Journey to Indonesia

From a geographic perspective, my 10 day journey to Indonesia was the best ever. Not only did I first cross the equator, I skirted the Arctic Circle on the return flight.

The first leg of the trip gave me my first glimpse of lakes Huron and Superior and Western Canada. Following the route from Winnipeg to north of Edmonton, I could still see signs of civilization (roads and rectangular fields) as far as the Rockies in British Columbia. The view remained mountainous as the jet passed what I believe was Cook Inlet, which leads to Anchorage.

Landing in Tokyo I was greeted by a text from T-Mobile that data and text roaming was free, and talk was 20 cents a minute. Who needs airport WiFi I thought as I made a test call to my mother in San Diego.

A flight delay gave me ample time at Narita Airport to check my pronunciation of Indonesian with Hardi, who was returning after two years with Chevron. He must have done well before the oil bust as he visited all 50 state capitol and was flying business.

ANA (All Nippon Airlines) had far greater legroom in coach than United, so I was less jealous of my new friend in business. In fact, United's legroom was so tight that even after the people sitting next to me got up, it was hard to get to the aisle. Imagine what a non-skinny person must go through.

Steve, my friend in Jakarta, promised an immigration expediter to meet me at the gate. Alas no sign with my name. Again glad for the cell phone roaming benefits so I could arrange to meet Steve in front of the A&W restaurant, pronounced "Ah Way." Then into the car with his driver at the wheel (on the right side) and home to South Jakarta in a district of embassies and other upscale, walled-off properties.

Upon waking early I took a dip in the pool and a tour of the neighborhood, where relentless, high-rise construction meets slums and high-class restaurants on Senopati St. Actually the slums were the most appealing with the smells of the warungs (food shacks). Only fear of getting the runs on the first day kept me from sampling the goods.

Now back to the airport for our trip to Bali, located off the eastern end of Java island. Java is the population center for a country of 250,000,000. From my window seat I saw much of the land filled with red globs, indicating the tightly packed dwellings which formed a village. But there was still more green than red, including several volcanoes.

In Bali we stayed at the luxurious Oberoi, an expansive beach-front resort. The beach itself was on the Indian Ocean. Getting wet with my third ocean was another geographic accomplishment.

The horrible holiday weekend traffic counterbalanced the tranquility of the resort, but it was worth the trouble to get to an area north of Ubud for a day of home cooked meals, a trip to a coffee plantation and a bike ride. Half the fun was sharing the tour with three generations of the McCloskey family from Brisbane.

The plantation had more than coffee trees. There was durian fruit, mango, cocoa and something called mangosteen. Past where a woman was grinding beans the old fashioned way were the tasting tables where everyone enjoyed drinking from 12 cups placed on a card identifying the teas and coffees.

The bike was mostly downhill so even Steve, I and grandmum McCloskey, all 60-something, could keep up with parents Dion, Suzanne and their girls Lilly, Georgia and Jade. We stopped at a family compound with several dwellings, a meeting space, and their temple. Now I understood why everywhere in Bali I saw clusters of tiny thatched-roof temples behind brick walls. We also saw rice fields in various stages of growth and learned that paddies are flooded to kill weeds.

The next day Steve and I returned on our own to Ubud to see the monkey forest in the center of town. We spent far more time in traffic but it was wonderful seeing the free-ranging macaques, including babies clutching their mothers to be breast-fed.

The second half of my visit was back in Jakarta where I got to meet Ruri, who I previously met online. Ruri is just 28 but has traveled to much of Europe and was starting a temporary job with the Swedish embassy.

On Sunday the three of us went to the Dutch colonial district ("Kota") to tour the old government house and a shadow puppet museum. At the museum, a man latched on to us to show us around and hustle us to his workshop, where he gave us a private shadow puppet show. And wasn't I nice enough to buy a puppet afterwards. Then we dined at the stately Cafe Batavia, the Dutch name for Jakarta. After a walk past a long dock of old fishing boats we were ready to get back to the air conditioned house.

That night I went on my own to explore the 6-story Pacific Place mall, with its huge variety of restaurants and anchored by Galleries Lafayette. To get there, Steve’s guard gave me a lift on his motorbike. Ruri goes everywhere by motorbike taxi, but for me, one time hanging on for dear life was sufficient. I walked home.

