fiction

Kirman Library spans the arts

The Kirman English and Yiddish Library at the Peretz Centre for Secular Jewish Culture is available for anyone in the community to access. (photo from Peretz Centre)

“Books are humanity in print” – Barbara Tuchman

The Kirman English and Yiddish Library at the Peretz Centre for Secular Jewish Culture was set up in 1976 by Paula and Shaya Kirman, members of the Peretz Institute – as it was then known – and dedicated Yiddishists. The two main purposes in establishing the library were, first, to collect and preserve the books that were scattered in different places in the community, and, second, to make these books available to the whole community in a lending library.

Paula Kirman, who worked as a cataloguer at the University of British Columbia library, volunteered many hours to set up a card catalogue and shelve the Peretz library in an organized way. Eventually, she resigned from her volunteer position because of a perceived lack of support from the Peretz Institute’s board of directors.

In 1999, in preparation for the construction of the Peretz Centre’s present building (in the same location the institute had been since the 1960s), the library books and card catalogue had to be boxed and removed. With the completion of the new building in 2000-2001, the organization was renamed the Peretz Centre for Secular Jewish Culture and the words of I.L. Peretz, considered by many as the “father” of modern Jewish culture, were prominently displayed above the entrance foyer: “A people’s memory is history; without a history, a people can grow neither wiser nor better.”

Sporadic attempts to restore the library were made, but, when Al Stein returned to Vancouver and joined the centre’s board of directors in 2001, much of the library was still in boxes and Kirman’s card catalogue was in disarray. Stein volunteered to lead the effort to restore the library, if the board would support it in two ways: vote for funding for new shelving and support Stein’s effort to obtain a grant from the Jewish Community Foundation of Greater Vancouver to hire a library technician and digitize the entire library, including the Yiddish books.

The grant proposal was successful. A newly graduated library technician, unfamiliar with Yiddish, was contracted and many hundreds of hours were spent properly transliterating each Yiddish book and journal title, digitizing the entire collection in accordance with the latest electronic library standards, relabeling each book, arranging for electronic hosting of the library catalogue, supervising the installation of new shelving and then, finally, shelving the books and journals in an organized fashion.

Thanks to large and small donations of both English and Yiddish books from individuals, from the Winnipeg Jewish Library and from the Isaac Waldman Jewish Public Library at the Jewish Community Centre of Greater Vancouver, as well as a small number of purchases, the Kirman Library of the Peretz Centre now contains nearly 4,000 books and journals and is almost at capacity. The collection includes titles by kabbalists, rabbis, atheists, historians, politicians, musicians, artists, humourists, and those who wrote fiction, plays and poetry – in other words, the entire spectrum of Jewish creativity, encompassing all the arts.

Most of the collection is now in English and is a unique treasure trove of information and pleasure for the casual reader and the scholar. Two collections are of note. The late Dr. Gersh Winrob donated his English-language collection of Holocaust literature, memoirs, history and analyses, certainly one of the largest in the community. And the late poet Miriam Waddington donated part of her library, mostly English-language literature and essays, with a bit of Yiddish poetry.

The Peretz Centre is a proud member of the Yiddish Book Centre, now the largest Jewish cultural organization in the United States.

The Peretz’s library catalogue may be searched from any computer via the Peretz Centre website, peretz-centre.org: click the Kirman Library tab and then the Catalog link. The library ID is Kirman Library. No password is needed.

Books and periodicals can be borrowed for a $10/year fee. Four items may be borrowed at a time, for a period of four weeks, which may be renewed if no hold has been placed on the item. And the library may be used whenever the Peretz office is open, so call ahead before coming down, or for more information about library policy in general, such as its overdue or lost items policy, or to obtain a library card: 604-325-1812, ext. 1, or [email protected].

If you have any specific questions or comments about the library, or wish to make a donation to it, Stein can be reached at 604 731-1193 or [email protected].

Novel journeys shared

Ilana Masad participates in the Cherie Smith JCC Jewish Book Festival on Feb. 23. (photo from the JBF)

Women are at the forefront of two new books. Specifically, how we perceive their (our) roles. Especially, with regard to motherhood.

photo - Myriam Steinberg participates in the Cherie Smith JCC Jewish Book Festival on Feb. 24 — Myriam Steinberg participates in the Cherie Smith JCC Jewish Book Festival on Feb. 24. *(photo from the JBF)*

Ilana Masad’s debut novel, All My Mother’s Lovers, is told from the perspectives of a daughter and her mother, and highlights how much we cannot know about the people close to us, while Myriam Steinberg’s graphic novel, Catalogue Baby: A Memoir of Infertility, is a no holds barred sharing of her challenge to become a mom. Both Masad and Steinberg are participating in this year’s Cherie Smith JCC Jewish Book Festival, which takes place online Feb. 20-25.

While the premise is a stretch to my worldview, All My Mother’s Lovers is an extremely relatable read on many levels. Twenty-something Maggie’s mother, Iris, dies in a car crash and Maggie must return home for the funeral and shiva. But, along with her will, Iris has left behind six letters – all addressed to men Maggie hasn’t heard of – and Maggie quickly flees the communal mourning to deliver these missives.

