Germany

Integration policy misguided

Max Czollek, left, speaks with Prof. Chris Friedrichs, after Czollek launched his new book here Jan. 19. (photo by Pat Johnson)

German attempts to create a cohesive national narrative into which newcomers must integrate is a mistake – and the role Jewish Germans play in this “Theatre of Memory” is especially problematic, according to Max Czollek, a provocative thinker who was hosted by the Cherie Smith JCC Jewish Book Festival last month.

Czollek visited Vancouver Jan. 19, the only Canadian stop on a North American tour promoting the English translation of his book De-integrate: A Jewish Survival Guide for the 21st Century. He excoriated the German integration process as an ideological disaster.

“The only integration Germany has done well is the integration of old Nazis,” he said, explaining that about 99% of Nazi core perpetrators never met justice and, in fact, often succeeded in postwar Germany despite their wartime activities. By contrast, he notes in his book, those who challenged the Nazi regime were often viewed in the postwar context as politically untrustworthy: “[A]fter all, they had already revealed themselves as willing to resist the structures of the German state before.”

While the failure of the larger integration scheme is a theme of Czollek’s book, his main thesis is that Jews are being used to cover up the atrocities of the past. In the contemporary German narrative of integration, newcomers to the country are expected to assimilate into a vaguely defined “guiding culture” (Leitkultur) and not misbehave, Czollek told an audience in the Zack Gallery. But, despite that the vast majority of German Jews are migrants, too, that expectation is not imposed on them. Instead, Jewish Germans are assigned a different and unique role in a German narrative that seeks a return to a normality that was shattered by the Nazi era.

Positioning German Jews collectively as bit players in a larger narrative of redemption reduces them to a cover for the history of their own destruction, he argued: “Because, as long as there are Jews in Germany, then Germans can’t be Nazis.” He later said, “We don’t feel this is our function – making Germans feel good again.”

Czollek, who was born in East Berlin in 1987, two years before the reunification of Germany, explained the different postwar experiences of the tiny Jewish populations of East Germany and West Germany. Numerically, though, these experiences are overwhelmed by those of post-Soviet Jews: 90% of German Jews are migrants from the former Soviet Union or their descendants, he said. And these migrants (or, in the term used for their children and grandchildren, “postmigrants”) are excluded from the burdens placed on other newcomers, especially Muslims. In fact, said Czollek, Muslim immigrants play a role in this narrative, too, in which “good Germans” must now protect Jews against perceived threats from Muslims.

The author looks with a particularly jaundiced eye at German Jews who subscribe to this narrative, such as those who vote for the far-right Alternative for Germany party (AfD) based on anti-Muslim and anti-immigrant policies. “Maybe the next time the mosques are going to burn first, but then the synagogues are going to be next,” Czollek said. “We know if the Muslims won’t be able to live safe in Germany, then the Jews won’t either.”

The very idea of a German “guiding culture” is flawed, Czollek argues, not only because the unification of Germany in the 19th century brought together diverse tribes and groupings into what is now purveyed as a unitary nation, but because the postwar immigration of diverse peoples has made such a unified culture unworkable. “Because, given its current state of social diversity, arriving at an ethnically and culturally homogeneous Germany would simply require ethnic and cultural cleansing,” Czollek writes.

A central flaw in the integration narrative, he argues, is that, no matter how long someone named Mohammad has lived in Germany, they will be subject to different criteria of good citizenship. Neo-Nazis who commit arson against refugee shelters or march down the street chanting “Heil Hitler” are not accused of failing to integrate into the German culture, he noted.

“[A]t what point are you no longer considered an immigrant who refuses to integrate [Integrationsverweigerer], but simply a frustrated German?” he asks.

Czollek contends that the narrative of a prevailing German culture (and integration into it) has seeped from the far-right across the spectrum. “Not a single democratic party platform neglects to centre this term in discussions of social belonging,” he writes. “No discussion panels about migration are complete without someone underscoring the importance of integration.”

Czollek argues for a live-and-let-live approach, but suggests the advocates of integration aren’t interested.

“They can eat weisswurst with sweet mustard for lunch and drink at least one litre of beer a day,” he writes. “I have no problem with that and neither do my friends. And that’s precisely the point that fundamentally separates those of us who would defend a concept of radical diversity from those proponents of German guiding culture: we want to create a space in which one can be different without fear, while the other side wants to implement cultural criteria for belonging that by necessity exclude those who don’t align with their concept.”

The original German version of Czollek’s book was published in 2018, shortly after the far-right AfD had become the third-largest party in the Bundestag. Rather than spurring a backlash against extremism, other politicians took a page from the playbook, he argues, with the parties of the right, centre and left warning of the perils of nonintegrated newcomers.

Czollek views the AfD’s rise as a symptom as much as a cause – “Suddenly things everywhere are staining Nazi brown,” he writes – and he sees a different avenue for political success in the face of the far-right surge.

“I don’t believe Germany will win the fight against the New Right without the votes of (im)migrant, postmigrant, Jewish and Muslim citizens,” he writes. “And this critical – if perhaps unfamiliar – new alliance requires strong narratives, the willingness to accept self-criticism from all sides, and a political vision for a society beyond the current integration paradigm.”

Czollek has a doctorate from the Centre for Antisemitism Research at the Technical University of Berlin, has published books of poetry, and is a co-editor of Jalta, a journal of contemporary Jewish culture. He has been involved in political and multicultural theatre in Berlin for many years but with this, his first nonfiction book (translated into English by Jon Cho-Polizzi), he burst on the scene as a contentious public intellectual. The opposition to his work evoked not just political challenges but also public efforts to discredit him based on his identity as a patrilineal Jew.

Czollek’s presentation, in conversation with Markus Hallensleben, associate professor in the department of Central, Eastern and Northern European studies at the University of British Columbia, was opened by book festival director Dana Camil Hewitt. The main festival runs Feb. 11-16.

Diverse and innovative films

A still from Amanda Kinsey’s documentary Jews of the Wild West, a series of vignettes that shines a light on a noteworthy and usually overlooked history.

The Wild West, Jews in Germany and a surprisingly vivacious Israeli seniors home feature among the diverse films at the Vancouver Jewish Film Festival this year.

Somehow, we tend not to associate Jews with the legends that have built up around the development of the American West, a serious oversight that is in the crosshairs of filmmaker Amanda Kinsey’s documentary Jews of the Wild West.

The mythology of the Wild West is perhaps as much an invention of Hollywood as of history, so it is notable that the 1903 film The Great Train Robbery, which introduced the genre of the cinematic Western, featured Gilbert “Broncho Billy” Anderson – né Max Aronson.

The myth of the West was no less inspiring to Jews than to other Americans and dreamers from around the world. Perhaps one of the most famous names in the lore was Wyatt Earp. The film introduces us to Josephine Marcus, who fled her family in San Francisco to become an actress and ended up being Earp’s wife. Earp himself is buried along with the Marcus family in a Jewish cemetery.

The gold rush drew Jewish peddlers and merchants to the West Coast in the late 19th century including, most famously, Levi Strauss, who left the Lower East Side and, via Panama, arrived in San Francisco. His brothers sent dry goods from New York and Levi sold them up and down the coast. When Jacob Davis, a tailor, was asked by a woman to construct pants that her husband wouldn’t burst out of, he imagined adding rivets. He took the idea to Strauss and the rest is American clothing history. As one historian notes, it was a Jew who invented “the most American of garments.”

The rapid industrialization in the mining sector is where the Guggenheim family got its start and so, while the name is now most associated with Fifth Avenue, the finest address in New York City, their start was in the gritty West of the 19th century.

We meet Ray Frank, the first woman said to have preached from a bimah. Called the “golden girl rabbi,” she was not ordained, but was apparently a phenomenon that drew crowds to her sermons.

Many people will know that Golda (Mabovitch/Meyerson) Meir spent formative years as an immigrant from Russia in Milwaukee and then Denver. This footnote to her history is often considered curious and interesting, but in this film it integrates the Jewish experience of the 20th century and its roots in the American West with the development of the Jewish state – the opening up of another frontier, one might say.

The Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society, seeing the poverty in the Lower East Side, actively encouraged migration to the West. The film introduces families who have worked the land for generations, some of whom have maintained their Jewish identity and at least one of whom was raised Methodist. But, it suggests, the thriving Jewish community of Denver owes much to the failed farmers of the West who made their way to the nearest metropolis to salvage their livelihoods.

The documentary is really a series of vignettes and at times the shift from one story to another is confusing but, as a whole, Jews of the Wild West successfully shines a light on a noteworthy and usually overlooked history.

* * *

The festival features two German films that complement each other in interesting ways.

In Masel Tov Cocktail, a short (about 30 minutes) film, high schooler Dima (Alexander Wertmann) welcomes viewers into his life just as he is suspended for a week as a result of punching a classmate in the face during an altercation in the washroom. The “victim,” Tobi (Mateo Wansing Lorrio), had taunted the Jewish Dima, graphically play-acting a victim in a gas chamber, a performance enhanced by the austere, sterile setting of the restroom’s porcelain-tiled walls. So begins an interplay of victim and perpetrator that is just one of several provocative themes weaving through this powerful short.

Dima’s family, it turns out, heralds from the former Soviet Union, like 90% of Jews in today’s Germany. After the fall of the Soviet Union and the reunification of Germany, the German government actively encouraged migration of Jews to revitalize Jewish life in the country. This fact, like other statistics and tidbits, is flashed across the screen.

Juxtapositions pack a punch, including Dima’s switching between a baseball cap and a kippa, perhaps reflecting his complex identities, as well as the schism in the identities of post-Holocaust Jews more broadly in a society that struggles to assimilate the idea of contemporary, living Jews in the context of the blood-soaked soil of their state. A shift from colour to black-and-white also evokes the stark break between the present and the past.

But the present and the past are themselves in conflict as Dima recounts how other Germans react when they learn he is Jewish. Why does he only meet Germans whose grandparents weren’t Nazis, he wonders. Statistic: a survey indicates that 29% of Germans think their ancestors helped Jews during the Holocaust, while the screen text helpfully informs us the number was more like 0.1%.

Dima’s teacher, who can’t utter the word Jew and struggles to get the word Shoah out of her mouth, wants Dima to share his family’s Holocaust story with the class. The film’s implication is that Dima’s family was largely spared the trauma of the Holocaust, but he decides to play along because, “There’s no business like Shoah business.”

Dima’s grandfather is taken in by the AfD, the neo-fascist Alternative for Germany party, convinced that their pro-Israel and anti-Muslim rhetoric means that they are defenders of the Jewish people. In a moment that confounds the AfD campaigner (and causes the viewer to reflect), Dima drags his grandfather away from the campaigner while yelling: “Don’t let foreigners take away your antisemitism.”

The film is kooky, funny and light, while also serious, dark and thoughtful throughout.

That description applies to the similarly named feature film Love and Mazel Tov, which features Anne, a non-Jewish bookstore owner who has Munich’s largest selection of Jewish titles and who herself is more than a little obsessed with all things Jewish – including potential romantic partners.

“Some are into fat. Some are into thin. Anne is into Jews,” a friend explains. This turns out to be more than a romantic or erotic attraction, perhaps a disordered response to national and family histories.

Thinking she has found not only a Jewish boyfriend but a doctor at that, Anna (Verena Altenberger) courts Daniel (Maxim Mehmet), who in typical cinematic fashion lets her believe what she wants to believe until the inevitable mix-up explodes in a farcical emotional explosion – though not before an excruciating family dinner.

Parts of the film exist on a spectrum between cringey and hilarious. The film features (at least) two fake Jews who don this identity for extremely different reasons, inviting reflections on passing, appropriation and the fine line between veneration and fetishization.

Both of these films use humour to excavate deeply troubling concepts of identity and addressing horrors of the past. They approach these challenging themes in truly innovative and entertaining ways.

