memoir

Grateful for ability to play

Six members of the 35th Street Gang, with the author second from the left in the back row. (photo from Cassandra Freeman)

Sheena and I don’t recall why we were trying to measure the house with a ball of string. We just remember me holding one end of the string, throwing the rest down from my bedroom, and her running all around the house with the rest of it till she got back to me. We were 8 years old and we were part of what we proudly called the 35th Street Gang.

At a recent reunion, 43 years later, seven of us mischievous women decided that playing was a powerful thing. It was about athletic activity, creativity, community building, trust – and simply some of the funnest times we’ve had.

Fairly early in our lives, “we seven” decided we owned the block. That’s why we called ourselves the 35th Street Gang. For some of us, a rite of initiation to the gang was to climb with hands and bare feet up to the very top of the pole and touch the signs that read 35th and Maple, then slide right back down again.

Kick the can was one of our favourite games. It was a combination of tag and hide-and-go-seek. I remember shivering with anticipation in a neighbour’s garage, hiding from the girl who was “it.” Of course, she found me before the others, and we raced down the short hill and around the corner, each of us trying to be the one who would kick the can first. I’m betting that we ran faster than we ever did in phys ed class. (Some adults still play this game I discovered, and you can search for them on meetup.com.)

Roller skates were all the rage in the early 1970s. They attached to the bottom of your sneakers with a metal key. I can still feel the vibration from the wheels going all the way through my body from the contact with the cement below. And just skating in the middle of the road wasn’t good enough for us. One of us, Louise, created a song we all sang and did the motions to while skating. It went like this: “Butterflies fly, and so do I, and I like it, so I don’t sit, I fly … so do I.”

The most daring kind of play we did was tobogganing. Daring because we slid down a severely slanted sidewalk covered with snow and ice. The year I was 8, winter was particularly cold. That did not deter us and neither did the teenage boys who threw ice balls at us on the way down. We were determined to have a good time.

We had a regular toboggan that fit three of us, a red slippery carpet, and a small round “flying saucer” one that would go round in circles as you went down. The bump we all made in the middle of the run was the most fun. We would fly off that thing so high it took a few seconds to come back down to earth again.

One time, I was sitting in the middle of the flying saucer and flew off that bump and started spinning in circles. I still remember that moment when I realized – too late – that I was going to hit the huge chestnut tree at the bottom of the run. And so I did. Thwack! My back hit that tree so hard it took all the breath out of me. Realizing a few seconds later that I was all in one piece, I got up and marched back up the hill and slid all the way down again on someone else’s toboggan.

We did all of these things running in and out of my parents’ house. As a result, all of my friends still know about all the Jewish holidays and what a kosher kitchen is. They would even march in on Passover with non-kosher-for-Passover popsicles to torment my poor older sister who was trying to keep the holiday. Today, they remember my parents, Joyce and Bernie, as being their second parents growing up. One of us, Madeleine, even says that she became a war crimes prosecutor because she learned about the Holocaust from spending so much time in our house. (See jewishindependent.ca/working-for-human-rights.)

When John Fraser became a member of Parliament, we used his election signs to build a huge maze in the Frasers’ front yard. We crawled around until our knees hurt. We had such a great time until we learned that he and his wife would be leaving for Ottawa with their three daughters. We said our sad goodbyes and waited for the time we would see them again.

Looking back, I am thankful I was involved in an old-fashioned kind of play that created lifelong friendships. Now, at our reunions, we become kids again and laugh our heads off for hours.

Cassandra Freeman is a freelance writer and teaches improv games for parties and performance.

Novel informed by life

Alina Adams, author of The Nesting Dolls, spoke at a recent Zoom webinar organized by the Jewish Community Centre of Victoria. (photo from alinaadams.com)

New York City-based writer Alina Adams, author of the 2020 novel The Nesting Dolls – about three generations of Russian-Jewish women – spoke at a Jan. 27 Zoom webinar organized by the Jewish Community Centre of Victoria.

Adams began with her personal story. Born in the port city of Odessa, she spent the first seven years of her life in a communal apartment: a dwelling, including kitchen and bathroom, that was shared by two families.

