Germany

So now I have come to Germany to spend a week with my Germany relatives here. My Grandfather's cousin lives in Elmshorn with his family, and just about every time I come to Europe, I go to stay with them. And they very often go to America themselves, so we see each other frequently.

And every time I come, they get out their family tree, and loads of old pictures and paraphernalia. They know a lot about family history.

But this time is different. This time, Germany is a challenge.

First, on my second day, my German Aunt, who I am staying with, takes me on a trip to see a new emigration museum that they have in Hamburg at BallinStadt. It was the place where hundreds of thousands of emigrants from all over Germany and Eastern Europe came through before going to America, because it was the location of the HAPAG-Lloyd line, when they were still in the business of shipping people overseas instead of just cargo.

And one of the first things I saw was, under a plexiglass plate in the entryway floor, they had a 3D model and drawn-out plan of the old BallinStadt. It showed the museum buildings, now extant, amidst a plan of forty or so other buildings, containing everything from the bathhouses and disinfection places to churches and synagogues. I noticed how distinctly they separated Jews from Christians in the eating quarters, and living quarters as well. And I wondered if that was for the benefit of the Jews or the Christians. It seemed probably the latter, but that I thought it could have had a side benefit of making Kosher eating more possible.

There were stories of Jewish emigrants throughout the exhibit, and they showed numerous newspaper clippings about the kinds of problems Jews faced in that day, before, during, and after the War. But clearly this was not a Jewish-focused museum. Not that it took a particular side. It just did not seem to be all that concerned with the Jewish plight. It was more of a curiosity than anything else. But of course, we all know it was much more. And it was what was left unsaid that of course was murmuring underneath. But they can't say those things. They are German.

And the other problem with Germany is pork. It seems pork is everywhere, in almost every dish that involves meat. Even if they make a beef dish, it's like they throw in some pork, just for flavor, or taste, or something. And so I find myself eating vegetarian mostly, but sometimes I end up eating something with pork in it, only so that I don't have to refuse hospitality. It's difficult when my German grandmother has made the food herself and served it to me, and it's what they are eating for lunch, and she doesn't even speak much English. I smile and say "Danke Shoen."

I am not to the point yet where I feel I need to eat all kosher all the time, or I will make myself feel guilty because I ate something. But I am kind of trying it out, seeing how it feels, and being here makes me very aware of the presence of pork and also that fact that I don't feel much like I want to eat it. It seems strange. For a country with so many cows, why do they eat only pigs? But I do try to avoid it. When my German uncle offered to go buy me a pork steak, I said, no, thank you, I prefer beef. Instead of Italian cured ham on my bread in the morning, I choose only cheese. I will be glad to get back to Paris, and back to the States, where I won't have to be faced with pork in my soup on a regular basis.

B"H

The Lovely American

Last Friday, I was invited to a party in Aix-en-Provence, where I am staying until Sunday. The host of the party thought it would interest me to be introduced to the only other American there. I had heard the woman talking to some other people before, and was quite aware of her nationality. You're from America, too? She exclaimed excitedly. Where are you from? I gave her the story in a nutshell. Not even. Really just the basic details. I didn't much feel like getting into it. It wasn't that I didn't care. It's just that when I travel, I don't usually go out of my way to seek out other Americans. It doesn't really excite me.

She told me she was from LA. How long have you lived France? Oh, half my life, she told me, and rolled her eyes, as if it were at once the most special and also the most boring thing in the world. What did she do? Oh, I'm an artist, she said, again in that blasée, self-important tone of voice. (This I knew from before, in fact, due to her loud American accent). She's the kind of artist that makes my skin crawl, because she has that self-righteous attitude about it. Knowing people like her kind of made me want to stop doing art when I was in college. And usually it's coming from the people who are over-priveleged, and never really appreciate the difficulty of making a living as an artist. She can grow up in some suburb or other - Hollywood, in her case. And she can just paint or do whatever she wants, and it doesn't matter how bad or good the art is. She can move to France, and then she can complain about it and go to lame parties where she can feel special. No, I should really give her the benefit of the doubt. She had probably had some problem in her life that she was dealing with and that's why she wanted friends so badly. Seems to me that's always the way. But I still didn't really like talking to her.

But when she said she's been to Israel, I became interested. I thought maybe we had some common ground. Oh, are you Jewish? How did you know? she asked. Well, aside from the dark hair, etc., she had mentioned Israel, in that kind of honorific way that Jewish people often do. She respected it (unlike France), which I took to mean it was important to her. I just put two and two together. she asked if I was Jewish, too.

