Yesterday I learned that Fred Nicholas passed away on June 28, 2025, at the extraordinary age of 105. It’s difficult to describe a life that long and that full without sounding like I’m overstating it – but in Fred’s case, words almost fall short. His legacy stretches across continents, generations, and disciplines. He wasn’t just a witness to the 20th century – he helped shape it.

Fred and my father, Ernest Raboff, met while studying journalism at USC. They were young, ambitious, and curious – drawn to each other through an interest in storytelling beyond the university’s walls.

Then came World War II.

My father became a reporter for the U.S. Army newspaper Stars and Stripes, covering the war in France and Italy. Fred served as a U.S. Army officer and was deployed to North Africa, Sicily, Italy, Southern France, and later the Philippines.

Fred rose to the rank of Captain and was awarded the Bronze Star and the Purple Heart. Though their paths during the war were separate, my father and Fred shared its weight, and that bond never really faded. They reconnected in the 1950s and remained close friends until my father passed away in the fall of 1986.

What many people may not know is that my father also advised Fred on his early art investments. They talked often about emerging artists, new movements, and the transforming creative scene in post-war Los Angeles.

These conversations helped shape Fred’s lifelong commitment to the arts. He would go on to become one of the key figures behind the Museum of Contemporary Art (MOCA) in Los Angeles and chaired the committee that selected Frank Gehry to design the Walt Disney Concert Hall. His quiet influence helped define the cultural identity of the city – without fanfare, without ego.

Fred was also the founding board chair of Public Counsel, now the largest pro bono law firm in the United States. It’s emblematic of who he was: someone who combined vision with action, power with principle, and who made room for others to rise.

Whenever I visited Los Angeles, Fred would insist we meet for lunch or dinner – sometimes at his country club, sometimes at that small Brazilian place on Washington Boulevard in Culver City that he loved.

Charlotte and Elle joined on several occasions, and every time we left feeling seen, appreciated, and lifted. Fred had a way of making you feel not just welcome, but worthy. He gave encouragement without pretense, and warmth without conditions.

I feel so fortunate to have known Fred – not just as a friend of my father’s, but as a man who lived with clarity, kindness, and conviction. His presence in our lives, however occasional, left an impression. A steady voice. A generous spirit. A brilliant mind rooted in humility. And now he’s gone, and the world feels a little quieter without him. I took the above photo of Fred when he and I had lunch in 2022. He was 102 years old, sharp as a knife and as witty as ever.

Rest well, Fred. And thank you for being a friend of the family.