* * *

Understated comedy is key to the success of Greener Pastures, an Israeli film in which Dov, a retired postal worker, has lost his home after a “pension fiasco” involving the privatization of the postal service.

He is a curmudgeonly old square when it comes to marijuana, which the government has decided should be available to anyone 75 and over, but he sees a moneymaking opportunity. Dov (Shlomo Bar-Aba) enlists a network of seniors to order medicinal cannabis and mail it to him so he can distribute it to his “connection,” who shops it around to younger consumers. This “kosher kush,” guaranteed “Grade A government-approved stuff” sold in tahini bottles, brings Dov into conflict with a two-bit drug kingpin in a wheelchair and, of course, a snooping police officer.

There is romance and suspense in this madcap caper, but there is also the theme of elder empowerment, along with the laughs.

The Vancouver Jewish Film Festival runs online only March 3-13. For the full festival lineup and tickets, visit vjff.org.

Reckoning with family’s past

Writer and illustrator Nora Krug spoke with the Globe and Mail’s Marsha Lederman at a virtual event Oct. 27. (photo by DW Deutsche Welle)

The first time Nora Krug heard the word “Jew” was in elementary school during religion class, which was taught by the local priest. He told students that Jews killed Jesus.

Born in the German city of Karlsruhe, Krug is now associate professor of illustration at the Parsons School of Design in New York City, and author of the book Belonging: A German Reckons with History and Home. She spoke with Marsha Lederman at a virtual event Oct. 27 presented by the German Consulate General in Vancouver, the Vancouver Holocaust Education Centre, the University of British Columbia and the University of Victoria. Lederman is the Western arts correspondent for the Globe and Mail and her own book, Kiss the Red Stairs: Intergenerational Trauma, the Holocaust, and Me, is to be published in 2022.

“I came home from school that day and confronted my mother about it,” Krug recalled. “I said, ‘Are Jews evil?’ She got really angry because [it was] so obvious to her that this was something that nobody in Germany should ever think or say.”

A few years later, in her early teens, when she began learning about the Holocaust, she made a yellow star and intended to wear it as an act of solidarity with the Jewish people. Her mother, again, set her on a more appropriate path.

Krug explores her own struggles with her family’s past, as well as that of her country, in the book, a visual memoir that incorporates prose, graphics and photography. (See jewishindependent.ca/creative-engaging-memoir.)

The book was challenging on many fronts, Krug said, including her intention to tell one family’s story about the war era without downplaying German atrocities or doing anything that would appear to paint Germans as victims. While Germans did suffer during the war, it was ultimately a result of their own government’s actions.

“I’m not saying that Germans did not suffer during the war. I think they did,” she said. “But it was a self-imposed suffering.”

Like many aspects of researching a family’s or a country’s past, some things are unknowable and, at times, evidence can raise more questions than it answers. For instance, Krug had been told that her grandfather was a lifelong social democrat. But, when she dug through archives and found the military questionnaire that Germans in the American sector of occupied Germany were required to fill out to explain their war-era activities, he had acknowledged being a Nazi party member. Holding the document in her hands – not a facsimile, but the very document on which her grandfather had responded to more than 300 questions – was chilling, she said. The knowledge of her grandfather’s relationship with the Nazi party could only lead to speculation when she pieced two other facts together.

Krug had always known the location where her grandfather’s office had been in Karlsruhe. But only when she was researching the book did she discover that the Jewish centre and a synagogue were right across the street. Where was her grandfather when the synagogue was attacked on Kristallnacht and Jews were beaten in the streets? In the book, she posits four possibilities, from watching out his office window to laying home in bed sick to the most alarming possibility: that maybe he was among the mobs perpetrating the attacks.

Having lived for the past two decades in the United States – and being married to a Jewish man and having a 5-year-old daughter who is beginning to ask questions about history – all impacted her decision to write the book.

“I don’t think I would have done that had I not left Germany because I think, when I lived in Germany, I felt like I learned everything there is to learn about the war, what else is there to investigate?” she said. “That was my thinking. But, since I’ve been living in New York, I’m an individual and I am a German representing my country.”

Being away from her homeland also made her consider history more from an individual perspective.

“I think when you live as a German among Germans you accept the collective understanding of how we grew up learning about the war,” she said, crediting Germany with doing a good job addressing the topic as a nation. “But I think where we have to really still catch up is to do it on an individual basis, to really go back into our families, into the archives, into the cities where we grew up, what happened in our streets, in our houses, and investigate more deeply on an individual level.”

These are complex challenges and Krug sees a problem with the way Germans struggle with their national identity because of the terrible history of the 20th century.

“I think Germans really need to learn to love their culture,” she said. “I have a problem with it, too. I’m not saying I know how to do that. But I do think it’s a dangerous thing to only highlight our guilt. I think we need to learn, as Germans, to replace the word guilt or shame with the term responsibility.”

By struggling to express national pride, she said, Germans tend to abandon that to a fringe element.

“The problem is a lot of Germans who are willing and open to looking back at the past from a critical angle cannot express this love for their culture,” she said. “I think Germans should try to learn to do that because, otherwise, we leave it to the extreme right to do it for us and that’s a big problem.”

After Krug’s conversation with Lederman, a high school teacher submitted a question noting that some Canadian students are expressing fatigue at learning about Canada’s history of residential schools and asked whether German kids are getting tired of learning about the Holocaust. Krug acknowledged this might be the case and suggested ways of teaching that make the lessons more directly relevant for the present.

“If we had learned in Germany, for instance, more about the German resistance movement, we could have applied that knowledge to the present as well and asked ourselves, how can I help minorities that are harassed today or how can I make sure that we defend our democracy?” she said. “I think the more important question to ask is not what would I have done back then but what am I doing today on a daily basis to reflect on the issues that we have in our countries, no matter what country that is.”