Monday I discovered a way to get around that was both cheap and fast. The TransJakarta "bus rapid transit" system has its own lane and a subway like turnstile and elevated platform. It will do until construction of the real subway line is completed.

The park around the nation monument was closed. While I could see the obelisk-shaped monument clearly from the gate, this forced me to walk around the kilometer-square park to get to the great Istiqlal Mosque, the largest in Southeast Asia. The other challenge getting there was the five lane road with no crosswalks. A generous old man led me across by walking into traffic with his hand stretched out to make sure we were noticed. That's actually how they cross streets in Jakarta.

The same generous man offered a free tour of the mosque for a donation.  He did well, but stupid me forgot to ask the price of the donation, which turned out to be 50 percent more than I'd prefer. In retrospect he was a greedy, lying SOB.

The last day was a trip by train with Ruri to the nearby city of Bogor, famous for its botanical garden that features an orchid gallery. We also went through the free Ethnobotany Museum, an extensive collection of plants, spices and crafts from around the country.

Bogor is also known for its ubiquitous green minibuses (angkots) that more resemble covered pickup trucks. And, unlike Jakarta, vehicles don't stop if you walk into traffic. Going to Bogor with Ruri probably saved my life.

The flight home made it clear that ANA is superior to United. In lieu of window shutter, I could electronically select a tint level. And, unlike on United, I did not have to struggle with a touch-screen that either ignored or misinterpreted my touch.

But the flight home from Tokyo was a thrill as it went over Fairbanks, mountainous Yukon and the charcoal-colored tundra of the Northwest Territory. Above 60 degrees latitude on May 11, it is still winter, albeit a very sunny winter.

Ted Feinberg Nov. 4, 1926 - March 14, 2016

Addressed to the Celebration of Life on March 20 at the Pacific Regent La Jolla retirement community.

No matter how long a loved one lived, he died too soon. That’s how I feel about Dad, who died Monday.

Except he should have died the previous Wednesday when he stopped breathing. Could he
speak, he would have pleaded with the technicians to respect the form he signed and not stick
tube down his throat.

Except he should not have survived lymphoma 19 years ago, nor should he have survived being
sent back into the football game with an injured neck.

And how did little Teddy survive when Grandpa Max threw him out the car window to avoid a
crash that left Grandma Mae in traction.

The truth is, he should never have been born in the first place. Before you gasp, let me explain.
The doctor did not believe he would have a healthy birth and recommended an abortion. But
Grandma Mae and Grandpa Max rejected their doctor’s advice, and fate proved them right.
Joyous to have a son to go with their two daughters, Mae and Max gave him the Hebrew name
of Tuvya, which means the goodness of God. Tuvya dovetailed nicely with Theodore, which
means God’s gift. Theodore? Theology? You get the idea.

Fast forward about twelve years. Little Teddy attends the community Hebrew school, where old
men from places like Annatevka used a stick to keep the boys in line. Any time you made the
slightest wrong move, you’re hit with a stick. Until Teddy grabbed the stick and struck his
teacher. They never hit Teddy again, and Teddy would never feel an attachment for the Jewish
religion.

As a young family man in Des Moines’s tight-knit Jewish community, Dad tolerated the high
holiday and bar mitzvah services. But after moving to San Diego in 1979, he could freely assert
his true beliefs by joining the Jewish Secular Humanist congregation, where Jewish life is
celebrated with no mention of God.

In a world where many are oppressed because of their refusal to conform to religious belief,
Dad supported the American Civil Liberties Union and Americans United for the Separation of
Church and State. And Dad died the way he lived, skipping the funeral and donating his body to
the UCSD Medical School. And don’t forget, this is a celebration of life, not a memorial
“service.”

I have been observing the seven days of mourning by walking every morning to the
Conservation synagogue to say Kaddish. As I recite the words Yitgadal v’yitkadash, glorifying
God’s greatness, I am proud of my father who stood tall for his true beliefs. By the same token,
Dad always supported me whenever I made a decision about my own life, no matter how
differently I lived it. Even when I participated in the Torah service at our cousin Haley’s Bat
Mitzvah, I could see how proud he was.

For all our differences, one thing Dad and I shared was a love of art. For him, that meant
painting, photography and decorative gourds. For me, that means among other things the art of
chanting from the Torah - and imagining a supreme God to express gratitude for what we have
and wonder for the beauty and vastness of the universe.

