew, she was healthy and feeling fine.  Nothing seemed wrong—-she was playful, eating, purring, and being her always sweet and affectionate self.  But something was wrong with her heart, and without warning, she died in her sleep earlier this week.

I have written more about Luna here  Luna pdf  for anyone who is interested.  There is a slideshow of her life with her brother Smokey (the gray and white one) and her canine companion Cassie and some of her people here.       I wrote and created these because they help me deal with losing her, so I am not posting the full text here or a lot of pictures, but I am including the links here so I have a record myself and can look back when I want.

For anyone who is also a cat lover, you should know that she was one of the very special ones.

 

Happy New Year, Shana Tova, and Happy Blogiversary!

 

A shofar made from a ram's horn is traditional...

A shofar made from a ram’s horn is traditionally blown in observance of Rosh Hashanah, the beginning of the Jewish civic year. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I will post tomorrow morning about the town in Germany where my Seligman ancestors were born and what I learned about my family by researching that small town called Gau-Algesheim.  But for now—I have three events to recognize.

 

First, it was a year ago today that my cousin Judy set up the blog and I made my first blog post.  It had no text—just a posting of my great-grandmother’s death certificate.  I was learning how to use WordPress, and I don’t even know if anyone saw that post other than Judy and me.  I didn’t actually post anything substantive until October 4 when I wrote my first post about what to expect from the blog.  But I will always celebrate September 23 as my “blogiversary” for another very good reason.  September 23 was my grandmother Gussie Brotman Goldschlager’s birthday.  She would have been 119 this year.

So happy birthday, Grandma, and happy blogiversary to me!  Thank you all for being with me on this journey.  I can’t believe in a year that I have made so much progress in learning about my mother’s family and my father’s family, although I am humbled by how much more I have to learn.

And there is another reason for posting today.  Tomorrow night is the beginning of Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year.  So it is not only the beginning of a new year for me with my blogging and genealogy adventures, it is a time for being thankful for all our blessings and for being reflective about the year that has gone by and the year to come.  So let me reflect for a moment on this past year.

 

First and foremost, this year has brought the miracle of more children into the family.  I am particularly grateful for the birth of my grandson Remy, now over three months old, a happy, smiling baby with a sweet and calm disposition.  Two of my cousins also had new grandchildren this year, and perhaps there were others I don’t even know about yet who have enlarged our family tree.

Remy

Remy

 

Second, I am grateful for the continuing presence in my life of my family—both my immediate family and my extended family—and for all my friends who are like family to me.   I wish for you all a new year of good health, peace of mind, gratitude for all you have, and joyfulness.

Third, I want to thank and recognize all my genealogy friends—fellow bloggers, Facebook genealogy group members, the people at JewishGen.org and JRI Poland and Gesher Galicia, and, of course, Renee Steinig, my mentor who has inspired me and taught me so much.  May we all continue to work together to break down brick walls, to find our roots, and to honor our ancestors as best we can.

Shana Tova to you all!  May you all be inscribed in the Book of Life for a good year, and may it be a sweet year for everyone.

 

 

English: Symbols of Rosh Hashana, the Jewish N...

English: Symbols of Rosh Hashana, the Jewish New Year: Shofar, apples, honey in glass honey dish, pomegranates, wine, silver kiddush cup (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Looking back:  The Cohen Family from Amsterdam to England to Philadelphia and Washington and beyond

 

Amsterdam coat of arms

Two months ago I wrote a summary of my perspective on the descendants of Jacob and Sarah Jacobs Cohen and their thirteen children, including my great-grandfather Emanuel Cohen.  I wrote about the way they managed to create a large network of pawnshops that provided support for the generations to come.  Many of the Philadelphia Cohens stayed in the pawnshop business into the 20th century.  The generation that followed, those born in the 20th century, began to move away from the pawn business and from Philadelphia.  Descendants began to go to college and to become professionals.  Today the great-great-grandchildren of Jacob and Sarah live all over the country and are engaged in many, many different fields.  Few of us today can imagine living with twelve siblings over a pawnshop in South Philadelphia.  We can’t fathom the idea of losing child after child to diseases that are now controlled by vaccinations and medicine.  We take for granted the relative luxurious conditions in which we live today.

File:Flag of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.svg

Philadelphia flag

 

The story of the Cohen family in Washington is much the same in some ways, different in other ways.  Jacob’s brother Moses and his wife Adeline also started out as immigrants in the pawnshop business , first in Baltimore and then Washington.  But unlike Jacob who lived to see his children become adults, Moses Cohen died at age 40 when his younger children were still under ten years old.  Adeline was left to raise those young children on her own as she had likely raised her first born son, Moses Himmel Cohen, on her own until she married Moses Cohen, Sr.  When I look at what those children accomplished and what their children then accomplished, I am in awe of what Adeline was able to do.   For me, the story of the DC Cohens is primarily the story of Adeline Himmel Cohen for it was she, not Moses, who raised the five children who thrived here in the US.  She somehow instilled in those children a drive to overcome the loss of their father, to take risks, to get an education, and to make a living.

Her son Moses, Jr., an immigrant himself, had nine children; his son, Myer, became a lawyer.  To me it is quite remarkable that a first generation American, the son of a Jewish immigrant, was able to go to law school in the late 19th century.  Myer himself went on to raise a large family, including two sons who became doctors and one who became a high ranking official at the United Nations in its early years after World War II.  Moses, Jr.’s other children also lived comfortable lives, working in their own businesses and raising families.  These were first generation Americans who truly worked to find the American dream.

Adeline and Moses, Sr.’s other three children who survived to adulthood, Hart, JM, and Rachel Cohen, all took a big risk and moved, for varying periods of time, to Sioux City, Iowa.  Even their mother Adeline lived out on the prairie for some years.  JM stayed out west, eventually moving to Kansas City; he was able to send his two daughters to college, again something that struck me as remarkable for those times.  His grandchildren were very successful professionally.  Hart, who lost a son to an awful accident, had a more challenging life.  His sister Rachel also had some heartbreak—losing one young child and a granddaughter Adelyn, but she had two grandsons who both appear to have been successful.

Three of the DC Cohen women married three Selinger brothers or cousins.  Their children included doctors, a popular singer, and a daughter who returned to England several generations after her ancestors had left.  The family tree gets quite convoluted when I try to sort out how their descendants are related, both as Cohens and as Selingers.

There were a number of heart-breaking stories to tell about the lives of some of these people, but overall like the Philadelphia Cohens, these were people who endured and survived and generally succeeded in having a good life, at least as far as I can tell.  The DC Cohens, like the Philadelphia Cohens, have descendants living all over the United States and elsewhere and are working in many professions and careers of all types.

flag of Washington, DC

Looking back now at the story of all the Cohens,  all the descendants of Hart Levy Cohen and Rachel Jacobs, I feel immense respect for my great-great-great grandparents.  They left Amsterdam for England, presumably for better economic opportunities than Amsterdam offered at that time.  In England Hart established himself as a merchant, but perhaps being a Dutch Jew in London was not easy, and so all five of Hart and Rachel’s children came to the US, Lewis, Moses, Jacob, Elizabeth, and Jonas, again presumably for even better opportunities than London had offered them.  Eventually Hart himself came to the US, uprooting himself for a second time to cross the Atlantic as a man already in his seventies so that he could be with his children and his grandchildren.  Rachel unfortunately did not survive to make that last move.

Flag of the City of London.svg

The flag of the City of London

Arriving in the US by 1850 in that early wave of Jewish immigration gave my Cohen ancestors a leg up over the Jewish immigrants who arrived thirty to sixty years later, like my Brotman, Goldschlager, and Rosenzweig ancestors.  Of course, the Cohens had the advantage of already speaking English, unlike my Yiddish speaking relatives on my mother’s side.  They also had the advantage of arriving at a time when there wre fewer overall immigrants, Jewish immigrants in particular and thus faced less general hostility than the masses of Jewish, Italian, and other immigrants who arrived in the 1890s and early 20th century.  Also, my Cohen relatives may not have been wealthy when they arrived, but Hart and his children already had experience as merchants and were able to establish their own businesses fairly quickly.  Thus, by the time my mother’s ancestors started arriving and settling in the Lower East Side of NYC or in East Harlem, working in sweatshops and struggling to make ends meet, my father’s ancestors were solidly in the middle and upper classes in Philadelphia, Washington, Sioux City, Kansas City, Detroit, and Baltimore.

