svg]:overflow-visible">Listen to article • 0:00 minFifty years ago this Aug. 11, my brother Harold Rosenthal was late for a plane out of Istanbul bound for Jerusalem. He was always late — school, appointments, parties, or late finishing dinner at Horn & Hardart’s, the only restaurant working-class families patronized in Philly then. While my younger brother Norman and I agonized on the sidewalk, Harold would take bites of food in between whatever book he was reading, a passion cultivated when he was a student at Central High in the early 1960s.On this August day his tardiness put him near the back of…