Moreinu Yaakov Rosenheim 
5631/1870-5726/1965
I see my father seated with his Gemara in our book-lined study where he spent almost every waking moment he could spare from his other duties of the day. This was his sanctuary, and of a quiet evening - with the younger children asleep - my mother would join him with her sewing. Occasionally she would look up and smile and exchange a word with him.
This was the family harmony that permeated our home, as I remember it. Father was the dominating, quiet focus of our life, with our mother the ever-present smiling buffer between the lively activities and noise of nine children with their problems and varying activities. Our father's deep yiras shamayim and love of Torah were the guideposts of much of our development.
He was ever available to us. The three meals each day were family gatherings where we aired views and exchanged news, with our father listening, smiling and advising. Ours was a lively family - no limits were put on our conversation until a hint of lashon hara would reach his ears. With a word or a look he was able to put an end to any expressions which bordered on lashan hara or r'chilus. And so we were early taught by example the trait of guarding one's speech.
Seated at the head of the table, we anticipated his needs, for in all his life, father never requested anything at his own table. Unless it was provided, he would go without food; he often said to us: "Never ask for anything, unless it be given to you voluntarily."
Shabbos and Yom Tov were focal points of our lives. How I longingly recall the Friday evenings when our father - in our beautiful large dining room - presided over the long table with gleaming silverware, the children ranged by age along the table. His high melodious voice rang out at Shalom Aleichem when we stood, with our mother at his side, each child grasping one finger of his hand, as a tree with the branches springing from its roots. Each blessing with his hand resting on one's head was given with such warmth and feeling that his words permeated our whole being and created in us - even at a very young age - the Shabbos spirit which we in turn have tried to impart to our children. No Shabbos meal was complete in our home without two or three guests. They came from far and wide whether it was a yeshiva bachur, or a famous rav from the East. A procession of fascinating travelers, scholars, writers and rabbis graced the Rosenheim table each Shabbos.
I recall our excitement and interest when an outstanding rebbe would be our Shabbos guest. His shtreimel or talis or coat would be in our keeping until after Shabbos, so once or twice we could not resist snipping off a small piece or thread of a garment as a memento of an unforgettable visit. From East or West - every guest in our home was a king in his right - the Shabbos at the Rosenheim's was an experience not easily forgotten.
In his earlier years and in my earlier recollection, father often traveled away from home in connection with his work for Klal Yisrael. He would always return home in time for Shabbos. In our possession today is - as we called it - "father's sefarim suitcase." It is a small object and battered, proof of frequent use. On one occasion, at least, this suitcase had to be left at home, much to our father's chagrin. Prior to a trip to Poland, he was informed of a border restriction which did not permit foreign language books into Poland. Our father recalled with a smile and relish how his essential two or three sefarim - without which he would not travel - were smuggled into that country. A kind lady, sharing his train compartment, spirited them across the border - at his request - in her personal hatbox.
Forever mindful of his family and the importance and impact of a Yom Tov celebration, our father introduced and continued a minhag for each of the Shalosh Regalim. Each family member - the servants included - received a personally selected sefer, appropriate to his age and interest. All his children own many books of lasting value, each with his loving personal inscription, ranging from children's stories by M. Lehmann to newly published rare sefarim. His satisfaction and contentment at our expressions of joy are part of our warmest memory.
It is well known that the gedolei Yisrael honored our father with the unusual title of Moreinu. It is, however, not known that no one in his home was ever permitted to discuss or even mention this honor. Some time after this memorable Knessia Gedolah we found the folded parchment document hidden carefully in the far back recesses of one of his bookcases.
My mother, always his companion and confidante, often was torn between her great pride in him and the humility he wanted everyone to show concerning any honors or tributes he was awarded. On the many occasions of an address, lecture or shiur to large audiences, we, his family, were always seated in the rear row of the hall or room. This was an unspoken rule in our family - never requested by our father, but showing him our understanding of his and therefore, our concept of living, forever shunning pride or ostentatious behavior.
Our father was known as an outstanding orator. His speeches were masterworks of organized thought which held his audiences spell-bound for as long as an hour or even two. And yet, after such an address, we would find a small white 2"x2" card in his pocket with perhaps four or five points arranged by number, penciled in his beautiful Germanic script. We left Germany in 1935 after two years of living under the Hitler regime. Nothing has ever been told of the actual circumstances of our flight or of our father's difficulties prior to his departure.
Father was greatly respected by the city government and police authorities of our native city Frankfurt-on-Main. As publisher of a German-language weekly newspaper he had frequent and cordial contacts with the authorities. At one point, early in the Hitler regime, he published an editorial expressing his dissatisfaction with an order to all Jews (as well as all citizens) to fly the German flag in celebration of some Nazi anniversary. This resulted in a peremptory summons on Shabbos morning to police headquarters - a walk of three quarters of an hour. I accompanied father on this walk on an icy cold winter Shabbos. We had spared my mother any knowledge of this, and set out on what may well have been the road to a prison or concentration camp. I will never forget our conversation, warm and yet casual on my personal problems, on my school studies as well as the Parshah of the week. He was calm as always, exuding faith as always. As we were about to enter the imposing Police building, he turned to me: "Wait for me here, if I have not returned within thirty minutes, you will know where I am. Return home and be of good cheer." The Almighty was with us and we returned home together after he was issued a "warning" to "temper" his editorials.
Our actual departure from Germany was caused by a set of circumstances, known to few people. We had returned on a Friday morning from a trip to Holland. We were told of the shocking morning edition of the Voelkischer Beobachter, the leading Nazi-newspaper, which had splashed across the front page our father's name and that of two other Agudah leaders (one already out of the country, another passed on). They were accused of being traitors to the Third Reich and of having plotted behind the scenes against the Nazi regime. It was almost Shabbos. Uncertain of the consequences, our father left his home again for a small town nearby to avoid possible arrest and yet not to desecrate the Shabbos. After Shabbos he continued his journey to Berlin where he learned the origin of the newspaper attack.
In early 1933, our father - with other Agudath Israel leaders - had an audience with the Pope in the Vatican to discuss a possible Nazi victory and to try to forestall utter disaster. One of the printed reports of this meeting issued to top Agudah leaders was lost in a hotel room in Berlin and found by a member of the Nazi party. Two years later the report was sold to the highest bidder - the infamous Voelkischer Beobachter. Father returned home and quietly continued his work untouched by the fear of those around him, his deep faith unshaken as ever. He had friends amongst notorious Nazis and the local government. Guided by their old past friendship and their deepseated respect, the "powers to be" issued their "last warning" and thus Moreinu Rosenheim was put on the infamous Nazi "blacklist." Two months later, we were on our way to England and thus, the new Agudah World Headquarters were established in London.