December 2022 – Page 5

Love through good and bad

Gloria Levi’s recently published creative memoir The Hotelkeeper’s Daughter is a tribute to her family. And not just the family from whom she comes – the people who inhabit the main part of this story – but also the family she has made herself, the family members in the book with whom she shares her memories and those outside of it, who will read the story.

The memoir is “creative” because memory, almost by definition, is unreliable, and, with this book, the 90-plus-year-old Levi is going back to her childhood. The character Gilda, her avatar of sorts, is trying to make sense of her past:

“They are all gone … Jerry, Macey, Sadie … and Ida and Leo … Bubbie … I, Gilda, at the age of 90, am the only one left of my family of origin. I am the Omega generation, the last letter of the Greek alphabet. I remember so vividly the sweetness of family togetherness, extended family visits, our tight-knit community. How I loved them and felt loved by them: their vitality, their enduring values, their struggles, losses and successes, their remarkable resilience. They are a deep part of me. They are the heroes of a bygone era.”

Speaking to her son and great-grandson, Gilda takes us to Powell Street, in Brooklyn, N.Y., 1938. She is 7 years old. She vividly describes her community, the neighbourhood of Brownsville. Her parents, grandmother and three siblings live downstairs in a duplex shared with her uncle and aunt and their family, who live upstairs. Money is sparse.

“During their usual pinochle card game one Saturday evening in March,” writes Levi, “my father turned to his cousin, Big Eliezer, and said, ‘Eli, I really need to make a change. I don’t want to go on like this. I know I can do better than my chicken store. What do you think, if you, Sammy and I were to rent a summer hotel? My brother Benny runs a hotel with partners. He’s doing just fine. You know, with your catering experience, Eli, and the younger energy and determination of Sammy and me, I think we could make a go of it. What do you think?’ Sammy nodded in agreement. Uncle Shimon closed his hand of cards and stared.”

And the rest, as they say, is history – and the meat of this memoir. Life isn’t easy as the daughter of hotelkeepers. Gilda had been happy on Powell Street, had many friends and her favourite activities. She was very close to her grandmother, who didn’t initially go with the family, and her parents were absorbed in the business. Gilda was lonely and often felt invisible. She has a challenging relationship with her mother, Ida.

Through Gilda’s story, we see how families like hers – an Eastern European Jewish family who immigrated to the United States – struggled and succeeded in their new homeland, through the Great Depression and the Second World War. We also see how Gilda grows into herself and begins to find her own way. The memoir ends in 1948, as Gilda starts university.

As 90-year-old Gilda looks back at this foundational decade of her life, relating her story to her son Daniel and great-grandson Lenny, she ultimately reflects not only on what has passed, but what is yet to come.

“To the Lennys of today and the Idas of yesterday, I want to affirm their vision, their energy, and their inspiring dedication to build a fairer, more just and loving society.”

One is never too old to learn

I had the privilege of seeing Mark Leiren-Young’s play Bar Mitzvah Boy when it premièred at Pacific Theatre in 2018. It was funny, edgy and insightful, and well-acted by Gina Chiarelli and Richard Newman. It contained a lot of local references, making it even more special.

What I see from the Playwrights Canada Press edition, which was published in 2020 and arrived at the JI sometime in 2021, is that Leiren-Young’s notes on various aspects of the play allow productions to change certain references and pronunciations to localize the action, thereby making it special no matter where it is performed. For instance, the audience first meets Rabbi Michael Levitz-Sharon, who is in her mid-30s to maybe 45 years old, on a jogging path, “dressed in sweats and a ball cap for a local sports team.”

The next scene: in the rabbi’s office, there sits a man in his mid-60s or older, Joey Brant, “decked out in prayer regalia – including tefillin, which are on incorrectly.” This is our first hint that he, despite initial appearances, is not a rabbi or a religious Jew. When Michael arrives, Joey assumes that the relatively young woman in running gear doesn’t belong at the synagogue – and certainly isn’t the congregation’s spiritual leader. This exchange sets the tone for the essentially two-person play that unfolds. The other cast member is Sheryl, the receptionist, who is never seen, only heard. As described by Leiren-Young, the actor of this role (which was Jalen Saip in 2018 at Pacific Theatre) should have “the accent you want the woman who runs your local deli to at least pretend to have.”

I love having these types of stage direction “made public.” It is a completely different experience to read a play than to attend it in person. It’s almost like listening to the acoustic version of one of your favourite pop musicians – if they are able to sing on key and play their chosen instrument skilfully, they really are excellent at their craft. Similarly, if the words of a play still make you laugh and cringe and move you emotionally in other ways, with no cues from actors or audience members, it is a very well-written play. Bar Mitzvah Boy in book form made me do all those things – I chuckled a lot throughout, and also got teary near the end. Michael and Joey (the bar mitzvah “boy,” btw) are both dealing with some serious, raw issues.

Since I finished the book, I’ve been revisiting some of the many topics it covers. I’ve thought about my own beliefs about Judaism and faith, what happens after we die, what makes a good friend, parent or spouse, how people navigate challenges differently, the ways in which a congregation (or any other group) can be both supportive and trying at the same time.

Leiren-Young dedicates the publication to his mother, Carol Leiren: “I guess it was worth sending me to Talmud Torah.” For viewers or readers of Bar Mitzvah Boy, it certainly was worth it – thank you.

Playing against hatred

A basketball game may not be able to bring about world peace, but at least one game has acted as a bridge to increasing mutual understanding and empathy.

The graphic novel The Basketball Game (Firefly Books, 2022) is based on the National Film Board of Canada animated short of the same name. Written by Hart Snider and illustrated by Sean Covernton, it is based on Snider’s memories of his first year at Jewish summer camp. It proved to be a unique experience.

It was July 1983. The camp was Camp BB Riback in Pine Lake, Alta. Snider was 9 years old and “totally homesick,” finding refuge in the comic books he had brought with him. That is, until he meets Galit. (The book is dedicated to his “partner, collaborator, inspiration and best friend, Galit,” his daughter and his parents.)

For young Hart, Camp BB made him feel at home. “Even both my parents went to this camp,” he writes. “It was a tradition in the community. It was a place to just be ourselves … and that was important because back then, growing up Jewish in Alberta wasn’t always so easy.”

Back then, in Eckville, Alta., the winter before Snider’s first summer at camp, teacher Jim Keegstra, “also the town’s mayor, was fired by the local school board.

“Believing the curriculum was ‘incomplete,’ Keegstra had been teaching Holocaust denial and antisemitic conspiracy theories in his classroom – that Jewish people had an international plot to control the world and were to blame for everything that’s wrong.”

But one Eckville parent, Susan Maddox, “noticed her 14-year-old son had some strange new opinions.” She looked through his notebooks, then filed a complaint with the school board.

Meanwhile, more than a thousand people attended a rally at the Edmonton Jewish Community Centre to figure out how to respond to the situation. One of the ideas proposed – by then Camp BB director Bill Meloff, z’’l – was to invite some of Keegstra’s former students to the camp for a “day of fun and fellowship,” which included the title’s basketball game.

image - Team A: In The Basketball Game, each team imagines the other side as monstrous stereotypes – until they get to know one another. (Text by Hart Snider / illustrations by Sean Covernton) — *(Text by Hart Snider / illustrations by Sean Covernton)*

In a brilliantly drawn sequence, the team players are depicted as their negative stereotypes, how they see one another. Blue Team – a horned demon, a world-controlling banker and an evil wizard – versus Red Team – a skinhead, a Nazi and a member of the KKK. The game is intense. Then, an opposing player compliments Hart’s shot. “Thanks, man,” says Hart. The game continues, kids versus kids, no more monsters.

“Looking back, it’s amazing that it happened at all,” writes Snider. “That Keegstra’s students were invited to the camp, and they actually came.”

image - Team B: Team A: In The Basketball Game, each team imagines the other side as monstrous stereotypes – until they get to know one another. (Text by Hart Snider / illustrations by Sean Covernton) — *(Text by Hart Snider / illustrations by Sean Covernton)*

That’s the thing. Someone had to extend the invitation, and someone had to accept. An illustrated reproduction of an actual newspaper clipping from 1983 notes that attendance at the camp was voluntary and that a preliminary survey indicated that about 10% of Eckville Junior-Senior High School’s 186 students “would be willing to attend.”

Here we are, almost 40 years later and, as Snider notes in his introduction: “Racism, conspiracy theories and antisemitism are spread every day on social media and other platforms. The hate that Keegstra taught in his classroom is now found in memes, videos and forums. Over and over again, we are challenged with the question, how do we deal with fear and prejudice?

“I hope we can continue to find common ground and have empathy for each other, but, most importantly, I hope that parents and kids keep talking to each other.”

The book, intended for readers 12 years old and up, includes more on the Keegstra trial, discussion questions and a glossary.

Snider participates in the 2023 Cherie Smith JCC Jewish Book Festival, which takes place Feb. 11-16.

We are inheritors of history

When Toronto poet Simon Constam emailed me with a request to read his debut collection of poetry, Brought Down, he described it as “notable because it addresses people’s daily experience of God and the Jewish religious tradition.” He noted, “it is provocative and well-written as can be attested to by the reviews of it thus far.” Indeed, the reviews I’ve read have been highly complimentary – and justifiably so.

I am neither religious nor a poetry buff, yet I found Constam’s poems engaging. I liked his challenging and questioning manner. At 70+ years old, he has wisdom gained from life experience that includes approximately a decade in which he followed Orthodox Jewish observance. His knowledge of Judaism infuses his writing and I had to look up a few names and concepts, even though there is a glossary at the end of this 61-page volume.

What I greatly appreciated about these poems is the theme that runs through most, if not all, of them: the title idea of “brought down,” as it refers to what we inherit from our ancestors, whether we’re talking about traditions, rituals, genes, coping mechanisms, etc. The lens through which Constam explores these ideas is his Jewishness. In “Yerushalmi,” for example, he writes:

“Today I seem to have the face of a man I briefly stared at, on a bus on Rehov King David in the fall of 1969. / I wear the same clothes, dark jacket, dark shirt, rough tan trousers, dust-scuffed brown boots. / The mirror shows me, grizzled, unkempt, stocky, stoic, almost seventy. / My face is the face my grandfather wore. / My parents, aunts, and uncles swore the resemblance is uncanny. My history is clear. / I was one of Titus’s captives marched through Rome in chains. I collected all my things in a sack to flee from Ferdinand and Isabella along the Jew-choked roads. I missed my fate in Kielce and Bialystock. I hid in the forests by Kishinev.” It ultimately concludes: “I am the inheritor of a furious history that only in this place can I never deny or forget.”

In his struggles with God, Constam contemplates what it means to be Jewish, what it means to be human. While this all sounds quite serious, and it is, there is humour in this collection and, ultimately, it is hopeful. As much as he takes God to task, Constam is calling on all of us to question ourselves, and to accept our responsibility for the state of the world.

Serious play with language

I always look forward to reading whatever Adeena Karasick writes, even though I know I won’t understand all of it. To be generous to myself, I’d say at least 20% of her latest publication, Massaging the Medium: Seven Pechakuchas (Institute of General Semantics, 2022), went over my head – or will require a few more reads and some discussions with friends to get the most out of it.

Massaging the Medium is part of the Institute of General Semantics’ Language in Action series, which “publishes books devoted to creative modes of expression that can open the doors of perception and foster better understandings of the nature of language, symbols, communication and the semantic, technological and media environments that we inhabit.”

The preface is written by Maria Damon of the University of Minnesota. She explains, “For anyone still unfamiliar with the format, pechakucha – Japanese for ‘chitchat’ – is a highly stylized presentation form that comprises a public speech accompanied by 20 slides for visual demonstration, each of which is shown for 20 seconds, while the speaker addresses their (his/her) topic. Initiated in 2003 by a pair of architects working in Japan, the format (trademarked and copyrighted, by the way, in true contemporary entrepreneurial style) has spread to encompass a worldwide enthusiasm for a storytelling/info delivery style that relies on the visual as much as, or even more than, on the verbal.”

Given Karasick’s “dazzling linguistic pyrotechnics on page and stage,” writes Damon, the pechakucha format is ideal, “as the propulsive energy that characterizes her writing and reading style is given sharper urgency for being trapped in a small temporal space…. These seven tours de force of serious play celebrate meaning and unmeaning, communication and miscommunication, the happy errors/eros of semantic and sonic slippage, the glories of the im/p/precise.”

This description is better than I could ever give. I had to look up several terms, such as ’pataphysical – “a ‘philosophy’ of science invented by French writer Alfred Jarry intended to be a parody of science,” according to Wikipedia. “Difficult to be simply defined or pinned down, it has been described as the ‘science of imaginary solutions.’”

I also had to look up some of the names of people Karasick cites as if they’re old friends. While I’ve heard of folks like Jacques Derrida and Marshall McCluhan, and of Jewish texts such as The Zohar, my knowledge barely touches the surface. I think that’s part of why I have such fun with Karasick – I’ve no preconceptions going into my reading of her work and, while I don’t take it all in, I do feel as if my mind expands from the experience. She is at once academically rigorous, poetically versatile and sensically nonsensical, or nonsensically sensical (I’m not sure which would be most accurate).

image - Here is but one example of a section of one of the pechakuchas featured in Adeena Karasick’s Massaging the Medium: Seven Pechakuchas, to give readers an idea of the book’s content and form. (© 2022 Adeena Karasick) — Here is but one example of a section of one of the pechakuchas featured in Adeena Karasick’s Massaging the Medium: Seven Pechakuchas, to give readers an idea of the book’s content and form. (© 2022 Adeena Karasick)

In her introduction, Karasick notes that the seven pechakuchas comprising this book were originally created for and presented at academic literary conferences that took place during the period of 2013 to 2019. For a printed publication, she had to adapt them.

“The visuals,” she notes, “consist of both found and original collaged material which both speak to and against the text. And each of the original slides were embedded with audio and video clips, gifs, other forms of kinetic digital media such as montages of sound poetry,” pop songs, movies and more. “What is illustrated here, however, are stills from the digital live motion presentation and, although originally all consisting of 20 separate components, they are now of slightly varying length.”

I can’t even begin to simplify any of the pechakuchas, in order to give an example of their content and form. Best to experience them yourself. Not everything will land – I enjoyed the first few most – but they do offer the possibility of changing how you think about many things. The list includes but is not limited to language, technology, physiology, time, space, cyberspace, mysticism, consumerism, reality, truth. As does any good Jewish text, it will raise more questions than it answers.

Continuing Chelm tradition

It’s been eight years or so since I reviewed Mark Binder’s The Brothers Schlemiel, which recently has been reissued by Light Publications with the title The Village Twins, and written under Binder’s pen name, Izzy Abrahmson. I knew this story of Chelm would withstand the test of time for two reasons. First, we regularly publish a Binder/Abrahmson story in our holiday papers. Second, the stories are written in the style of Yiddish folk tales, which have proven staying power.

As Abrahmson explains in The Village Twins, Chelm is “a tiny settlement of Jews known far and wide as the most concentrated collection of fools in the world.” According to The YIVO Encyclopedia of Jews in Eastern Europe, the “first publication of Chelm-like stories appeared in Yiddish in 1597, and were tales of the town of Schildburg, translated from a German edition. Hence, these stories first entered Jewish culture as Schildburger stories, and it is unclear when they became connected to the town of Chelm. During the 19th century, a number of other Jewish towns figured as fools’ towns, including Poyzn. Over time, however, Chelm became the central hub of such stories, the first specific publication of which occurred in an 1867 book of humorous anecdotes, allegedly written by Ayzik Meyer Dik. Later, particularly in the early 20th century, dozens of collections of Khelemer mayses (Chelm stories) were published in Yiddish, as well as in English and Hebrew translations.”

The Village Twins is one of the latest such collections, and it does honour to its literary ancestors, providing wisdom in the guise of absurdity. The novel can be read on many levels, including as pure entertainment, as the story of a particular family living in a particular era and as a series of parables (it’s 414 pages long, which, I admit, was a bit lengthy for me). It is part of Abrahmson’s Village Life series, which includes several publications and a podcast, but can be read as a standalone novel. I am proof that a person might enjoy, but does not have to, read or listen to the other stories to follow this tale of the Schlemiel family that is centred around twins Abraham and Adam, who cause trouble from the day they are born.

The brothers make full use of their physical similarity throughout their life, from incidences as harmless as pranks around town to more serious situations, such as avoiding being drafted into the Russian army. What I wrote in my 2014 review still stands: Abrahmson “has created characters with whom we empathize…. He ably manages some fine balances: writing about silliness without the story becoming stupid, and evoking sentimentality while not becoming saccharine….. As well, through the vehicles of comedy and fantasy, [it] touches on many serious topics, from poverty to racism, to ethics in business, to whom people choose to be, and more.”

According to the press release, The Village Twins has been updated and revised, though I can’t speak to how, as my copy of The Brothers Schlemiel has long since been passed on. Along with this reissue came Binder’s pen name “to distinguish the series from his other work. By combining his Hebrew name, Isaac, with his father’s Hebrew name, Abraham … Izzy Abrahmson was born.”

As an editor, dealing with a writer with two names is a little unwieldy and I sometimes feel like the villagers of Chelm, who, for “many, many years” couldn’t tell Abraham from Adam. But that doesn’t diminish my enjoyment of Abrahmson’s – or is it Binder’s? – storytelling. He has won multiple awards for a reason. Anyone who likes a good folk tale will delight in The Village Twins.

A life-changing meeting

A Visit to Moscow is a beautifully illustrated and haunting graphic novel. In a brief 72 pages, it relates the story of an American rabbi who, on a 1965 trip to the Soviet Union, sneaks away from his delegation in Moscow to visit the brother of a friend – Bela hadn’t heard from Meyer for more than 10 years and was worried.

A Visit to Moscow (West Margin Press, 2022) is an adaptation by Anna Olswanger of a story told to her by Rabbi Rafael Grossman. It is illustrated by Yevgenia Nayberg, who captures in her palette, in the angles of her images, in her use of light and shadow, scratches and blurs, the claustrophobic fear that existed in that era in the USSR.

“Although the events of A Visit to Moscow are set before my time, the overall spirit of the Soviet Union feels very similar to what it was throughout my childhood when I lived there. I didn’t have to make a big leap to connect to the time period,” writes Nayberg in a section at the end of the book, where we get to see some of her preliminary sketches.

Olswanger knew Grossman, having collaborated with him on writing projects since the early 1980s. “One of our ﬁrst projects,” she writes, “was a Holocaust novel with a character based on his cousin, a leader of the Jewish resistance in the Bialystok ghetto. As we planned out the storyline, Rabbi Grossman told me about an incident during a trip he made in 1965 to the Soviet Union, where he met a young boy whose parents were Holocaust survivors. The boy had never been outside the room he was born in.

“We never finished the novel, and then, in 2018, Rabbi Grossman died.”

Years later, Grossman’s daughter sent Olswanger a box of writings that Olswanger and the rabbi had worked on. It inspired Olswanger to revisit the story. But she didn’t have the whole story, so, on the suggestion of her editor, wrote A Visit to Moscow as historical fiction.

The main part of the book is incredibly moving. The tension as the rabbi makes his way to Meyer’s last known address is palpable in both text and images; the KGB are an ever-looming threat. When he arrives, it takes the rabbi time to gain Meyer’s trust and for Meyer to let the rabbi into his flat, where he meets Meyer’s wife and their son, Zev, who has never left their home. The rabbi promises to get them all to Israel.

image - Visit to Moscow is a powerful, if incomplete, story, written by Anna Olswanger and illustrated by Yevgenia Nayberg — *Visit to Moscow* is a powerful, if incomplete, story, written by Anna Olswanger and illustrated by Yevgenia Nayberg.

This core of the novel is well-written, easily understood and powerful. Unfortunately, this mid-section is bookended by ambiguous scenes. At the beginning, Zev hovers from heaven over his dead body, which is laying somewhere in a mountain range. In the throes of dying, he remembers the story of the rabbi’s visit, which leads into the main story, after which we see young Zev on a plane, remembering the ride and Israel’s beauty. In the midst of this, he wonders, “And later – was it years later? Was he a young man?” In the next panel, a fire burns in the aforementioned mountain range and the text reads: “He remembers a sudden flash. A burst of black smoke. Burning metal.”

I first thought that he and his parents had been killed in a plane crash on the way to Israel, so close to freedom but never reaching it. After madly flipping pages back and forth in the book, trying to figure out what I’d missed, I found what I was looking for in the About the Contributors section: “For over 25 years, Rabbi Grossman visited Zev and his family in Israel. He saw them together for the last time in 1992, the year Zev died at the age of 37, a husband and father, while on reserve duty with his army unit in Lebanon.”

A tragic ending either way, but at least Zev got out of his room and got to live more fully for those 25 years. “Every time I visited Zev in Israel,” wrote Grossman, “he was smiling.”

A Visit to Moscow could have benefited from a few more pages, to make the transition of Zev’s journey from the Soviet Union to Israel more understandable, and to include some aspects of his life in Israel, even if they were fictional. Olswanger and Nayberg have created something special, but it feels incomplete.

Into belly of the beast

Danny Danon, former Israeli envoy to the United Nations. (photo from IGPO / Chaim Tzach)

“Jerusalem is an inseparable part of Israel and her eternal capital,” said an Israeli prime minister. “No United Nations vote can alter that historic fact.” This quote, which could have come from any of the country’s leaders, was in fact spoken by the first, David Ben-Gurion, in 1949, just days after the UN voted for the internationalization of the city. Israel’s issues with the agency, in other words, have existed for some time.

One wouldn’t expect a right-wing Likud party stalwart, well-known hothead and self-acknowledged non-diplomat to be one of Israel’s foremost voices to present an unambiguous defence of the UN. But, in his new book, Danny Danon does exactly that.

Danon’s book, In the Lion’s Den: Israel and the World, focuses on his term as Israeli ambassador to the United Nations, from 2015 to 2020. Before that, he was a Likud member of the Knesset and a minister in Binyamin Netanyahu’s government.

He acknowledges that, when he was appointed to the diplomatic post, commentators in Israel and elsewhere suggested that Netanyahu was deliberately poking a stick in the belly of the beast.

“There was an expectation that, because of my background and strong ideological beliefs, I would not fit into the world of diplomacy, that I was too much of a hawk and a ‘hardliner,’ which would make it difficult for me to build relationships and achieve anything of substance,” he writes.

Well, yes and no. He does not fit into the world of diplomacy. But he does claim a litany of successes. Danon devotes nearly 200 pages to justifying Israel’s engagement with the international body. Despite the routine censures of Israel and seeming obsession the General Assembly and several of the UN’s agencies have with Israel, Danon argues convincingly that taking on the haters in that forum is a worthy enterprise.

“What many people don’t understand is that there is a public UN and a private UN,” he writes. “The public face of the UN – at least when it comes to Israel – is aggressive and bullying. But, privately, you can build bridges, forge friendships and create a space for understanding, particularly if you are transparent.”

His own approach – far more bull in a china shop than circumspect diplomat – has its merits, he contends. His calling out of critics by name, apparently nearly unheard of in the hallowed halls of the UN’s Manhattan headquarters, may have drawn gasps, but it also seems to have made some think twice before talking.

“After a few times calling out the French ambassador in the media, not only did he reiterate that he did not appreciate it, which had no effect on me, but, more importantly, it made him much more careful in the words he used and actions he took going forward.” Danon said.

In one segment, the former ambassador goes into extensive detail about the efforts he made to derail two particularly troublesome resolutions. “Both resolutions were pointless,” he acknowledged, which might describe most of the General Assembly resolutions against Israel, but this comment, in turn, raises the legitimate question about why such energy and resources are devoted to fighting them. Danon’s argument is that it is in Israel’s interest not to ignore them and to take up the fight whenever and wherever possible.

If his own account of his time there is to be believed, Danon achieved many victories.

He caused the UN to officially recognize Jewish holidays so that, for example, no major meetings occur on Yom Kippur. He managed to get a small amount of kosher food onto the menu at the UN staff cafeteria – and it was promptly snapped up by non-Jews who view a hechsher as proof of healthy, quality food.

More substantively, he hosted more than 100 ambassadors on delegations or missions to Israel.

Partly as a result of a conference that Danon organized for fellow ambassadors on the subject of antisemitism, the UN issued its first-ever thorough report dedicated entirely to anti-Jewish racism.

After successfully pressuring for a UN bureaucrat who is Israeli to be promoted (apparently a challenge), he took on a more entrenched problem. The UN unofficially boycotts Israel, he writes, passing over Israeli options in the agency’s not-insubstantial procurement process. He set out what he called the three T’s.

“We would sell our relevant technology, offer training and provide troops,” he said. The first two he succeeded in.

“I believe the last T, providing troops to UN peacekeeping missions, will come in time,” he writes. “Sending troops is still an ongoing effort on our part. We have one of the best trained militaries in the world, and it knows how to deal with many difficult conflicts. We have so many security challenges that require us to engage in prevention, deflection and defence that it puts us in a unique position of having both the know-how and the experience on the ground. This gives us an advantage in comparison to others. We have the expertise to train UN forces, such as search and rescue, medical treatment in the field, and addressing acute emergency situations…. It has not happened yet, but I am hopeful. It remains a goal for the future.”

For all its flaws, Danon argues, the UN is a unique environment where an Israeli ambassador can shmooze with people he would never get to meet otherwise.

“Think of this: anytime a special envoy from Israel travels to an Arab country, it has to be done with the utmost discretion. If such visits were to be discussed publicly, they could become an issue that could result in political backlash or even violence from extremists and terrorists. At the UN in New York, you can meet anyone, anytime, in a legitimate and open forum, free from the anxiety of those who are determined to see you fail. Indeed, such exchanges between adversaries and friends are expected, which is why the UN is a useful tool despite criticisms about its effectiveness in the 21st century.”

UN ambassadors aren’t nobodies, either, and the connections an Israeli envoy can make there can bear fruit later.

“Once a term at the UN is over, you can be assured that many ambassadors turn their attention to political positions in their home countries, some going on to become heads of state or ministers of foreign affairs,” he said. “It is useful to have existing relationships with such people.”

The Israeli delegation at the United Nations has managed to peel away a few European countries from the European Union’s consensus position against Israel.

“As the Czech Republic, Hungary and Bulgaria grow more confident and economically strong, one of the ways they have and will continue to show their independence and sovereignty is the approach they have taken toward Israel. We have a great opportunity to continue to strengthen our bond with the people and governments; as young countries striving to grow, they understand and relate to Israel’s challenges. I believe they will continue to reject Western Europe’s automatic pro-Palestinian and anti-Israeli sentiment.”

More remarkably, Danon also managed to peel away members from the Arab bloc. In a secret ballot, Danon became the first Israeli ever elected chair of one of the UN’s six standing committees. There were far fewer votes against his candidacy than there are Arab countries at the General Assembly, he notes.

“I had the courage and vision – and the will,” he writes of the chutzpah he showed in his role. “I was often told, great idea, let’s do it next year. I always said, let’s do it now, we can get it done in two months.” (Memoirs are rarely testaments to humility.)

Though Danon argues that he made headway in his term at the UN, predictably, he didn’t make many friends. But he certainly made one. Nikki Haley, the U.S. ambassador appointed by Donald Trump, became fast pals with Danon, apparently joyfully collaborating to stick it to the enemies. (Haley wrote the foreword to the book.)

This alliance and the many other overt and covert bridges he built during his term were overwhelmingly with representatives of governments that are on the right of the political spectrum – sometimes on the far-right, like Brazil’s and Hungary’s.

Though he doesn’t address this fact, he would no doubt make the case that Israel must take its friends where it can find them. In the bigger picture of Danon’s time in the belly of the beast, perhaps the words of the late Yitzhak Rabin prove true: “You don’t make peace with friends. You make it with very unsavoury enemies.”

Decadent cocoa brownies

Cocoa powder brownies by Christi Johnstone of lovefromtheoven.com. (photo from lovefromtheoven.com)

And just like that…. I found myself sitting in the living room, clandestinely stuffing a four-inch square of decadent cocoa brownie in my mouth.

It was as though I’d been in a trance, eating on autopilot. But then I snapped to

attention, hearing noises coming from the other room, alerting me to the presence of an intruder (or my husband snoring in the bedroom). I needed to get rid of the cocoa-y evidence, pronto, before I got caught brown-handed. After all, it was 2 a.m. and I had no business eating a stimulant like that when I was already trapped in a spiral of insomnia. But there I was. At least I didn’t pair the brownie with, say, a tiny glass of Bailey’s. Or a hot chocolate. That would have been criminal. I do have some self-control. It might be measured in grams, but still.

The “intruder” stumbled out to use the bathroom just as I was shoving the last bit of evidence into my piehole. I narrowly escaped brownie-shaming by a nanosecond. This is all to say that I have a shameless sweet tooth – it knows no bounds, and certainly has no timelines. I’ve been caught on other occasions scarfing down Cheezies and chips before breakfast (OK … for breakfast). I’ve been castigated at 5:30 p.m. for eating chocolate pudding (it’s considered an appetizer, isn’t it?). I’ve had ice cream ripped from my very hands (alright, maybe not ripped, but forcefully grabbed) right before bed. I cop to it all. Mea culpa. I just can’t help myself.

On that note, I recently heard Dennis Prager, the well-known radio personality, share this pearl of wisdom: “It’s more important to have self-control than self-esteem.” Point taken. I freely admit that my self-control needs a little work, so I vow, right here, right now, to eat decadent cocoa brownies only during office hours. And, since I’m retired, that is open to interpretation. Consider shift work.

As for self-esteem, that’s between me and myself, and I mostly have a handle on it. But self-control affects every part of life and can lead to behaviours that are socially unacceptable, like outbursts of temper, for example. Again, mea culpa. Lack of self-control in overeating can lead to poor health outcomes, and that also needs watching. Personally, I’m guilty of watching from afar. I must get on that.

Being someone who is (luckily?) colon-less in Vancouver, I have the luxury of eating whatever I want and not gaining an ounce. The flip side of that is, well, you don’t want to know the flip side. Suffice it to say that I’ve been known to over-indulge in certain items that are not in Canada’s Food Guide recommendations. On a regular basis. OK, OK, I need to pay more attention to what I am putting in my mouth (otherwise it might fall on the floor or land in my lap).

For now, though, I’m going to share my guilty little secret and be done with it. That translates to: I gave three-quarters of the brownies I made to my niece and only kept a quarter of them for myself. Those of you who are truly observant will notice the reflexive singular pronoun. Used, in this instance, because my husband Harvey has been on a diet for 11 months and has lost 52 pounds. He would no more dream of eating a brownie right now than he would dream of going to a five-star resort in St. Lucia without me. Unless, of course, he was looking for wife number four. Plus, he likes to delegate the eating, so I’m taking one for the team. Alas, the brownies are all for me, and me for them. Eaten at three-hour intervals, it equates to about 1,000 calories per day. For my hips alone. Pure speculation, of course. But I’m willing to risk it.

What I know for certain is that a brownie recipe I recently found – by Christi Johnstone of lovefromtheoven.com – is the bomb. You’re welcome. For your own well-being, do not – I repeat, do not – get on your scale for at least a week after you’ve eaten these brownies. Consider yourself forewarned.

COCOA POWDER BROWNIES

10 tbsp melted butter or margarine
1 1/4 cup sugar (I use 1 cup brown sugar and 1/4 cup white sugar)
3/4 cup plus 2 tbsp unsweetened cocoa powder
1/2 tsp salt
1 tsp baking powder
1 tsp vanilla extract
2 large eggs1/2 cup all-purpose flour
1/2 cup chocolate chips (optional)

Position your oven rack in the lower third of your oven. Preheat oven to 325°F degrees. Line an eight-inch square pan with parchment paper or just grease the pan.
Combine melted butter (or margarine), sugar, cocoa powder and salt in a large bowl. Allow to cool for five to 10 minutes. You don’t want it too hot when you add the eggs.
After mixture has cooled slightly, add vanilla and mix well. Add eggs, one at a time, and beat until well mixed.
In a separate bowl, combine flour and baking powder and stir to combine. Add the flour mixture to the batter and mix well to combine. If adding chocolate chips (optional), fold them into the batter.
Bake for 30-35 minutes, or until a toothpick comes out with some moist crumbs attached. Cool on a wire rack.

I won’t even pretend to give you a nutritional accounting of this amazing snack because, even if I did, you’d ignore it. On purpose. I suspect it’s shockingly unhealthy, but, in the grand scheme of things, so is watching too much TV. But does that stop us?

The thing about these brownies is that they’re not overly sweet, like some are. They’re just moist, soft, rich, cocoa-y goodness. I imagine that you could freeze them, but then, why would you want to? More to the point, why would you need to? They don’t last more than 14 hours in my home. On a good day. Less, if there’s milk in the fridge.

I have another fudge brownie recipe that’s also pretty special, but there’s so much sugar in it that it makes my teeth hurt. Not that that’s ever really been a deterrent for me. I love all my brownies the same.

Shelley Civkin, aka the Accidental Balabusta, is a happily retired librarian and communications officer. For 17 years, she wrote a weekly book review column for the Richmond Review. She’s currently a freelance writer and volunteer.

A new family tradition

(photo by Mark Binder)

Rachel Cohen stared at the full box of candles. Since her parents had separated, getting ready for Hanukkah wasn’t the same. Four candles were broken. Of course.

She chewed on her lower lip.

In the old days, her family had gathered around the kitchen table, and argued about who would light the shammos and who would light the first candle.*

“You did it last year,” her twin brother Yakov always insisted.

“No,” Rachel would counter. “I lit the shammos, which is better.”

“No, it’s not. The first candle is best.”

“Children, hush,” their mother, Sarah, would say as she flipped a potato latke. “You’ll disturb your father.”

Their father, Isaac, would be looking at his little book, pretending to mumble prayers, while holding back a smile.

The compromise was always the same. Rachel would light the shammos, which was better, and Yakov would light the first candle, which made him happy, too.

This year, her parents lived in different houses, and Hanukkah wouldn’t be the same. Rachel didn’t know what to do. She felt small, helpless and embarrassed.

In the village of Chelm, 12-year-old Rachel Cohen was known as the smartest young girl, someone whose wisdom was both sought after and respected.

“If you don’t know what to do,” everyone said, “ask Rachel Cohen, and whatever she says, do that!”

Rachel knew that she wasn’t really that brilliant. But whenever someone asked her a question, she either had the answer, or knew how or where to find it.

“The secret of being wise,” Rabbi Kibbitz had once taught her, “is to listen quietly for as long as you can without saying anything. Ask a few questions, and then nod your head and wait until the answer arises. Most of the time, they’ll think of it themselves, and then give you all the credit.”

Rachel nodded her head and asked herself, “But what does a so-called wise person do, when they don’t know the answer?”

She looked around the kitchen, which was also silent.

Then it came to her, and she smiled.

* * *

The bell over the door to Mrs. Chaipul’s restaurant rang and, without looking up, the elderly woman behind the counter told Rachel, “Your mother’s gone to the market in Smyrna to get potatoes for the latkes.”

“Can we talk?” Rachel asked quietly.

Mrs. Chaipul glanced at the young girl, nodded her head and shouted, “All right, the restaurant is closed until lunch for a health and safety inspection!”

Most of the men finished drinking their tea or coffee, put on their coats and headed to the door.

Reb Cantor the merchant didn’t budge. “I thought you already paid the health and safety inspector.”

“This is for your health and safety,” Mrs. Chaipul told the merchant. “Because I won’t guarantee it if you stay.”

Reb Cantor smiled, stood and kissed Rachel on the top of her head as he left the restaurant.

Mrs. Chaipul locked the door behind him and led Rachel to the table in back, where she’d already placed two cups of hot herbal tea.

The young girl and the old woman sat across from each other, lifted their cups at the same time, and blew.

* * *

Mrs. Chaipul listened as Rachel explained, “On the first night of Hanukkah, our family starts with eight candles ablaze, and then we light one fewer each night. This, my father says, echoes the Maccabees’ fear that the oil in the eternal light might burn out at any moment.

“But, on the last night, where there would only be one candle and the shammos, we changed the tradition and light all eight again. For us, the last night is a true celebration of joy. My mother says it’s just nice to have all the extra lights.

“This Hanukkah, Yakov and I are supposed to take turns, one night with Mama and the next with Papa. I want things to be the same, but no matter how hard I try to rearrange it, the number of candles always comes out uneven. Plus, four of our candles are already broken, which seems like a sign!”

Rachel waited for Mrs. Chaipul to tell her how to solve the problem. But Mrs. Chaipul didn’t say anything. She was married to Rabbi Kibbitz, and kept her own name, which is another story. She’d often chided her husband that it was better to keep your mouth shut than to put your foot into it.

Rachel sighed. She sipped her tea.

Then she smiled, and nodded. She suddenly knew what to do. “Thank you, Mrs. Chaipul. I need to hurry and buy more candles.”

Mrs. Chaipul gave Rachel a hug. “I didn’t do anything. But I wish you well.”

Rachel ran from the restaurant, and Mrs. Chaipul reopened the front door for the lunch crowd.

* * *

That year, Rachel Cohen changed their tradition again.

“Whether we are with mother or father,” she told her brother, “instead of lighting eight or seven or one, each night we will take turns lighting all eight Hanukkah candles.”

Yakov was upset. “So many candles seems wasteful. And that isn’t the way Hanukkah is supposed to be celebrated!”

“Everything changes,” Rachel said, “and it’s up to us to make it new again. This way, the time we spend together will be even brighter.”

“All right.” Yakov shrugged. “But I light the first candle.”

“You did it last time.” Rachel smiled. “But that’s fine. Lighting the shammos is better….”

Izzy Abrahmson is the author of Winter Blessings and The Village Twins. He’s also a pen name for storyteller Mark Binder. Find the books on Amazon and Audible, with signed copies and links to the audio version of this story at izzyabe.com and markbinderbooks.com.

***

*A note on candlelighting
A shammos is the candle that is used as a match to light the other candles. While most people follow the tradition of Rabbi Hillel, lighting one candle the first night of Hanukkah and then adding candles each night, the followers of Rabbi Shammai start with eight and work their way down. Rachel Cohen is not yet a rabbi, but who knows what the future will bring.
– IA