H eadlines
mother’s relatives, the Trupps.

Initial searches in JewishGen’s
databases turned up results for
Jews in Phoenix and Houston,
which didn’t make any sense for
that Baltimore-based branch of
my family.

After a few hours of
frustrated searching, I decided
to change my approach. Spivak
had recommended checking
local historical societies for
more specific information, so I
looked up the Jewish Museum
of Maryland and typed
“Trupp” into the search bar.

findings could take me back
across the Atlantic Ocean. This
time, I requested exact matches
for the full name Nathan Trupp
in Maryland only.

His name popped up in their
database “Family Tree of the
Jewish People” alongside his
wife, Rebecca Ida Saron. Birth
records showed he was born in
Karsava, Latvia, in 1876.

The tree stretched back
even farther. Someone had
uploaded information about
Nathan Trupp’s father, Phillip
Trupp, who was born in 1837
Armed with well-documented names, I returned
to JewishGen to see if my findings could take
me back across the Atlantic Ocean.

The first result was an
artifact, a small ribbon meant
to be pinned to a suit lapel.

“Gray ribbon belonging to
Nathan Trupp, president of the
Maryland Grocer’s Association.

Ribbon is imprinted in
black, Delegate. Likely from
Independent Retail Grocers of
Baltimore,” the caption read.

The museum noted that
Nathan Trupp had seven
sons. My grandfather, Michael
Trupp, had six uncles. After
checking their names with my
mother, I realized I had found
my great-great-grandfather.

The museum revealed that
Nathan Trupp and his sons
were deeply involved in their
community. The elder Trupp’s
biography mentioned that he
was president of Ohel Yakov
Congregation. A 1949 letter
from the Jewish Welfare
Fund of Baltimore showed
that Irvin Trupp, his son and
my great-grandfather, was a
chairman for the organization.

A collection of old photographs
showed Maryland Gov. Albert
Ritchie attending the wedding
of my grandfather’s favorite
uncle, Bernard Trupp.

A r me d
w it h
we l l-
documented names, I returned
to JewishGen to see if my
JEWISHEXPONENT.COM in Rezekne, Latvia, and died in
Baltimore in 1922. At the root
of the tree was Nochem Halevi
Trup, born in 1800.

The rest of the tree sprawled
in various directions, but all the
Latvian-born Trups, Trupps
and Troops seemed headed for
the mid-Atlantic United States,
where they married and died
as far south as Washington,
D.C., and as far north as
Altoona. Trupp daughters who
took their husbands’ names
indicated I could be related
to Rosenbergs, Skolskys and
Foxes in the region.

I learned all this in a single
afternoon, and there’s still
plenty of research to be done.

I could contact the anony-
mous JewishGen researcher
who uploaded my family tree
to see if we’re related, or check
Holocaust records for names of
relatives who perished.

For now, I’m content to call
my grandfather, who I haven’t
seen in months due to the
pandemic, and tell him that I
found his great-great-grandfa-
ther Nochim, who lived and
started a family more than 200
years ago. l
spanzer@jewishexponent.com; 215-832-0729
Chance Meeting Fosters
Friendship, Charity
LO C AL
JESSE BERNSTEIN | JE STAFF
A CHANCE MEETING
between a Black Philadelphia
police officer and a white
congregant at Old York Road
Temple-Beth Am resulted
in some weighty conversa-
tions, new relationships and
the donation of thousands of
items of winter clothing to
Philadelphia’s homeless.

Officer Robin Robinson
of the Philadelphia Police
Department and
Fred Goldstein, co-vice president
of his shul’s social action
committee, aren’t exactly sure
why it happened.

“For whatever reason, I
met Fred, and did the panel
... God’s going to use it as my
resume,” Robinson said. “To go
where, I have no idea. But I do
feel as though it’s just not going
to be in vain.”
The story begins in October,
when Goldstein, 72, a teacher
from Northeast Philadelphia,
was walking around Center
City. He believes he’s open
minded and has tried to
enact those values with the
committee; with co-vice
president Sandie Buller, the
committee has donated more
than 4,000 pounds of canned
goods to a local food pantry
during the pandemic.

On that afternoon, walking
around Chestnut Street with
his wife, Julie, Goldstein was
forced to confront his biases
head-on. A large group of Black
teenagers ran in their direction.

Goldstein didn’t know what to
make of it. He’d heard that
teens had been assaulting older
people and became fearful. He
was prepared to strike at one
of them.

It didn’t come to that, as the
teens ran past the Goldsteins. It
turned out they were fleeing a
JEWISH EXPONENT
convenience store where they’d
shoplifted some candy. Though
perfectly safe, Goldstein felt
unsettled, and decided that he
needed to talk to someone. The
following morning, he came
upon Robinson.

Robin Robinson, 53, was
born in Mt. Airy and raised
in New Jersey. A police officer
for 15 years, Robinson prides
herself on her kindness and
level-headedness; she describes
herself as a peacemaker.

“I came on a job as a
Christian, and I plan on leaving
that way,” she said.

The summer had been
difficult for Robinson. As the
killing of George Floyd sparked
protests across the country,
Robinson’s days became filled
with more invective than
usual, and more trash thrown
at her and her colleagues than
ever before.

Robinson was sitting in
her car in Center City when
Goldstein got her attention. As
he told her the story of his
encounter with the Black teens,
she interrupted him.

First of all, she said, the best
thing Goldstein had done was
nothing — trying to confront
one of the teens was about the
worst option. As Goldstein
started to respond, Robinson
asked Goldstein if he would have
felt the same fear if the group
had been white teens. Goldstein
thought about it, and said no.

“It dawned on me that this
was a piece of my own reality,
See Charity, Page 10
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JANUARY 7, 2021
9