My father is the child in the back row with eyes closed. Next to him, right, is Miriam, my grandmother. Poland, 1921.

My father, Rabbi Abraham Avrech, reached his 90th year two weeks ago. Born in Poland, he came to America with his mother and older brother Chaim, when he was 4-years old. My grandfather, Rabbi Shmuel Avrech was a shochet, ritual slaughterer and mohel, specialist in ritual circumcisions.

I come from countless generations of scholarly and pious Rabbis, thus my screenwriting career represents something of a rupture in a noble family tradition.

Sigh.

A member of the Greatest Generation, my father’s family was poor, but he quipped: “We didn’t know we were poor, everyone was poor.”

My father attended Yeshiva Chaim Berlin and then Yeshiva University where he was ordained as a Rabbi. He enlisted as a Chaplain in the U.S. Army, 42nd Division, and served during World War II and the Korean War.

42nd Infantry Division shoulder sleeve insignia.

“The Army is the best thing that ever happened to me,” my father said, “I was given the opportunity to experience the wider world and serve my country.”

Serving until mandatory retirement, my father was honorably discharged holding the rank of Colonel.

My mother Mina, and my father, 1943.

My mother was a radiant war bride. My parents got married in my grandfather’s living room, my grandfather performing the ceremony. Right after the wedding—I mean the very next day—my parents were gone to Texas where my father took up his duties as Army Chaplain.

Chaplain Avrech at play.

An amazing athlete, my father was one of those street urchins who, when he wasn’t studying Talmud, could be found in the streets of Brooklyn playing punchball, stickball and basketball. In the Army, my father realized that officers and enlisted men assumed that because he was a Chaplain and a Jew he would be, um, sports challenged. My father took great pleasure in winning a Division ping-pong championship. “I got lots of respect after that,” my father joked.

My father seeks warmth during the Korean War.

Growing up, my father was often absent during the High Holidays, Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. He was off, somewhere in the world, leading services for Jewish soldiers. For a while, I felt lonely, abandoned. All my friends sat with their fathers in shul, synagogue, and I was alone. At one point, near my Bar Mitzvah, my father explained that in life, duty frequently comes before personal desires. From then on, I took great pride in my father’s Chaplaincy.

My father touches home.

A fast and elegant short-stop, my father was so talented he was scouted by the majors. But because we are Orthodox—Sabbath Observant, Kosher food, etc.—my father declined an invitation to try out for a Triple-A farm team. This shot was taken in a Brooklyn park where Sunday baseball was a ritual. My father is scoring the winning run at the bottom of the 9th inning. It doesn’t get any better.

My father, airborne.

This photo is captioned: “42nd Division Helicopter Flying test run with Chaplain Avrech also of the 42nd Infantry Division. Photographer: Pvt. Joseph Deflora, 7 August ‘56.” As you can see by the coffin attached, this helicopter was designed to transport battlefield casualties.

My father, wearing tallis, prayer shawl, leads High Holiday services during the Korean War.

I once asked my father of what he was most proud during his service in the Army. He told me that he once led Protestant religious services because there was no Christian Chaplain available. “I did a real mitzvah,” he said.

All his life my father has served family, community and country with selfless devotion.

There is no greater role model.

Copyright © Robert J. Avrech