When I look at these stories together, I see the story of Jewish immigration in America.  I see a first wave of Jews, speaking English, looking American, and living comfortably, facing a second wave who spoke Yiddish, looked old-fashioned, and lived in poverty.  No wonder there was some tension between the two groups.  No wonder they established different synagogues, different communities, different traditions.

A recent study suggests that all Ashkenazi Jews were descended from a small group of about 350 ancestors.  We all must share some DNA to some extent.  We are really all one family.  But we have always divided ourselves and defined our subgroups differently—Orthodox, Conservative, Reform; Galitizianer or Litvak; Sephardic or Ashkenazi; Israeli or American; so on and so forth.  We really cannot afford to do that in today’s world; we never really could.  Today very few of us make distinctions based on whether our ancestors came in 1850 or 1900 because we are all a mix of both and because we have blurred the economic and cultural distinctions that once were so obvious.  But we still have a long way to go to eradicate the divisions among us and to overcome the prejudices that continue to exist regarding those who are different, whether Jewish or non-Jewish.

 

 

Grandsons and Memories

The last five days were spent with my grandsons Nate and, for two of those days, Remy.  Nate came back to our house for three days, and I just had the best time with him, doing not much of anything special, but just enjoying him and seeing life through his eyes.  Being with my grandsons makes me think about how important those first few years of life are—how they form us, teach us about the world, and introduce us to relationships, love, trust, friendship, and family.

I was fortunate to get a box of old photographs from my cousin Jody a few weeks ago, and I spent one day last week scanning those photos, many of which will eventually get posted on the blog.  But for today, as I think about being with Nate and Remy, I want to recognize those people I spent most of my time with during the early years of my own life—my parents, my grandparents, my aunt and uncle, and my older cousin Jeff.  We all lived within a few minutes of each other in Parkchester, a large apartment complex in the Bronx, and I probably saw them every day or almost every day during those years.  We also spent summers together near Lake Mahopac, New York, on Long Pond.  They called me Kugel, or Amy Kugel, or sometimes just Kug–the only people who ever did.  (My mother still occasionally does.)

They made me feel loved, and they gave me a sense of family that has stayed with me all my life.  I can only hope that we are doing the same for Nate and Remy, even though we don’t live close enough to be with them as much as I was able to be with my grandparents at their ages.   Although I don’t have many specific concrete memories of those years, these photographs capture those magical years of my early life.

amy florence abt 1954

My mother

amy and john 1954 abt

My father

Amy Gussie and Isadore

My Grandparents

elaine and amy 1953

My Aunt Elaine

My cousin Jeff

My cousin Jeff

Jeff and Amy

Jeff

jeff gussie amy 1955 abt

Jeff, my grandmother, and me

 

The Flat: A film by Arnon Goldfinger

 

The other night we watched a fascinating movie, The Flat. It is a documentary made by Arnon Goldfinger about what he learns about his grandparents after his grandmother dies and he and his family clean out their apartment in Tel Aviv. His grandparents had lived in Berlin until 1936 when they left for Israel. Goldfinger and his family, including his mother, had almost no knowledge of the grandparents’ lives before they left Germany.

I do not want to reveal too much about what they learn because each viewer should be able to experience the revelations as they are uncovered in the course of the film. But I will say that this is a film that anyone interested in family history and the ethical dilemmas that are created when you learn something surprising and perhaps troubling about the past should watch. What is our obligation to reveal the truths we learn to those left behind, even if they were innocent of the past actions of their family members? Why do people hide from the truth? Why do some of us ask questions and seek answers whereas others prefer to avoid uncovering the past?

But this is not only a film for genealogists. It is a film for everyone who has an interest in human nature. The film addresses important questions of identity and nationality. What makes people identify with a country, a religion, a family? How do we pick our friends? How does denial play into our sense of who we are?

Finally, this is also a film about our legacy. What will our families do and think after we are gone?  When the family throws out bag after bag after bag of the treasured belongings of the grandparents, I couldn’t help but think about the way we all collect objects—clothing, books, jewelry, letters, photographs—that our descendants will toss away with barely a thought. We have to leave something else behind besides these material things—our good name, our good deeds, our stories, and our love. All else will vanish.

Robin Williams 1951-2014

Robin Williams took my breath away.