Leaving behind her grief-addled father, who has been the emotional-support parent for her, and her younger brother, with whom she has an older-sister-bossy relationship, Maggie attempts to track down the unknown men. The space from her family and from her current partner, with whom there might actually be a substantial, meaningful relationship brewing, allows Maggie to deal with her long-held insecurities and naïve perceptions of what it means to be married, what it means to be a parent; basically, what it means to be a loving and reliable person. We get to know Iris through the letters and, though Maggie doesn’t get to benefit from these personal musings, she does learn more about her mom, which allows her to connect more deeply with her father, as well as to others in her life.

Masad’s writing is crisp, intelligent, wry and sensitive. The novel starts with a bang – Maggie answering her brother’s call (telling her about their mother’s death) while having sex with her girlfriend. The pace emphasizes Maggie’s confusion as she tries to understand her mother, and herself. Iris’s letters offer slower moments of reflection, but also were a way for Iris to try and better understand her own missteps and successes.

Steinberg’s Catalogue Baby also took me into a world I’ve never personally experienced, though I do know people who have so wanted to have a child but either could not conceive or had great difficulty conceiving. Steinberg’s refreshing openness on a topic that is often spoken about in whispers, if at all, is most welcome. And her voice is amplified by the colour-bursting, energetic and imaginative illustrations by Christache Ross, which take readers right close up into the physical and emotional upheaval and turmoil that Steinberg has lived.

Catalogue Baby takes readers from Year One (starting January 2014), and Steinberg’s admission that her dedication to work, organizing the In the House Festival for 11 years, only occasionally gave her the time to put her “loneliness and unrequited motherhood” front of mind. Almost 40 years old at this point, she “didn’t have time to waste with someone who didn’t eventually want a family.” But, people being who we are, Steinberg nonetheless tries to make an unsatisfying relationship work, all while her biological clock (which follows her throughout the novel’s journey) ticked away. From when she finally decides to go it alone to when she gives birth to twins in late 2018, she goes through much. The list includes 123 blood draws, 31 ultrasounds, multiple fertility treatments, five pregnancies, thousands of supplements, about $100,000, help from dozens of family and friends, etc., etc. – and “25 litres of tears.”

To hear more about and from Steinberg, Masad and many other fabulous writers, check out this year’s Jewish Book Festival: jccgv.com/jewish-book-festival.

Interview insightful, fun

Israeli writer Eshkol Nevo, whose latest novel is The Last Interview, opens the JCC Jewish Book Festival Feb. 20. (photo from JBF)

This year’s Cherie Smith JCC Jewish Book Festival opens online Feb. 20, with Israeli writer Eshkol Nevo, whose latest novel, The Last Interview, brilliantly sprinkles facts amid a lot of fiction and interjects humour into much pathos. It entertains, of course, and, as all good books do, it raises many salient points that will get readers thinking – and feeling – about, in this case, storytelling, marriage, truth, parenting, friendship, lies, family, identity, media, politics and relationships. So, life.

In The Last Interview, the protagonist, who is suffering from a chronic form of depression and writer’s block, responds to an interview sent to him “by an internet site editor who collected surfers’ questions.” He later notes, “It was supposed to be only an interview, nothing else, but slowly – it seems I can’t do it any other way – I’ve been turning it into a story. I was supposed to leave Dikla and the kids and the dysthymia out of it. And all of them are in it.” This inability to stop himself from telling stories about others in his published writing is an Achilles’ heal in his personal life, but a boon to his professional one.

His interview answers are sometimes short and direct:

“How do you manage to deal with the loneliness that’s part of writing?

“I don’t.”

But, most often, they are quite involved, going into more detail, retrospection and introspection than the questioners would ever have expected. We learn about his failing marriage, but also its sweet beginnings. We are privy to his feelings about his best friend, who is dying of cancer. We see how he struggles to be a good father to his three kids. We hear some of his travel adventures. We witness his attempts to extricate himself from an unwanted speech-writing gig. We share his discomforts with the Israeli-Palestinian situation. We find out a bit about his motivations for writing:

“If I don’t write, I have nowhere to put my memories, and that’s dangerous. I have a problem. I don’t forget anything. My forgetting mechanism is completely screwed up. All the partings, the deaths, the unexploited opportunities. They are all trapped in my body, and writing is the only way to release them … if I don’t occasionally unburden myself of the weight of some of those memories, I won’t be able to breathe. No air will enter my body. Or leave it.”

Part of his current creative block – “I was supposed to be writing a novel this year. Instead, I’m writing answers to this interview” – is that he and his wife are becoming more distant. “I can’t say that I became a writer to win Dikla’s heart, but I can assume that with another, less stimulating woman, I wouldn’t be writing.” He notes that, since his first letter to her, “In fact, everything I’ve written since then, eight books, is one very long letter addressed to her.” At the end of a lengthy response to the question, “All of your books are written in the same style. Have you ever thought of writing something completely different? Maybe science fiction? Fantasy?” he says that genre wouldn’t make any difference: “In any case, it would turn out that, once again, I wrote about an impossible love.”

While the overall mood of The Last Interview is solemn, there are many funny parts. One especially hilarious section is the writer’s response to the question, “When will they produce a film adaptation of your latest book? When I read it, I could actually imagine the movie.” As the writer shares the details of an encounter with a filmmaker of a similar opinion, the conversation cynically – but with the ring of truth – moves from flattery to the many ways in which the movie will ultimately be unrecognizable from the book, yet concluding nonetheless with the filmmaker enthusing, “The minute I finished it, I said to my wife: This is a movie!”