Virtual VIFF now streaming

Shai Avivi, left, and Noam Imber are excellent as father and son in Here We Are. (still courtesy VIFF)

Understated and poignant are just two of the words I’d use to describe the screeners I watched in anticipation of the Vancouver International Film Festival, which opened Sept. 24 and runs to Oct. 7.

As with most everything these days, much of VIFF has moved online; however, there are still in-person screenings and talks, with audience sizes limited. And, as with other film festivals, online viewing is geo-blocked to British Columbia, meaning that you can only watch the movies if you are physically inside the province. The new format should allow for more access to the festival offerings and, while there will be those who miss dressing up and going out to the movies, there will be many people excited to be able to attend VIFF in their pajamas at home, me being one of them.

Last week, I watched two full-length features and two shorts: the narrative Here We Are, directed by Nir Bergman (Israel/Italy); the documentary Paris Calligrammes, directed by (and about) Ulrike Ottinger (Germany/France); The Book of Ruth, directed by Becca Roth (United States); and White Eye, directed by Tomer Shushan (Israel).

Every year, the Jewish Independent sponsors a selection at VIFF and, this time round, we’ve chosen a wonderfully written, acted and filmed movie. We generally have zero time and little information on which to base our choice, so I feel particularly grateful to have lucked out with this gem.

Here We Are is the story of a father who both will do almost anything for his autistic son, but who also uses his son as an excuse to not deal with the larger world. Aharon (played with incredible delicacy by Shai Avivi) has left his job to care for his son Uri (acted by Noam Imber, who gives an empathetic and strong performance). Aharon and his wife Tamara (played by Smadar Wolfman, who does a wonderful job, too) are no longer together, and Uri’s care has been left in his father’s capable and loving hands.

But Uri is an adult now and, to grow, we need space and the ability to direct our own lives. Tamara recognizes this and has worked hard to find Uri a good home, where he will be able to make friends and participate in activities with his peers. Aharon, however, is unable to let go and, though he also wants the best for Uri, he undermines Tamara’s actions – not only in words, but he takes Uri on the run.

The script by Dana Idisis leaves room for the pauses and emotions that make Here We Are an excellent film. Avivi’s face speaks more than a thousand words and you can see the inner conflict as his character struggles to accept that his son no longer needs him as much. The chemistry between Avivi and Imber makes the father-son relationship believable and compelling. And there are no “bad guys” here, even though mother and father differ in their opinions on parenting.

“I love the characters, the relationships, the way Aharon has reduced his needs to accommodate his son’s, and the transformation they experience throughout their journey,” reads the director’s statement. “I believe that, if I’m able to convey these characters as they are, from the written page to the screen, together with the bittersweet and humorous tone of the script, the audience will also fall in love with them.” Bergman accomplished his goal, and then some.

image - Ulrike Ottinger with her portrait of Allen Ginsberg, Paris 1965, and the work in colour (below) — Ulrike Ottinger with her portrait of Allen Ginsberg, Paris, 1965, and the work in colour (below). *(©Ulrike Ottinger courtesy VIFF)*

Paris Calligrammes is also very watchable and engaging. I’ll admit to never having heard of Ottinger before, so I was looking forward to learning more about her, her artwork, her photography and what eventually inspired her to filmmaking. However, while I thought the documentary was esthetically pleasing and gave a tangible sense of how exciting it would have been to live among the artistic elite in Paris during the 1960s, I couldn’t tell you much about Ottinger herself and what she contributed to the thoughts, images and culture of those turbulent times. But, I guess, perhaps it is assumed that one knows these things already.

image - Allen Ginsberg, Paris 1965 — Allen Ginsberg, Paris, 1965. *(©Ulrike Ottinger courtesy VIFF)*

Ottinger does offers some interesting and valuable commentary – read by British actress Jenny Agutter – but, for whatever reason, I didn’t think it was enough. The film is named after the bookstore Librairie Calligrammes, which specialized in antiquarian books and German literature, and was where Jewish and political émigrés hung out, along with others who we would now call cultural influencers. Ottinger drove to Paris in 1962 from Konstanz, Germany, to become, in her words, a great artist; to follow in the footsteps of her heroes and heroines. She not only follows those footsteps but walks alongside the likes of Tristan Tzara, Marcel Marceau, Raoul Hausman, Jean-Paul Sartre, Simone de Beauvoir and countless others as well known.

Some of the most interesting parts of the film are about Algeria’s years-long war of independence from France (1954-1962) and the situation at the time with respect to the appalling treatment of Algerians living in Paris. Clips are shown of a peaceful demonstration held on Oct. 17, 1961, that was violently broken up by police. According to the film, 200 to 300 people were killed that night alone and, to this day, there has not been an investigation and no one has been held accountable for the deaths; even opposition newspapers didn’t report on it at the time and photos vanished from newsrooms. Ottinger notes that the order for the police to attack was given by then-chief Maurice Papon, who, under the Vichy government, had organized the rounding up of Jews to be murdered during the Holocaust.

This is a film that, I think, would be most appreciated on a big screen, but is still worth watching, for its content, yes, but mainly for its creative use of archival footage and interview clips, photographs and current-day images and filming. The documentary starts with a quote from Conseils au Bon Voyageur by Victor Segalen, advice that Ottinger has “gladly followed”: “Advice to the good traveler – A town at the end of the road and a road extending a town: do not choose one or the other, but one and the other, by turns.” If one needed inspiration to live by the conjunctions “and/both” rather than “either/or,” Paris Calligrammes might offer it.

image - Tovah Feldshuh plays a grandmother with a secret past in The Book of Ruth — Tovah Feldshuh plays a grandmother with a secret past in *The Book of Ruth. (still courtesy VIFF)*

While Paris Calligrammes is the product and vision of a longtime filmmaker, The Book of Ruth comes from the imagination of Chen Drachman, and is the first film Drachman has written and produced. She also co-stars in this exploration of how important it is to have symbols – in this instance, represented by an historical figure – around which to rally or by which to live one’s life.