We also both liked sports.

And while Dad donated to Bernie, I’m still kind of on the fence between him and Hillary.

And as hard as I try, I’ll never master Dad’s whimsical sense of humor. For example, whenever
he wrote me a letter, he signed off with the words Dear Old Dad.

Dad, you thought you were being funny, but you were very dear to me. And you really did
become very old. And God was very good to let me be your son.

Items on display at the Celebration of Life

Only upon going through his files did I realize the extent of Dad's interest in astronomy. 

The Journeys of Leah Rachel

To my knowledge, only four of my great-great-grandparents traveled from Europe to the United States. One of them, Abraham Joseph Ginsberg, a grandfather of my grandmother Mae Chapman Feinberg, moved back to Europe, where he died in 1929. Reuben and Chaya Rubinson, grandparents of my other grandmother Esther Rubinson Marcovis, settled in New York City, where they died in 1934 and 1923, respectively.

The other great-grandparent, Leah Rachel Reiss Leon, a grandmother of Grandpa Abe Marcovis, came to the US in 1886, returned to Romania, and came here for good in 1900. She died in Des Moines, Iowa, in 1913.

After a number of failed attempts to find her passenger records in ancestry.com, today I succeeded in finding both of her incoming passenger records, as well as the passenger record of Clara Leon and her eventual husband Aaron Marcovis.

"Leon" was actually the surname adopted by Leah's son Sol. In Roman, Romania, they were the family of Lev Shevach. Lev, we are told, was still alive when Leah Rachel, age 40, departed Hamburg, Germany, on November 6, 1886. With her on the Sprite to Liverpool and the Chicago, which arrived in New York November 20, were daughter Clara, age 17, and son Mutzer, or Muley, age 7. The surname out of Hamburg was "Schaffoch," but the New York passenger record said "Schaffock." The New York record also misstated the country of origin as Sweden. Both records listed the mother as simply "Rachel."

Clara would marry Aaron Marcovis, another Romanian Jew living in Des Moines, in 1888. Nothing more is known of Mutzer, except he must have been one of Leah Rachel's four deceased children as of the 1910 census.

Leah Rachel's second trip to America was in 1900. It was said that Lev had finally agreed to leave Romania but died before the time of departure. This time the passenger records for the Pretoria listed her as Lea Schewach, age 55, and with her was her daughter "Nutka" or "Butza," age 18. They left Hamburg on July 1 and arrived in New York July 14. This time, the New York record included the address of their destination, the Marcovis house at 770 9th St.

Nineteen days later, on August 2, 1900, Clara and Aaron Marcovis's first son was born. They would name him Leo, after Clara's recently deceased father.

The daughter "Nutka" or "Butza" would be known as Annie, and she would marry her first cousin Wolf Rise the next year. They, as well as Wolf's father (and Leah Rachel's brother) David Rise, are all buried at Glendale Cemetery in Des Moines. David Rise died in 1885, before Glendale was in use. It may be that his remains were brought from Romania. It may also be that he traveled to Des Moines and died before he could send for his family.

A photograph on display in the home of Clara's granddaughter Lois (Pellow) Beskind, may depict Leah Rachel.

The woman on the left looks similar to Clara in her wedding picture with Aaron. Thus, this could be, from left, Clara, Rachel Leah, young Annie, and another daughter taken before the 1886 journey. The daughter on the right would be another of the four deceased children as of the 1910 census.

Rubinson or Robinson?

A more recent blog, published in 2020, has a much more authoritative answer to this question.

One of the things that makes genealogy mind-boggling is trying to determine a family's "real" last name. This matter is of special concern to relatives of my maternal grandmother Esther Rubinson Marcovis (1902-1962).

Of Esther's four brothers, three changed Rubinson to Robinson. Only Milton "Mickey" Rubinson (1908-1969) stayed in sync with his father Maurice (1874-1963). Sam (1906-1992) and Ben (1910-1980) used "Robinson" once they married and moved out in the 1930s. Youngest brother Norton (1914-1998) used "Robinson" when he enlisted in 1942.

Were these first-generation Americans trying to downplay their Jewishness, or were they following the example of their grandfather, Rubin Robinson (1850-1934). Maurice's parents and siblings, residents of New York City, switched to "Robinson" sometime between the 1900 and 1910 censuses.

