I was pleasantly surprised to learn this week that I fetched a Best Creative Non-Fiction award for this story. The award was given to me on April 26 at a reception at Bergen Community College. Some of the other pieces that were read were truly something. Get a copy of the Labyrinth (through the English dept. at BCC), which contains my story and the others. The judge was Professor Parras of William Paterson University. My great thanks to him for this honour.

Fashioning my Dad after Myself:

An excerpt from the book

By Lynda Kraar

Voltaire once said, "If God did not exist, it would be necessary to invent Him."

Inspired by these words, I spent my entire life inventing my father - giving birth to him and raising him, giving him form and function. I came up with a guy of medium height, irresistibly gorgeous. Dazzling blue eyes, olive skin and golden hair. And on the seventh day I rested.

I did not know what to want or expect from another human being in terms of emotion and intellect. As an only child, I did not understand, know or care about intimacy or feelings. I only knew how to entertain myself, and when bored, how to find something that could entertain me. This would become my modus operandi as I grew up. Years later, after I grew breasts and got my period, I would bed, marry and divorce men who matched that description perfectly. But this is not about me - this is about my father.

My mother detested my father, but not enough to leave their so-called life together. It was entirely mutual. Neither of them could get over an event that happened so long ago that there was no longer any sense in raising it. What happened back there was of no interest to me - I had one mission and one mission alone: to build myself a father. The fact that they were finding great fulfillment in vengeance, abuse and sadomasochism might have been interesting to the neighbours, but I had bigger things on my plate.

The clay from which I molded Dad had a few natural elements of its own: He was a nervous man with a short fuse. He had been a prize boxer as a kid but retired after he broke another kid's jaw, although the taste for blood never left him. He was a clotheshorse with a penchant for fast cars. Not one to tolerate the cheap crap that was being manufactured and sold as menswear, he made most of his own clothes - suits, pants and jackets. He had a way of charming women and keeping them around despite his domestic circumstances. He brooded a lot. He had his own bedroom. His sleep was fitful. He had nightmares. He would awaken, screaming. He kept an axe under the bed and a stash of money between the mattresses. He had no books, no notebooks, no pens: just a stubby little pencil that he sharpened with a kitchen knife over the sink.

You couldn't pin him down, my dad. He carried himself like a prince, but he brawled like a street fighter. You could keep him around polite company, but not for very long. You could see in his beautiful eyes that he was capable - very capable - of going over the edge.

What choice did I have? As self-appointed alchemist, I carefully measured out doses of fiction intermingled with fact. My father would be a creative soul. He would write, draw and sing. Some ingredients were based on the early things that I remember best about him - his love for operatic tenors, his expertise at creating clothing patterns and then executing them with perfection. He was great at drawing caricatures, an art form that would carry over to me, and which would eventually have me threatened with expulsion from school.

I willed my father to come home and read to me; to adore me; to listen to me; to fuss over me and take me to the corner store for an ice cream cone.

That's how it might have gone down; however, Divine Intervention came in the form of my mother, who could simply never forgive him for cheating on her with a German girl in the first year of their marriage, and who would never stop loving him until the day she died. For those two sins he paid and paid and paid. And so did she. Thus, it was no surprise to me when, on his death bed, Dad asked me, "Where's Mum?"

I thought about it. I could have said, "Oh, Dad, we didn't have the heart to tell you that she died two years ago. She was so sick, poor Mother! The Almighty (Blessed be He!) took her from her sick bed in the living room of our house in the middle of the holy of holy nights, the Sabbath. The Sabbath, Dad! She was a saint! You blew it!"

Instead, I gave him the one answer that drove him crazy, that he hated to hear - the answer that stirred his toxic mind to caustic rage: "She's at the Y."

From that pathetic little cot, with all the fire and bile and piss he could muster, he gave me that look that I remembered from the first - rabid eyes filled with venom, like a cobra ready to strike, eyes that were now in their nineties and defied the slowdown of his other vital parts. In that moment, in his eyes, how well I remembered Dad.

In October, 1994, my father came to visit us in Teaneck, New Jersey. We had fled Manhattan after the birth of my second baby the previous January. Mom thought it was a great idea for Dad to see his granddaughter for the first time. My then-husband, Seamus, was the star crime reporter at the Bergen Record. We felt the ticking of the clock with the new baby in the house, and we realized that Dad was not getting any younger. The visit presented two perfect opportunities - Dad would be able to buy a hank of superwool to make himself a pair of pants, and we could tape an interview with him each night of his visit.

As a child, either I was absent the day Dad talked about his family, or else too indoctrinated by my mother to pay attention to his words. He had come from a huge family - a very old Polish family that had stayed in the region of Radom for centuries. You could recognize the clans because they all shared the same first names - all named for the long-departed patriarchs and matriarchs.

Every morning during his visit we took Dad to Butterflake bakery for a fresh rye bread, and then to the supermarket for cold cuts. When Dad asked me for an iron so that he could press his shirt and pants, I produced whatever I had in the house. After his bitter protests, we had to go out and buy a real steam iron. Mine, apparently, was for sissies. He had to have his Nescafe, real butter and real jam preserves. The food I had prepared was too nutritious, too colourful. Dad was from the "sauté until grey" school of cooking. Meat had to be overcooked and bland, as did potatoes and all manner of root vegetables. He had no patience for whole wheat anything, fresh fruits or roughage - "Grass is for sheep. I'm a man!" Every so often, when Miriam - four at the time - would get on his nerves, I would see the guy I remembered come out. I did my best to make sure she stayed out of his way and that she did not run with scissors when he was around.

The next night, as we taped the second interview, I learned that Dad might have been beaten by his father as a child. His father never got over the loss of a little girl who died of tuberculosis. No other child was good enough for him. Certainly, his mother was accustomed to the beatings. She might have sent my father, her fair-haired, beautiful child, to live with relatives in the city of Lodz, then a burgeoning, tuberculosis-breeding industrial center like the Lower East Side. It was clear that my father was not a scholar. By the time he was in his teens he was officially illiterate. He compensated by fine-tuning his street instincts, and he went into the world of trade with a vengeance. He described his glory days in the 1930s as a young man living alone in the big city.

The next day we heard about his wife, Genia, whose name I inscribed on his headstone at the cemetery because I was so certain this woman did not have a single relative who survived the Nazis. Genia was pregnant, and Dad was smuggling outside the ghetto walls with a few contacts he had there. He would sneak through the elaborate sewer system and come up through a manhole on the Nazi side. It was very quick. One or two Poles would be there, and the trade would be done. The whole tragic lot of them could have been murdered on the spot if they were found out. Then Dad slipped back into the sewer and came up a manhole that was located near a convent that bordered the ghetto. In 1942, during the worst of the ghetto liquidations, and with a pregnant wife, Dad was busted by a Jewish cop and put on a deportation list.

It was already a miracle that he was not rounded up and shot, as so many others were. It was even more miraculous that he outwitted the authorities who tried to send him into the trucks that were killing loads of Jews with carbon monoxide poisoning as they were being transported to the crematoria and pits that were designed expressly to do away with dead Jewish waste. My lucky father ended up in Auschwitz after some hard time at the Poznan labour camp. There he encountered his old friend Morris who worked in the kitchen. He would eventually get Dad a job there, too. While most prisoners were dying of starvation, my father did not do too badly. Touched by the finger of God once again. No wonder my mother hated him so.

"It wasn't too bad," Dad would say.

"It wasn't too bad," my mother would mock. My mother, who had lost everyone from her little clan and blew her chance for restitution and reclamation by signing the wrong document at the wrong time. She was never able to appeal her claim. On the other hand, Dad received slave labour cheques and restitution from Germany that sometimes totalled tens of thousands of dollars. In addition, there were some family members around, even if they did not talk to each other. Let the record reflect that some did - I do not want to piss off those cousins and risk losing them, too.

It was inevitable - I had to grow up. I had to knock down the Dad that I had created. I had to accept the fact that nothing was extraordinary in Dad's life except everything. He did not belong to me - he belonged to the world. Dad had a heart attack in the weeks before his retirement from the sweatshop where he worked, along with scores of other Holocaust survivors who had come to Canada, their new homeland which begrudgingly accepted them in the 1950s. The doctors opened him up, and he had a heart attack on the table so they closed him back up again without finishing the job. A few weeks later he fell out of the cherry tree in the backyard because he did not want the birds to kill off his harvest.

Throughout his life he won at the slots. He went to Florida for months every winter where he shacked up with his Ukrainian girlfriend from Chicago whom I heard about from friends of my parents who saw them together. She knitted for him two sweaters which he wore until he died. Even in his last days, when I'd ask, "Dad, where did you get those beautiful sweaters?" he would answer with a furtive grin, "I got 'em." His brain was mush, he was soiling himself, he did not know what day it was, but he was going to guard his friend's honour until his last gasp.