The short takes place during the happiest, smallest (five people) and shortest seder that I’ve ever seen, and focuses on Ruth – played by veteran actress Tovah Feldshuh – and whether she is really the grandmother her granddaughter, played by Drachman, grew up knowing. While the scenario postulated is unbelievable, Feldshuh offers the gravitas and has the talent to make viewers look beyond that fact and consider the questions raised in the film about the stories we build around some people – their role in a war or a political movement or an artistic endeavour, whatever – and how that story or image can help make us, living in another time, feel less alone, more understood, etc.

image - Dawit Tekelaeb, left, and Daniel Gad co-star in the short film White Eye — Dawit Tekelaeb, left, and Daniel Gad co-star in the short film *White Eye. (still courtesy VIFF)*

Symbolism, of course, can be positive and negative. Racist views and bigotry also come from the stories we have learned and tell ourselves. And White Eye, both directed and written by Shushan, does a superb job of illustrating how prejudices and privilege we may not even know we have can lead to disastrous consequences.

The main character of Omer is played by Daniel Gad with convincing stubbornness and obliviousness at first, then quiet shock at what happens as a result of his desire simply to take back what is his. When he comes across his bicycle, which had been stolen, that’s all he wants to do: cut the lock off and take it back. Even after he meets the bike’s new owner, Yunes – actor Dawit Tekelaeb will win your heart with his touching portrayal of a hardworking father and husband who bought the bike so he could take his daughter to kindergarten – Omer wants his property back. Even when Yunes’s boss (Reut Akkerman) argues on her employee’s behalf, Omer refuses to budge even the smallest bit. Only after the police become involved and Yunes, an immigrant from Eritrea whose visa has expired, is taken away, does Omer realize the full implications of his actions. By then, of course, the damage has been done. And it’s much more devastating than having had one’s bicycle stolen.

For the full film festival lineup, schedule and tickets, visit viff.org.

Lubeck shul sees restoration

Israel’s Lavi furniture factory recreated Carlebach Synagogue’s original ark from three prewar black-and-white photos. (photo from IMP)

Viewing the restored Carlebach Synagogue in Lubeck, Germany, brings to mind the biblical prophecies of consolation, where the Jewish people are reassured that the day will come when not only will they be restored to their land, but their houses of worship will likewise be restored. Sadly, neither the shul’s rabbi nor any other of the original community members are alive today to revel in the synagogue’s reinstated glory; however, in an interesting twist, several of the rabbi’s grandchildren are the children of founding members of Kibbutz Lavi, whose furniture factory designed and built the synagogue’s ark and other holy articles.

Rabbi David Alexander Winter, rabbi of the Carlebach Synagogue, fled Lubeck in 1938, together with most of his community. Several months later, on Kristallnacht, when many of Germany’s synagogues were torched and burned to the ground, the Lubeck shul was damaged and looted, but not destroyed – the building had been sold to the municipality and the contract, signed by the rabbi, was inside the synagogue, in plain view.

For Winter’s grandchildren, seeing the restoration of their grandfather’s synagogue is especially moving. “It’s a feeling of coming full circle,” said Yehudit Menachem, who visited Lubeck last year, seeking to learn more about her family history. Dr. Ariel Romem, a pediatrician and one of the grandsons, remarked that the restoration is symbolic of the re-blossoming of the Winter family and of the Jewish people as a whole. “They may have ruined the shul, but they never succeeded in breaking us,” he said.

In the seven decades since the Holocaust, the once-stately synagogue, established in 1880, has suffered looting, a firebombing, squatters and general neglect. German architect Thomas Schröder-Berkentien began working on its restoration in 2010, but the project was stuck due to a lack of funding. In 2016, the federal government dedicated a sizable sum, with other funding arriving from the Schleswig-Holstein state, the Lubeck-based Possehl Foundation and UNESCO, which had declared the Old City of Lubeck a World Heritage Site. The total cost of the project amounted to almost $10 million.

Schröder-Berkentien was intent on finding the best craftspeople for the synagogue furniture, and also felt that it was only right that the furniture should come from Israel. He found the Lavi furniture factory online and, after several inquiries and a visit to the carpentry workshop along with his team, was assured that they had the necessary experience and expertise to perform the research and produce items of quality and beauty. Indeed, in its 60 years of operation, Lavi has designed and produced interiors for synagogues in more than 6,000 Jewish communities around the world, including for new and restored synagogues in Germany.

Motti Namdar, the factory’s chief planner, described the challenge, and ultimate satisfaction, of creating replicas of the original items. “We only had three prewar black-and-white photos to go by,” he explained. “The photos showed only one angle and even that was not very clear. It was difficult to make out a lot of the detailing or which metals were used, especially for the ark, which you can see from the photos is very unusual.”

Ultimately, much of Namdar’s work had to be done by deduction and a knowledge of the history of the period. “I traveled to Lubeck to see the synagogue and examine the parts that had not been damaged. Part of the ladies’ gallery was intact. The architect had hired restoration experts who carefully removed the layers of paint from the walls, exposing the original murals. The synagogue as a whole had been built in the Moorish style, and I proceeded in that direction.”

In one of the photos, it’s possible to make out the pointed roof-like structure at the top of the ark, which Namdar designed to include 1,500 “scales,” all coated in pure gold. Under Namdar’s direction, the Lavi factory completed all the articles by the deadline. “The hardest part wasn’t the tight schedule, but, rather, building everything such that it could be taken apart, packed and shipped, and then reassembled so that everything fit perfectly.”

photo - Since its restoration, Carlebach Synagogue in Lubeck, Germany, has been serving as a spiritual hub for Lubeck’s 700-strong Jewish community — Since its restoration, Carlebach Synagogue in Lubeck, Germany, has been serving as a spiritual hub for Lubeck’s 700-strong Jewish community. *(photo from IMP)*

But while it was clear to the craftspeople at Lavi that they wanted to produce replicas that were as authentic as possible, the project’s architect, Schröder-Berkentien, was intent that the structure itself, which was restored to be a national monument, should serve as a testament and, in his words, “like a wound,” as a painful reminder of the events of 1938. This was the reasoning behind his decision not to redo the synagogue’s original ornate façade, which, together with the cupola and other elements, had been destroyed on Kristallnacht. “The plain red brick tells the story of what happened,” he said. “A rebuilt façade would ignore that part of history, failing to show the suffering of the era. This is what makes it such a unique monument among other German synagogues.”

