Saturday, November 9, 2013

Milton Bromberg, 1923-2013

And now, for the explanation I promised in my last post.  It is as simple as it is sad, and yet should be more inspirational than either one.  My father-in-law, Milton Bromberg, passed away on November 3 at the age of 90, after a life that all of us would have--and should have--been proud to live.  It's best told in his obituary in tomorrow's Baltimore Sun, to which my wife, Cynthia Rosenberg, and I both had the honor of contributing.



For the rest, I offer the words of my eulogy, as delivered by me last Sunday at his funeral.

I first met Milton at a party thrown by a then-coworker of mine—a coworker, in fact, who would go on to become my wife, as well as my partner in the practice of law. And Milton had a little something to do with that. After that party, Cynthia and I started dating, and I discovered that Milton had gone up to her after the party and said something to the effect of “Whatever you do, get him.” I’m glad she did, and I’m glad Milton did what he did. As it turned out, however, that was only the beginning of how Milton Bromberg transformed my life, as he had done for many others before and after that fateful party.

To know Milton, of course, was to know about his heroic service for our country in the Second World War. My generation experienced that war primarily in the form of fiction: novels, comic books, movies and TV shows. Milton, and many other brave men and women, were not so lucky. For them, the war was a brutal, painful, deadly reality, and the ones that survived often carried wounds that were and are both physical and personal. Milton was no exception; in his case, combat quite literally broke his back. But even D-Day and the Battle of the Bulge could not break his spirit, or his instincts for survival.

Milton often told me and others that the real heroes were the ones who didn’t come back. But it’s the heroes who do come back, like Milton, who help us to truly understand the price of freedom. He was fond of talking about his experiences whenever he had the chance, and particularly when he would visit the National World War II Memorial in Washington, and people spotting his bemedaled baseball cap stopped him to thank him for his service. Some of those stories actually do sound like something from Hollywood, such as his accounts of young women in newly-liberated villages shouting to him “Hey Joe! You got coffee for mama, tobacco for papa, chewing gum for bebe?” Sometimes, in the telling of this story, chocolate substituted for the appearance of coffee. But you get the idea.

Still other stories would be amazing even if they did appear in fiction. Of these, the one that stays with me the most is Milton’s description of his being captured and held overnight by a pair of retreating Nazi soldiers. Somehow, with a little aid from his childhood knowledge of German, he was able to talk his way out of being executed and was ultimately rescued by his unit, without the Stars of David on his dogtags being spotted. It is one of many reasons why I am fond of telling people that to know Milton Bromberg is to know that the Nazis never stood a chance.

But his post-war life shows that there was even more to Milton than courage under fire. As a clothing designer, he helped Haas Tailoring build a clientele that ranged from show business celebrities to cadets at West Point, finding in the latter instance a way of bridging his lives as a soldier and a civilian. And he became a family man twice over, becoming a devoted husband to two wives, and both a father and a stepfather. As Milton did when he married Gilda, I chose to become a stepfather on the same day I chose to become a husband. And I don’t mind admitting that I leaned very hard on Milton’s example when it comes to how be a stepfather. Basically, you forget the step, and focus on being a father. That’s what Milton did in his relationships with Gilda’s children, and that’s what I did my best to do with Shayna and Gabriel. Whatever success I’ve had in the process is something I’m more than happy to lay at his feet.

To live life as successfully as Milton lived it, I think that one needs good character as much as good fortune, and Milton’s character was abundant in goodness. No one outdid him when it comes to generosity. During the early years of our marriage, as well as the early years of our law practice, he helped us in countless ways. If we needed something for our home, such as a new couch, a new refrigerator, or a new kitchen floor, Milton stepped up to help without asking or bragging. When our law practice began to take off but we still could not afford to hire full-time staff, it was Milton who came in to work with Cynthia, setting up files, putting together exhibits, greeting new clients and buying Cynthia lunch. It is no exaggeration to say that there would be no Rourke & Rosenberg without Milton Bromberg, and the work he did for us in our early years.

There was more to Milton’s heart than kindness, however. Milton was a fighter, someone who learned from his childhood and again in the Army that life is a struggle, that nothing is to be taken for granted, that the gifts Hashem gives to each of us are not designed to build an easy chair for ourselves, but a fortress to protect those around us and to engage in the practice of Tikkun Olam—repairing the world. Long after he stopped working, and even after his world was reduced to the size of a hospital bed, Milton was a fighter. I have no doubt that he left this world only when he was ready to leave it, and when Hashem told him that he could finally rest. Even at rest, however, Milton will live on for all who knew him, as an example of how to live a long and successful life—by giving more than you take, and giving up only when you’re ready.

Rest in peace, Milton. Thank you for your service to your county, your embrace of your families from both marriages, and a life well lived that all of us should be proud to emulate. I couldn't have be a luckier son-in-law if I had tried, and I never had the desire to try. My solace is that you are at peace and without pain, and seeing many people you have missed for years--including the ones you considered the real heroes, the ones who didn't come home from Europe and the Pacific. I understand what you meant by that, but you'll always be a real hero to me.

At ease, PFC Bromberg. We will always miss you. And we will always love you.

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