Mom stewed in the meantime, grappling with her own sexual identity. Dad never stopped playing cards with his gang. He never stopped fighting and occasionally giving someone the taste of his killer left hook to the jaw. He was no longer permitted to drive. He continued to make his own clothes, trim his nose hairs and wear a tie every day.

My mother was in complete denial that there was anything wrong with Dad, although it was clear to my family that he was losing it. For twenty years we had told her that he was forgetful, that he was leaving the stove on, and that he allowed the asshole cokehead neighbor to rip him off for $11,000 for a roofing job that was never done. The sonofabitch just kept coming over and asking him for payment, because they knew Dad didn't remember anything from one day to the next. The bastard even drove Dad to the bank for the cash withdrawal-- $1,000 on a weekly basis, for eleven weeks straight. Nope, said Mum. This was only a ploy to piss her off - her words - because he hated it that she went to the Y. Poor Mom, she so desperately wanted Dad's attention.

After a lifetime of neglecting her health, the cancer that had silently thrived in her colon for at least a decade metastasized. No two ways about it - eleven years Dad's junior, a community activist and our matriarch, my mother was going to check out first. There was no time for drama. My husband Marty and I came up with a plan: Dad needed to be put into an eldercare facility.

That good time did not last very long. The morning Mom died, May 7, 2005, I took Dad out to our favourite restaurant, intent on never telling him what had happened, and prayed that none of her old friends would approach us, asking how my mum was doing:

"She died a few hours ago. Dad, can you please pass the salt?"

The next day we celebrated Mother's Day at the Mount Sinai cemetery where we feted my mother with a well attended, dignified send-off. Meanwhile, Dad was charming the nice Filipino women who worked there on the weekends.

The world was different now. Our family continued to visit him, to put him in the car and listen to his favourite Jan Peerce or Mario Lanza recordings: "Now, that's a singer," he would say.

We took him out for real food. He allowed me to take him to the second-hand clothing store where I bought him a wardrobe of matching separates, all the best name brands. Even at the age of 93 I could not stand the thought of seeing him wearing shmattas. There was nothing wrong with his eyes. He liked the Banana Republic chino tailoring. There was a little excitement when his roomie, an old cadger and one-time tailor named Sam, took his gigantic shears and ripped the pants to shreds to make them smaller, hand-stitching them in the back. Should these guys even have scissors and needles? The attendants confiscated the entire cache.

I was considering not burying my parents next to each other until there was once again a Divine Intervention, this time not from my mother, but from God. Not to be outdone by the righteous woman who earned the privilege of been called up on the holy Sabbath, Dad passed away on September 15, 2007. It was the Sabbath of Return - the really big, important Sabbath that occurs between the Jewish New Year and Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. That would have pissed off my mother to no end. Do the faithful ever get to see God this close up? The Almighty made it by far the most festive holiday that Dad had ever experienced, and the most heartfelt one for those of us who were at his side, waiting and wondering about what He has in store for us.

Excerpt from
BE DECENT:

ALBUM OF MY LIFE
by Ann Szedlecki

(my late mother)

Dear Friends,

OMG, it’s happening! The kick-off for the Azrieli Foundation memoir series is fast approaching with book launchs in Montreal and Toronto. My mum’s memoir will be part of that series. I will keep you posted on actual dates/places for the events.

NB: It is sixty-six years almost to the day since my mother's brother, Shoel Frajlich, succumbed to tuberculosis at the age of twenty-two in a Siberian hospital. The passage below describes the period of anguish, loneliness and despair of my then-eighteen-year-old mother during the ordeal of her brother's illness and passing.

Here’s the link for more info on the Azrieli Foundation Holocaust memoirs project. http://www.azrielifoundation.org/memoirs/books.asp?pid=59

Write me privately for more info.

Sincerely,
Lynda


Excerpt from
BE DECENT: ALBUM OF MY LIFE
by Ann Szedlecki

SHOEL FRAJLICH HA'COHEN (z"l)

The deterioration of my dear, sweet brother, and how I handled it, will always be the most painful chapter of my life. It's something I will never get over.

One morning in the autumn of 1942 I came back to the dorm after working the night shift and found my brother Shoel sitting on the stairs. He had been there all night in the bitter cold. One of the girls, Eva Goldberg, had thrown him out because she was afraid of contracting his tuberculosis. This picture will stay with me until my dying day. Eva is dead now, but I can neither forgive her nor forget what she did. Maybe she even hastened his death. I find it extremely difficult to write about it even now.

Shoel had been released from the hard labour camp after two and a half years. I couldn't believe it was the same Shoel. The beautiful winter coat that was new when we left Poland and fitted him so well now hung on his wasted body. His blue eyes were sunken in their sockets. He had endured such horrific, inhuman torture. At the time I didn't realize how sick he was, with no known cure. It wasn't just his lungs but the whole body that was consumed. He was in and out of hospitals. There was a time when he stayed with me in the dormitory which I shared with the other girls. He had no other place to stay. I shared my food with him and even used the same utensils although he was coughing up blood. I easily could have become infected with the disease myself, but I did not think about it at all.

The last time Shoel was admitted to hospital was sometime in February, 1943. We were in the same city, but I could not help him much. I found a job in the mine's cafeteria washing dishes and peeling potatoes. There were thousands of bowls. Miners worked two shifts of twelve hours each. At least my work provided me with some food. I worked a twenty-four-hour shift and then I had forty-eight hours free. I went to see my brother. While we carried on a conversation he became silent and kept his eyes closed. His eyelids were translucent. I panicked, but he opened his eyes and said, "I'm not dead yet."

On my last visit, Shoel shared with me his only last wishes.

"I want to come home, have a piece of white bread and butter, a glass of tea with lemon, kiss our mother good-bye, and die."

Just before I left, he asked me to take his clothes with me, along with some money.

"No, Shoel," I said, "I'll come back after my next shift. I'll pick up your things then."

There was no phone to inquire about him, and of course, I couldn't take time off to see him.

On Thursday, March 18, 1943, when my shift was over and I was ready to go to the hospital, a messenger came with the news that Shoel had passed away a few hours earlier.

A nurse there told me that his last words were, "Is my sister here?"

Even though I wasn't there when he took his last breath, these painful words would always ring in my ears. He died alone.

With my last connection gone, I became an orphan. Of all the things he had wished for on his death bed, all Shoel got was a lonely death. There was no piece of bread and butter; no glass of tea with lemon. Nor did he get to kiss our dear mother, whose fate we did not know.

A few days before he died I had a disturbing dream:

I am walking up the dark, wooden staircase, hanging on the shaky wooden banister for dear life. When I reach the third floor, I take off the key that hangs from an oval ring. I open the door and let myself in. The kitchen is in semi-darkness lit only by the light from the next room.

I enter and what I see, or what I assume I see, is my family, sitting around a table covered with a white tablecloth. Our silver candlesticks, one still slightly bent, candles are shining bright…food is on the table.

I realize it must be Friday night - the Sabbath. I can only see my mother. The others are just shadows.

I'm standing in the doorway and my mother says, "Come in. Why are you standing there? Sit down and eat."

I continue standing.

"Where is my son Shoel?," she asks.

"He'll be here soon," I reply.

My mother's face becomes very sad, and very quietly, through tears, she says, "No, he will never come back!" Her mournful crying was breaking my heart.

I awoke, my face wet with tears. I knew she was right. I knew the meaning of my dream, no matter how hard I tried to reject the interpretation.

I couldn't make myself view Shoel's body, never having seen a corpse in my life. There's another thing for which I will never forgive myself, until my dying day.

The vultures had descended: The things he wanted me to take home disappeared. It didn't matter to me anyway. I lost the last connection with my family - the last link gone. I was desperately alone, lonely and poor. Nobody offered to help arrange his burial. I took three days off from work without permission. That eventually landed me in a hard labour camp for six months.

Finally it was left to the city to look after this matter. Ten days after his death, during a very heavy snowfall, I was allowed by my friend Hela Picksman to stand in the window of her apartment and watch the sled carrying my brother's body to the cemetery where he would be buried in an unmarked grave.

It is another load of guilt that I carry, because he was not buried in accordance with Jewish law, which proscribes burial within twenty-four hours and a mourning period of seven days. Shoel was a Cohen, a noble descendant of the Jewish high priests of the Temple, worthy of the highest burial rites.

I could not go with him for his final send-off. I had no shoes or warm clothes. Silently I said my goodbye when the sled disappeared from view. Hela interrupted the saddest moment of my life by asking me to leave her home, because she did not want her husband finding me there. She made me feel like a leper. I was a sorry sight, and not a very clean one.

It has been many years since the day Shoel died. But the grief and guilt is as raw as ever. If anything, I think about him even more often now. At least I know when to light the yahrzeit candle: the eleventh day of Adar II, 5703. He is the only member of the family whose date of death and approximate place of burial I know.

Songs of Love needs your help

We associate love with this time of year and Valentine's Day. Maybe gifts are a little bit harder to buy in the current economy. I don't want to belabour that point, but I would like to ask your help with a very special non-profit organization that is dear to my me and whose founder is very close to my heart. A donation to Songs of Love is the right gift to give this Valentine's Day.

John Belzer, founder of Songs of Love, has been providing customized songs for sick children for years. I am proud to call John my friend, and I urge you to visit the Songs of Love website and learn more about him and how his vision came to be.

Each song is written by a songwriter who has an information sheet on the child that describes their likes/dislikes, their friends and family, even a beloved pet, television show, type of music or food, book, etc. The songwriter then writes a song for that child, and incorporates all the pertinent information -- not the easiest thing to do.

I contributed a song for a little girl named Amanda, and I personally know the joy that this work brings into the lives of the child, and especially to their family and loved ones. I talk about Songs of Love everywhere I go, to anyone who'll listen! It is my personal desire to see them continue to do their good works and not to worry about the financials.

Please visit the Songs of Love website now and see for yourself. Here's John's appeal. Please give generously!

I also encourage you to check out some of the Songs of Love YouTubes, such as this one (get out your handkerchiefs):


Check out this segment on CBS 60 Minutes and GET INVOLVED!

xoxoxoxo
GuitarGirl

So good I had to repeat it here - Ron Kampeas's piece for the Jewish Telegraphic Agency.

Gaza, the fridge in Gilo and moral responsibility

By Ron Kampeas · January 2, 2009

For some relief from the misery of Israel’s south and Gaza, here’s a joke from the second Intifada.

An American Jew at a party in New York tells an Israeli friend, “I’d love to visit, but it’s just too dangerous.” The Israeli protests: “Don’t believe what you see in the papers! Come, come, it’s safer than Brooklyn. Just avoid Jerusalem.”

A Jerusalemite listening in interjects: “What are you talking about, Jerusalem is as safe as Ramat Aviv. Except for Gilo, of course, but who goes to Gilo?”

“I happen to live in Gilo, bub,” a third man says. “It’s as boring as a suburb should be – as long as you keep away from Rehov Ha’anafa, across from the gunmen in Beit Jala-“

“Ma pitom* Rehov Haanafa,” a girl says from across the room. “My parents live there, and I go every Shabbat, and I’m a certified coward. Forget about it, come to Rehov Ha’anafa, as long as you avoid 422, naturally-“

“422?!?” shouts the bartender. “422 is like a day in the park. A wonderful building, and I should know, my girlfriend lives there. Everyone knows 422 is fine, except for the miskenim in 10-B.”

“Miskenim?” says the guy slumped in the corner, waking up. “I’ll give you miskenim, ya’ mamzer. We’re just fine in 10-B and everyone is invited next Shabbat to prove it. Keep out of the kitchen, is all.”

“The kitchen?” an older woman huffs. “As if you even know what it looks like. The kitchen is safe as can be,” she says, “As long as you don’t stand next to the fridge.”

And so on.

I know, some relief.

It’s hard to get around the dilemma this war poses, especially as refracted through the know-nothingism permeating commentary on the web and in the newspapers.

I’m Israeli, I lived there 15 years, a lot of them in an apartment like 422-10-B, facing a Palestinian village, and I don’t have answers. I wish I had the confidence of those who do.

But I only have questions. It’s all I can come up with, a whittling down, perhaps, of my (take your pick) self-confidence/moral centeredness/arrogance after way too many years of asking them.

So here are a few:

For the dimestore analysts who talk about Israel’s compunction for disproportionate response, as if it were somehow inherently Israeli: What is the worth of conclusions drawn only from selective data? I mean, if Israel’s response is “disproportionate” (to what, by the way? No one ever posits a “proportionate” response) what was it for those long periods since Israel’s withdrawal in 2005 that it did not respond at all? If there is some deep moral flaw in the Israeli character that naturally disposes to disproportionality, why isn’t it triggered each time a rocket lands in Sderot? And thousands have. This question first occurred to me during the Lebanon war in 2006, when the same sighs of “how Israeli” arose after a cross-border Hezbollah raid triggered aerial assaults and then a ground operation; the (willful?) amnesia struck me: Israel had suffered exactly such a raid in the summer of 2000, yet had NOT responded in kind. What did that say about Israel’s alleged trigger-happiness? And about Hezbollah’s recklessness (along the lines of “fool me once,” etc.)? If there’s one there’s one thing I’ve learned in 20 years as a reporter, it is that ascribing an inherent, immutable quality to a body as organic as a nation or a people is cheap anti-intellectualism at best and probably something far, far worse.

And before you start nodding, what is a “proportionate” response then? Why is 20 percent civilian deaths acceptable? Who deems it so? Supposedly, that’s comparable to Afghanistan; Is the NATO operation in Afghanistan something we (we Israelis) want to emulate? Does the storing of weapons in civilian areas justify the risk of taking children’s lives? Is anyone making these decisions asking these questions? What is the acceptable risk factor? Loose talk of “collateral damage” is, well, meaningless. No, worse, it has meaning: The relativization of human life.

And speaking of meaning, what do these knee-jerk calls for a cease-fire and a return to the peace process mean? What peace process involved Hamas? This is a group that since 2006 has had an opportunity to set up a functioning Islamist state. Think of it: Had Gaza run smoothly and Hamas maintained the peace, how could the Israeli leadership have resisted recognizing its governance? How could Israel plausibly resist relinquishing governance and land in the West Bank? And releasing prisoners? The pressure would have been internal as well: Occupation uncoupled from security is profoundly unpopular in Israel. And think of the regional repercussions: If Israel could accommodate Islamism in Gaza, how could Egypt and Jordan resist within their borders? I simply don’t see any other sequence arising out of a peaceful mini-state in Gaza. Yet Hamas seemed determined to smash this golden opportunity, apparently because killing Israeli civilians matters more to it than, well, survival. And yes, I know about the privations caused by Israel’s U.S.-backed blockade – triggered, after all, by democratic elections – but somehow, Hamas managed to smuggle in materiel enough to manufacture hundreds of rockets, including long-range missiles; it might have been smuggling in food and medicine and fuel. And, again, a peaceful Gaza would have created pressure enough for Israel to lift its embargoes – if pressure was needed. My sense is that the Olmert government would have done so of its own accord had peace prevailed. So what does Israel do about the arms buildup just miles from Ashkelon, less than an hour’s leisurely drive from Tel Aviv? And yes, the rocket fire has radically diminished during the ceasefire - proof that Hamas can indeed rein it in - but the smuggling intensified (the proof is now in the longrange rockets reaching Beersheba and Ashkelon.) Who would regard an ceasefire coupled with arms buildup as a true "ceasefire"? Is a ceasefire really the right answer? What about smarter fire?

And speaking of smarter fire and smarter embargoes: Just as the fire is “proportionate,” Israeli and pro-Israel spokesmen will insist that the embargoes are necessitated by the smuggling and, God forbid, are not collective punishment. Please forgive the hard nudge and the broad wink. As Dennis Ross and others have written, a greater commitment of Israeli manpower at security checkpoints would substantially mitigate against arming terrorists while providing relief to civilians; yet Israel has never made this a priority. And Gaza’s civilians are suffering commensurately. Israeli officials don’t often publicly acknowledge collective punishment (it’s against the law), but any veteran of military service in the territories – okay, this veteran of military service in the territories will tell you – it is routinely used to justify shutting down a village where trouble has occurred. (“We’re going to squeeze them a little, and they’ll give up the bad guys, or at least force them to go somewhere else so it won’t be our problem” is how I remember one commander explaining it in the Bureij refugee camp an eon ago.) Yitzhak Rabin, not one to suffer legal niceties gladly, bluntly made the same case more than once for broader operations. Leave aside for a moment the moral question – what is the usefulness of collective punishment? After 40 years of its intermittent use, are the Palestinians more quiescent? Has it ever been effective in the territories? Anyone heard of summud? I can think of only one instance where it had limited effect: Operation Accountabilty in 1993, where Rabin made clear he was creating an internal refugee crisis in Lebanon to pressure the government into reining in Hezbollah. But that was Lebanon. Has it ever worked on the Palestinians? And back to the moral question: How is pressuring civilians to effect policy changes not terrorism (albeit of a less lethal kind than that practiced by Hamas)?

And speaking of civilians caught in the crossfire – what is so extraordinary about this little war that it merits enhanced attention from the president-elect, from the media, from the teenager stuffing “People” into your groceries bag? Editor and Publisher’s Greg Mitchell has wondered aloud why the sufferings of the Palestinians have not merited greater coverage by the media and “liberal bloggers” (coulda fooled me). The implication is that we’re all cowering for fear of repercussions from the teeth-gnashing, gut-clawing “Israel lobby” monster. (JTA's report is here.) The suffering has merited multiple-day front-page coverage; is the same true of eastern Congo? Of Abkhazia? Of Pakistan’s border provinces? The follow-up evasion to this usually is that Israel’s conflicts are not isolated, they threaten to engulf the region, etc. etc., yet that does not seem true in this case; if anything, Israel’s neighbors are making a new art of thumb-twiddling in hopes of seeing an Islamist movement crushed.

But that doesn’t absolve us – us Jews, us Israelis – from asking questions. It is a war waged in our name. It is a war we have been asked to defend, as American Jews, and if we have an obligation to defend Israel, we have a right to ask hard questions, and not just in chambers. The hoary old emotional blackmail - “Israel knows best, its government is on the front line” - is still dead, buried by its most strident advocates the minute they turned on Oslo. The Israeli standing by the fridge in Ashdod - and the Palestinian standing in the kitchen in Khan Yunis - deserve no less.

*Ma pitom, literally, “What, suddenly,” is one of those transient, untranslatable idioms that means something different from use to use – in this case, “What are you talking about?” “Miskenim” means “poor slobs” and “ya’, mamzer” means exactly that.

Thanks to In Mol Aran for turning me on to this link. It seems I might be a man after all. Check it out. 

http://genderanalyzer.com/?url=www.guitargirlsdigitaldiary.blogspot.com

On seasonal affect disorder; X-mas v. Xanuka;
and thoughts on mark again...again

I was at the Teaneck Scrabble club last week when one of our longtime members, Helga, confessed that this is her most behated time of year. It's not just Christmas, she said, but the entire season, "from Halloween to New Year's." It was cathartic to hear this from someone who is not Jewish. If I could have played PATINAE at that moment, I would have done so: It was a moment which, for me, wrapped up the entire Christmas thing with a pretty, tinselly bow.

Social workers who deal with holiday-conflicted Jews also have a package wrapped with a bow that they call the "Christmas Dilemma." It makes it easier for them to treat, suffer or tolerate their vitamin D-deprived semitic patients during this joyous season of merrymaking and goodwill toward men. I was married to an Irish Catholic who converted to Judaism, and I can attest firsthand that at no time was there any conflict in our lives that had to do with religious practices and holidays. His mother sent us the best Hanuka cards in the world. She had a real instinct for what worked.

I confess that I don't really recall Mum sending me anything much during Hanuka. There was a tacit understanding that money was available in small portions for presents for the children. Or perhaps Mum and Dad spent a holiday with us from time to time. Not a great reciprocator, I was always successful beyond my wildest dreams in assuring that I sent out greeting cards late, or that the plants or gifts I gave were vastly underwhelming, or sent some sort of mixed message to the recipient.

I'm not here to kvetch. I would, however, like to state that perhaps due to my upbringing I have zero understanding of gift-giving or gift-appreciating. I can send out a successful mass mailing fund raising letter, but I don't really know how to send a personal card to special someone/s who might really need to hear something intimate and tender from me. Classic example: I have not really considered presents for my kids this year, nor have I sent them any sort of touchy-feely cards or greetings. I've been pretty clammed up, in fact. Not gonna lie; not proud about it; just gonna shout about it.

Notwithstanding my inability to be gracious and classy in the gift giving department, the Xmas/Xanuka dilemma has never been my bailiwick. Christmas was part of our life when I was a child. Every year Mum would dust off the plastic holly and ornaments, and we would hang all of it around her ladies' wear store in the West End.

There was the annual Christmas party at the store during which Mum's right-hand employee, Ciel Mackenzie, brought in her fruitcake. At this point, if you are a conflicted Jew or a Christmas-celebrating Christian, you know that:

FRUITCAKE = MATZA

• No one eats it
• It never goes stale
• It's the Picture of Dorian Gray: Somewhere hidden away is a fruitcake, sagging and wrinkly.
  
• You should carbon-14 date it before it goes anywhere near your mouth
  

Ciel's fruitcake was different. It emitted an intriguing, chest-melting fume. Hers was pickled in brandy and sopping wet to the touch. A little whipped cream on top and coupled with a spiked eggnog, and the youngest amongst us was flying high. No wonder we had so many people stopping by the store, including the cops, security, Mum's competitors, too. And Mum always brought in a vast quantity of corned beef, pastrami, rye bread, pickles from Schmerl's Delicatessen, and a bottle of Crown Royal. Nothing was left but crumbs, year in, year out.

Despite this very sweet memory, December sucks for me. I thought I was over it, at long last. It's been a great month so far, filled with good things. I aced my semester and maintained my 4.0 grade point average. I met lots of new and interesting people at school who have been stimulating my mind and spurring my creativity. I wrote. I baked. I read. I listened. I made stuff. I guess it's still not enough. I cannot get over certain dates, long behind me, dates that visit upon me like unwelcome guests, especially when I can't see the sun for the threatening skies, and when the descending claustrophobia brings time to its knees in my brain:

• Dec. 5- official date of death of Mark Balshin, 23, biggest love of my life
• Dec. 8 - murder of Israel Ehrlich, Holocaust survivor, 50s, close family friend, by a 15-year-old boy and his 14-year-old girlfriend
• Dec. 9 - accidental death of Rachel Tenenbaum, 12, school and camp buddy, who stepped out in front of a truck after school
• Dec. 22 - Mark's birthday
  

I want to dedicate this column to Mark because not a day goes by when I do not think about him and remember him as though he were still here. I still dream about him. In those dreams, he is very much alive, clear eyes lovingly gazing into my own, much like they did back then. I hear all the words from so many others about how he was, but I only remember how he was to me. Special cosmic connection. Then suddenly you are left alone to carry on, and what a void that leaves. Changes you. Maybe that's what I hear in "Love Hurts" as sung by Gram Parsons and Emmylou Harris.



I keep saying I want to medicate myself if only to speed up the clock and give me a little leg up. Then, like a miracle, January 1 rolls around every year and this white noise in my head just stops cold. For your reading pleasure, here is a poem that I recited quite often on the circuit, and which I had written only a couple of weeks after he left this earth.

It predates kd lang, so you could say yes, I did write it in the e.e. cummings style. It was intentional, not having anything to do with affect. I was so alone at that moment, so completely down. For me, every letter of the alphabet was also flying low to the ground. There could be no superstar letters. There could be no elevation. Here it is. Happy holidays.

thoughts on mark again

when the fire in your veins

turns to ash

and you can’t answer

to your given name

and nobody’s on the phone

when you can’t comfort or be

comforted

when you cease

to recognize love

when you don’t feel needed

and nobody wants you

when your ears are deaf

and you stop trying

when the hope in your heart

turns to rust

when you won’t be home

anymore

when the sun leaves

your eyes

and you turn off the world

when the fridge is empty

and the oven won’t work

and nobody emptied the ashtray

when a thousand eyes

are weeping

and one candle is burning

when a sympathetic word

can’t stop the pain

when an image visits

in the night

with starry eyes

and kisses the memories

when the truth beats down

in the morning

and there’s frost on

the newly turned earth

when your song is on the radio

and nobody will tell you

when your magazines

beg to be read

when your clothes ache

to be worn

when you don’t care

and your love is no more

and you leave a hole

when people were afraid

when your signals crossed

and you made a mistake

that you can’t take back

now your pens don’t write

and your secrets are

no longer sacred

and the only witness

is your pillow

and the blankets

refuse to give a statement

and the air is thick

with confidential information

and the curtains

are acting dumb

and the television

didn’t hear a thing

when questions are answered

and answers are questioned

when you’re alone and

you don’t understand

when everybody’s talking

but nobody’s saying anything

when people you didn’t know

are apologizing

when everyone asks why

and you’re not one to say

and you can be oblivious

and you dare to

be silent

when you stop creating

and start destroying

when you need help

but won’t reach out

and you’re depressed

when you can’t show love

and you can’t take it

when you can’t remember

the last time you had fun

when laughter doesn’t

come so easy

and contentment is impossible

when humanity is

a mere abstract thought

and living doesn’t matter

when ceasing is

a good exit

and dying and escape

are the same damn thing

and you would actually do it

and not worry about

others’ feelings

when your mother can offer

no excuse

and you will never apologize

when all the tears and

hurt and anger and burning

and money and screams

won’t bring you back

when you will never ever

call me again and say

“i’m back”

to wake me from this nightmare

when all the poems

throughout human history

offer no condolence,

what will i do

what will i do

WHAT WILL I DO?

My daughter loves your son, Kate!

TEL AVIV -- Last Wednesday we were treated by Miriam to Rufus Wainwright at Mann Auditorium. The show was sold out to an exuberant crowd of adoring fans. I will not bother you with my preamble. Here, in Miriam's words, is how it went down.

Where to even begin? It's shows like this that remind me how much I wish I were part of the Wainwright/McGarrigle family. He looked great - love that suit, and I was thrilled to see it make another appearance! - and sounded spectacular. Really, his voice was perfect - one of the best shows I've seen. He hit every falsetto note effortlessly, beautifully. He slipped up a couple of times on lyrics, but recovered seamlessly - and besides, that's what we love about him! I was amazed at his performance considering how jet-lagged I know he is; there's a 7-hour time difference between Israel and New York.

The amazing thing is, I never thought I'd get to see Rufus at all this year. I'm studying in Jerusalem this year, so I expected this to be a painfully Rufus-free year. I did notice a Facebook group called "Bring Rufus to Israel!" but I never thought it'd come to anything. When I discovered that he'd be doing a show here, I couldn't believe the coincidence: the one year that I'm here, Rufus decides to come to Israel! And of course, seeing Rufus definitely eased the pain of missing Thanksgiving.

Part of Rufus' brilliance, I think, is that certain songs take on a completely fresh, magnetic quality when he performs them solo (i.e., "Sanssouci"), and that he revives old songs beautifully (i.e., "Cigarettes And Chocolate Milk," and everything else from that record). It almost seems like he's performing a new song - until you remember that there's a little electric guitar here, some drums there.

And then, a surprise - Kate! She looked radiant, with a great dress and chic new haircut. And she came out [i]barefoot[/i]! She's just amazing. They bantered and chatted; they tried to remember in which key they usually do "If Love Were All;" they tried - and failed - to remember all the words to "A Foggy Day;" Kate corrected Rufus' lyrics to "Somewhere Over The Rainbow" and reminded him that it's "Kate & Anna McGarrigle," not "The McGarrigle Sisters," as he referred to them. Last night as always, it's magical to see the two of them on stage together. [i]Magical[/i].

The Mann Auditorium is a great venue with fantastic acoustics - Rufus even said so himself! The balcony doesn't hang over the orchestra, cramping the theater; instead, the orchestra sweeps gracefully upward to the balcony seats, leaving plenty of open space to be filled by the sound on the stage - perfect conditions for Rufus' HUGE voice.

I managed to capture Rufus' banter in between each song. Here it is:

- Grey Gardens -

"I feel very appropriately dressed for such an - interesting - building (laughter)...Yes, the proper term is, like, 'formal-Jewish' (laughter) - you know, all this pizazz (indicating his suit)!"

- Pretty Things -
- Beauty Mark -

"All right, I know I'm gorgeous, but no more pictures, please (responding to too many camera flashes)!" and "This is my first time in Israel, playing here...I've already put on 5 pounds, eating my way through Jaffa today...I'm a hummus monster...!"

- Nobody's Off The Hook -

"This next song I wrote about a beautiful palace near Berlin called Sanssouci...It started off as an architectural fantasy - well actually, it started off as architecture and then it quickly turned into fantasy: the palace went from being an actual place to my subconscious, where you can eat as much hummus as you like (laughter) and do all sorts of other things which we won't talk about in this very fancy concert hall! Then, of course, there's a moral to the story: at the end of the song you open the doors to the ball and there's nobody there. But I heard that's not the way it is in Tel-Aviv: I heard all the balls are always full (laughter)! So anyway, here's a little bit of austerity for you..."

After a few lines of Sanssouci, he sang the wrong words: "...Gently polishing my - oh, wrong words! Let's start this again...There are these two girls dancing and I..." - and then something about their dancing affecting him like a "normal person..."

- Sanssouci -

"I'm kind of excited to do this song in Israel because you guys are still waiting for your messiah - except for the beard people...So maybe this is who it'll be!"

- Gay Messiah -

"This next song is from my new album, Release The Stars...uh, is that my new album? (laughter) Or is the Judy album my new album? I can't...you know, whatever, they're two separate - things - of this incredible body (laughter)...I have to do that so people won't be disappointed if I don't make a fool of myself (laughter)...So yeah, this one is a sad song (shrug) (laughter)...I'm just trying to confuse you: first I make you laugh, then I make you cry...Then I make you believe!"

- Not Ready To Love -

"So before playing this next song, I just have to preface it with a couple of things: one is that, let's start off by being really really happy and joyful about the fact that Obama won the election! (cheers!) Very very excited about that. But on the other hand, let's be a little bit sad that in America on the same day, there was horrible, horrible legislation passed - anti-gay stuff in California and Florida about gay marriage - which frankly, I'm really not that into gay marriage, personally (applause) - I don't plan to get married, really - well, maybe I'd like the decision, maybe I'd like to be able to, or something, but that being said - in fact, I was once having a conversation with Boy George (laughter), and we were talking about policy and politicians, and somehow we were talking about politicians I like, and I said, 'Yeah, he's pro-gay marriage and anti-death penalty,' and Boy George said, 'Isn't gay marriage kind of a death penalty?" (laughter) - but that being said, I am strongly against any kind of discriminatory or exclusionary words being put in the American Constitution, I think it's terrible, so that's what I'm against (applause) - and also, government legislating your sex life, it's just terrible. So anyway, those are the two things I want you to remember."

And then he launched into Going To A Town - the newly altered version, in which he sings, "I'm not tired of you, America," "After soaking the body of Jesus Christ in blood/I'm so tired of California," "And not for thinking everything that you've done is good/I'm so tired of you, Florida."

- Going To A Town -

Following GTAT: "In a song, once I write a negative comment, it always fixes it and then everything is wonderful in about a year (laughter)...I'm just kidding, I'm kidding - I'm getting the Jerusalem Complex as I'm sitting here on stage (laughter)...but anyway, in light of all this more positive American attitude that was starting to happen with the Obama candidacy, and now Presidency, I wrote a song about New York. So this song's about New York, which everybody - every Jew in the world loves New York!"

- Who Are You New York -

"You're all so lucky tonight because I have an amazing person with me: my mother is here (cheers!)...and (as Kate walks out, barefoot, holding a camera) - are you filming me?!" She pointed the camera at the audience, took a picture, gave a thumbs-up, and sat down at the piano. Rufus: "We're gonna do this one song and then there's gonna be a little intermission, and - please come back! (shrug) (laughter) We've done a bit of New York, bit of America - we've been in America a lot, I think, and now we're gonna move over to England, and we're gonna do a song by the great Noel Coward..."

- If Love Were All -

"Well, if we sing 'If Love Were All,' we have to sing 'A Foggy Day'...well, we have to remember it first...uh...how does it start? It goes..."
Kate: "Uh, how does it go?"
Rufus offers a half-assed attempt that peters out at the end: "I was a stranger in this city..."
Kate mumbles a little bit, tries singing a few notes as she searches for the right chords...lots of laughter, and then Rufus says something that sounds like, "You gotta give her credit...D'you want to just start?"
Kate: "Okay - how does it start?"
Rufus: "I was a stranger in this city..." and they fumble all the words in the song, though very comedically so, with that McGarrigle-Wainwright nonchalance, until they finally get to the chorus and finish the song beautifully.

- A Foggy Day -

INTERMISSION

- The Art Teacher -

"We've done America, we've done England, and we're gonna move a little south and do some Paris. I've noticed there's a lot of French - we've been having a funny experience, my mother and I, because usually when we want to say something, you know, naughty, about someone, we usually do it in French...but everybody here speaks French - but we do it anyway!"

- Leaving For Paris - (breathtakingly beautiful when it's done live!)

...which seamlessly led into a perfect rendition of:

- Hallelujah - (the whole theater was singing along)

- California -

"You guys are a really great audience - thanks so much for being great. And now I'm gonna tell you the one - I mean, this is good, you're gonna love this - the one - well, it's an actual funny Holocaust story. It actually doesn't involve the Holocaust - at the time - but it's an amazing story that I just have to tell while I'm here. Do you all know the actor Walter Matthau? Great actor. He was visiting Auschwitz, and he was there with his agent, and they were about to enter into the gas chamber, and right before that happened, this woman came up to them and said, 'Oh my God, it's Walter Matthau! Can I have your autograph?!' And he turned to her and said, 'Madam, this is really the wrong time to ask me for this, it's totally inappropriate, and no, you cannot have my autograph. Goodbye.' So then she left, and they went into the gas chamber, saw it, and then they left, and as they were leaving, she ran up to him and said, 'I just want you to know that you ruined my trip to Auschwitz!' True story!"