 

Cover of "Mrs. Doubtfire [Blu-ray]"

Over and over again.  He took my breath away by making me laugh so hard. His words and quips and expressions came so fast and furious that I am not sure how he could breathe.  I couldn’t.  Whether it was in Mrs. Doubtfire or Good Morning Vietnam or in Moscow on the Hudson or in Aladdin or in an interview on television, once he started his monologue, there was just no stopping.  No time to catch your breath.

 

He took my breath by shocking me with the depth of his heart in many serious acting roles.  His eyes, both twinkly and sad at the same time, could pierce my heart.  He could convey empathy and compassion in a way that felt truly genuine, and after reading about all the time he spent with children in need, I know it not only felt genuine, it was genuine.  Whether it was in Dead Poet’s Society or Mrs. Doubtfire or Good Will Hunting or Patch Adams or Awakenings, Robin could leave me breathless with his ability to create compassionate relationships on screen.  His heart was as big as this picture from Aladdin suggests.

 

 

 

He took my breath away with his intelligence.  His banter, his monologues that seemed spontaneous, were not only incredibly funny, they were incredibly clever and insightful.  You had to listen to every word (which was almost impossible) in order to appreciate all the word play, all the segues from one idea to another, all his incise descriptions of what was right and what was wrong with the world.  In Good Morning Vietnam he conveyed the insanity of war brilliantly while also making us laugh.  After listening to him being interviewed by anyone on television, my reaction was always, “That man is utterly brilliant.  He can express and connect ideas so quickly and so creatively.”  He took my breath away.

 

 

Cover of "Moscow on the Hudson"

Cover of Moscow on the Hudson

 

Good Morning, Vietnam

Good Morning, Vietnam (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Robin Williams was my contemporary.  He grew up in my times, he lived through the times I’ve lived through.  His life was far different from mine, of course—the celebrity, the success, the drugs and alcohol, the multiple marriages, and the awful depression he battled were not things I’ve experienced; but his view of the world was one to which I could definitely relate.

 

 

Many years ago when our children were still too young to know who he was—before Mrs. Doubtfire and Aladdin made them fall in love with him—we passed him walking on Madison Avenue in New York, wearing his trademark black shirt and a beret.  He was walking with his young son and his second wife so it must have been in the late 1980s, and he seemed both happy and harried.  Maybe that is how all celebrities feel, but maybe for some it becomes far too difficult.  The image has stayed with me all these years.

 

 

So yesterday afternoon when my daughter looked up from her iPad and said, with shock and denial in her voice, “Robin Williams died,” I once again lost my breath.  I had to stop what I was doing and focus on this awful, awful news.  My other daughter contacted me not long after, saying she was beside herself.  We were all just heartbroken.

 

 

My daughter send me this link this morning about Robin and the devastation of depression.

 

 

He took his own breath away this time.  And with it, he once again took mine.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Why I Have Been Quiet about Israel

I have never been afraid to express my opinion.  I welcome reasonable discussions and debate about almost anything—food, movies, books, baseball, politics, world affairs, religion, you name it.  I have strong feelings about almost anything and everything, and I usually am not at all hesitant to say what I am thinking.  I like to think that I listen to what others have to say and that I try and be informed about as much as I can before formulating my own opinion.  My values have not changed much at all in the course of my life, so I know my starting point based on those values, but my mind has been changed many times on many issues by listening and reading what others have to say.

But this time I am lost.  I am Jewish, I am proud to be Jewish, and I feel a strong emotional tie to Israel and Jewish people everywhere.  I’ve only visited Israel once, back in 1997, and it left an indelible mark upon me.  I felt a connection historically and spiritually to the place.  I cried when we left in a way that was far different from the sadness I always feel when a trip or vacation ends.  Israel felt like home to me in a way I never expected.  From my research I now know I have family in Israel.  I have friends in Israel. I know how important Israel is to the past, the present, and the future of the Jewish people.

I am also a lifelong progressive liberal (and not ashamed at all of that word) who argued and protested against every US war during my lifetime—from Vietnam starting in 1965 when I was a teenager up through Bush’s invasion of Iraq in 2002.  I know that some wars were so-called just wars; defeating Hitler and others who have tried to commit genocide is justified and necessary.  Dropping an atomic bomb on Japan, however, is not something I would have agreed with, if I’d been born at the time.  I don’t agree with capital punishment, even when the convicted person has committed a heinous crime.  I just don’t see killing as a way of accomplishing anything unless and until there is no choice in the name of self-defense or defense of others.

