It’s not often that we are called upon to literally stand up for our Judaism.
The time was August of 1997 and I was in graduate school, pursuing a Masters degree in family counselling. I had three more credits to go; it was the summer term, the one before I began my internship, and I was taking a course called Sociology of Education.
I had gone back to school as a mature student; not only did I have a husband and son, but I would have to find a part-time job in order to help out with finances—something that would fit around my schedule. It was one of those “ho-hum” situations when I was simply putting in my time, thinking about the future, and how I was going to manage my household duties and care properly for my son while taking on my internship. One day in class I was taking notes when, suddenly, the atmosphere in the classroom altered and the professor’s words rang loudly in my ears. I came to full attention. For some unknown reason this teacher was talking to us in an excited way about his hobby, something he did in his spare time—he collected Nazi memorabilia, read many books about Hitler and the Third Reich, and sometimes met with others of his kind at meetings and conventions. He was an enthusiastic Nazi-admirer and often remarked how “neat” and “interesting” the Nazis were.
For several seconds I thought I must be dreaming this or imagining it. Here I was, in a public university classroom, and the professor was merrily talking about the assets of the Nazi party. My ears felt burning hot and I did not want to cry in a graduate level class. As this professor proudly held up rare death camp photos and a picture of his bedspread at home, decorated with a huge swastika, I heard someone sobbing.
I looked to my right and saw a fellow student, a woman, holding her head in her hands and uncontrollably weeping; and nobody was paying attention to her. I knew, then and there, I had to cross over to the other side of the room and comfort this weeping woman. I had to interrupt the class. My heart was pounding and the temptation to sit very still and concentrate on self-control was almost overwhelming.
Prior to this day, I had never wanted to cause a disturbance in a class I was in. I love teachers and I have always had the highest respect for them. I also love school. But I kept asking myself, "What would my grandfather want me to do?"
This thought, coming unbidden, galvanized me.
My paternal grandfather was a passionately devoted Orthodox Jew; my father wasn’t interested in our faith so I attended synagogue with my grandparents. They kept a strictly kosher home, with meat and milk dishcloths for drying dishes. I came in for my share of lectures when I got them mixed up, and I privately thought that keeping the kosher laws made little sense. However, when I began writing stories about my grandfather I started to appreciate how he embodied his Judaism and literally “saw a light”—his way of life appeared beautiful to me in its own way. I realized then that a deep sense of love and connection to my heritage came to life. It was as firmly rooted as my grandfather’s.
It was him that I felt that day, just as I feel Elie Wiesel’s influence as I write this. “Action is the only remedy to indifference: the most insidious danger of all,” he said in his Nobel Prize acceptance speech in 1986. And this retelling is my form of action.
As I got up, crossed the classroom and knelt by the woman’s chair she was holding a Jewish star that hung around her neck on a chain. She looked at me.
“I lost part of my family in the Holocaust,” she managed to say.
“So did I,” I answered. (Some of my mother’s uncles had been murdered.) I put my arms around her and we cried together. The professor called for a break and everybody left except for us. The professor looked befuddled and did not understand why we were crying.
My friend left the room, unable to speak. Not being able to take anymore, she didn’t return after the break. I approached our teacher. He was still smiling but his eyes looked slightly out of focus.
“I think,” I said, “that you should take a break from your beloved Nazis and read a few books on Jewish history.”
Never, never had I spoken to a teacher in that way.
Again, that goofy, “not quite with it” stare.
“OK,” he finally said. “Have you any suggestions?”
“Jews, God, and History by Max Dimont and This Is My God by Leon Uris.”
I couldn’t continue any longer. Spent from the emotional turmoil and the effort I’d expended, after the break I docilely took my seat and began to mechanically take notes; however, that didn’t stop my brain from spinning. What to do? Report him to the president of the university? I had worked so hard toward my degree. I was so close to achieving my goal but could I somehow get myself into trouble by doing such a thing? What if the president sympathized with this professor? Besides—I felt that I had ”hit a wall” of evil and terror, and I was just one Jewish woman. Was expressing rachmones toward a fellow Jew enough?
Rachmones truly encapsulates when you don’t just sympathize with someone, but feel their pain as your own.
The next night I went to class as usual. My Jewish classmate and I only nodded at each other. We never met for coffee, went out to lunch, went shopping together, and I knew why. If we were alone together we’d collapse into each other’s arms and sob. We felt helpless. We were concentrating on self-control.
The next month was September—I had earned an A in Sociology of Education—and it was time to face the real world as a counselling intern. The halls where the counselling offices and classrooms were located boomed with the chatter of teachers and students. Somehow, through the maze of people, I saw my Nazi-loving professor. He still retained his goofy smile and out-of-focus eyes. It was almost humorous how obvious it was that he didn’t want to interact. However, we ended up, despite his efforts, face to face.
He managed to say hello.
“Hello,” I returned. “Tell me. Did you happen to read those two books you asked me about?”
I could tell he hadn’t; he was squirming with discomfort and embarrassment. He answered negatively.
“That’s okay,” I said. “No disrespect intended, but I didn’t think you had.” After all the years of reflecting on that night, it occurred to me that possibly the woman and I were the only Jews in the room and there were no other mature students present. Everyone else was in their twenties and maybe knew little about the Nazis and the Holocaust.
He and I never saw each other again, fortunately. But unanswered questions hang in the air that, once in a while, still plague me. Had I done enough? Should I have tried to befriend the sobbing woman? Why didn’t I make some report or protest?
I cling to my grandfather’s memory and I imagine him telling me not to worry—I had done a mitzvah for a fellow Jew, I had expressed rachmones. It was enough.