“As I mention in The Nesting Dolls, these relationships were not always positive. My parents were lucky in that they got along well with the people they were assigned to share with,” said Adams.

In 1976, her parents decided to emigrate. Two years earlier, the United States had passed the Jackson-Vanik Amendment, which linked U.S. trade with the free movement of Jews and other groups in the Communist bloc.

“I like to say we were traded for wheat,” Adams quipped.

To those leaving the USSR, she said, “it was like stepping off the edge of the earth. You didn’t know where you were going, you didn’t know what life would be like when you were there, and you certainly knew you couldn’t come back.”

The family’s first stop was Vienna. From there, they took a bus to Rome, where they stayed for four months before traveling on to North America in January 1977, first to New York and then to San Francisco.

Adams recounted some of the reactions upon coming to America in the 1970s as a young child: for example, the surprise of watching a television screen in full colour. It was television, namely soap operas, that Adams later credited for helping her learn English.

The young immigrant started out in a Jewish day school, where the differences in various customs – her life in the new versus the old world – became very apparent. Parents in North America, she recalled, did not send their kids to school in the same dress every day; they used Band-Aids instead of green antiseptic to treat cuts; and, if their child had the sniffles, they did not place the child’s feet in hot water and then into socks filled with dried mustard.

Over time, Adams and her family got the hang of life in America. She graduated high school and college. All along, she knew she wanted to be a writer.

“My parents claim my first words were ‘pencil’ and ‘paper,’” said Adams. “And what’s the advice all writers get? Write about what you know. Well, what did I know? I knew about being a Soviet immigrant. I knew about living a culture that wasn’t mine.”

Publishers, at first, were not interested in those themes. Nonetheless, an editor at Avon Publishing did like her writing and contacted Adams, asking if she would write a Regency romance. This would become The Fictitious Marquis, a unique book in the Regency romance genre in that Jews are central characters.

Adams now has more than a dozen titles to her credit, including mysteries, books on figure skating (non-fiction) and other romances.

About four years ago, Adams’ literary agent told her that editors were becoming interested in Russia, and this led Adams to write The Nesting Dolls. The novel begins in the Soviet Union of the 1930s and ends in 21st-century, pre-pandemic Brighton Beach, in New York City. It focuses on the lives of three generations of Russian Jewish women in one family; the periods parallel those of Adams’ grandmother, mother and herself.

For Adams, it is the everyday events that are the most fascinating part of writing historical fiction. “Anyone can look up which date Nikita Khrushchev denounced Joseph Stalin, but it is the small details which make historical fiction compelling,” she said.

As an example, she pointed to a personal account she used in the novel. According to her mother, Adams did not want to be breastfed. This caused her mother to go to a doctor and ask him to write up a prescription for yogurt. “These are the little things, in this case how difficult it was to get regular foodstuffs in the Soviet Union, that bring a situation to life and show the reader what an era was like,” said Adams.

The novel was scheduled to be released in 2019 but was delayed to 2020, which, for Adams, turned out to be a blessing for the story’s timeline, in that she wasn’t finishing it during the pandemic. The last section of the book takes place in pre-pandemic Brooklyn in summer. “The things my characters do in the summer of 2019, they could not have done in the summer of 2020,” she said.

Adams lives in New York with her husband and their three children. She has written about her interracial, interfaith and intercultural family for Interfaith Family Magazine and the Forward, and has written columns and articles for dozens of publications.

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

Turning tragedy to hope

The year 2016 was a milestone for Kalman and Malki Samuels. It marked the inauguration of a dream years in the making – the opening of the Shalva National Centre, one of the largest centres of disability care and inclusion in the world. Built not far from the entrance to Jerusalem, the 12-storey world-class complex features an auditorium, a gymnasium, hydrotherapy and semi-Olympic pools, a virtual reality therapy suite, a research and study institute, a café, some of whose workers have developmental disabilities, and accommodations for 100 respite sleepovers per night.

