forward again. “You’re wasting our time with stupid stuff like this.”
“Excuse me?
Stupid?
It’s the principle—!”
“The
principle
?” Not bothering to look at her, Earwig waves away her witness. The
principle
, he mutters, intending to be heard, is that anti-Semites include “Jew-hating Jews” who bob their noses, change their names, turn their backs on their religion—
“Hey, wait a minute,” Olin protests. “That’s too easy.”
“He knows nothing about me!” the woman wails, glaring around her for support. Further outraged when nobody speaks up, she sits down noisily, pops right back up to announce her refusal from now on to eat or even speak with “all these Germans. These people had no right to come! They should be ashamed!”
“We
are
ashamed, madame,” Rainer says quietly. “Deeply ashamed. That is why we are here. We are scarred for life and coming here won’t heal that.”
Earwig points. “How about Ay-rabs, lady? We got one here from Palestine. You also refuse to eat with this nice Se-mite?”
The formidable Adina rises with an exasperated groan and a backhand flick of long ringed fingers that dismisses both antagonists and their whole disgraceful exchange. Ignoring Miriam as an unworthy foe, she confronts Earwig. “Yes, of course, Mr.—
Earwig
, is it?—the Arabs are a Semitic-
language
people, true. But isn’t Jewish hatred inevitable when their leaders deny that the Shoah occurred and are sworn to drive every last Israeli Jew into the sea?”
And Miriam, not to be ignored, chimes in, “And anyway—come on, people, let’s face it, okay? You’ve seen ’em yourself on the TV. They look like a
different
kind of a Semitic, right?”
“More swarthy, perhaps?” A new voice with a soft British inflection.
In the back row, the young Palestinian, long black hair tied up in a ponytail, has already risen; he is suddenly noticed, standing quiet a few moments in a room full of uneasy shifting. “Good evening,” he murmurs politely. “Greetings from Palestine.”
“Raghead! Better you should just shut up!” an American-born Israeli hollers, though begged by his wife to sit down and be quiet.
“You call them raghead, yes?” the young man continues. “Call them coward terrorist, these brave young fools with no future and no hope in life, gone crazy in the desert . . .” Here a deft pause for a twitched smile. Slowly, then, within his well-wrought isolation, he resumes his seat.
Olin exchanges a wry wince with Anders: so much for ecumenical healing and world peace.
“A pity our eloquent Muslim friend cannot speak for all his people.” Adina’s stiff smile tests the silence in the hall. “‘In God We Trust,’ you Americans say, but this man’s Allah—or our Hebrew Yahweh, for that matter—serves the purpose just as well.” Monotheism by whatever name has been the rationale for war and genocide forever. And the Unchosen, the inferior Others, are always demonized as an excuse to oppress them, isn’t that true? And with God’s blessing. “Thus”—and her accusing glance sweeps quickly past the Germans—
“Gott mit Uns.”
“Gott
mit
Uns!”
Anders whispers hoarsely. “If
Gott
vas
mit
those Nazi
Schweinhunds
, why didn’t ‘
Uns
’ win the war?”
“Nein!”
Seeing them grin, a German woman protests, “
Gott
iss not for funny business in
der
Lager
!”
“
Gott
iss not for wisecrackers!” Rainer observes, trying not to laugh.
(“I never thought Germans had much humor,” Anders comments. “The men guffaw loud enough to crack your ears but there’s no real mirth behind it—” He is checked by his roommate’s grin. “What’s so funny, Olin?”
“Sorry, but there are exceptions.” He recalls a gravestone epitaph he’d seen one day in a cemetery in Berlin.
Fifty years I have perfect health. Now this!
And Anders hoots, “Sounds more like a Jew to me.”)
At the intermission, Adina laments the fading interest in the Shoah among young
“Excuse me?
Stupid?
It’s the principle—!”
“The
principle
?” Not bothering to look at her, Earwig waves away her witness. The
principle
, he mutters, intending to be heard, is that anti-Semites include “Jew-hating Jews” who bob their noses, change their names, turn their backs on their religion—
“Hey, wait a minute,” Olin protests. “That’s too easy.”
“He knows nothing about me!” the woman wails, glaring around her for support. Further outraged when nobody speaks up, she sits down noisily, pops right back up to announce her refusal from now on to eat or even speak with “all these Germans. These people had no right to come! They should be ashamed!”
“We
are
ashamed, madame,” Rainer says quietly. “Deeply ashamed. That is why we are here. We are scarred for life and coming here won’t heal that.”
Earwig points. “How about Ay-rabs, lady? We got one here from Palestine. You also refuse to eat with this nice Se-mite?”
The formidable Adina rises with an exasperated groan and a backhand flick of long ringed fingers that dismisses both antagonists and their whole disgraceful exchange. Ignoring Miriam as an unworthy foe, she confronts Earwig. “Yes, of course, Mr.—
Earwig
, is it?—the Arabs are a Semitic-
language
people, true. But isn’t Jewish hatred inevitable when their leaders deny that the Shoah occurred and are sworn to drive every last Israeli Jew into the sea?”
And Miriam, not to be ignored, chimes in, “And anyway—come on, people, let’s face it, okay? You’ve seen ’em yourself on the TV. They look like a
different
kind of a Semitic, right?”
“More swarthy, perhaps?” A new voice with a soft British inflection.
In the back row, the young Palestinian, long black hair tied up in a ponytail, has already risen; he is suddenly noticed, standing quiet a few moments in a room full of uneasy shifting. “Good evening,” he murmurs politely. “Greetings from Palestine.”
“Raghead! Better you should just shut up!” an American-born Israeli hollers, though begged by his wife to sit down and be quiet.
“You call them raghead, yes?” the young man continues. “Call them coward terrorist, these brave young fools with no future and no hope in life, gone crazy in the desert . . .” Here a deft pause for a twitched smile. Slowly, then, within his well-wrought isolation, he resumes his seat.
Olin exchanges a wry wince with Anders: so much for ecumenical healing and world peace.
“A pity our eloquent Muslim friend cannot speak for all his people.” Adina’s stiff smile tests the silence in the hall. “‘In God We Trust,’ you Americans say, but this man’s Allah—or our Hebrew Yahweh, for that matter—serves the purpose just as well.” Monotheism by whatever name has been the rationale for war and genocide forever. And the Unchosen, the inferior Others, are always demonized as an excuse to oppress them, isn’t that true? And with God’s blessing. “Thus”—and her accusing glance sweeps quickly past the Germans—
“Gott mit Uns.”
“Gott
mit
Uns!”
Anders whispers hoarsely. “If
Gott
vas
mit
those Nazi
Schweinhunds
, why didn’t ‘
Uns
’ win the war?”
“Nein!”
Seeing them grin, a German woman protests, “
Gott
iss not for funny business in
der
Lager
!”
“
Gott
iss not for wisecrackers!” Rainer observes, trying not to laugh.
(“I never thought Germans had much humor,” Anders comments. “The men guffaw loud enough to crack your ears but there’s no real mirth behind it—” He is checked by his roommate’s grin. “What’s so funny, Olin?”
“Sorry, but there are exceptions.” He recalls a gravestone epitaph he’d seen one day in a cemetery in Berlin.
Fifty years I have perfect health. Now this!
And Anders hoots, “Sounds more like a Jew to me.”)
At the intermission, Adina laments the fading interest in the Shoah among young
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