Rubin's only other known male relatives were the five sons of Eliyahu from the town of Pilviskiai, Lithuania. Four settled in Des Moines or Boone, Iowa, and kept "Rubinson." The fifth, Chaim Reuben of New York City (1861-1919), switched to "Robinson" in 1908, switched back to "Rubinson" in 1910, and switch to "Robinson" for good in the mid-1910s
.
How odd that the Des Moines family kept "Rubinson" but the New Yorkers did not.

It is important to understand that all these immigrants first used "Rubinson" in America. Had they originally used "Robinson," which sounds like "Rabinson," we might think they were descendants of a "rabin" or rabbi.

"Rubinson," however, simply means "son of Reuben." Reuben ("Re-u-ven" in Hebrew) was the firstborn son of Jacob in the Book of Genesis. Thus, it is fair to assume there was a Lithuanian Jew named Reuben whose sons were legally required to adopt a surname. In Jewish Lithuanian vital records, surnames became common in the 1820s. If these sons of Reuben were heads of households in the 1820s, this original Reuben may have lived most of his life in the late 1700s.

My ancestor Rubin (son of Benjamin) and his relative Chaim Reuben (son of Eliyahu) probably received their first name, as well as their surname, from the same deceased ancestor.

It is unfortunate the 19th Century vital records have never been found for Pilviskiai. Those birth, marriage and death records could have verified that my Rubinson ancestors were also from that town. The records might have also shown the exact relationship of the Benjamin and Eliyahu branches.

There does exist a 1908 Pilviskiai directory. It lists no "Rubinson," "Robinson" or "Rabinson," but it has listings for Berko Gilel Rubinovich and Shlema Shepshel Rubinovich. "Rubinovich" is a Russian surname that also means "son of Reuben." Considering that the town passed from Polish to Prussian control in 1795, to Napoleonic control in 1807, and to Russian control in 1915, it is no surprise to see a mix of Germanic and Russian surnames.

American immigrants from Pilviskiai can sometimes be identified by ship manifests and passport and naturalization documents. From those sources I found three Rubinovich brothers (Moses, Louis and Meyer, sons of Joseph) who lived in Chicago as "Rubin." Meyer used "Rabinovich" when he sailed to America.

The use of "Rubinovich," "Rabinovich" and "Rubin" by the same family teaches us that surnames were recognized by their meaning rather than their exact spelling. And because Pilviskiai had just 67 households in 1797, anyone with any variation of "son of Reuben" could be paternally related.

My mother was told her ancestors used something other than "Rubinson" or "Robinson" before immigrating to America. It is certainly possible they used a Russian version in Russia and a Germanic/English version once they left for the German ports en route to New York. What is more certain: It doesn't even matter.

Joe and Beth Ginsberg, Our Omaha Cousins

Joe and Beth Ginsberg in 1994

When Beth Bernstein Ginsberg died in February, she took many profound memories, both happy and sad, with her.

Beth (1926?-2015) was the widow of my father's cousin Joe Ginsberg (1919-2001). Joe was related on both sides of my father's family. Joe's mother Anna Feinberg Ginsberg (1891-1950) was my grandfather Max's only full sibling. Joe's father Hyman Ginsberg (1880-1972) was my grandmother Mae's maternal uncle.

As such, the Ginsbergs and Feinbergs were especially well acquainted. Joe and Beth were close friends of my Aunt Betty (1922-2014) and Uncle Jack Goodside (1918-2001). It's remarkable that Joe died about half a year after Jack and that Beth died about half a year after Betty.

Whereas Jack Goodside excelled at track, Joe was an All-City football lineman at North High School in Des Moines, where my father would play quarterback several years later. Joe later played football at Drake U. and U. Iowa. Dad described Joe as a "little bull of a man."

Dad also recalls that Joe was the "first draft registrant in Des Moines ... to volunteer for Army service." The record shows he enlisted in November 1940, over a year before the attack on Pearl Harbor. He left service as a First Lieutenant with a Purple Heart and a Bronze Star. According to his Omaha World Herald obituary, he enlisted "at the request of an Iowa judge who said that as a minority, Ginsberg would set an example for others to join up." The obituary noted that the Bronze Star was from the Battle of the Bulge.