I considered whether or not to tell her I was converting. I still don't really like the term. I prefer "Jewish by choice." But I didn't getting around to discussing it with her. I told her I was "in the process." That didn't sound quite right to me either, but I went with it. "I feel so bad for people who convert," She said, "For their boyfriends or husbands, or whoever." I couldn't believe she was saying this to me. "I mean, I'm Jewish," She said. "It's in my Blood." That's when I stopped talking to her. It is very rare for me that I will actually leave a conversation, but in this case, evasion seemed my best tactice. What she had said was so patently offensive, I could not even dignify a response. I suppose I could have said something like, "I'm not converting," or said I was Jewish by practice, but I don't think any of those things would have mattered to her. What I said was, "Never mind," and turned away to do what I had come to that side of the room to do: sign the bag of some guy who was about to embark on a three-year world tour. "I'm sorry I offended you," She said. I didn't say anything again to her for the rest of the night. I smiled at her once and that was it.

Because she did offend me. For years of my life I've told myself that I couldn't "convert" because I'm not "Jewish" - because it's not "in my blood," and I wasn't raised that way. And I was miserable. But now I have learned that I can choose Judaism. It is something you do, and it's available to me, and to anyone who truly wants it, and not just something you are born into. Doing is what makes it part of who you are. To me, it's like people who are born Jewish have a free ticket to synagogue or Bar Mitzvah or whatever you want. You never have to work for it. And those people can complain about their heritage and whine about persecution, never appreciating what they have. I wondered if she had even read the book of Ruth.

I feel the way I think a legal immigrant feels about illegal migrant workers. I have to work to get my visa, pay lots of money, study, pay, and study some more. Finally, I will take a test and get my green card. I will do everything to the nth degree, but I will always be somewhat of an outsider. Those people - the illegal aliens - just walk in and take everything for free. I'm not saying that all Jewish people are like illegal immigrants, because they're not, but when they don't appreciate what they have, then they are, and it's disrespectful to me.

When you are born Jewish, it's like you are given a free pass. A magic gift. You can come and go as you please. Choose to practice or not. You will always "be" Jewish. How great, and what a blessing to be born Jewish. But maybe - and this is what I think the book of Ruth might really be about, at least in part - you need someone to choose it from the outside to make you realize that you have a special thing. I know I did that for at least one person I've met. Yes, you are Jewish and you have something desirable. You can be proud of it. But you can also be welcoming. I don't think a haughty attitude will do very much to impress people. I just realized that that woman did not speak the truth for me. And the best I could do was let her think about her words. I know the truth for myself already. I've done my research, and I've made my choice. And even though I will always be slightly jealous, I think, of people who have had the opportunity to be raised Jewish, and live in that kind of house hold, I will be even more thankful that I've been given the freedom and the ability to choose it for myself. And that's something I could never do if I was born Jewish.

French Sabbath

Last night I had my first French synagogue experience and my first Orthodox synagogue experience all at the same time. C'était trés interesante.

First, I should mention that I spent several hours - or at least one hour - earlier in the day traipsing around an approxiately one-block area, looking for the synagogue, who's address was either 5 rue de Jérusalem or 3 rue de Jérusalem. With no luck. I kept trying different streets that looked like they would take me to the right place. Every time, I would either find myself obviously too far away, or else completely blocked from where I wanted to go. Finally, when I was able to check a more detailed map, I found it seemed to be in the one tiny alley I had not gone down at all. But I was generally in the right place.

So I went back that evening, and luckily was able to walk there from the place that I was staying. I went down the tiny alley, which was indeed marked (in a very hard-to-see place) Rue de Jérusalem. It was very short, and as far as I could see, there was no synagogue. There wasn't even an apartment entrance or a store or anything. There were some beat-looking cars parked, some dumpsters, and a depressing-looking building with lots of garage doors. This was not the "good" part of town." I thought, is this one of those groups that meets in someone's basement? How did they get marked on the map? Where is the synagogue?

So I went down to the end of the alley, which had a one-way street coming from the main road, up and to the left. It wasn't there. Then I turned to the right. There, clearly not physically on the "Rue de Jérusalem" at all, but down a brick-paved pedestrial walkway, was a likely synagogue-looking building, which was fairly non-descript, but nice, and even more indicated by the old man wearing a yarmule and standing outside the door. I was right on time, and I could hear the chanting already inside.