With a writer as intelligent, sensitive and amusing as Nevo and an interviewer as experienced as the Globe and Mail’s Marsha Lederman, the book festival’s opening event should be well worth attending. For tickets to it, and for the full lineup of events, visit jccgv.com/jewish-book-festival. The festival runs to Feb. 25.

Golem dances tango & more

University of Victoria’s Prof. Dan Russek spoke about Jewish writers in Argentina and Mexico, as well as Jorge Luis Borges’ Jewish-related writings. (photo from Dan Russek)

Dan Russek spoke on 20th-century Latin American writers, both Jewish and those who have been influenced by Jewish themes, at a Jan. 10 Zoom event organized by Congregation Emanu-El in Victoria.

Entitled The Golem Dances the Tango, the talk began with discussion of four Jewish authors – Alberto Gerchunoff and Ana Maria Shua of Argentina and Margo Glantz and Myriam Moscona of Mexico – before examining Argentine Jorge Luis Borges’ Jewish-related writings.

Gerchunoff (1883-1950) painted an idealized version of Jewish life in the Argentine countryside in his writings, with religious Jews as peasant farmers in a new land, explained Russek, an associate professor in the University of Victoria’s department of Hispanic and Italian studies.

In his best-known work, The Jewish Gauchos of the Pampas, a series of vignettes, “Gerchunoff was keen to find parallels between peasant life in Argentina and the Bible, and explore the interaction between Jews and the local residents,” Russek said. In one story, El Episodio de Myriam, a Jewish girl from a pious family elopes with a non-Jewish boy, causing uproar in the community.

Shua represents a more modern writer, less attached to traditions, said Russek. In her 1994 novel The Book of Memories, an anonymous narrator tells the story of the Rimetka family. “Gossip reigns supreme in this fictionalized account of a family. One feels as though we are witnessing a family dinner, perhaps a seder,” Russek explained. The narrator presents different and sometimes contradictory accounts, he said, creating a “series of foibles and misadventures with no end.”

Mexico’s Glantz incorporates much of her family story into her most-recognized book, The Genealogies, published in 1981. The daughter of immigrants from Ukraine, her father, Jacobo Glantz, was a promoter of Jewish intellectual life in Mexico, and once penned a poem about Christopher Columbus in Yiddish.

The Genealogies “is a form of literature as transcription and personal document,” Russek said. “It is a family story centred on her parents and her own coming of age. In Glantz, we see an adoption of Jewish culture but not of Jewish faith nor a strong sense of belonging.”

Moscona, a poet, journalist and translator, was the most contemporary writer of the four. Born in Mexico City to Ladino-speaking Bulgarian immigrants, her autobiographic novel Tela de sevoya explores her quest to find her cultural and linguistic heritage.

Russek then discussed Borges, a Judeophile who had several Jewish friends, from his time studying in Geneva, as well as literary mentors, such as Baruch Spinoza and Franz Kafka. Borges credited his English Protestant grandmother for providing a passion for Israel through a love of the Bible, and recognized Judaism as a pillar of Western Civilization.

In 1934, early in his literary life, Borges wrote an article called “I, A Jew,” which was a defence against an attack from a fascist magazine accusing him of hiding his Jewishness. In it, Borges says he would not mind at all being Jewish.

Borges lauded Israel in his poetry. In his 1969 collection In Praise of Darkness, he views Israel as a place that transcends Jewish history and the stereotypes associated with Jews. Two of the poems were written after the Six Day War and herald Israeli heroism on the battlefield.

In “Israel, 1969,” Borges writes, “You shall forget your parents’ tongue and learn the tongue of Paradise. / You shall be an Israeli. / You shall be a soldier. / You shall build the homeland with swamps, you shall erect it in deserts.”

Jewish characters and themes appear in “The Secret Miracle” and “The Death and the Compass.” And Borges had an abiding interest in kabbalah, which is documented in his essays and lectures. About his story El Aleph, Borges wrote: “In the kabbalah, that letter [aleph] signifies the En Soph, the pure and unlimited godhead; it has also been said that its shape is that of a man pointing to the sky and the earth, to indicate that the lower world is the map and mirror of the higher.”

Russek concluded with Borges’ poem “The Golem,” from the 1964 book El otro, el mismo. “Despite the logical structure of the poem, the theme deals with magic, myth and religion. The main philosophical/theological subject is the relationship between the creator and its creatures,” Russek said.

Russek is the author of Textual Exposures: Photography in 20th-Century Latin American Narrative Fiction and the upcoming Exercises in Urban Mysticism, a book of illustrated poetic prose. He coordinates Victoria’s annual Latin American and Spanish Film Week at Cinecinta.

Sam Margolis has written for the Globe and Mail, the National Post, UPI and MSNBC.

Shalev’s latest not her best

In an interview with the Jewish Independent in 2014, after her book The Remains of Love came out in English, Israeli writer Zeruya Shalev said that, until that novel, she had been avoiding writing directly about what she called “the Israeli reality.” She said at the time: “And yet, still I am wrestling with the dominance of this reality, and try not to let it take over my books – it’s enough that it controls my life.”

Shalev’s latest novel to be translated into English is all about the Israel reality, but not in the engaging and provocative way that The Remains of Love was (see jewishindependent.ca/zeruya-shalev-opens-jewish-book-fest). Concisely called Pain, Shalev’s story about a Jerusalem woman suffering post-traumatic stress syndrome, which flares up on the 10-year anniversary of when she was seriously injured in a terrorist attack, is anything but concise. Translated ably by Sondra Silverston, the book needed a better editor, as Shalev gets lost in the physical and emotional suffering of her protagonist Iris, who is not portrayed likeably.