Joe and Beth married in 1947. They moved to Omaha in the mid-1950s after briefly living in Davenport, Iowa. After initially working as a supervisor at a Hinky Dinky supermarket, he launched American Service Corporation, "sellers of innovative products," in 1964.

By that time, Beth had already started to make a name for herself as a dance instructor. Not her real name, but as Beth Gaynes. Beth, who had studied at the American Ballet Theatre School in New York, taught dance in Davenport and opened a dance studio in 1957 in Omaha's Center Mall. She ultimately advanced to the top of her profession, serving as national president of Dance Masters of America (1978-1980). The Omaha World Herald remembered her for choreographing the Omaha Press Club's annual show for "nearly three decades." This sign is from the 2013 auction of the studio's assets.

Joe was also well-noted for his work with young people. In a city famous for Boys' Town, he was a long-time youth advisor at Beth El Synagogue, Boy Scouts of America, and the Omaha Home for Boys.

When Dance Masters of America announced "Beth Gaynes'" passing, two of the comments understandably wished "prayers for her family." The well-wishers probably did not know that Joe and Beth's only son Joseph Alvin "Jay" Ginsberg (1959-1986) died long ago in a tragic accident.

Nor are there Bernstein nieces or nephews to pray for. Beth's older brother Seymour W. Bernstein (1916-1958) was still living with their mother when he died. Her other brother Benjamin Albin Bernstein (1919-1943), who listed his occupation as "actor" when he enlisted in 1942, died serving with the Air Force.

My dear cousin Jay died from a fall. His middle name Alvin was likely in memory of his late Uncle Albin, who most likely was shot down. The day Albin died, October 14, 1943, is known as "Black Thursday" because 600 Americans and other England-based allied airmen were lost on a mission to bomb a ball bearings factory at Schweinfurt, Germany.

Beth, Seymour and Albin's father, Joseph E. Bernstein (1889-1950), died one week before the end of the war in Europe. And sure enough, Beth's mother Pearl (1891-1977) died less than a year after Betty Goodside's mother.

Joe Ginsberg's family was almost equally star-crossed. One sibling was stillborn, and both Helen and Milton died in early childhood. Only brother Jerome "Jack" Ginsberg (1914-1965) and Joe reached adulthood. Jack's son Stanley M. Ginsberg is the only known descendant of Hyman and Anna Ginsberg.  Stanley, if you read this, I would like to meet you.

The Rohrlichs from Romania

This post is about relatives of my great-grandmother (mother's father's mother) Clara Marcovis, nee Schevach (1869-1944). In particular, it is about the descendants of Clara's first cousin, another Clara, who married Karl Rohrlich.

Clara's father was Leb Schevach. My great-uncle Leo Marcovis (1900-1983) must have been named after Leb, his maternal grandfather.

Leb Schevach was one of three known children of Avram and Leah Schevach. One must assume that my grandfather Abe Marcovis (1902-1997) and his cousin Abe Leon (1892-1918) were named after their great-grandfather. This Schevach family, as far as we know, lived in Roman, located in what now is the northeast, or Moldavian Region, of Romania.

To our knowledge, Leb Schevach had only two siblings. Of Isadore Schevach, we only know his name. Leb's sister Blima (d. 1928) married Avram Mark or Marcu, and they had two daughters, Liza and Clara.

Liza, whose husband Moritz Reiss was a maternal cousin of my Clara, died in Israel in the early 1950s. Their children, Beatriz, Theodor and Josefine, then moved from Israel to Sao Paolo, Brazil. Theodor's son Gerald earned a doctorate in electrical engineering from U.C. Berkeley and returned to Sao Paolo.

Clara Marcu married Karl Rohrlich. Schevach relative and family historian Harvey Leon (1914-2002) said Karl owned an olive oil factory. Their son Leon (1899-1979) carried on the olive oil business until the Communists seized his assets in 1948. Leon moved to Israel in 1964.

Little is known about their daughter Sylvia Rohrlich Samitca, who died in 1941, in her early 40s, from an failed operation.

Their other son, Berthold (1897-1943), died from a stroke while returning home by train from Bucharest. The family believed the presence of Nazi soldiers on the time may have contributed to the stroke. Berthold was survived by son Alexander (1922-2005?), whose mother Clementine died in childbirth. Both father and son filed claims of slave labor after the war.

