do you expect, Citizen Magistrate? Jews remain Jews wherever they are: united, charitable, hospitable. Every Jew knows the roles caneasily be reversed; the person who welcomes a homeless stranger to his home can so easily be in his place next time.
You condemn Jewish nationalism for its internationalist character, and in a way you’re right: between a Jewish businessman from Morocco and a Jewish chemist from Chicago, a Jewish rag picker from Lodz and a Jewish industrialist from Lyons, a Jewish mystic from Safed and a Jewish intellectual from Minsk, there is a deeper and more substantive kinship, because it is far older, than between two gentile citizens of the same country, the same city and the same profession. A Jew may be alone but never solitary, for he remains integrated within a timeless community, however invisible or without geographic or political reality. The Jew does not define himself within geographical categories, Citizen Magistrate; he expresses and identifies himself in historic terms. Jews help one another in order to prolong their common history, to explore and enrich their common destiny, to enlarge the domain of their collective memory.
I know: what I say now constitutes additional evidence of my guilt; I’ve just acknowledged that I’m a bad Communist, a traitor to the working class and an implacable enemy of your system. So be it. But my father’s opinion means more to me than yours. In fact, it is his alone that counts.
At the hour of my death, it is his image that will rise before me. It is to him that I must justify my life. And in his presence I have a feeling close to shame. I wasted too many years seeking something that could never be part of me.
To please him, all I would have had to do was to follow the divine path, obey the Law of Moses, accept God’s grace. I must have been a disappointment to him in this area. As in many others.
At Liyanov I was old enough to study seriously. Accordingly,my father enrolled me in the best schools. He introduced me to famous religious masters, and let me taste the joy and magic of a good Talmudic argument. I wonder today whether his efforts were not in vain.
I loved Liyanov, and Barassy seemed far away. I loved Liyanov because Barassy seemed far away. I was an expatriate, a refugee, a Romanian subject. Memories of the pogrom vanished into the past. War, flight—I no longer thought of them. My studies were supposed to absorb me, and that is precisely what they did. In short, life returned to normal.
My father resumed his trade as a piece-goods merchant. Goldie helped him in the shop. A radiant Masha was counting the days until she would once again see her student from the Barassy yeshiva—and marry him.
I remember that wedding. I remember because it brought me face to face with misery and despair. It was 1922, the year of my Bar Mitzvah.
The marriage was celebrated with joy and pomp. Uncles, aunts, cousins—I never knew I had so many—all attended together with friends, companions, acquaintances. Fortunately, my father could afford it; the festivities might well have ruined another man.
In accordance with custom, a special meal had been prepared for the poor. Masha danced for them and with them. Did she really see them? Yes, she did—and she wept, though she may have been moved by love, not pity. I looked on, holding back my tears. The seeds of my future Communist sympathies were planted at that wedding.
The table for the poor was set up in a long spacious room. It was stifling in there. Pitiful, grotesque men and women scurried about trying to snatch a piece of fish, a little white bread. Here and there quarrels broke out. People spat, yelled, exchanged insults, came to blows. It was to be expected—they were hungry, these children ofpoverty. Dressed in rags, a mad glint in their eyes, their features distorted by greed and hate, they appeared to be living in a bewitched, accursed world. But in the next room, where the distinguished guests
You condemn Jewish nationalism for its internationalist character, and in a way you’re right: between a Jewish businessman from Morocco and a Jewish chemist from Chicago, a Jewish rag picker from Lodz and a Jewish industrialist from Lyons, a Jewish mystic from Safed and a Jewish intellectual from Minsk, there is a deeper and more substantive kinship, because it is far older, than between two gentile citizens of the same country, the same city and the same profession. A Jew may be alone but never solitary, for he remains integrated within a timeless community, however invisible or without geographic or political reality. The Jew does not define himself within geographical categories, Citizen Magistrate; he expresses and identifies himself in historic terms. Jews help one another in order to prolong their common history, to explore and enrich their common destiny, to enlarge the domain of their collective memory.
I know: what I say now constitutes additional evidence of my guilt; I’ve just acknowledged that I’m a bad Communist, a traitor to the working class and an implacable enemy of your system. So be it. But my father’s opinion means more to me than yours. In fact, it is his alone that counts.
At the hour of my death, it is his image that will rise before me. It is to him that I must justify my life. And in his presence I have a feeling close to shame. I wasted too many years seeking something that could never be part of me.
To please him, all I would have had to do was to follow the divine path, obey the Law of Moses, accept God’s grace. I must have been a disappointment to him in this area. As in many others.
At Liyanov I was old enough to study seriously. Accordingly,my father enrolled me in the best schools. He introduced me to famous religious masters, and let me taste the joy and magic of a good Talmudic argument. I wonder today whether his efforts were not in vain.
I loved Liyanov, and Barassy seemed far away. I loved Liyanov because Barassy seemed far away. I was an expatriate, a refugee, a Romanian subject. Memories of the pogrom vanished into the past. War, flight—I no longer thought of them. My studies were supposed to absorb me, and that is precisely what they did. In short, life returned to normal.
My father resumed his trade as a piece-goods merchant. Goldie helped him in the shop. A radiant Masha was counting the days until she would once again see her student from the Barassy yeshiva—and marry him.
I remember that wedding. I remember because it brought me face to face with misery and despair. It was 1922, the year of my Bar Mitzvah.
The marriage was celebrated with joy and pomp. Uncles, aunts, cousins—I never knew I had so many—all attended together with friends, companions, acquaintances. Fortunately, my father could afford it; the festivities might well have ruined another man.
In accordance with custom, a special meal had been prepared for the poor. Masha danced for them and with them. Did she really see them? Yes, she did—and she wept, though she may have been moved by love, not pity. I looked on, holding back my tears. The seeds of my future Communist sympathies were planted at that wedding.
The table for the poor was set up in a long spacious room. It was stifling in there. Pitiful, grotesque men and women scurried about trying to snatch a piece of fish, a little white bread. Here and there quarrels broke out. People spat, yelled, exchanged insults, came to blows. It was to be expected—they were hungry, these children ofpoverty. Dressed in rags, a mad glint in their eyes, their features distorted by greed and hate, they appeared to be living in a bewitched, accursed world. But in the next room, where the distinguished guests
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