Old friendships, never forgotten

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Having tremendously enjoyed studying art history as an undergraduate, especially during part of my junior year in Florence, Italy, I eagerly looked forward to graduate studies.  Perhaps I could become a museum curator or a professor. 

My pathway was miraculously cleared on Dec. 1, 1969, when, during my senior year, a high lottery number spared me from the draft.
I was fortunate to be accepted into several doctoral programs, including a relatively new one at Brown. My top two choices, however, would give me immediate access to New York City’s great art museums, especially the Metropolitan, which was to celebrate its centenary with a series of extraordinary exhibitions.
So I went from Chicago to the Big Apple for a few days to examine the programs at Columbia and New York University, which were of comparable stature. In addition to a comprehensive knowledge of European art history, both programs required a reading knowledge of French and German and, preferably, a third language.
NYU’s graduate program, known as the Institute of Fine Arts, was housed in the former Duke Mansion on Fifth Avenue, a few blocks south of the Met, while Columbia offered graduate student housing on its Morningside Heights campus.
In September 1970, when I arrived with my heavy luggage at Columbia’s John Jay Hall, I noticed that its elevators only went to the 13th floor. I was assigned to the 15th, so I reluctantly asked in the dormitory’s office if there had been a mistake. I was unceremoniously told, “When you get to the 13th floor, walk up two flights!”
My attic bedroom forced me to stoop in half its space. The heavy bars on the windows, I was later told, were intended to keep out pigeons.
On my first Saturday night as a grad student, I wandered across Broadway to try to meet some Barnard students, but even with a Columbia ID, I was denied entrance to any buildings.
While seated on a bench to ponder my next steps, I watched one of my college classmates, who was beginning doctoral studies in physics, experience the same rejection.
A few days later, I began to meet some single women who were also beginning their graduate studies in art history. Whether it was the color of her hair or the way it was combed, I was attracted to Sarah. No, it must have been her smile. I was surprised to learn that she shared a tiny apartment with Esther, whom I had already met. I also soon learned that both these young ladies were Orthodox Jews, perhaps the first I had ever encountered. We could eat tuna sandwiches together, but they were often occupied, particularly during Shabbat. In fact, Esther customarily went home to another borough to celebrate with her family.
I also soon discovered that both of these attractive young ladies had boyfriends, so, in more than one respect, I was treif.
After completing my master’s degree, I went home to California and earned my doctorate at Stanford in 1975. Though Esther found a position in a research library, she took decades to finish her dissertation. During the 1970s, I visited her a few times while in Manhattan, and I’ve read some of her scholarly articles.
In 2015, during the trial in federal court in Providence regarding the disputed ownership of Touro Synagogue’s rimonim, I chatted with an expert witness who happened to be Esther’s former colleague. Regrettably, I didn’t learn much about my former classmate.
Jacob, another beginning graduate student at Columbia and a fellow Jew, had also been my friend. Though we were exact contemporaries, he was already married and a father. Jacob was not only kind enough to invite me to a dinner at his family’s home in New Jersey, but he also drove me back and forth.
After completing his doctoral course work, Jacob took a teaching job at a small college in Maine and moved his family there. Alas, he never finished his dissertation and, like the vast majority of our classmates, never found suitable work in art history.
Around 1980, Jacob and I bumped into each other in Los Angeles, my hometown and where he had recently moved. He was, in fact, the manager of the restaurant where I was dining. Yet, beyond the initial excitement, it was quite difficult for us to restore our friendship. I hoped to see him again, but our paths again diverged.
A few months ago, I was wondering what happened to Jacob, so I conducted a genealogical search through Ancestry.com. If I had the right person, he had been married two more times, had returned to the East Coast, and had died in 2018. I had so much wanted to see or at least speak to him and learn that life had eventually been good to him.
So, having searched his first wife’s family tree, I thought that I had found her. But this person turned out to be her sister, who gave me the correct email. Then I contacted Jacob’s first wife in Southern California, and she said she was willing to tell me what she knew. We made a telephone appointment, but she canceled it when she decided that the experience would be too difficult.
Then I felt a more intense urge to try to find and contact Sarah. If she had married, I didn’t even know her name. But through my determination and some good luck, I found her too on Ancestry.com. I learned that her husband was a quite distinguished professor of Judaic studies, the couple lived in greater Boston, and that one of their children was an Orthodox rabbi. When I noticed that he was also a social worker, I somehow thought that he would be amenable to my inquiry, so I emailed him.
Baruch, 43, suggested that we chat by phone, but I heard nothing more. About a month later, he emailed to say that his mother had departed this earth.
Fortunately, he and I were able to conduct a lengthy phone conversation on Feb. 14. I sadly learned that Sarah had been ill for decades. During her final years, she had lost much of her memory. Indeed, her son and other children knew almost nothing about her year at Columbia.
Of course, Baruch had never heard of me, but he didn’t know about Esther either. I was pleased to learn, however, that Sarah had saved many of her art books and her own paintings and that they now resided in his home.
Baruch also told me that, despite his mother’s medical and related emotional difficulties, he had been most grateful for her love. Over the years, she had become ever more devout, so her efforts to cope seemed equally inspiring and tragic.
Despite the fact that I had known Sarah for less than a year – and never very well – I told him, quite honestly, that I still considered her a friend. I hope that I always will.

GEORGE M. GOODWIN, of Providence, is the editor of Rhode Island Jewish Historical Notes.