When news of the coronavirus pandemic first broke in January, the factory began working overtime so that everything would be ready for the gala re-inauguration, which was to have been attended by high-ranking German officials, including Chancellor Angela Merkel, members of the restoration committee and local community figures, as well as Winter’s grandchildren from Kibbutz Lavi. However, when it was finally time for the assembly and installation of the furniture, the world was already in COVID-19 lockdown. As soon as it was possible, Lavi sent their own experts from England to complete the work. Now, the synagogue stands in all its resplendent glory, but the ceremony has been postponed indefinitely.

The important thing is that the synagogue is open and operating, serving as a spiritual hub for Lubeck’s 700-strong Jewish community. “This synagogue is not only a place of prayer, but a symbol of the revival of Jewish life in Lubeck, throughout Germany and around the world,” said the current spiritual leader of Lubeck, Rabbi Nathan Grinberg.

– Courtesy International Marketing and Promotion (IMP)

Creative, engaging memoir

Nora Krug’s Belonging offers a thoughtful and artistic exploration of identity and history. (photo by Nina Subin)

Nora Krug’s Belonging: A German Reckons with History and Home (Scribner, 2018) opens with a page made to look like it’s written in pencil on yellow graph paper. The illustration of a bandage takes up half the page, which is ostensibly “From the notebook of a homesick émigré: Things German.” Entry No. 1 is about Hansaplast, a type of bandage created in 1922 that Krug associates with safety, her mother having used it, for example, to stop Krug’s knee from bleeding after a roller-skating accident at age 6. “It is the most tenacious bandage on the planet,” writes Krug, “and it hurts when you tear it off to look at your scar.”

Belonging is the written and illustrated account of what happens when Krug decides to rip off the Hansaplast and examine the scars left by the history of her family – which had only been related to her in vague terms – and her country of birth, Germany. It is a creative and engaging memoir about Krug’s efforts to define for herself and reclaim for herself the idea of Heimat, tarnished by the Nazis’ use of it in propaganda.

Heimat can refer to an actual or imagined location with which a person feels familiar or comfortable, or the place in which a person is born, the place that played a large part in shaping their character and perspective. Krug’s exploration of identity comprises archival research, interviews with family members and others, and visits to her mother’s and father’s hometowns – Karlsruhe (where Krug grew up) and Külsheim, respectively.

Alternating with the narrative of her discoveries are several notebook entries, on a range of items, from bread to binders to soap, which are both points of pride, as they are quality-made items, and metaphors. For example, Persil is “a time-tested German laundry detergent invented in 1907,” which Krug uses. However, she writes, “Some referred to the postwar testimonials written by neighbours, colleagues and friends in defence of suspected Nazi sympathizers as Persil Certificates. Persil guarantees your shirts to come out as white as snow.”

As well, Krug includes pages “From the scrapbook of a memory archivist,” which present odd and sometimes disturbing arrays of items found at flea markets on her research trips to Germany. These include Hitler Youth trading cards, a letter from the front containing a lock of hair and photographs of soldiers petting or holding various animals, mostly dogs.

But the main intrigue of the book comes from what Krug shares as she persists in her research, asking questions and scouring documents. She wants to find out all she can about her family’s involvement in the Holocaust, in particular that of her maternal grandfather, who died when Krug was 11, and her paternal uncle, who was drafted at 17 and shot and killed at age 18, before her father, a postwar baby, was born; her father was named after the brother he never knew. Despite her efforts, many of Krug’s questions remain unanswered.

At the end of Belonging, it’s not even clear if Krug – who readers find out early on married into a Jewish family – feels any less guilty or any more secure in her self and in her past. But she does manage to start the healing process on some family rifts. And she highlights a couple of steps towards healing that she witnesses in Germany. For example, of Külsheim – which had, in 1988, the 50th anniversary of Kristallnacht, abandoned a proposal for a memorial plaque where the synagogue once stood, before it was burned down the night of Nov. 10, 1938 – she writes: “Plans are made to restore Külsheim’s old mikvah, and a memorial stone is erected where the synagogue used to be, ‘as a manifestation of sadness and shame,’ Külsheim’s new mayor says on the day it is installed.”

The book ends as it began, with a notebook entry. No. 8 is Uhu, “invented by a German pharmacist as the first synthetic (bone-glue-free) resin adhesive in the world, in 1932.” Despite its world-record strength, which is why Krug imports it to repair everything from the soles of her shoes to broken dishware, Uhu “cannot cover up the crack.”

Colour bursts forth in Conjunction

Ira Hoffecker’s current solo exhibit at the Zack Gallery, Conjunction, runs until July 21. (photo by Olga Livshin)

Conjunction, Ira Hoffecker’s current solo exhibit at the Zack Gallery, opened on June 13 and runs until July 21.

German-born Hoffecker and her family moved to Canada in 2004. “I always liked art, but when I lived in Germany, my husband and I worked in marketing for the movie industry,” she explained in an interview with the Independent.

Once, when her children were still young, they came here for a family vacation and traveled Vancouver Island. “We loved it,” she said. So much that, when they moved here permanently, they settled in Victoria. As if that wasn’t change enough, Hoffecker also decided to switch careers and follow her lifelong love of art. She enrolled in the Vancouver Island School of Art and has been studying and creating ever since.

Hoffecker’s previous show at the Zack Gallery, in 2016, was dedicated to maps. Since then, her art has undergone a couple of transformations. Conjunction is much brighter and more expressive set of works, although the abstract component remains.

On the journey to her new colourful mode, Hoffecker went through a black-and-white stage, which was the focus of her master’s in fine arts’ thesis, which she completed last year. The works she created for her master’s degree include a number of huge paintings – abstracts made with tar on canvas – plus three documentary videos. The theme – “History as Personal Memory” – was a painful one for the artist. She recalled, “One of my professors said that my works are the interconnected layers of urban setting and history. ‘Where is your personal layer?’ he asked me.”

Taking this advice, she has been trying to delve into her personal recollections, to uncover her place in history, her “personal layer” among the historical layers dominating her art. “In ‘History as Personal Memory,’ I tore pages from a history book about the Third Reich, an era in history that many Germans would prefer to forget. Yet I think it is important to face and discuss this past. Such dialogue might prevent the horrors from happening again,” she said.

In Hoffecker’s art, the artist’s memories are intertwined with the history of her nation. “Correlations between my childhood abuse, which I tried to forget, and the history of Germany, which the Germans tried to eradicate from their memories, exist in my paintings and films,” she said.

In her art and her videos, she opens up about the abuse she suffered as a child at the hands of her grandfather, who was also a Nazi. She is convinced that such openness has helped her heal, whereas suppressing the memories led only to the festering of her inner wounds.

The same is true for historical memories, Hoffecker insisted. “Germany needs to remember, to confront and challenge complacency to prevent a repetition of historical atrocities,” she said.

Her master’s thesis was a deep and painful discovery, a journey in black-and-white to underscore the grimness and tragedy of the topic. Once it was completed, she was ready for a change of direction.

“I spent the summer last year in Berlin,” she said. “When I came back home to Victoria, I wanted to paint some colours again.”

Hoffecker’s current exhibit bursts with vibrant colours and optimism. The series Berlin Spaces, like most of her paintings, has several layers. “There are outlines of many famous Berlin buildings there,” she said, tracing the architectural lines embedded in the abstract patterns with her finger. “The Jewish Museum, the Philharmonie, the library, the Reichstag. It is like a reconstruction, when I think about the past. I overlay history and architecture.”

One of the paintings, a bright yellow-and-pink abstract, has writing among its patterns. “It means ‘forgetting’ in German,” Hoffecker explained. “A few years ago, I was invited to have a solo show in Hof, a city in Germany. I worked there in the archives, found many old maps and records. One of their buildings is a factory now. After the war, it was a refugee camp, and there is a plaque to commemorate the fact. But, during the war, it was a labour camp, a place from where Jewish prisoners were transported to concentration camps and death, but nothing is there to remind [people] of that past. The painting reflects the current happy state of the building, but it also reflects the tragic past, the past we shouldn’t forget.”

While not many art lovers will see the horrors of the labour camp in the airy and cheerful palette of the painting, Hoffecker doesn’t mind. Like other abstract artists, she infuses her images with hidden messages, but doesn’t insist on her personal intentions.

“I own the making,” she said. “I bring in my memories and my heart, but I have to leave the interpretation to the viewers. One man in Victoria loves my art. He bought two of my paintings. He said he sees animal in them. I don’t paint animals, but I’m glad people’s own experience resonates with my paintings.”

Hoffecker is very serious about her art, but bemoans the need for promotion. “I did marketing for movies professionally, but I never really cared [about the reaction]. If someone didn’t like the movie we were pushing, it was his business,” she said. “But to promote my own paintings is scary. When someone doesn’t like what I do, I care. It hurts. I don’t want to do it. An artist wants to be in her studio and paint. It is all I want: to paint and to exhibit. I want people to see my work. Besides, a show is the only time when I see many of my paintings together. I never can do that in my studio. I only see one or two at a time.”

To learn more about Hoffecker’s work, visit irahoffecker.com.

Olga Livshin is a Vancouver freelance writer. She can be reached at [email protected].

Hiding is not an answer

“Doctor, it hurts when I do this,” says the patient in an old joke. “Don’t do that,” advises the doctor.

In a decidedly unfunny twist on that old joke, the German government’s Commissioner on Antisemitism Felix Klein responded to the fact that Jews are being beaten up on German streets by advising German Jews not to wear kippot in public.

Discretion may be the better part of valour. In the short term, donning a baseball cap may be a personal choice for someone who merely wants to dash out to the market to pick up some vegetables. As part of a bigger picture, the idea that Jews in Germany should hide their identities – and the bleak historical resonance that act of Jewish hiding evokes in that particular nation – is a testament to something far beyond individual security. If a country – but, more importantly, that country – is not a safe place for identifiably Jewish people to go about their everyday lives, that is a society with a problem.

After the Holocaust, many Jews, including the leaders of Canadian Jewish Congress, determined that the surest path to safety, security and acceptance for Jewish people was to promote a universalist approach and advocate for a society in which all people are safe, secure and accepted. This is one reason why, throughout recent Canadian history, we have seen Jews in leadership roles in multicultural organizations and supporting policies that advance inclusive, universalist goals.

But there may be, in this approach, an unfortunate acknowledgement that asking people to take a stand in support of Jewish people in particular may be a losing bet. Consider the disparate responses in theory and practice of public opinion in recent months. After the murders in synagogues in Pittsburgh and San Diego, a great many voices (on social media, predominantly) declared solidarity with Jewish people. Yet almost concurrently, when Israelis were under attack by missiles and incendiary devices from Gaza, the overwhelming reaction was to condemn Israel’s responses. It is incongruous and incoherent to support Jews under threat in one place and, at the same time, side with those who would attack Jews in another location.

The bigger point is that, if a society like Germany seems prepared to accept a level of social illness that means a kippa becomes a hate target, how do Jews respond?

Israel’s President Reuven Rivlin reacted passionately to events in Germany last weekend.

“We will never submit, will never lower our gaze, and will never react to antisemitism with defeatism – and we expect and demand our allies act in the same way,” he said. But Rivlin’s is the voice of a self-determined Jewish people sovereign in their own land. The reality for Jews in Germany, and in many other places, is that they face antisemitism of a sort and magnitude unseen since 1945. Whether Diaspora Jews will indeed submit, lower our gaze or react with defeatism actually remains to be seen, Rivlin’s encouraging words notwithstanding.

Rivlin is unequivocally correct, though, when he says he expects more of Israel’s allies in protecting Jewish people, rather than suggesting that we hide our identities. Ideally, as a result of this discussion, the German government will recognize the inappropriateness of the commissioner’s words. Through preventive actions, like increased security, and educational efforts, including genuinely tackling antisemitism in schools and public discourse, the government of Germany, as well as other European countries, can move in the right direction.

Equally important, especially when leaders won’t lead, citizens must. It falls to each of us – Jews and non-Jews – to build bridges of understanding across ethnic, religious, linguistic and cultural lines. We need to advocate for those same inclusive values. Yes, times have changed and ideals of multiculturalism and the celebration of difference have taken a beating, but the inherent goodness of those values has not changed.

We also should strive to make intolerance and bigotry socially unacceptable again. The culture in Europe and North America has become coarsened and we are becoming inured to statements and imagery that would have been unacceptable before. Social media is partly to blame for this, but, as it seeps into broader society, we need to keep calling out words and ideas that divide, harm, vilify or seek to diminish others.

We know these “solutions” sound idealistic and perhaps a bit like bailing out the Titanic with a thimble. But we got to this stage in history through a million small incremental steps in the wrong direction. It is a constellation of small, positive steps that may be our best way back – in conjunction with people of all backgrounds who share our views.

Two things are certain. There is no magic wand that is going to right the wrongs we see in the world – and hiding our identities is no solution.

Cynicism and realism

Last week, thousands of Germans of all faiths and identities participated in a “kippa march,” standing in solidarity with German Jews who feel endangered in the current political climate. In 2017, there were 1,468 reported antisemitic attacks in Germany, most perpetrated by members of the far-right.

The gesture is lovely. However we cannot help wondering if the whole “Je suis Charlie,” “We are all Muslims” or the “Ich bin Eine Jude” movements that pop up as gestures of solidarity are not at least slightly misplaced.

We will leave it to others to speak for their communities. But we would note that there may be a degree of comfort among some people in Europe and North America to criticize Jews. Since Christianity is descended from Judaism, it seems that there is felt more freedom to criticize Jewish behaviours, including the policies of the Jewish state. After all, the thinking might go, we are all part of the same family; it’s practically constructive self-criticism. Yet this ignores millennia of significantly divergent experiences and theology.

While the idea that donning a kippa will help keep Jewish neighbours in Germany safe, recent European history should give us reason to worry that today’s gesture of solidarity could be repurposed as a cover for criticism tomorrow on the pleasant idea that Ich bin Eine Jude.

This is a cynical response to a kind gesture, we realize. But sometimes cynicism and realism are not unrelated.

Merkel’s election win

Angela Merkel was returned for a fourth term as Germany’s chancellor on Sunday, defeating her main Social Democrat opponent, as well as a seemingly global surge toward populism. However, while she succeeded, her vote share declined – and the footnote of the election turns out to be the bigger story.

The far-right Alternative for Germany (AfD) party came third, taking about 13% of the vote and entering parliament for the first time. The result was as good as any polls had predicted, meaning that some people who voted for them probably didn’t feel comfortable sharing their voting intentions with pollsters. The party was formed just four years ago, amid an anti-immigrant and anti-refugee backlash in response to Merkel’s liberal approach to the crisis caused by the Syrian civil war. In response, Merkel reined in her liberal approach somewhat, possibly saving her party from defeat. Just a few months ago, Merkel’s reelection appeared to be in doubt.

The success of Merkel’s conservative bloc is a sign that, when push comes to shove, German voters trust her steady hand at a time when the European Union and the world is in upheaval. While immigration remained a central issue in the election, its potentially negative impact on Merkel’s chances may have been blunted by the overarching desire for stable government.

In the face of Brexit and various economic crises in EU member states over recent years, Merkel emerged as the unequivocal leader of the vision of European unity. German voters endorsed her overall approach. But the emergence of AfD is worrying, though not surprising. Extremist parties have been burgeoning all over Europe – and extremism is flourishing in the United States. It would have been stunning if Germany completely avoided this trend.

For their part, the Social Democrats had been in a governing agreement with Merkel’s conservatives and, as is often the case in such scenarios, found themselves at a disadvantage in differentiating themselves from the incumbent government when putting their case to voters. They may choose to rebuild their party from the opposition side, rather than form another coalition with Merkel. However, if they choose to cooperate with the conservatives, that will put the third-party AfD in the enviable position of official opposition. This would give the radical right grouping even greater prominence than their 13% vote share would seem to justify.

“We will change this country,” declared Alexander Gauland, a co-leader of the AfD, on Sunday night. These are eerie words coming from the leadership of a group that promises a return to traditional German “volk” values, glorifies the Nazis and has been accused of racism and antisemitism.

The extremists will have an unprecedented platform (at least in the postwar era) in German politics and, even lacking legislative power, will be able to give voice to ideas that have largely been taboo in the German body politic for the past 70 years.

Yet, we should not allow the dark lining to obliterate the silver cloud. The election secured a stable, reliable and moderate direction for Germany that is good for Europe, the world and, not incidentally, Israel.

In its manifesto, Merkel’s party acknowledged a “special responsibility of Germany toward Israel” and earlier equated the BDS (boycott, divestment and sanction) movement with the Nazi campaign to boycott Jewish businesses. Under Merkel’s leadership, Germany has continued and strengthened its very close alliance with the Jewish state. The German government has been a bulwark, to the extent that a single government can be, against the anti-Israel movements at the EU and the United Nations.

In election after election in Europe over the past year, worst-case scenarios have been avoided. Extremist parties have made inroads, but generally less than anticipated. The AfD’s relative success may be seen as a protest vote, in which case we may be seeing its zenith. In any case, Germans will now get a clear view of what the party stands for – and will have the opportunity to stand up in opposition to the divisive and xenophobic policies the AfD promotes.