Despite being the respected principal of a successful school, despite being married to a perhaps dull but well-meaning husband (who could well be distant because of his wife’s indifference to him) and despite raising two competent and kind but vulnerable children, one of whom desperately needs her help, Iris cannot let go of a lost love from her teenage years. When, by chance, at a clinic, she meets Eitan, the man who left her so abruptly so long ago – he is now a doctor who specializes in the treatment of pain – Iris goes headlong into the fantasy of what her life could have been with him, despite all indications that he’s a selfish and emotionally stunted ass. She considers leaving everything tangible and good that she has built for herself for a life that never was.

There are some astute observations in this novel – about trauma and how it affects not only the person injured but those who love them, about the harmful effects of living in the past, about forgiveness, about the fickle nature of life, and more – but it gets lost in Iris’s nearly interminable self-pity and self-delusion. Pain is not Shalev’s best work.

Magnifying emotions

Gila Green will talk about her two latest books at the Jewish Book Festival on Feb. 9. (photo from JCC Jewish Book Festival)

From the first page, White Zion reads like a memoir. Through 16 short stories, we get to know Miriam and her family, from her great-grandparents to her own children, as well as the places they are from, including Yemen, Israel at various points in its history and Canada. It is easy to wonder how much of Miriam is her creator, Israeli-based writer Gila Green, who will be at the Cherie Smith JCC Jewish Book Festival Feb. 9.

“The stories in White Zion are all about emotional truths,” Green told the Jewish Independent. “So, if that’s what’s coming across, that is some measure of success. I did not say this but Alice Munro did – I recall reading an interview with her in which she said: ‘If your audience thinks all you did was wake up and write down everything that happened to you yesterday, then you’ve succeeded.’ I would love to hear about how readers relate to these emotional truths, how they connect.”

Green will also bring her young adult novel No Entry to the festival, for which she will talk at both the Jewish Community Centre of Greater Vancouver (12:30 p.m.) and the White Rock/South Surrey Jewish Community Centre (4 p.m.) that Sunday.

The heroine of No Entry is Yael Amar, a teenager from Ottawa, which was where Green was born and has lived. Yael has traveled to South Africa to intern for a spell at a private bush camp near Kruger National Park. (Green’s husband is South African, and Green has lived in the country.) There with the intent of helping protect elephants from poachers, Yael ends up in danger herself.

Despite the connections her books may, or may not, have with her own family, Green prefers to write fiction. She described nonfiction as “limiting” for her.

“As soon as someone tells me to write a true story, I’m suffocating,” she said. “I have to start questioning what is fact, what is memory, what lacks context, what is something I’ve just convinced myself is true and on and on. I spent four years at Carleton [University in Ottawa] studying for a journalism degree, so all of that kicks in. In the end, the short story is a wrung-out sock, more like a dozen tangled wrung-out socks. No one wants to read a sock. There is no connecting with it.”

Fiction allows for the expression of emotional truths that would be impossible to express otherwise, she said.

“Writing fiction allows me to hone in on a feeling – something I want my audience to feel, which is how I start every story I write. I ask myself, ‘How do I want this story to make the reader feel?’ and I start from there – and I can hold that emotion under a magnifying glass. I can distort it, blow it sky high, cut interference to ant height or delete. I can take one characteristic of one person on a single day about a single event and I can magnify it, so that the rest of the human being is rendered invisible. These were some of my goals with White Zion. The characters are all gross distortions of one human trait or another.”

But that doesn’t mean that facts don’t enter her work.

“I tried to be as faithful as possible to the historical period,” she said, referring to the stories in White Zion, “and I spent months researching everything, from what vegetables they could have been selling in the Jerusalem market post-1948 to how they could possibly have been heating their homes. I also used the same biographical details for two of the characters, Miriam and her father. It was important for me that Jewish fiction expand to include Yemenite voices, religious voices, gay voices, the more voices the better.”

Green also did much research for No Entry and, in addition to crafting an entertaining, at-times tense, thriller-like novel, she educates readers on the nature of elephants and the very real threat of their extinction.

“Yael is a Jewish eco-heroine,” said Green, who noted that the character’s boyfriend, David, is also Jewish. “She’s not religious but both of her parents are Jewish – she mentions in No Entry how the South African traditional dish she tastes for the first time reminds her of her mother’s chulnt on the Sabbath and, in No Fly Zone, she has an Israeli-themed dinner with her parents. None of the other characters are Jewish…. I do like exploring different kinds of Jews though. If readers want a more obvious Jewish heroine in the sequel[s], please write to me.”

Green has finished writing No Fly Zone, the next book in what might become a series. In it, she said, “Yael Amar is back with her best friend Nadine Kelly, this time protecting Kruger National Park from the skies. But she is about to learn a big lesson when it comes to moral relativity and friendship.”

Green added, “I set out to thread the senseless loss of human life with the equally nonsensical destruction of animals in No Entry and I continue this in the sequel. I did this not because I’m trying to make a point about the connection or status between humans and animals – that’s the wrong way to understand my motivation. Rather, I’m trying to weave together the criminals who commit these inhuman acts: they’re connected.

“Often,” she said, “the same people willing to sell illegal blood ivory are involved in terrorism, human slavery and other acts that bring nothing but grief to the planet. I wish to emphasize this linkage, to shout it from the rooftops. But, in real life, I figured an exciting, adventurous, teen novel was a more effective way to go.

“I purposely made the terrorist event [in No Entry] happen in Canada because I want to get the message across that fatal betrayal doesn’t just happen in Africa or the Middle East. That attitude might allow some of us to feel off the hook. It happens everywhere and we all have to make sure we are part of the solution or there won’t be one and that thought is too devastating to imagine. I refuse to go there and No Entry ends on a victorious note for a reason.”

Though the sequel has been written, its publication date will depend on what happens in Australia and the bushfires that continue to destroy the country. Green shared, “I am very sad to say that my publisher Stormbird Press was on Kangaroo Island and has burned to the ground. The staff was evacuated on Dec. 20th. We are all praying for their safety and that they fully recover but, for now, everything is at a standstill and there is terrible devastation.”

Green is already working on her next novel. In A Prayer Apart, her main character, for the first time, is male, she said. “He’s an Israeli-Jewish teenager living through the 2014 war with Hamas, knowing he’s next in line for the front line. By the same token, he’s had it with his parents and school and his rebellious behaviour lands him in lockdown, one step away from juvenile jail.”

She said she will let readers know on her website, gilagreenwrites.com, when the publication details are finalized.

An avid reader since childhood and now a prolific writer, with four books published since 2013 and two more on the way, Green said, “Mankind cannot live without stories. Period. We are our stories. When people are down, what they are really saying very often is they don’t feel connected. Stories connect us.”

For the Jewish Book Festival lineup and schedule, visit jewishbookfestival.ca.

The real and imaginary mix

Norman Ravvin (photo by Allen McInnis/The Gazette)

For anyone interested in the history and landmarks of Vancouver, especially, but also cities in Poland, reading Norman Ravvin’s new novel, The Girl Who Stole Everything (Linda Leith Editions, 2019), will take longer than its 310 pages would suggest. You’ll want to allot time for side trips to the internet to see what the Army & Navy building on West Cordova Street looked like in the middle of the last century, for example, or Stan Douglas’s mural at the Woodward’s complex of the 1971 Gastown riot. Stalin’s Palace of Culture and Science in Warsaw? The main square in the town of Radzanów, Poland?

While The Girl Who Stole Everything is set in real places described in detailed accuracy by Ravvin, there is still much left to the imagination. The discovery of family secrets – in one case, which were literally buried; in the other, figuratively – leads to events that bring Vancouver dulcimer musician Nadia and bookseller-café owner Simon together and, eventually, take both to Poland. Nadia’s father never told her that her uncle, who owned a pawnshop on West Cordova, was murdered in 1962, beaten to death in a robbery gone wrong, and Simon’s father told him nothing of their prewar Polish heritage. Both a little lost in life before friends drop these revelations on them, Nadia and Simon find meaning and direction as they search out the truth of their histories.

The Jewish Independent interviewed Ravvin, who lives in Montreal, about his novel, which is available for purchase most anywhere. Ravvin said he will be in Vancouver for the Cherie Smith JCC Jewish Book Festival in February, for readers who would like the chance to speak with him themselves.

Jewish Independent: I was struck by your attention to detail in the history and geography of Vancouver, and I imagine the same with Warsaw and Radzanów, though I wouldn’t know that from personal experience. Have you lived in all these places? If not, from where did you gather your local knowledge?

Norman Ravvin: I came to know Vancouver as a child, traveling from Calgary with my family to visit my mother’s mother, who lived on Willow Street. Those trips and her presence in the city contributed to my coming back to study at UBC, where my dad went for a few years in the wartime before enlisting in the Navy. I did my undergrad degree and a one-year MA in the English department.

So, I lived in the city, altogether, only about six years. I lived at UBC, then on the West Side, then in the West End, which I came to think of as “my neighbourhood.” Having left in the mid-80s, with family still there, I continued to come back and never really let go of it as “home,” or maybe a “second home.” We tend to spend two or three weeks in the city in the summer each year. My background knowledge of the city then is also connected with my mom’s youth in the city, my dad’s time there in the wartime, and my grandmother’s life in the city.

Radzanów requires a longer answer. It is my ancestral place on my mother’s side. I first visited it in 1999. I have traveled to Poland seven or eight times since then, making three follow-up trips to Radzanów. I went with different guides in each case, so some of the visits were more revealing than others. In a few cases, standing in the village square, we ended up talking to locals and, in one case, sitting for a beer in a local kufelek, or little beer hall. Going with Poles is key: you cannot access the locals or understand the scene or get a feeling for things otherwise. I met people who remembered my family. I was shown the interior of the intact synagogue building.

More recently, I was back as part of an event organized through a high school class and teacher from a larger nearby place called Mława. The students and their teacher took part in a program that Polish schools follow, called To Bring Memory Back. In their case, they held an event to “open” the synagogue – which took place in the village community centre, since the synagogue is a hollow shell – hoping to raise interest and funds to have the building renewed in some way.

As you’d expect, I added great amounts of reading and research to these visits, in order to try to understand Radzanów from a contemporary as well as historical perspective. I did not want to make up things on this front. The scenes with a film crew are imagined, but a film on the wartime was in fact filmed in the Radzanów square, a kind of lucky coincidence for me. I looked at how that film looked. And research into the Germans’ activities in the area is quite developed, since there was an SS headquarters in the nearby town of Ciechanów. I have not had the guts or the opportunity to live in Radzanów. That aspect of the book is built from all the other related work and research and visits.

JI: In a similar vein, your references to music seem from an insider’s view. What instruments, if any, do you or have you played?

NR: I play the guitar. My son is a first-rate musician, which I am not. So, music is a very established fact in our home life. I am interested in things that overlap between Jewish and Polish identity and, certainly, along with food, music was an area of shared culture and knowledge before the war. Aspects of this inhabit the realm of cliché in contemporary “world music” culture. Klezmer, as it was played before the war, and its nearness to other Polish folk music, is really a kind of untapped source of possible nearness between the two groups. So my character, Nadia, almost inadvertently stumbles into this territory. She finds her way to Eastern European music and is drawn, without her meaning it to happen, to Poland.

JI: The Night Jew, Gentle Jew, Dulcimer Girl, Typewriter Girl … could you talk a bit about these “labels” that appear in the novel? Are they to evoke an archetype, a uniqueness or something else?

NR: This is a challenging query, which goes to the matter of how this book changed over time, through different drafts, and also points to other key aspects of the book.

For a long time it had the title The Dulcimer Girl, which is one of Nadia’s alter egos once she arrives in Poland. And the instrument itself, key to early klezmer, in its Polish guise, as a hammered instrument, was something I thought of as a talismanic object, which evoked the locale, the culture of Jews and Poles in another time.

The Typewriter Girl was also an early title that fell by the wayside, and relates to the other main female character, Ania. She is “the Typewriter Girl” by way of her work for a Polish government bureaucratic special office, which is tasked with investigating the files kept on people during the communist era. Understanding the typewriters used on each file is a way of verifying the files or revealing fraudulence.

The typewriter, like other technologies in the book – cars, books, recorded music – is evocative of a time when things worked in a way that they no longer do. So, the dulcimer and the typewriter, even hardcover books, are surely objects of nostalgic and loveable possibilities.

The Night Jew is central to the novel’s sense of Poland being haunted by the Jews murdered in the wartime. One can spend time in Poland and either look for these Night Jews or, as I sometimes feel, be one. There are plenty of real Jews in Poland today. But the Night Jew must be someone from another world altogether.

The Gentle Jew is in fact a particular nickname for a key figure in the narrative. He is an early ’60s denizen of West Cordova Street.

JI: There are many parallels in the lives of Simon and Nadia – a father’s secrets, their love of walking, etc. – and their lives do overlap, of course, but what inspired you to connect these disparate stories?

NR: Some of these parallels develop intentionally, but then others work themselves out as a book goes through drafts. Certainly, you’re right, walking is a returning motif. Nadia does seem to walk cities after the example of her father, as if she walks to be like him when she cannot know him.

The secrets of fathers: I guess, in this book, one of the premises is that ancestral stories, which go untold, can irrupt without warning. So, in the case of the younger characters in Canada, Simon and Nadia, they share this predicament, and their own lives are changed by the irruptions when they finally happen. It is satisfying when these kinds of patterns develop almost without meaning them to. This is where writing can be a bit like making music, where refrains, verse and chorus structure allow for such catchy and satisfying effects – a rhyming of sound and idea.

JI: If there is anything else you’d like to add, please do.

NR: I guess it’s important to say that I’ve returned to Vancouver in fiction for another try at it. My second novel, Lola by Night, was a Vancouver book. And, in The Girl Who Stole Everything, I felt strongly about doing things with the city that others hadn’t. I’m a walker in Vancouver, whenever I can be, so that element, which you ask about, is motivated by my own appreciation of what different parts of the city have to offer. When I walk, I do think of what’s changed since my last visit, so it may be that writing about a place can be well done from afar, as long as you keep it close enough and periodically in view. It’s interesting to have a Vancouver book come out in Montreal, where the West Coast is a kind of terra incognita.

Choosing life, despite lament

Craig Darch’s L’Chaim and Lamentations (NewSouth Books, 2019) is a bittersweet collection of seven short stories. Most of the characters in his first foray into fiction are older Ashkenazi Jews whose pasts are almost characters themselves. Yet, as strong as are their memories, these Jews are doing their most to live in the present, and to even assure the future.

Darch is the Humana-Sherman-Germany Distinguished Professor of Special Education at Auburn University, in Alabama, where he has taught for 37 years. He has lived several places in the United States, but New York City and Poland are the locations of import in these stories. At least one – “Who’s the Old Crone?” – was inspired by his birthplace, Chicago.

Having moved to South Bend, Indiana, with his family when he was 6 years old, Darch shares in an article on the Auburn website, “We attended synagogue in South Bend and continued to travel to Chicago to see my grandparents, where we frequented the famous Jewish deli called Ashkenazi. I remember always seeing the same three old men in there. I wondered about them, about their lives. Now, through fiction, I can give them names and their own story.”

In the humorous tale Darch has imagined, Rabbi Fiddleman, “held court each day in Schwartzman’s with his two followers – Pincus Eisenberg and Mendel Nachman.” As described by another customer at the deli, the “group of three old men, the only other customers in the place, huddled together with covered heads at a booth in the far corner, all remnants from the Romanian synagogue, bankrupt and boarded up years ago. Now, with no place for them to go, the octogenarians arrived early each morning and stayed for several hours – sipping tea, noshing on the cheapest fare, and kibbitzing about spiritualism and life after death, debates that frequently drifted into polemical arguments concerning the metaphysics of Spinoza and Kant. Though generous with their opinions, when it came to money each one was more frugal than the next, and each had a knack for consuming great quantities of Schwartzman’s tea while nibbling a single bagel over the course of several hours.”

Darch’s characters are recognizable people with whom readers will feel loneliness and friendship (“Sadie’s Prayer”), fear (“Wasserman’s Ride Home”), heartache and bewilderment (“Kaddish for Two”), justice tinged with bitterness (“Leonard Saperstein & Company”), mystery and hope (“The Last Jew in Krotoszyn”), joy and possibility (“Who’s the Old Crone?”), acceptance and perseverance (“Miss Bargman”).

The young people in these stories represent both forces of change and the need for new traditions, as in the emotional story “Kaddish for Two,” in which a son finally gets the courage to tell his Orthodox parents that he is gay, and as preservers of the past, as in the somehow cheering “The Last Jew in Krotoszyn,” in which Magda, a 13-year-old non-Jewish girl, befriends Ruta, the story title’s last Jew.

“Ruta watched Magda run out the cemetery gate, heading toward home,” writes Darch. “Then Ruta shuffled slowly away, each step more difficult than the last. She stopped for just a moment to catch her breath. Bone tired, she rested her hands on her hips. She understood such fatigue was just one more signal, a tweak from the Almighty himself; her time in this world was coming to an end. But strangely, she had no fear of dying. She had faith that Magda would tend the cemetery and pass on the stories, the truth of Krotoszyn.”

Human connections – positive, negative and in between – are at the foundation of every story in L’Chaim and Lamentations. Enjoy.

Spinning joy for Chanukah

The lights of chanukiyot could be seen in the neighbourhood windows. (photo by Neil Harris/uberdox.aishdas.org)

There once was a dreidel named Dreidelhead. Dreidelhead had three brothers and lived with his parents in Flushing, N.Y. His first name was Noon but everyone just called him Dreidelhead because his head and body were shaped like a big dreidel. His three brothers were named Gimel, Hay and Shin.

Dreidelhead’s parents taught all of the children how to sing, dance and, of course, spin. So, during the holiday of Chanukah, all four children would sing, dance and, of course, spin at Chanukah parties and celebrations in their neighbourhood. Noon, Gimel, Hay and Shin would link their arms together and dance around the chanukiyah, singing Chanukah songs. It was quite a sight to see, the four dreidel brothers dancing together and spinning around the table. Everyone, especially children, loved to watch them.

Dreidelhead, like his brothers Gimel, Hay and Shin, was named after a Hebrew letter. Each brother had their letter stitched onto the front of their shirt, so that, when people saw them standing together, people would be reminded of the great miracle that occurred.

Dreidelhead’s letter, Noon, represented the word nes, miracle. Gimel’s letter represented gadol, which means great. Hay’s letter represented hayah, which means happened, and, finally, Shin’s letter, which is one of the last letters of the Hebrew alphabet, represented sham, the Hebrew word for there. So, when Noon, Gimel, Hay and Shin stood together, they reminded people that Nes gadol hayah sham, a great miracle happened there, in Israel, many years ago.

On the first night of Chanukah, after lighting the candles and singing songs, and before they were about to eat the scrumptious latkes that their mother and bubbie had made, Dreidelhead’s zaide would always tell the boys the story of the miracles that took place during the Festival of Lights. As their mom put down a plate of golden brown potato pancakes on the table and some sticky jelly doughnuts, their zaide recounted the tale of a band of Jewish rebels named the Maccabees, who were led by Mattityahu, a Jewish priest, and his five sons.

“A long time ago,” Zaide began, “there was an evil king of Syria named Antiochus, who forbade the study of Torah and wanted Jews to bow down to idols and eat pork. He also put idols right in the Holy Temple in Jerusalem.”

“I’d rather eat latkes and jelly doughnuts than pork,” Dreidelhead announced as he glanced hungrily at the plate of steaming latkes and sufganiyot.

“Yeah, me too,” chimed in Hay.

“Well, you’ll be eating some soon, just let your zaide finish his story,” Dreidelhead’s mom interjected.

“But, we already know the story of Chanukah,” Dreidelhead whined. “We learn it in Hebrew school every year.”

“I know you do,” Zaide patiently replied. “So, nu, if you know the story, tell us what happened next.”

“Well, um, the Maccabees, who were led by Judah the Maccabee (the Hammer) overthrew Antiochus and came to the Holy Temple to light the menorah and to cleanse it of all of the idols that were placed in it. When they came to light the menorah, there was only enough oil to last one night, but a miracle occurred and the oil lasted for eight days and eight nights,” Dreidelhead replied all in one breath.

“And so what do we do to commemorate the miraculous victory and the miracle of the oil?” Zaide asked.

“Well,” replied Dreidelhead, “uh, well, we light the candles for eight nights and put the chanukiyah in the window, we tell the story of Chanukah and eat potato latkes fried in oil. And we can also eat jelly doughnuts fried in oil. That’s what they do in Israel. Oh, yeah, and dreidels like us spin on Chanukah!”

“Don’t forget the part about the Chanukah gelt,” Gimel said.

“Oh, yeah,” said Dreidelhead. “We also get money or Chanukah gelt.”

“That’s true,” Zaide replied. “But, try to remember, boys, that the most important part of Chanukah is not getting money or presents, but lighting the candles, remembering the story and the miracles, and spinning for children during Chanukah. In fact, before your bubbie and I came to America, we would spin for all of the children in our little village in Russia on Chanukah.”

“Your zaide’s right boys,” Bubbie piped in. “And, back in the Maccabees’ time, according to an old legend, we dreidels were used to warn students studying Torah that Antiochus’s troops were coming.”

“So our ancestors helped save people’s lives – they were heroes!” exclaimed Hay.

“That’s right,” Dreidelhead’s father acknowledged. “So, you boys should be proud to be dreidels. Anyway, after you thank your bubbie and zaide for their wonderful Chanukah stories, I want you to wash your hands and then you can eat. You’ll need lots of energy if you’re going to dance for the boys and girls in the neighbourhood tonight.”

Later that evening, the dreidel brothers roamed the neighbourhood searching for Jewish families who were celebrating Chanukah. They were easy to find. The dreidels just looked for houses that had a chanukiyah displayed on the windowsill. They knocked at people’s doors and announced in unison, “Happy Chanukah! It’s the dreidels!” If there were any children in the household, they would jump up and down and shout at the top of their lungs, “The dreidels are here! The dreidels are here!” The children would plead with their parents to invite the dreidels into their home. Once inside, the dreidels would spin and sing for the children, just as their parents and grandparents did before them.

And so, during the eight nights of Chanukah, while the candles were burning, Dreidelhead and his brothers would dance and spin, bringing joy wherever they went.

David J. Litvak is a prairie refugee from the North End of Winnipeg who is a freelance writer, former Voice of Peace and Co-op Radio broadcaster and an “accidental publicist.” His articles have been published in the Forward, Globe and Mail and Seattle Post-Intelligencer. His website is cascadiapublicity.com.

The Ornithologist

Raizel does not like to leave her apartment during the long, cold, season. She sits perched at the windowsill, torn bits of challah portioned beside her on the ledge, waiting for her feathered friends. A robin’s egg blue pashmina draped loosely across her thin shoulders.

On the Esplanade below, her neighbour Malka is carrying grocery bags on her way back from St-Viateur. It’s almost Shabbat and she is hurrying home to prepare the flanken, matzo ball soup and lokshen kugel. Raizel, on the other hand, makes cholent. She has everything she needs. Sometimes a bit more, sometimes a bit less.

Before Abe passed, Raizel would prepare a proper erev Shabbat meal; never went without kreplach or tzimmes. Now, she doesn’t even light the candles. There’s no one to say the brachah with, no one to make Kiddush. It’s all too quiet. She goes to bed early. When the children call, she’s taken the phone off the hook; doesn’t want them to know she’s alone in the dark.

In the morning, Raizel props open the bay window and rolls over the heavy oak desk chair. The one Abe sat in for 62 years preparing client accounts and tax returns; the threadbare cushion still warm. She picks up the binoculars, placing her elbows firmly on the ledge, and straightens her arthritic back. The air is fresh. A light snow is falling. The parade of black-capped chickadees, blue jays and purple finches remain hidden until she drizzles sesame seeds and the bread along the sill. But, today, she is looking elsewhere. They will have to wait.

Scanning the park, past the wrought iron fencing and its pointy spires, and past the rose garden buried under tufts of snow, she spots Malka. And Chaim, trailing close behind. A pleasure to see him. Raizel first began to notice Chaim only after her daughter bought her the binoculars, “to give her something to look at,” her daughter had said, “since she was refusing to go out.”

At first, Raizel thought she must be imagining things, thought maybe she should call Dr. Lipschitz to make an appointment. But, no, it was him. Chaim would swoop down close behind Malka, a few feet off the ground, his arms gently flapping, like a midnight black crow. He would accompany Malka as she walked along the stone pathway, always just as far as the gate leading onto Fairmont Avenue. And he would be dressed for the season: pastel peach plumage in summer and shimmering black feathers fringed with vanes of barbs in winter; how did he know?

Raizel and Abe had gone to the funeral, they went to the shivah, they consoled Malka and her children; there was no doubt, Chaim was gone. But now, here, there he was, fawning over Malka all over again, her constant companion. Raizel had been curious how it was that Malka couldn’t see Chaim, didn’t seem to even know he was there. No hidden smile, no look back, no small wave. Nothing. So, it was strange when Malka started spending so much time promenading around in the park, no matter the weather, or time of day.

Raizel felt a little chilled. She had been watching them for nearly an hour. She pushed the window closed and began to set the table for lunch. Cholent. It would warm her up.

Before sitting down to eat, Raizel picked up the binoculars again and scanned the apartment. Would she be so lucky? Would it be one or two for lunch today?

Karen Schauber is a family therapist practising in Vancouver. Her earlier writing is non-fiction and details three decades of psychosocial and analytical cases. Flash fiction is a new adventure for her, and her work has been published in literary magazines and anthologies, including Brilliant Flash Fiction, Bending Genres, CarpeArte, Ekphrastic Review, Flash Boulevard and Blood Puddles: An Anthology. The upcoming Group of Seven Flash Fiction anthology, celebrating the Canadian modernist landscape painters, is her first editorial flash venture. Schauber manages vancouverflashfiction.weebly.com and can be reached at karenschauber.weebly.com.