Remembering Libbie Richman

“God loves a broken heart,” said Nachman of Bratislava, a spiritual genius of our people. God must love our hearts. In the face of grief, we must first acknowledge the commitment and character of those who took on the responsibility and caregiving that goes with love. Marc and Lisa, Steve and Julie you and your families have been the stalwart foundation that allowed Libbie to face the end of life with dignity. Your children and Libbie’s close friends, and caregivers, who are here, are manifesting the act of ultimate kindness that a funeral is. You are caring for one who you loved in this sad moment…this is an act of kindness that can not be repaid. We who knew and loved Libbie are honored to be with you and to wish for your comfort.

My big sister was born without a country. She was a child of hope and resilience, born as a refugee in the Landsberg, Germany displaced persons camp in 1946. She was a child of love and resilience as our parents were determined to make a new life after suffering enormous losses.

There were three Libbys who were cousins in our family of origin. All were named after our maternal grandmother, Liba Najman who was murdered during the Holocaust. Libbie’s middle name, Ita, was the name of our paternal grandmother, Ita Horowitz Fuks, who died in Auschwitz. My sister’s complex name was an act of determination and honor. In addition to the joy of creating a new life, our mother Rachel also shared with us that she often wore an overcoat when she was with child. She was a bit embarrassed that people would know how she got pregnant.

My parents and Libbie were allowed to come to the USA in 1949. They were greeted by a social worker from the Hebrew International Age Society. “Welcome to America. You’re going to Detroit.” With the help of the local Jewish Federation they found an apartment in the city and our father, Henry got his first American job as a general sweeper at a Ford manufacturing plant. “What a wonderful country,” our father said, “I can’t speak English and I’m already a general.”

Libbie was my older sister. Together, we lost our younger sister, Myra, more than six years ago. Libbie and Myra used to joke that I was an only child except for them. This is now an irony that I can’t celebrate. What an honor it was to be surrounded by these powerful and passionate women.

I must admit that my relationship with Libbie had its challenges. “When can we take him back?” Libbie asked our mother, Rachel, shortly after my birth. Much to Libbie’s disappointment, they kept me.

When I was three, Libbie and I were sitting on the sand at Kensington Beach. She was making a mud pie. When she was done with her creation, Libbie filled a tablespoon with her earthy pie filling and shoved it into my mouth. I started crying and our mother stepped forward to admonish me for trying to eat dirt. “I told him not to,” Libbie said. Thus began a creative era of sibling competition.

I’ll mention only a few of my infractions:

When I was ten, Libbie tried to convince me that I was adopted. “They picked me because they wanted me,” I said.

When I was eleven, I brought home a stray kitten. Libbie jumped up onto a chair in the kitchen and screamed in mock terror. “Take it away,” my mother said. I was allowed to purchase a parakeet.

This was during the era of the Bouffant hair style. Libbie would wrap her hair up in order to comb it into a high bubble with a ribbon over her bangs. It gave me great pleasure to let the parakeet loose in her bedroom when her hair was high, just prior to the comb out. What a joy it was watching her scream running in terrified circles as that poor little bird flew about the room.

Libbie was a beautiful girl. So, also were her girlfriends. I was delighted by the pajama parties Libbie organized and I was often pleased to entertain the girls with jokes and songs. “Go to bed right now!” Libbie would scream. I was happy to ignore her. Once, in desperation, she pulled a knife out of the drawer and held it against herself and screamed, “If you don’t go to bed, I’ll kill myself!”  “That’s a dairy knife,” I said as she chased me into my room.

Ross was an ideal match for Libbie. Our father saw that their affection was serious, and he invited Ross into our family. Our mother tested Libbie. “What do you know about love?” Rachel said. Libbie met my mother’s query with her passion. “I would give my life and my limbs for this man,” Libbie cried. I was in the next room listening quietly. Libbie won her argument. They waited until Ross turned twenty-one and Libbie was eighteen. They began a life together that we all celebrated.

It was a remarkable match:

Libbie was passionate and Ross was steady.

Libbie was demanding and Ross was compliant.

Libbie was creative and Ross was supportive.

Libbie wrote a rather lurid novel about her passion for Barry Manilow and  Ross typed it for her and acted as her agent.

Sadly, their addictions to smoking shortened their time together. Happily, we can remember their remarkable love.

The family they created, the friendships they maintained, their ongoing love will be what I remember most.

Libbie’s memory will be a blessing.