How was it that Kalman and Malki Samuels came to create this extraordinary organization that assists 2,000 children with disabilities each week, while empowering families and promoting social inclusion? The answer lies in the subtitle of Vancouver native Kalman Samuels’ Dreams Never Dreamed: A Mother’s Promise That Transformed Her Son’s Breakthrough into a Beacon of Hope (Toby Press, 2020) – it was a mother’s promise.

In 1977, the couple’s healthy, lively baby boy, two weeks short of his first birthday, was checked by a doctor at a Jerusalem clinic before receiving his second DTP inoculation; and all his developmental milestones were fine, so the nurse gave him the shot.

But Malki knew the same day that something was wrong. “I took Yossi home and followed the instructions they’d given me at the clinic…. I bathed him, gave him baby paracetamol and let him sleep. The moment he woke, I knew my baby was gone. He looked up at me with shiny eyes as if to say: ‘What have you done to me?’”

Only later did the couple discover that, on that October afternoon, “Israel’s health authorities had already known for almost five months that the vaccine batch they were using … was dangerously flawed.” The defective pertussis (whooping cough) component was from the Connaught Laboratories of Canada. The diphtheria and tetanus components were from the Israeli company Rafa, which had combined the three.

Thus began a saga of almost 40 years of anguish, faith, research, perseverance, legal battles and, ultimately, the realization of dreams, not only for the injured Yossi, but for thousands of other children with disabilities.

Dreams Never Dreamed is written chronologically, beginning with Kalman’s personal story of visiting Israel as a college student in the 1960s, eventually becoming Orthodox, making aliyah and marrying his life partner. He writes his family’s spellbinding story with an honesty and openness that opens and pierces our hearts as well.

Yossi was ultimately diagnosed as legally blind – though he loved to wear glasses because it helped him feel more competent – and legally deaf. He is also severely hyperactive.

The Samuels left their home in Israel for New York, following every medical lead in search of help for their son. While her son was attending the Lighthouse – a famous specialized school for the visually impaired – Malki made a pact with God: “… I promise You this. If You ever decide to help my Yossi, I will dedicate my life helping so many other mothers of children with disabilities whom I know are crying with me for their children.”

Some challenges were especially painful, like when children teased Yossi, or when an important Jerusalem rebbetzin, visiting New York, said to Malki, “It’s not fair to yourselves or your healthy children…. You should consider moving this child out of the house, so you can get on with your lives.” Malki answered her: “You have no faith in God.” She invited the rebbetzin to wait 20 minutes, till Yossi came home from school. She saw a child nicely dressed, with glasses and hearing aids, carefully navigating the steps and hugging and kissing his mother, happy to see her. The rebbetzin cried and asked forgiveness.

A few years later, the couple learned that a lawsuit could only be filed in Israel, since that was where the vaccination had been administered. They found an excellent Israeli lawyer and doctors willing to testify, and the family returned home. Samuels describes the legal battles in excruciating detail. In October 1983, five years after the vaccination and after exhaustive paperwork and research, the couple filed suit against the Canadian Connaught Laboratories, the Israeli Rafa pharmaceutical company, the city of Jerusalem and the State of Israel. (The lawsuit ended in a settlement that, even according to the judge, was less than they deserved, but would save them more years of expensive and aggravating legal action.)

At the age of 8, Yossi experienced a “Helen Keller” moment, when Shoshana Weinstock, a warm and loving teacher who was deaf herself taught him his first word – shulchan (table) – using finger spelling. “All of a sudden, he lit up and he got it,” Kalman is quoted as telling the Jerusalem Post. “She taught him the 22 letters of the Hebrew alphabet. Another speech therapist taught him how to speak Hebrew and, slowly, he began to talk.” After that, Yossi was unstoppable. He learned to type on a Braille typewriter, to pray and to speak to those who were able to understand him.

Spurred on by their son’s breakthrough, in 1988, the couple wrote the first proposal for an outreach program that would help other families with children with disabilities. In 1990, that proposal became Shalva, the Israel Association for the Care and Inclusion of Persons with Disabilities, which began as an afterschool program for six children in the Samuels’ Har Nof apartment. The name Shalva is derived from Psalm 127 and means serenity, but, like any new enterprise, the road to success was challenging. The book is filled with anecdotes about how chance meetings on airplanes, or through conversations with a friend or a neighbour, Kalman reached donors who kept Shalva going and led to its development and expansion.

In addition to giving her life and creativity to making sure the professional programs would be the best they can be, Malki, the powerhouse engine behind Shalva, was involved in every aspect of the design and building of the Shalva National Centre, right down to the tiles. She was determined that it feel like a home, not an institution. Renowned Israeli artist David Gerstein, deeply moved by the Shalva story and appreciating Malki’s vision, created a magnificent 20-foot-high mobile of metallic butterflies that hangs in the Shalva atrium.

Around 2005, a gifted young musician, Shai Ben-Shushan, offered his services to Shalva. He had been a member of the Duvdevan special forces unit in the Israel Defence Forces and suffered severe injuries from a grenade attack while pursuing terrorists. He told Kalman, “Like a baby, I had to learn again to eat and to talk. My life was destroyed … I learned what it was like to be helpless and dependent on others … and I began to think about going back to music and sharing it with others who have similar challenges.”

By the end of a year, Shai had created the now world-renowned Shalva Band, signaling to all that having disabilities does not mean one cannot reach for the stars and make dreams come true.

In 2020, Shalva graduated its first program of young men who entered the IDF as soldiers in the Home Front Command unit. Israel’s Ministry of Foreign Affairs brings heads of state and diplomats to Shalva, just as they take them to Yad Vashem: World Holocaust Centre and to Mount Herzl, the burial place of soldiers who died defending the state of Israel.

Dreams Never Dreamed is alternately inspiriting, infuriating, funny and enlightening, but, for me, Malki’s voice and her photograph are missing. If you want to “meet” her, you can watch a mesmerizing Shalva-produced film on YouTube, About Yossi – A Film About Yossi Samuels.

The Yossi of today is smart, learned, eloquent and brave, with a sharp sense of humour. He can type, read, and daven in Braille, and particularly enjoys high-level Torah literature and magazines. He has traveled the world, met with celebrities and presidents (in Israel and America), is a horseback rider and a certified wine connoisseur. Kalman writes, “[Yossi’s] close friends number in the hundreds and acquaintances in the thousands.”

As his walking ability and balance worsened, Yossi eventually required a wheelchair. “Our blind and deaf son said, ‘For the first time in my life, I feel handicapped,’” writes Kalman. “Yossi had never referred to himself as blind or deaf, but rather ‘low vision’ and ‘hard of hearing.’”

Kalman recalls in the book how his daughter, Nechama, told him that he was like Forrest Gump: “Mommy had her dream and told you, ‘Run, Kalman, run!’ You’ve never stopped; it has coloured your life and all of ours.”

And the lives of thousands more.

Toby Klein Greenwald is an award-winning journalist, the artistic director of Raise Your Spirits Theatre, a poet, a teacher and the editor of wholefamily.com. This review first appeared in the Fall 2021 issue of Jewish Action.

Singing for my supper

Do you sing? I’ve always fancied myself as one who had a good singing voice. I love to sing. I’m always ready to join in when there’s a sing-song, particularly if I know the tune and especially if I know the words. Although I’ve never had ambitions to be a singing star, I’ve always been first in line to make a musical noise.

For me, singing is associated with all those times around the campfire. The nostalgia for those times may be the underlying reason for the positive response I have toward the whole idea. Those memories carry a strong positive emotional content.

When I was a kid, I never had the least idea about singing. I never was a fan of singers. I never bought records or tapes. I was too busy reading all those delicious books.

My greatest exposure to singing was my experience in the chorus when my high school – St. John’s Tech, in Winnipeg – annually presented operettas by Gilbert and Sullivan. I loved that. I was in the chorus every year I was at that school. I appeared in HMS Pinafore, Yeoman of the Guard and The Mikado. It was a lot of work, and we spent many hours after school in practices before we could get things right. It shouldn’t be a surprise then that some of the tunes are still with me after more than 60 years. The excitement, and even the thrill, of the performance occasions lends a rosy glow to my memories of those days.

It was only in later life, in Montreal, when I tried to repeat my vocal exploits, that I really learned to appreciate how small my talents were in this area of endeavour. I discovered that I was prone to take up the tune of anyone who stood beside me. I found out that my capacity to keep strictly to the notes of the part I was supposed to sing was variable. I had no knowledge of how one could sustain a note. In short, it was a hazardous undertaking for anyone to include me in a respectable chorus. To make things worse, I was known to become confused as to where we were in a production, and to launch myself forcefully into song when the rest of the chorus was steadfastly silent. These were the only solos I ever performed.

To the detriment of those who might be concerned about sound pollution, these small negatives have never discouraged me from forcing my voice on an unappreciative public. I leap with lusty abandon at any chance to show off my limited abilities.

Over time, I have passed from tenor to muffled baritone, and I continue to be eager to share my gifts. While I have never been offered money to do this, I feel it is my duty, nonetheless, to do so, especially when participating allows me to share in the buffet that can sometimes accompany such occasions. It is only fair that I sing for my supper.

When I am engaged in my full-throated roar, I am too busy to note the pained expressions of those around me. This is just good fun for all of us, isn’t it? I am just entering into the spirit of things, and covering for those lacking a musical sense, aren’t I? Or perhaps they are just too shy, a failing from which I do not suffer. Surely, they are enjoying the noise just as much as I am? I worry only if people start to leave.

I sometimes sing in the rain, something like whistling in the dark, to keep up my spirits as I venture into unknown places. Let the winds blow the clouds away to deliver to us another sunny day, I say.

We were fortunate enough, at one time, to have had a second home in Arizona. Really only a trailer, it permitted us to spend the worst winter months away from the cold and dreariness of both Ireland, when we lived there, and the wet fall and winter seasons in the rain forest where we’ve lived lately. What had brightened our time even more was to have fallen in with a group of Canadians fleeing the winter cold. Wonder of wonders, one of them played the guitar and liked to sing.

Was I happy? You betcha! We were just a small group and when I was belting out songs as loudly as I could, it was as if I were back at camp. And they tolerated my enthusiasm. And, sometimes, they fed me. I was singing for my supper, again.

Now, in our current hideaway, we’ve joined a group, mostly oldsters, who meet weekly to reprise all the melodies reaching back across recorded history. My Bride is a witness – and if I perform as required, she will serve me a hearty brunch as a reward when we return home. I can do this!

Max Roytenberg is a Vancouver-based poet, writer and blogger. His book Hero in My Own Eyes: Tripping a Life Fantastic is available from Amazon and other online booksellers.

A child survivor reflects

At 80, Dr. Robert Krell opens up in his new book.

Dr. Robert Krell, child survivor, psychiatrist, community leader and founding president of the Vancouver Holocaust Education Centre, is probably known to most readers. But few people, perhaps even those closest to him, know him as well as they will after reading his extraordinarily vulnerable new memoir.

Krell acknowledges that he has held much back from the public and his closest family and friends. But, at 80, he has decided to open up in a book called Sounds from Silence: Reflections of a Child Holocaust Survivor, Psychiatrist and Teacher (Amsterdam Publishers).

Krell begins by talking about the duality of his life – the hidden child who, as an adult, tried to remain hidden versus the public figure whose career and community activities have placed him at the fore of various fields; the sadness at his core versus the upbeat visage he presents to the world.

“I have allowed family members and friends to see my inherent optimism and love of life. I live with few regrets,” he writes. “Blessed with a fascinating career, lasting friendships and an incredible family, I have kept at a distance my profound sadness, chronic fears, devastating shame, incapacitating shyness, and nightmares and preoccupations shaped by my earliest experiences and forged in an atmosphere of potential annihilation.”

Krell was 2 years old when his Dutch Jewish parents placed him in hiding with the Munnik family, who he would come to view as his actual parents. He was reunited at age 5 with his birth parents, Emmy and Leo Krell – a miracle on many fronts given the small proportion of Dutch Jews to survive to 1945.