Dr. Alexander Rohrlich

Alexander, whose Romanian nickname was Sandu, became a pediatrician. He met his wife, Bronja, when she worked in a hospital in Roman.

Sandu and Bronja applied for emigration in 1950, but were denied. They tried again in 1958. This time, a Communist official approved their application so he could take over their house.

After stops in Vienna and Amsterdam, they arrived in Israel in 1959. They first lived in a "settlement town" where Sandu cared for the children of poor immigrants from Arab countries. These children would be for them a substitute for the children they never had.

I was fortunate to meet them in their Tel Aviv apartment in 2001.

Prominent Shirttail Relatives

Karl Rohrlich's brother Egon practiced law in Vienna. Egon could not get out of Austria, and was killed at Sobibor concentration camp. Two sons, however, fled after the German annexation in 1938.

George F. Rohrlich (1914-1995) would receive a Ph.D. from Harvard, serve on General Douglas MacArthur's staff in Tokyo, and teach economics at Temple University in Philadelphia.

Fritz Rohrlich (1921 - ) would become a world leader in the field of Quantum Electrodynamics. Before joining Syracuse University, he taught from 1953 to 1963 at the University of Iowa, just 100 miles east of where Clara Marcovis had lived.

My Journey to Israel: 1972

One year ago, my niece and nephew took their first overseas trip on the 10-day Birthright tour to Israel. 36 years earlier, their mother went on the Des Moines Jewish Federation-subsidized 7-week high school summer tour in Israel. Over 40 years ago, I used a Federation scholarship to join the B'nai B'rith Youth Organization (BBYO) summer tour.

Our first tourist site that summer of 1972 was the entry hall of Lod Airport, whose walls bore the pock marks from a bloody terror attack about a month earlier. Luckily, that was my closest encounter with violence.

We stayed much of the time in Arab hotels in East Jerusalem. When there was free time, we walked through the Arab neighborhoods to go either to West Jerusalem or to the Old City.  If children were playing in the street, I stopped to kick a soccer ball with them.

On the left, my friend Samir,
working the family stall in the
Old City of Jerusalem

This was just five years after Israel reunited East and West Jerusalem in the 1967 Six Day War.

One of the hotel owners had a son, about 14, who mixed with our group whenever we returned from a tour. He called himself Moshe, but we called him Freddy Felafel. When he and I became close over the summer, he confessed his real name was Nasser. He hid his name so the American Jewish kids would accept him.

This hotel was a 15-minute walk to the Damascus Gate of the Old City. Inspired by a recent sermon by my congregational rabbi, I snuck off to visit the Western Wall at midnight on Shabbat. Hopelessly lost in the maze of dark, deserted alleys, a friendly Arab, arm wrapped tightly around my shoulder, showed me the way back to the gate.

Our trip included an extensive tour of Jewish sites in the West Bank. Our bus wandered freely through the occupied West Bank. There were no separate roads for Jews, and almost no Jewish settlements for them to lead to.

There also were no superhighways linking Jerusalem, Tel Aviv and Haifa. Buses going uphill to Jerusalem

Tel Aviv as seen from Jaffa in 1972

were very, very slow.

We visited some kibbutzim, but our main agricultural experience was on a moshav up north called Nahalal. It was the home of Moshe Dayan, the eye-patch wearing iconic Defense Minister of the 1967 war.

It was also the home of Israeli pop star Shula Chen (pronounced khen). It was to the Chen family that Maureen Gurner and I were assigned to clean the chicken coop. That week was also an opportunity to observe closely as a teenage boy worked the community milking machine.

Yoav Yosilevich with his par-
ents and little brother outside
their house in Yehud

One Shabbat I was assigned to an Israeli family with a son my age named Yoav. The Yosilevitch family lived in a small ranch house on a quiet street in Yehud, a town north of the airport. On Friday night, the mother lit candles inside the front door and served us peanut butter sandwiches. In those days,  Israelis had their main meal at midday.

Later we drove with his friends to a roadside snack bar.  It was Arab-owned, so it did not have to close for Shabbat. In the afternoon I played frisbee with the kids in the street.

Yoav practiced English speaking to me, and I practiced Hebrew speaking to him.  14 months later I would study the casualty list from the Yom Kippur War hoping to not see his name.