I have made
only a few mentions of my father in this and my other blogs. Though if you look
at many of the postings, you will see his comments spread across all kinds of
topics, always with an encouraging message of support. He passed away two weeks
ago, and as low as I feel right now, I have the urge to do something. And so writing a post about his life is what feels right
to me. I’ll start at the beginning.
Lucky to survive
My father
was born Werner Rindsberg in 1924 in Germany. His devout Jewish family lived in
the small town of Mainstockheim. He played a lot of soccer and helped his
father with the family wine business. As Germany fell into the hands of the
Nazi party, their lives quickly changed. On Kristallnacht, he was arrested
along with my grandfather. Because he was only 14 years old, my dad was returned home after three days My grandfather was sent to Dachau for several weeks and returned
weakened and silent about what had happened to him. My grandparents then took
the courageous step of sending my father to Belgium with a group of refugee children. He would never see his parents or brothers again.
 |
| Kurt, Werner, and Herbert Rindsberg |
 |
| Werner Rindsberg and best friend Walter Strauss |
He began
work as an apprentice in a tool and die shop in New York, but was soon drafted into
the army. That gave him the right to US citizenship, and he took the
opportunity to change his name to Walter Reed. He then returned to Europe,
arriving in Normandy less than a week after D-Day. Thanks to his skills in
French and German, he was moved in to a position as a translator and interrogator. When the war ended he remained in Germany in support
of the denazification efforts. He returned to his village to find more questions
than answers about his family’s whereabouts. Much later he would learn that
they perished in gas chambers in Poland.
An American
Returning to
the US, he attended the Missouri School of Journalism, and in time various jobs
across Midwest brought him to Chicago. Until he proposed to my mom, all who
knew him believed he was born in New York City and that his parents had died in
a car accident. He was always open and honest with us about his past, but we
also understood this was something we kept within the family. He long felt that
the Nazis had already taken so much away from him, that he did not want to let
them ruin anything else in his life. That meant a conscious choice to be an
American and fit in. On top of his career, he was always an active member of
the community, working with various groups to help make a positive impact. This
ranged from serving on boards of service organizations, to award-winning
leadership in the Rotary Club, to he and my mom taking in Hmong refugees in
the 1980s.
Accidental Historian
Some time
after his retirement, with all us kids grown up, a return to the place where he
and those 100 children were hiding opened up a new chapter in his life. He
learned that most of them had survived and were in regular contact with each
other. They had been looking for him for a long time. He soon “came out of the
closet” as a holocaust survivor and began to tell his personal story publicly.
What followed was nearly two decades of education, story-telling, and
documenting his and others’ history. He organized reunions of his former companions
in Chicago and at the site itself in France. He spoke to high schools and
colleges in the US and across Europe. We are fortunate to have audio and video
of some of these discussions. I can’t wait to share them with my children once
they are old enough to appreciate them.
 |
| A high school classroom in Germany |
As part of
this process, my father became actively involved in a project to tell the story
of these refugee children. An author who had previously published work about
Jewish rescuers wanted to write a book detailing the history. My father
enthusiastically offered his support with the research. Unfortunately, the
author died rather early in the process. When no other option availed itself,
my dad decided he would write the book himself. After ten years of research and
writing plus another four hustling to get a publisher, his
book came out last November.
 |
| Proudly unveiling the book cover |
Always There
The above is
an amazing story of a life truly lived, one I’ve told many times. But it’s not
really what’s on my mind or why I’m writing this now. I’ve always wished I were
more like my father. His innate ability to focus and continuously get things
done ahead of time never came easily to me. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone
more reliable. Regardless of his age, he continued to deliver. Seriously, who
publishes a heavily-researched non-fiction book at the age of 91?
As a father,
he never missed any of our sporting events or concerts. He and my mom went
to my brother’s post-punk shows at the Fireside Bowl and later his electronic
shows at nightclubs, even when they took the stage at 2AM. Whatever I needed
that he could provide, I usually didn’t even have to ask. He just took care of it.
When I was 14
he decided it was high time for his sons to learn to ski. So he drove us out
Colorado and skied the week on his own while we took lessons. He was 65 at the
time. He kept skiing well into his 70s. He and my mom did biking trips across Europe
every summer. Every summer including the last one when he was 91.
When I got
married in Buenos Aires, he gave a phenomenal speech in Spanish. This, even
though my father did not speak Spanish. It was all anyone could talk about for
weeks.
Of course I
have all the typical feelings, taking for granted that he would live
forever. After everything he had survived and how capable he still was… what
else was I going to think? (Some of my friends in Argentina called him “Highlander.”)
I know. Everyone does this. That doesn’t make it any less frustrating.
I feel his
absence at every moment of every day, even though I’m an ocean away. I think
about how their house is emptier. My family is emptier. But I reflect on all
the guidance and wisdom he passed on to me, and feel overwhelmingly lucky to
have received it all. I can’t yet fathom that he won’t be able to do that
for me anymore.
A series of sacrifices
and miracles granted him survival, and without question he made the most of his
life. I'm so proud of him, and I know my grandparents surely would have been, too. In these last two weeks, so many of his friends and acquaintances have told me that my father was
a great man, and I agree. But they don’t know the half
of it.
For those
interested in my father's book, I personally found it gripping and relevant,
biased though I may be. You can buy it here.
Posts
