Vernissage: Marion Rabinowitz

Shalom aleichem, Willkommen, Hello friends!

It is a great honor for us, my brothers Louis and Phillip and Phillip’s wife, Marilyn, and me to be here with you celebrating the 20th anniversary of the institute, jewish museum and synagogue of St. Poelten. Unfortunately, Louis’s wife, Rhoda and son, David, could not join us today. This would not have been possible without the dedication, hard work and insight of Dr. Martha Keil and her team of researchers who canvased the world for those like us whose families were part of this once extraordinarily vibrant and vital community. This institute is a living memorial to those cherished souls who once passed through these doors to pray, sing, and celebrate life. This must have been an overwhelming project. Our heartfelt thanks to all of you involved in this endeavor.

Our grandfather, Philipp William Rabinowitsch, was cantor, shochet and teacher. Sadly, we never met. Cantor Rabinowitz had a voice that would shatter windows, according to our dear father, Emil, and his siblings. Dad had many stories he told us over the years. I would try to imagine what it must have been like living in St. Poelten.

This was his home. He was an athelete and member of the Jewish athletic team that ran relay races in the city. Of course, he, his brothers and sisters all sang in their father’s choir. Music was the center of their lives. Dad told of his father’s leaving Vilnius as a young man, earning his way singing from village to village when he finally arrived here in St. Poelten. He was hired as the cantor for the synagogue, married the previous cantor’s daughter, Amalia Neumann, our Grossmutter, raised a family, and inspired a community of about 750 members for 22 years. Austria at that time, as retold to us, was beautiful and an absolutely wonderful place to live. Austria was rich in all the arts and was the cultural center of Europe in the early part of the 20th century. Dad had a great love for this country and St. Poelten. His family never thought they would have to leave their home. Here.

Our mother, Lillian, came from Vienna. Dad and mom met in a hiking club in New York, which dad organized along with a group of Jewish Austrians who came to this country around the same time in 1921–22. We, the children, are the next part of the story. We lived in a small town in South Jersey. My father was a tool designer and skilled machinist with a job at the Philidelphia navy yard as an instructor and then manager of an engineering corporation. He received an award from the navy during the 2nd world war for designing a safer catapault on aircraft carriers, thus saving many sailors’ lives. His father, Cantor Rabinowitz, wanted his sons to learn a trade to show others that his sons knew how to work well with their hands right alongside any other Austrian worker. Our parents learned English here and spoke very well, using the Austrian dialect for secrets and jokes between them. We learned a few important off-color words from their jokes!! We were so fortunate! Mom and dad were excellent cooks and we enjoyed many of delicious Austrian dishes. We thought we were Austrian Jewish Americans!

Our parents’ courage, love of music, and nature were always an inspiration. At family gatherings, the quartet, made up of dad and his siblings, Kurt, Frieda and Elsie, were always called upon to sing Austrian folk songs. What a treat that was!! I am sure these melodies are familiar to most of you.

Dad brought his father’s music to temple Beth Sholom in Haddon Heights, New Jersey. He was a founding member of the synagogue and choir master. He taught his father’s music to the cantors at the synagogue – music never heard before in that area – never before sung in any other than the synagogue at St. Poelten. Any other synagogue. The melodies, some composed by Cantor Rabinowitz, are truly beautiful and spiritual. Of course, I sang in dad’s choir!

Of course! He always wanted me to read the English translation of the prayer to see how the music fit the meaning of the words and the mood of the prayer. Dad had many gifts. Life was centered around the synagogue as it was for him here in St. Poelten. Our mother, Lillian, shared this commitment to community and was totally involved in the sisterhood, always coming forward whenever needed, especially in the kitchen. Speaking of the kitchen – dad was expert in picking edible mushrooms, a skill which he learned as a young boy here in St. Poelten. We were never sure of this as we watched him pick mushrooms from the fields at various state parks where we picknicked often. He would take them home, wash them, fry them in butter and onions and then spoon some sourcream over them. He was in heaven! We watched him eat waiting for him to fall out of his chair any moment from poisoning – never happened! He could not understand why we did not join him!! So many memories – so many laughs – so many sorrows – all shared.

Dad had a small postcard picture of the St. Poelten synagogue which was always on his dresser. From the time that I was tall enough to see the picture and through the years, I would hear dad’s stories of this place and thought, how marvelous it would be some day to actually see it! I did along with my brother Lou, his wife Rhoda, and my nephew David last summer on a tour of Germany and Austria. The tour guide and driver accommodated us by taking the exit off the Autobahn to St. Poelten. We had the address. I was amazed when I spotted the synagogue. The four of us just stood in awe – staring at the building. It was exactly like on the postcard, only this was the real deal – the real place – the heart of all those memories told by dad over all those years.

My postcard became alive!!! I cried. I went to the front door, held the handle for a bit and just imagined all the people who came through those doors – how many times my family entered this building, this house of prayer, how many times those names on the wall prayed here. I am overwhelmed by my family’s history here and of a time gone by, but yet so real to me. How fortunate that dad was still alive when Martha Keil was pursuing the history of the Jews in this region of Austria. My cousin, Phillip, son of uncle Kurt, made the first contact here on a trip with his wife – he peeked in the window, was tapped on the shoulder and asked if he needed assistance. This was the beginning of the new story.

Dad dictated a narrative report from his apartment in Marlborough, Mass. His story is incorporated in the book published by Martha Keil and her team along with pictures that we provided. I am forever grateful that dad lived long enough to see the website on my computer of his St. Poelten synagogue. He just stared at it, kept looking at the outside, inside, all around – his comment was – »It looks just like it did!!« then, his question was »How can you get this image on this little machine in this little room?« It still amazes me, I told him.

Dad passed away in 2002, at which time Martha wrote me that a memorial service was held here in his memory. Our family was extremely touched by this expression of sympathy and comfort. I hope he knows. I don’t think in his wildest dreams would he ever think we, his children, would be here today.

Ma tovu ohalecha yaakov – 
How wonderful are your dwellings, oh Jacob – 
Mishkan kivodecha, Yisroel – your sanctuaries, o Israel!
Wouldn’t it be wonderful if the synagogue once again housed a jewish community for prayer, for song and to celebrate life. The hills would be alive again with the sound of music and wouldn’t that be awesome!!