- Rebel Prince -

Saying that he comes from a musical family...talking about Kate: "...and she, of course, is an incredible singer, part of a classic duo called the McGarrigle Sisters - I hope you go out and get all their records - and also my sister, Martha Wainwright, is a singer, and I have another sister, Lucy Wainwright Roche, who's a singer, and my father, of course, the great Loudon Wainwright, is a singer, so we're all - and there's even others - so I'm from a - I'm basically from the circus (laughter), and this next song sort of touches on that...it's about wanting to be just a member of the family - even though it's the circus."

- Want -

Kate comes back on stage: "It's not the 'McGarrigle Sisters,' it's 'Kate & Anna McGarrigle."
Rufus: "Oh, I'm sorry...!" (laughs)
Kate: "And it's not a circus, either."
Rufus: "Ohhhh...."
Kate: "Circuses are FUN..."
Rufus: "Okay, mother...(feigned innocence) Irish mothers are sort of like Jewish mothers. (laughter) We're gonna do one of Kate's songs now - why don't you tell us a little bit about it?"
Kate: "It's called 'Mendocino,' which has a whole complicated story that I'm not gonna go into now...Do you remember how it goes?"
Rufus: "Yeah, I remember."
Kate: "Do you remember your part better than the way I remembered your part in the other song?"
Rufus: "Uh...we'll see...This IS the circus...and nobody knows what'll happen..." After a few moments of Kate finding the right chord: Do you remember YOUR part?"
Kate: "I do. (laughter) We've never done it together before on piano -"
Rufus: "Okay."

And it was gorgeous, obviously! What a beautiful song.

- Mendocino -

"Mendocino" leads into "Somewhere Over The Rainbow." Rufus sings: "Somewhere over the rainbow/Skies are -"
Kate quickly corrects him: "Way up high -" and Rufus quickly recovers, amid laughter. The rest of the song is stunning.

- Somewhere Over The Rainbow -

Kate kisses Rufus, leaves the stage.

- Zebulon -

ENCORE

- Complainte de la Butte -

"We're gonna bring my mother out again, we're gonna do another song...We thought that with all of this, sort of, cultural mishmash that is the world, we would do an Irish song. Since we're Irish - sort of. Half-Irish. She's very Irish - you're very Irish, right?"
Kate: "I'm half - I'm five-eighths -"
Rufus: "Five-eighths Irish. Which means you're very, VERY Irish. (laughter) Another reason I wanted to sing it is that this morning I woke up early and went to breakfast, and they had this incredible breakfast at the hotel, and I stuffed my face, but then I was like, 'There's one thing really missing,' and I couldn't quite - 'What's missing?' and I was like, 'Of course - bacon! There's no bacon!' (laughter) And this next song, sort of, is about bacon. (laughter) It's an ode to bacon - and the Irish, if there are any Irish people out there. And also, we were thinking about how - nobody knows this song - it's probably American, actually - we were thinking, written by Irish Americans, but then we thought it was probably actually written in the Brill Building, which in the '20s, or something, is where all the songwriters in New York wrote their lyrics - and it was probably written by Jews! Because most of those songwriters were Jews. Whatever. So who knows? But there's a connection there, somewhere. (laughter) It's called, uh...what's it called?"
Kate: "It's called, uh...I don't know the name of it..."
Rufus: "I don't know...It's called BACON! (laughter) It's called the Little Pigs. It's called the Little Pigs. Okay, let's go."
Kate: "Wait - what key do we do it in?"
Rufus: "Da-na..." (trying out a key)
Kate: "Too high..."
Rufus: "Ohhhh! (trying out another key) No, that's not too high. I can hit that note. I want to hit that note...(whining)"
Kate: "Well, if you think it's not too high..."
Rufus: "Yeah, I can hit it." (cheers!)
Kate: "Now you're being Irish - you gotta hit that high note."
Rufus: "I know, I know...Get high, hit the high note..."
Kate: "Get high and hit the pavement."
Rufus: (laughing) "Hit the high road...Give me a little intro...As I went out one evening in Tipperary town/I spied a fair...(looks to Kate for assistance) mavourneen -"
Kate: "- I spied a little colleen -"
Rufus; "- I spied a little colleen/Amongst the heather brown...."

Kate leaves the stage, but first grabs the microphone and says, "I got this dress from Marc Jacobs - I paid nothing for it."

- Poses -


THE END


By the end of the night, I'd gone from being a lonely expatriate with Rufus-less prospects, to saying hello to him at the stage door! I've been lucky enough to meet him after other concerts in the U.S. (plus a chance - or was it by divine providence? - meeting on the street in New York!), and didn't really want to bother him with pictures and autographs - so I just said, "Go and see La Traviata - I just saw it, and it's wonderful!" He said, "Oh, okay! Okay!" and it may have been my imagination, but he did seem to have recognized me...!

Meantime, my mum had gone over to Rufus' van, where Kate was already seated. My mom's a musician by trade who's played at various folk festivals over the years - including Mariposa, in Canada, which was a big gig of Kate & Anna's back in the day. Unfortunately, the year my mom was invited to play, the McGarrigles canceled because one of them was pregnant. Still, they have a few mutual friends from the music world, and when my mum went over to their van last night, they started talking and reminiscing...Kate was thrilled to hear the names of some of her old friends - I'm sure a little bit of familiarity while on the road must've been nice - and at one point, my mum quietly said, "You know, my daughter really loves your son," and they both beamed and shared a beautiful moment of motherly pride. "It's rare for a mom to be so involved with her kids in this business," my mum later told me.

I agree that Rufus may not have expected such a receptive audience. I think he was a little bit surprised by Israel, to be honest. Like most people, probably surprised to find that while it is the Jewish state, it's not all about religion and Judaism.

Finally, I'd like to add that there IS bacon in Israel! As demonstrated by a little pizza shop around the corner from the theater that served bacon-topped pizza! (I even have a picture to prove it!)

Do not miss this show!

The Dan Sheehan Conspiracy was scheduled to play a full-band, all-out rock show at Desmond's Tavern in Manhattan this Friday night, but we will instead be playing an EVEN MORE SPECIAL acoustic set featuring Dan and Gianluis (our new bassist). Our drummer Bobby unfortunately had a death in his extended family and cannot peform, but rather than cancel we other 2 guys decided to offer this special treat.

Says Dan of the change of plans, "It just so happens that I just came back from a solo acoustic tour in Arizona, so I'm certainly in gear for the stripped down thing. Those shows, and other acoustic shows I've played lately have had a lot of energy to them as I've learned to make up for sparse instrumentation, and having Gian contributing his bass and vocals is going to make it all sound nice and full, and display the craft of the songs perhaps more than our electric shows where underpaid sound people botch up our mix.

"PLUS," Sheehan adds, "folks can bring their parents, grandparents, and folkie friends who otherwise might mistake our electric guitar and drum-laden shows for Ozzfest."

So there you have it, folks. Come on down to Desmond's Tavern, 433 Park Ave South (bet. 29th & 30th) Friday night with $7 or more and check out this unique DSC experience!!!

8:00 Ryan Voster
8:45 All Out Riot
9:30 Dan and Gianluis of the Dan Sheehan Conspiracy
(212) 725- 9864

"Search For Heroic Beings" Art Show and Reception
Connected to "The Golem"

The Teaneck Festival of Arts, co-sponsor of "The Golem" screening with orchestral accompaniment at The Teaneck International Film Festival on Nov 15th, is presenting a related art show, "The Search for Heroic Beings" which will be on display at the Teaneck Public Library for the month of November.

The Art Show will consist of more than a dozen adult visual artists’ interpretation of the theme, along with masks created by 5th and 6th graders at Teaneck’s Community Charter School headed by Master Mask Maker from Teaneck - Howard Berelson - who worked with the students in Ms. Beverly Cooper’s art classes.