So I have read the news these last few weeks with my stomach churning, my heart breaking, and my brain torn from one side to the other.  Almost everything I have read is filled with one-sided rhetoric. There is no reason for me to recap the arguments; you’ve heard them all before.  People who are defending Israel point me to pro-Israel sources; people who are anti-Israel point me to anti-Israel sources.  I read the New York Times every day, hoping it is more objective than other sources.  People who are pro-Israel say that the Times is biased against Israel; people who are anti-Israel say the Times is biased in favor of Israel.

There are only a few actual facts: Hamas wants to destroy Israel—it says so in its charter; there is a blockade around Gaza that makes escape for those who live there almost impossible and life there absolutely miserable; Hamas is building tunnels and accumulating weapons and shooting rockets to reach its goal of destroying Israel; Israel is fighting back with stronger and bigger weapons and with a defense system that has resulted in many more Palestinian deaths than Hamas has been able to inflict on Israel; Hamas refuses to agree to a ceasefire; Israel refuses to stop building new settlements; Hamas continues to shoot rockets, knowing that its own people will be killed in greater numbers; Israel knows that it cannot avoid killing them when it shoots its rockets at Gaza.  Neither side can win unless it obliterates the other side, in which case neither side has won.

Meanwhile, people are dying on both sides, no one feels safe, and there is hate being spewed by both sides.  And across the world, there are people protesting, saying things that I’ve not heard said so publicly and proudly in my lifetime: “Death to the Jews, Kill the Jews.”  In one town in France, shop windows were smashed.  Immediately I thought of Kristallnacht.

So why have I remained quiet?   Being quiet did not help the Jews in the 1930s. But why express my feelings when they only provoke more rhetoric?  Why be accused of being either a self-hating Jew for having sympathy for the people in Gaza or of being a Jewish imperialist/Zionist for understanding why Israel feels a need to use force to stop Hamas from trying to kill the Israeli people and their country? The dialogue is pointless.  No one really listens.  They just argue.  They just throw around words of hate.  They just make me feel sick and sad and confused.

I have also remained quiet because I am confused and upset and heart-sick.  I see no hope for any improvement in the situation; I only see things getting worse.  I only see a terrible ending to all this anger and killing and hate, and it makes me despair for my children and my grandchildren, for Jews and for non-Jews, for our world, our planet, our lives.  There is no right, no wrong.  There is just ugliness, blood, violence, and hatred.  There are no words.  I have no words.  I am speechless.  I am silenced.

Please don’t tell me what you think.  Please don’t fill my heart with more hate, with more anger. I’ve heard all the arguments. The rhetoric is all noise to me. Endless Facebook postings prove nothing; people only read what supports their point of view. There is nothing to celebrate. Everyone is wrong; everyone is right. Everyone needs to be quiet, to stop talking, and to start listening to their hearts, hoping with their souls, and thinking with their brains.  If those of us who do not live where the bombs are flying cannot talk to each other with respect and understanding, how is there any hope that there will ever be peace over there or, for that matter, anywhere?

So my silence does not signify indifference or apathy; it signifies confusion and a willingness to listen and think and hope. You cannot listen when you are talking.  You cannot think when you are just spewing rhetoric.  You cannot hope when you are angry.  I am listening.  I am thinking.  I am trying as hard as I can to hope.

Seeing the Forest: In Memory of Jacob and Sarah Cohen and All their Children

 

 

When doing genealogy research, I often find I get very focused on one person or one couple or sometimes one nuclear family and forget to think about the bigger picture, the extended family and their history.  This has been particularly true in researching my great-great grandparents Jacob and Sarah Cohen and their thirteen children.  Each one of those children was a story unto itself; each of their nuclear units told a complete story.  Doing the research for each of them brought me into their individual lives—their relationships, their careers, their children, their achievements, and their tragedies.

Leaf lamina. The leaf architecture probably ar...