It’s not often that we are called upon to literally stand up for our Judaism.
The time was August of 1997 and I was in graduate school, pursuing a Masters degree in family counselling. I had three more credits to go; it was the summer term, the one before I began my internship, and I was taking a course called Sociology of Education.
I had gone back to school as a mature student; not only did I have a husband and son, but I would have to find a part-time job in order to help out with finances—something that would fit around my schedule. It was one of those “ho-hum” situations when I was simply putting in my time, thinking about the future, and how I was going to manage my household duties and care properly for my son while taking on my internship. One day in class I was taking notes when, suddenly, the atmosphere in the classroom altered and the professor’s words rang loudly in my ears. I came to full attention. For some unknown reason this teacher was talking to us in an excited way about his hobby, something he did in his spare time—he collected Nazi memorabilia, read many books about Hitler and the Third Reich, and sometimes met with others of his kind at meetings and conventions. He was an enthusiastic Nazi-admirer and often remarked how “neat” and “interesting” the Nazis were.
For several seconds I thought I must be dreaming this or imagining it. Here I was, in a public university classroom, and the professor was merrily talking about the assets of the Nazi party. My ears felt burning hot and I did not want to cry in a graduate level class. As this professor proudly held up rare death camp photos and a picture of his bedspread at home, decorated with a huge swastika, I heard someone sobbing.
I looked to my right and saw a fellow student, a woman, holding her head in her hands and uncontrollably weeping; and nobody was paying attention to her. I knew, then and there, I had to cross over to the other side of the room and comfort this weeping woman. I had to interrupt the class. My heart was pounding and the temptation to sit very still and concentrate on self-control was almost overwhelming.
Prior to this day, I had never wanted to cause a disturbance in a class I was in. I love teachers and I have always had the highest respect for them. I also love school. But I kept asking myself, "What would my grandfather want me to do?"
This thought, coming unbidden, galvanized me.
My paternal grandfather was a passionately devoted Orthodox Jew; my father wasn’t interested in our faith so I attended synagogue with my grandparents. They kept a strictly kosher home, with meat and milk dishcloths for drying dishes. I came in for my share of lectures when I got them mixed up, and I privately thought that keeping the kosher laws made little sense. However, when I began writing stories about my grandfather I started to appreciate how he embodied his Judaism and literally “saw a light”—his way of life appeared beautiful to me in its own way. I realized then that a deep sense of love and connection to my heritage came to life. It was as firmly rooted as my grandfather’s.
It was him that I felt that day, just as I feel Elie Wiesel’s influence as I write this. “Action is the only remedy to indifference: the most insidious danger of all,” he said in his Nobel Prize acceptance speech in 1986. And this retelling is my form of action.
As I got up, crossed the classroom and knelt by the woman’s chair she was holding a Jewish star that hung around her neck on a chain. She looked at me.
“I lost part of my family in the Holocaust,” she managed to say.
“So did I,” I answered. (Some of my mother’s uncles had been murdered.) I put my arms around her and we cried together. The professor called for a break and everybody left except for us. The professor looked befuddled and did not understand why we were crying.
My friend left the room, unable to speak. Not being able to take anymore, she didn’t return after the break. I approached our teacher. He was still smiling but his eyes looked slightly out of focus.
“I think,” I said, “that you should take a break from your beloved Nazis and read a few books on Jewish history.”
Never, never had I spoken to a teacher in that way.
Again, that goofy, “not quite with it” stare.
“OK,” he finally said. “Have you any suggestions?”
“Jews, God, and History by Max Dimont and This Is My God by Leon Uris.”
I couldn’t continue any longer. Spent from the emotional turmoil and the effort I’d expended, after the break I docilely took my seat and began to mechanically take notes; however, that didn’t stop my brain from spinning. What to do? Report him to the president of the university? I had worked so hard toward my degree. I was so close to achieving my goal but could I somehow get myself into trouble by doing such a thing? What if the president sympathized with this professor? Besides—I felt that I had ”hit a wall” of evil and terror, and I was just one Jewish woman. Was expressing rachmones toward a fellow Jew enough?
Rachmones truly encapsulates when you don’t just sympathize with someone, but feel their pain as your own.
The next night I went to class as usual. My Jewish classmate and I only nodded at each other. We never met for coffee, went out to lunch, went shopping together, and I knew why. If we were alone together we’d collapse into each other’s arms and sob. We felt helpless. We were concentrating on self-control.
The next month was September—I had earned an A in Sociology of Education—and it was time to face the real world as a counselling intern. The halls where the counselling offices and classrooms were located boomed with the chatter of teachers and students. Somehow, through the maze of people, I saw my Nazi-loving professor. He still retained his goofy smile and out-of-focus eyes. It was almost humorous how obvious it was that he didn’t want to interact. However, we ended up, despite his efforts, face to face.
He managed to say hello.
“Hello,” I returned. “Tell me. Did you happen to read those two books you asked me about?”
I could tell he hadn’t; he was squirming with discomfort and embarrassment. He answered negatively.
“That’s okay,” I said. “No disrespect intended, but I didn’t think you had.” After all the years of reflecting on that night, it occurred to me that possibly the woman and I were the only Jews in the room and there were no other mature students present. Everyone else was in their twenties and maybe knew little about the Nazis and the Holocaust.
He and I never saw each other again, fortunately. But unanswered questions hang in the air that, once in a while, still plague me. Had I done enough? Should I have tried to befriend the sobbing woman? Why didn’t I make some report or protest?
I cling to my grandfather’s memory and I imagine him telling me not to worry—I had done a mitzvah for a fellow Jew, I had expressed rachmones. It was enough.