A Meet the Artists Reception co-sponsored by the Teaneck Public Library with the unveiling of an Art Video created by Film Editor Liz Celotto, based on the display, will be held in the Library Auditorium on Sunday, November 2nd from 3-5 pm. In addition, a special arts partnership has been formed with characters from WINTUK by Cirque du Soleil that will come decked out in the wintry colors of WINTUK which opens soon at Madison Square Garden's WAMU Theatre. Participants at the reception will have a chance to win a Family Four Pack of tickets to one of their upcoming shows. The quartet of joyful ambassadors will be a feast for the eyes and will stilt-walk, play, and clown their way into the hearts of young and old alike. www.cirquedusoleil.com (see photo enclosed)

The Art Reception is free and open to the public. Tickets for "The Golem" being shown at Theater One at Cedar Lane Cinemas during the Film Festival on Nov 15th at 8pm, are $20 in advance and $25 at the door. The art video will be displayed at 7:30pm. Advance tickets can be purchased at Brier Rose Books, 450 Cedar Lane; the Teaneck Public Library; Cedar Lane Cinemas after 6 pm; and Simply the Best, 472 Cedar Lane, Teaneck or by calling 1-800-811-2909. Tickets can also be purchased on line at www.teaneckfilmfestival.org For more info on the Art Show go to www.teaneckfoa.org

Teaneck Festival of Arts and the Teaneck International Film Festival are both projects of the Puffin Foundation, Ltd. located here in Teaneck.

Rosh Hashana festive cuisine a la Kraar

Yona has great sway over us -- we're going veggie. So great news about that: the challah can be dairy. Here's our menu, which I'm posting in case you need some inspiration in the kitchen right about now.

No one said that meat had to be the boss of you!

Choc. chip/currant challah
Salad
Veg. Shepherd's pie
Masha's kugel
Xmas apple sauce

CHALLAH -- THIS challah will have five cups of flour, including rye, soft, hard, whole wheat, handful of corn flour, and unbleached, all mixed together, whatever I had leftover from my JohnVince adventures. I'll also chop some unsweetened Bakers Chocolate in the processor, add a generous handful of tiny dried currants, sugar in place of honey, canola oil in place of olive oil, and milk to make up half the quantity of water. Why? Because it's half-cake, half-bread. Think of the french toast we will have afterward! You can butter it with real butter! During dinner!

SHEPHERD'S PIE -- The main meal is veggie shepherd's pie using several kinds of veggie meat, some of which will be processed in the grinder.

SWEET POTATO KUGEL -- And Masha's incredible sweet potato kugel (again, write for recipe) with marshmallows on top, just how Marty loves it.

SALAD -- Salad, of course, in Masha's famous salad spinner. Whatever is in the fridge goes in the bowl.

X-MAS APPLESAUCE -- And home-made apple sauce made from the cheapo bin apples for a buck a bag. Peel, core and cook. What makes it special is you put it in a clear glass serving bowl and set aside while you shuck a pomegranate in the sink. Clean up the seeds, then throw as many as desired into your cooled apple sauce. In the light you will see these beautiful red luminescent orbs in your all-natural dessert, shining like Christmas bulbs. Try it!

Thanks, Jeff Rosen and the Canadian Jewish News!

I have a piece in the CJN about the Hadassah Bazaar in this week's edition. Visit me again a little closer to Bazaar time to see the piece with a couple of pictures from way back when.

Read the CJN story here.

Oct. 27/99
Hadassah Bazaar

I was digging around in search of some photos from my late mother's collection, and I came across three sheets of note paper stapled together, a first draft of a vignette that she had written about the famous Hadassah Bazaar. I thought that since this is the Bazaar's last year, I would share with you this colourful little piece that I was so fortunate to stumble upon.

For most of my childhood, my mother spent much of her free time devoted to Massada, her Canadian Hadassah Wizo chapter. Although she was a full-time career woman who owned her own dress shop in the west end of Toronto, nothing could tire her out enough to miss a Hadassah meeting with the thirty or so ladies who made up the chapter. They were like a family -- these Holocaust survivors, most of whom were from Poland, many of whom had kids my age, and some of whom worked in their husband's businesses. The organized teas, they canvassed for things to sell at the bazaar, they had garage sales during the year. They argued, they irritated each other, they roared and then they roared with laughter. The stories I'd hear! But in the end, what they were doing was "for a good cause," and that was what it was all about. And we all counted down the days to the bazaar. It was the most exciting day on the calendar -- like a holiday, but without synagogue. It always fell just prior to Halloween, and there was a bit of a Mardi Gras feel to it, very festive and free, with live music, a car raffle, off-track betting, and even a high-tone auction.

I loved it best when young male students would approach the Massada chapter tables, and the members would run to coddle them, dress them up, tell them what was the right length, what matched their eyes, and what was a good bargain. There were also mountains of kids' clothes, some quite "vintage." We loved dressing up the little moppets who tagged along with their mothers.

How many times did I see my mother shaking her head from side to side, and then I'd overhear her say to someone, "It's not flattering. Come over here to this rack, let me show you something that is more suited to your frame."

My job was to create ensembles and then mount them high enough for the throngs to see. I would put a blouse on a hanger, puff it out over a snazzy belt and pin a pair of slacks to it from behind. We also sold these "models" first. Toward the end of the day, one of the members would announce, "Fill a bag for five dollars!" and again, the huddled masses would storm the tables.

I cannot recall how many times over the years my mother prayed for someone to relieve her of her role as chapter president. On those nights she would put the gavel in a plastic bag, along with her binder, and go out the door, gone for hours. Invariably, the next morning, the gavel would reappear, like a bad penny. She was the perpetual Hadassah lady, toiling away for the benefit of a far-off hospital in Jerusalem that most members saw maybe once or twice in their lifetime.

I was saddened to hear that Hadassah was pulling the plug on the bazaar, although intellectually I do understand it. Back in 1999, my mother also saw the writing on the wall at the Automotive Building of the Canadian National Exhibition grounds, which was the gargantuan home to the bazaar in its heyday. Nothing could compare then, and nothing will, ever.

(Pictured above: former Toronto Mayor Mel Lastman with my mother. Pictured below: Several members of the Massada chapter in front of the massive booths at the bazaar)

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Oct. 27/99
Hadassah Bazaar

by Ann Szedlecki
My late, wonderful mother


Our blue smocks come out of the closet once a year. They identify us as members of Hadassah Wizo, the women's organization. Massada, our chapter, is thirty-five years old.

Finally the preparation is over and we wait for 9 a.m. That's when the doors open and a sea of humanity surges forth. They waited outside in the line for hours.

Ours was a large chapter. The members either housewives or career women, bringing up young children.

We watched them grow up, go to high school and institutions of higher learning, and on to their chosen professions. We, the members of Massada, attended their simchas, and also shared in their losses. Over the years it became evident that we were aging, and the chapter could not stay as active as it had been before. We joined the organization and attended its conventions, either in Israel or in Canada. We did the best we could, because we felt that as Jews we work for a worthy cause, benefitting Israel.

Who could forget vivacious, funny Molly, always with a joke. Even with an oxygen tank she attended our meetings and never felt left out. Or Frances, a wonderful generous person who was always willing to volunteer for tasks that were hard to fill. They are both gone now.

The rest of us are less able to do the job, but we are trying.

We are flooded with memories of the bazaars past. One man changed his mind and got his back up for a pair of pants. In one of the pockets we found twenty dollars. We took the money, but for the sake of public relations we returned ten dollars. A lady offered eight dollars for a piece of material that we had priced at eight dollars. Obviously she did not hear.

People attend the bazaar every year and we see familiar faces. We never heard a negative word about Jews or Israel, even though most of the customers were not Jewish. My daughter, who lives in New Jersey, drove all day Tuesday with a nine-month-old baby, and left Thursday early, so eager was she to be here, where she attended so many bazaars over the years.

Everybody in the chapter brings a bag of food, drinks, fruits, so that, G-d Forbid, we wouldn't starve. Our own coats get stored in boxes under the tables. Some of them get sold (by accident!), my own jacket included!

Nine o'clock, doors open, and we are open for business. Everything so neatly displayed on tables immediately gets messed up by people browsing for bargains. We don't bother to straighten anything -- the next person will probably find what they were looking for at the bottom of the pile.

Time goes fast. Another sandwich and another coffee. Some members go home to be replaced by others. A few, including me, stay until the end in order to provide return transportation for the other members.

The loudspeaker announces closing time. Some of us have been on our feet since seven this morning, and it is around nine o'clock at night now. Tens of thousands of people have been through our three continuous booths, loaded with used clothing, and some new things, such as shoes and clothes that have been donated by our suppliers. Even fur coats. The leftovers are picked up by other organizations to be sold again.

So this is it? Where did the time go? Maybe, just maybe, we'll be able to do one more bazaar in the year 2000. That will mark a double-chai for our chapter. Allevay!!

Summer Roundup

It's been a very eventful summer, to say the least. Little GuitarGirl is all growed up with one daughter on staff at Camp Shalom and the other one moving up the ranks and now ensconced at Camp Solelim. With autumn in the wings, Miriam is set to go off to Israel for the year and Yona starts high school.