Leaf lamina. The leaf architecture probably arose multiple times in the plant lineage (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

It was only when I got to child number eleven, my great-grandfather Emanuel, that I realized I had lost the bigger picture.  His life was not only about his adulthood—his wife and his children and grandchildren, but was also shaped by and always affected by what was happening with his extended family—his parents, his siblings, his nieces and nephews. It was then that I looked at the overall timeline to see what was happening outside his nuclear family as well as within it.

Now looking back and trying to get that bigger picture overall, I can make some fairly general observations about these thirteen children and their extended family.  First, they were all very interconnected in their work as well as their personal lives.  Almost all the men, including many of the brothers-in-law and sons-in-law, were pawnbrokers.  I don’t have a very good sense of how many separate stores there were in the Cohen pawnshop industry, but obviously there were enough to support more than a dozen families, including a family as large as that of Reuben Cohen, Sr., with his many children.  Yes, there were some trouble spots and some disputes undoubtedly, but this was a family that worked together and lived together, often within blocks of each other.  One project I have in mind at some point is creating a map to show where they all were living at a given point in time.  This was a family where almost everyone stayed in Philadelphia or perhaps New Jersey for multiple generations at least until the 1930s or 1940s.

Every tragedy—the deaths of so many young children, the premature deaths of so many young adults, the horrible accidents—must have rippled through the entire family in some way.  This was a family that suffered greatly over and over again—perhaps no more than any other of its time, but nevertheless, more than most of us can imagine today.  Almost every one of them lost at least one young child; some lost several.   Reuben and Sally lost ten children.  Some, like my great-grandparents and Reuben, not only lost a young child, but also lost adult children who died too young.

Yet this was also a family that triumphed.  Most of them lived fairly comfortably, if not luxuriously.  They moved to the northern sections of Philadelphia away from the increasingly poor sections where Jacob and Sarah had settled at 136 South Street.  Many had servants living with them, even when they had only a few or even no children.  These were not college-educated people.  Most did not even finish high school.  But they were savvy business people who, as far as I can tell, for the most part operated their businesses honestly but successfully, as the profile of Reuben Cohen described.  They saw themselves as money lenders, as the banks for those who could not borrow money from a traditional, established bank. Some were more successful than others, but overall this was a family that came to America in the 1840s and made a good life for themselves and their descendants.

Looking back on those times makes me wonder what happened.  How did this large, interconnected family lose touch with each other?  It’s not just my father’s immediate line that was disconnected; every Cohen descendant I’ve been able to locate says the same thing—that they had no idea about all these other cousins and Cohen relatives.  My father said he had no idea that his father had cousins.  I counted sixty-nine grandchildren born to Jacob and Sarah Cohen.  Even if you subtract the many who did not survive childhood, there were probably fifty—meaning that my grandfather had fifty living first cousins, mostly living in Philadelphia, yet my father did not know of any of them.

I suppose that that is how it is as families grow, children marry, grandchildren are born.  You no longer can fit everyone around the table even for special occasions.  Other families also need attention—the in-laws and all their relatives.  Especially back then, before the telephone and the automobile and certainly before the internet, Facebook, Google, email, and cellphones, it was just too hard and too expensive to stay in touch if someone was not in your immediate neighborhood and your day-to-day life.  We all know how hard it is to stay in touch even with all those modern means of communication.

So people moved away, grew apart, and lost touch.  At least now we can all benefit from knowing the bigger picture, from looking at our shared history, and knowing that even if we do not know each other, we are all part of the same tree.

 

Thanks to Rabbi Albert Gabbai of Mikveh Israel Congregation in Philadelphia, I now have photos of the headstones for Jacob and Sarah.

jacob headstone enhanced 2

Headstone for Jacob and Sarah Cohen

Jacob Cohen's headstone enhanced

They are not very legible, but you can clearly see Jacob’s name in English, and with the help of others, I’ve been told that the Hebrew includes Jacob’s name, Yaakov ben Naftali ha Cohen, and his date of death, 13 Iyar 5648, or April 24, 1888.  It also apparently has a reference to London as his birthplace.

Jacob headstone from FB

The side for Sarah (the second one above)  is almost completely eroded, so no one could decipher it.    Rabbi Gabbai also found the stone for Hart Levy Cohen, but he said it was nothing but a plain stone as all the engraving had eroded so he did not take a picture.  I wish that he had, but did not have the heart to ask him to go back to the cemetery.

All that is left is for us to remember them and their children and their grandchildren.