Instead Of Berlin? See Under Zoo Aretz Zoo

My father left Berlin for Palestine in 1934, he was only 21 year old and was able to obtain a certificate since the firm  he worked for relocated  to Israel. The rest of his family was not so lucky, his parents and one brother were killed by the Nazis, and another brother survived the war but remained permanently scarred.

Then in 2000, my daughter decided to study music in Berlin. It was right after she had attended a music festival  in  Weimar, Germany. It was part of  the newly founded East West Divan by Daniel Barenboim and Edward Said.

I got the first reminder that, sixty years later, Berlin was still not just any other city even before she even moved there.  My daughter  showed my father the location of her future student housing. Looking at the address, my father realized that it was the same address as his old school. Indeed once she moved into the dorm, she sent a photo of the memorial statue indicating that this was the site where the Jewish School, Adas Israel ,used to be.

In the five years that my daughter stayed there I visited Berlin several times. In 2000 the city had not yet become a desired destination for Israelis. It was still a relatively sleepy town, at least on its east side where it was dark and empty at night and no one spoke English. Even the city’s landmark --: Potsdamer Platz, had not been completed yet, and the government offices took their time moving into the new  capital.

Around the same time my father moved into a sheltered living. As we were packing  his belongings we found a pile of old letters from his family  back in Berlin. The letters dated from 1934, when my father left,  till 1939, when the family was forced out of Berlin. We knew about the letters  but my father never talked about them and I don’t remember   him looking at the letters. .

We decided to loan the letters to the Jewish Museum in Berlin, there is not that much material about domestic Jewish life in Berlin at that that time and the museum was excited to have them. The letters were transcribed (since my grandmother wrote in Gothic letters), typed out, and then translated into English (since I don't know German).

Nothing dramatic was described in the letters, but  they expressed  fear and despair. My grandparents hoped that my father, their oldest, son would be able to help. They urged him to write more and reproached him for not doing so. One brother thanked him for the books which he had sent from Palestine, and the other brother was grateful for the new suit that he had gotten from him. They all appreciated my father for all that he had sent and apologized for always needing more, they were proud people..

I read the letters only once, I couldn't look at them again. It wasn't that I had forgotten earlier about my family or about the Holocaust, but I thought that I was able to disconnect the old from the new. Yet after reading the letters Berlin was never the same for me.

Berlin is a great city, and right now it is also a metaphor for better opportunities and better life for young Israelis who are disillusioned with the situation here. Back in 1975, in similar circumstances, the great satirists of the time ( B. Michael, Hanoch Marmari,  Kobi Niv, Ephraim Sidon, and  Dudu Geva among others) produced a brilliant, and funny, book of social commentary: Zoo Aretz Zoo. One of their remedies was  that we'd all move to  New Zealand.  Perhaps we could use that as a metaphor instead of Berlin?

 The essay appeared in The Times Of Israel

http://blogs.timesofisrael.com/instead-of-berlin-see-under-zoo-aretz-zoo/

A Good Memory Is Often A Curse

Recently in a meeting of my women’s group we discussed the question: who do we choose not to forgive, and why?  Somehow it feels like an appropriate topic for a post as today is the Holocaust Memorial Day in Israel.

The radio and television broadcast only Holocaust related stories of war, death and courage and soon at the sound of the siren we will stop everything and stand up for 2 minutes respecting those who perished.

During our discussion one of the women tried to bring up the Holocaust as an example. However, at that moment we all subscribed to the view of the historian Saul Friedlander, who regards the Holocaust as a momentous event outside history, and flatly refused to talk about it. We limited the scope to our ability to forgive those who have wronged us in a (relatively) small way. Ruining the evening with the Holocaust was out of the question.

Not surprisingly I noticed that it was harder for me to forgive those who have wronged members of my immediate family. It was especially true at times when they were vulnerable: a mother who yelled at my young daughter, a cousin who was rude to my aging father. And of course, the period when my husband Tzvi was terminally ill. I still remember a close friend who failed to come and see him even though he had been told about the severity of Tzvi's condition.

I used to believe that I was the kind of person who was quick to forgive, but sadly it is not always the case. In the first year after Tzvi died I too felt vulnerable, and to this day I remember, and find it difficult to forgive, those family members or (former) friends who did not stand by me at that difficult time. A good memory is often a curse, but it is also a blessing as it enables me not to forget those who were there.

I once read with my students an article about the different ways of dealing with conflicts. The writer claimed that in some cases, with people outside our immediate circle, a physical or emotional withdrawal is a good solution. And this is what I chose to do, I am not angry or hurt any more, but on the other hand, those people are no longer part of my life.

What I described above, about my responses to life-size grievances and the choices I made, has no connection to the Holocaust. However when it comes to the Holocaust I do not have the freedom to withdraw and stay away, and that memory remains a permanent fixture in my immediate circle, almost like family.

The Nazis killed my grandparents and one uncle, my other uncle had gone through the horrors of the death camps and survived. That uncle stayed in Germany after the war and until he died at the age of 88. He remembered the Holocaust when he was awake and didn't forget it when he was asleep.

So I, the grandaughter and the niece, have to keep that memory alive.

P.S I also remeber today the brave people who risked their lives to help the Jews: