Dear Harry,
Ever the actor! I remember how you used to ham it up, on every possible occasion. You loved to be center stage, the object of everyone’s attention, everyone’s applause.
I sometimes think you became a priest because it gave you a stage to act on and an audience to give you the feedback that you craved. To give your voice the opportunity, every Sunday, to play with the sound of words and give them sonorous expression. To explore every subtlety of body language as you conveyed the depth of your emotional experience to your fellow human beings.
This morning I happened on the precise term for what you loved to be: the master of ceremonies. In church, yes. But also at home, where we always had a full house during the war: friends, family, billetees, the Bletchley girls… Over dinner, at social events in the drawing room, at garden parties outdoors… You loved to act the master of ceremonies.
In this, by the way, you were much like Ellie’s father, with whom you shared the honors at that seder dinner in Los Angeles when you visited, many years ago.
You got on well, the two of you, Anglican minister, Jewish paterfamilias, over that “Last Supper.” Sharing the stage…
Affectionately, Peter
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