My mother's memoir is getting ready to be published, and I'm busily working away at the one-woman show based on her life in Siberia, as well as transcribing Dad's oral history. It's premature, but I've picked out the appropriate props for Mum's show. They include: her first kitchenette set (circa 1954); a modest writing desk; and the chair she bought from Suzette's dad's furniture store the year she separated from Dad and lived at 12 Rockford Road in Willowdale. Those are the remnants of her life in Toronto that I've stored away in a little cubby in Englewood, NJ. I've also picked the music, including much vintage Polish and Russian stuff from the military and movies of the WWII era. I've also included Hollywood favourites of hers.

We went to Israel for a couple of weeks on what was to have been a productive business-meets-pleasure trip, but which became my struggle with a very nasty stomach virus. There was much of that going around Jerusalem, where we were headquartered. That knocked the wind out of my sails for around 10 days. I mostly slept, ate dry rye toast and drank tea.

When my energy level somewhat returned, I convinced Marty that we needed to go to the desert, away from the intensity and noisy continuum of Jerusalem. I wanted to look out and see magnificent sandy dunes, Sodom apple trees, crevices where the flash floods rage in winter, flocks of goats along the side of the road, and the Dead Sea in the background. I wanted to hear the sound of God, unencumbered. I wanted to feel the breeze that comes at 5.30 p.m. when the night air starts to blanket everything and forgive the baked ground its crusty summer blister.

We researched and found a bed and breakfast in Arad called Beit Ahuva. Since that was my Hebrew name, I thought it was worth a try -- if only to go down to the desert and consort with the locals and forget the noise and the congestion of the city. And all the English that dilutes the Middle Eastern experience. We were not disappointed. In fact, we were embraced by Yoel, the proprietor, who invited us to a barbecue he was having for a few friends at home that evening. We decided it would be easier if our new friends called us by our Hebrew names, so Ahuva and Moshe it was. In Yoel's crowd there are three people named Moshe, so it got more interesting as the beer and booze flowed, and as the platters of food came out. I even found a fellow Siedlecki in the crowd, who happened to be the daughter of a woman from Siedlec who married someone named Siedlecki. We immediately became fast friends.

I had been off meat for a good while by then, but the smell was irresistible. The Moshe who was called Mussa (Arabic for Moshe, despite the fact that like me, he is a Polish Jew with Lodz roots) was grilling away a mixture of beautiful cuts of tenderloin, chicken and some other fresh-cut and marinated meats. All things being equal in the Holy Land, the meat was neither kosher nor hallal, NOR shall I tell you from which Levantine brother this meat was purchased. This is how it is in the desert. There are no TV cameras here, showing you hordes of angry religionists gargling to God while threatening death and destruction to their enemies (that's about an hour away from here, which is considered pretty darned far). Everyone here is friendly; everyone has a gun. But these things are never discussed. What's more of interest these days are the upcoming Israeli elections, the new plant that got approval in a very hush-hush manner, the new mall that is supposed to be happening. You can get a villa overlooking the desert here for $125,000. Or a lot for much less. They are not eager to bring the masses from the city down here. That's just a lot of talk.

Back in Jerualem, after this wonderful getaway, we made some progress catching up with work, rescheduling meetings and seeing people we had been trying to see. There was nothing on TV: My football team, Maccabi Tel Aviv, was off. But then I got word of a Betar Jerusalem v. Wisla Krakow game that sounded interesting. I felt a low-level excitement. There was a buzz in the air about this match. We hit a local sports bar in a trendy neighbourhood of Jerusalem where the sound was turned up as the first game, at Teddy Stadium (just up the road) was taking place.

The bar went quiet. We shouted at the TV. We were tense. We were quiet, and then we shouted at the TV some more. At half-time, Jerusalem was down and it looked like the Krakow team would take the game.

But surprise of surprises when the next morning the paper came, heralding a Betar Jerusalem victory over the Polish team. The city of Jerusalem sprung to life. The game had stimulated great discussion. What was our fascination with this game? It seemed to affect the Eastern European Jews more, but the Sephardic Jews were also empathetic.

We would have a few days to play "Monday morning quarterback" and figure out what went right, what went wrong, and how "we" were going to prepare for Game Two, which was to be played at week's end in Krakow. Fans bought their tickets and made their way to Poland. The team was delayed due to a mechanical, and arrived to Poland exhausted. The management took a trip to Auschwitz to pay respect to Holocaust victims. There was a murmuring about the anti-Semitic nature of the Poles, and particularly of the Polish fans.

Game Two was the elimination round for a face-off against Barcelona. I was torn. I didn't really know where my loyalty lay. Was I going to be faithful to Poland, or to Israel? Could I be objective?

I joke about the nature of football, calling it "a man soap opera." But in fact that's just a front for how I really feel. It's about gaining power in the international arena for a fleeting moment -- to feel almighty and to represent your people, to lift their spirits, no matter how powerless governments and armies make them feel.

According to Wikipedia:

Two Jerusalemites, David Horn and Shmuel Kirschstein, decided in 1936 to form a local football team. David Horn was the local chief of Betar, the youth movement of the Revisionist (liberal nationalist) Party, a pre-statehood Zionist movement. To this day Beitar fans are generally identified with that movement's successor party, the Likud or other right-wing groups. The leaders of the youth federation saw this as a project to produce a football club with Beitar's self-defined qualities of Hadar (self-respect) and Hod (glory). The earliest squad was composed entirely of Beitar youth members, including a future government minister, Chaim Corfu. They played initially at the "banana field" close to Beitar youth group's "nest."

Beitar's association with the Revisionist Party quickly brought them into conflict with the British authorities of that time, as well as the fans of Hapoel Jerusalem, a team connected with the Jewish socialist Israel Workers Party (Mapai) in the years 1939-48. Most Beitar players were also secretly members of the Revisionist-affiliated National Military Organization (Irgun Zva'i Leumi) or Freedom Fighters of Israel (Lehi), two groups in open rebellion against Britain's control over Palestine. In the 1940s the British arrested most of the group's players, exiling them to Eritrea and Kenya along with many Irgun and Lehi leaders. Part of their defiance (which also included legendary prison escapes) was the forming of the Beitar Eritrea side that included Micah Aharoni, Corfu, and the goalkeeper Moshe Baruch. In 1948 the British Mandate ended and the interned players were repatriated to the new State of Israel.

As for Wisla Krakow, Wiki says:

The history of Wisła started during the fall of 1906, when (probably in October) Dr. Tadeusz Konczyński organised the Krakow Błonia, the first football tournament in the city. He also founded four teams (among them one came from the Second Real School) and football uniforms which came to him from England. The school's team (also called Szkolnikowski's team) was given light blue shirts with a black bowl on their chests, which was divided by a blue belt. This is why they were called "The Blues". Their first captain, and also the person to coin the name "Wisła" was Józef Szkolnikowski - goalkeeper. Prof. Tadeusz Łopuszański was the club's first chairman.

In September 1907 "The Reds" (Jenkner's team) merged with Wisła, and soon after "The Pinks" did the same. That is when Towarzystwo Sportowe Wisła officially began. The Blue shirts were changed to red, but the black trousers remained. When the first uniforms arrived from Berlin, two light blue stars were present on the shirts. It was decided that only one would remain, though its colour would be changed to white. This is how "The White Star" became the recognized symbol of the club. From that time on the club had its ups and downs, winning national championships and gaining European qualification. The club was also relegated on three occasions to the second division.

The fateful day came when the two teams met in Krakow. I watched the match. I knew from the instant Betar took the field that they were not equipped to deal with this very focused, very professional team on their home turf. At the end, the pundits said, "I told you so" and the headlines would read, "Habayta (homeward)" in the papers.

It was hard to watch that game and not think about the dual loyalty - how some people may want Jerusalem to beat Poland because it's about Jews against their former neighbours. On the other hand, it was clear that this was football - plain and simple. And that Wisla Krakow was going to win and face Barcelona no matter what, because that's what was on their minds. The Israelis seemed distracted and beaten down by the end of the first half. The overwhelming sound of the Wisla Krakow fans was deafening, even from all these miles away.

The Israeli commentators did their job with great resignation in their voices, but they were intent to note that there was nothing anti-Semitic about the behaviour of the fans, the Polish news stories, etc. This was purely about the best athletic team. And Krakow was it. And the Brozek brothers are truly amazing athletes that deserve our respect and praise. Period.

My gut was that I would now root for Krakow to overtake Barcelona. Which I did.

Nothing left to do but get ready for September.