The old man smiled at me as I approached. He seemed perplexed that I would ascend the stairs. Est-ce-que je peut entrer? Vous êtes Juive? Oui. Then he got really excited and looked very happy. He asked where I was from and told him I was an American. He enlisted the help of a man and his bar mitzvah-age son, who were just arriving, to tell me where I was to go in the synagogue - the "Premiere étage." This is an Orthodox synagogue, he told me in French. Men are on the first floor, and women are on the second floor - the balcony. Okay, well, I wasn't going to let that turn me away. They were warm and welcoming. There was no sense of being left out. Except there really weren't a lot of women there. There wasn't a whole lot of anybody, but it was definitely mostly male, all chanting in Hebrew on the first floor.

There were two great electrical candelabras up front, and in the center of the floor, was an enclosed space with two chairs, and an immense Torah book in red, covered with plastic. A young-ish man in a black suit and black yarmulke approached the enclosure and began to lead the chanting. I thought he might give a drasha in french, but he did not. And as he chanted, he would periodically look at us up in the balcony. I wasn't quite sure what I was supposed to be doing, so I just tried to stand up and sit down at the appropriate times. There was a printed page in French, but other than that, everything was in Hebrew. So I decided to practice my letter-reading a bit. The young boy who came in with his father was there on the floor. Or perhaps he had already had his bar mitzvah. He looked relatively old.

It's odd. There is a certain kind of maturity that I see in younger Jewish males [I say "males" because I'm referring to that entire age group of all people, at a point where neither "man" nor "boy" would really be descriptive.] Maybe it is true for females as well, but I feel that teenage boys, generally, are pretty immature. Let's just take that for granted, with a few exceptions - at least in America. The girls tend to be mature a little bit earlier. Again, a generality. But when I reached the airport in New York City, there was a young Jewish male sleeping sitting on a bench near our luggage claim. He could not have been more than 16. Probably 14. He had on a yarmulke and a nice suit. His bags were there next to him. There was no one with him. And he just slept. Looking at his face, he seemed to exude a knowledgable peace. He trusted himself and the world enough to sleep in this place, and indeed he seemed to have the trust of many others behind him. His whole life seemed to make sense for him. He was not worried about the future. He was not worried about the past. His age seemed irrelevant. He had the sense of being fully a man, even though he was very young. And it's something I have seen before - a certain sense of the world - but which was very pronounced in this young man I saw.

The young man at the synagogue did not seem quite so old in his bearing. But he, too, like all Jewish men I know, had that certain spark of dignity. It manifests differently in women, but it's there, too. One woman on the balcony had her hair covered. I realized that I probably should as well. But the two other young girls didn't. I guess perhaps it is okay, if you are not married. In fact, I am pretty sure the poster outside the door said something to that effect.

What I thought was most intriguing was hearing Hebrew in a French accent. I wonder what it sounds like to someone who really knows Hebrew. And the man recited long passages entirely from memory. I am sure he has been doing it his whole life. It is probably, like for me, going to church and automatically knowing all the prayers, only what he knew was so much more vast.

The service was short. It was over in less than an hour. So I walked around a little bit, sat and thought for a while in the pedestrian area nearby, and then called my friend so that I could join him for his party in another part of town, in Aix.

But even though I experienced services entirely in two languages I don't really even know, I nevertheless felt fulfilled. I felt I could at least imagine what was supposed to take place, and I took comfort in hearing the words, and seeing the devotion of the other men and women in the place. It was uplifting, even though the direct meaning of the words was unavailable to me. And that made me think more about the power of words: that these words can have power and meaning, even if I don't know what those meanings are.

Les Juifs France

So I was waiting at the airport in New York City with 40 kids that I was to see safely across the Atlantic Ocean. We were at JFK. And there were of course a fair amount of yarmulkes visible, it being New York, it's only to be expected. And there was this group of hasidic-looking young men who seemed to be waiting for my flight. They seemed like a very congenial group. Maybe five or six of them. I found myself watching with interest, hoping they would be on my flight, in fact.

Funny how things work out. The airline had somehow placed my seat about 20 rows back from the rest of the kids. So I arranged to move, from row 44 to row 26, where I was sitting next to a dark-skinned boy, one of the group. At that point, I still thought he was a New Yorker. And he was sleeping, so there was not much conversation. At one point, he even rested his head on my shoulder. I'm not sure if he ever became aware. But I didn't move him.

Anyway, it turns out he was not from New York at all. He was from Paris, and he and his friends had just finished a semester of special (I assumed he meant probably Jewish-oriented) business school in New York. So they were all French. And at one point, several of them came over to talk to my seat mate. So there I was, surrounded by yarmulkes and tassels, all talking French. I smiled to myself, but didn't say a thing. It was like G-d was guarding and guiding my journey, and they had no idea. They were just there. I was in awe.