“After liberation, life became very complicated,” he writes. He had been treated well by his rescuing family, unlike some Jewish children, “but strangely, even those ‘good’ circumstances exacted a psychological toll that never quite healed. After all, my relatively ‘benign’ circumstances were still completely off the scales of what is normal, including separation from my parents, shattering of security, and vague awareness of persecution that contributes to the feeling of shame experienced by a child as having done something wrong to cause the situation. Years later, as a child psychiatrist, I would see this phenomenon in children who, faced with parental separation, assumed responsibility.”

His parents also survived in hiding and his mother in particular never stopped mourning the complete loss of both sides of their extended families.

“I was raised by psychologically wounded parents, no less so than if they had been in the camps,” says Krell. “For three years, they lived in fear of being caught, and that fear exacted a psychological toll that one cannot underestimate.”

Trying to recreate a life, they considered making aliyah to the new state of Israel, but their business before the war had been furs and the climate in Canada was more conducive to that specialty. They came to Vancouver in 1951.

Like many survivors, the Krells found new “family” at Schara Tzedeck Synagogue. Despite many survivors bearing a “burning rage against G-d,” the shul was a second home. His father refused to open a prayer book. And yet, years later, when he was in a position to be philanthropic, he spoke with Rabbi Mordechai Feuerstein and donated $30,000 to buy prayer books for the High Holy Days so that congregants wouldn’t have to carry them to and from synagogue on those days.

“Why would a man who no longer prayed purchase prayer books?” asks Krell. “The rabbi characterized Dad as ‘a man of faithful disbelief.’”

Habonim, the labour Zionist youth movement, was a major stabilizing force for young Robbie. He would attend weekend events, summer at Camp Miriam and do normal Canadian teenage things like matinees at the Stanley Theatre on Granville.

A late-in-life baby, his brother Ronnie, was born in 1956, and his mother’s disordered parenting shifted from the first born to the younger.

“Her subsequent attention to Ronnie grew so intense that even my 16-year-old self realized that he fulfilled her need to replay the years in which I had been lost to her. That need virtually enslaved my younger brother and freed me.”

While building a career as a clinical psychiatrist, professor and academic administrator, Krell and wife Marilyn were raising three daughters.

“I can barely believe that my survival as a young boy has led to the rebirth of an entire Jewish family that now includes nine gorgeous grandchildren,” he writes. “My good fortune scares me. Our world looks so dangerous, and the future of life – Jewish life – remains so precarious. But day-to-day, we are a close family, and every day brings much joy – so far.”

Krell was a leader in Canadian Jewish Congress regionally and nationally. In Vancouver, he became immersed in Holocaust remembrance and education. Kristallnacht commemorative lectures and other Holocaust remembrance events were often begun under the auspices of CJC.

With theologian William Nicholls and English literature teacher Graham Forst, Krell launched what has become a decades-long annual symposium for high school students on the Holocaust.

He was also among the first people anywhere to begin video recording the testimonies of Holocaust survivors.

Krell was also pivotal in the organizing of a succession of world conventions: first, for Holocaust survivors and, later, for “child survivors,” a term he acknowledges was not in use until the 1980s. Hidden children were not viewed as Holocaust victims in the way that survivors of the camps or partisan fighters were. Krell is among a small number of people who helped usher in a reconsideration of the wartime experiences of these children.

In 1984, he gathered 18 survivors and children of survivors in his living room and committed to creating a Holocaust education centre in Vancouver. But some of the older attendees remembered an as-yet unfulfilled promise to create a permanent local memorial to the Shoah, so the group decided to keep that commitment first.

“The memorial was unveiled on Yom Hashoah, April 26, 1987, in the presence of 1,300 members of the community,” notes Krell. “The survivors now had a metzeivah, a ‘burial site,’ albeit symbolic, to visit and to grieve.”

In 1994, the Vancouver Holocaust Education Centre opened, with Krell as founding president.

One time, when he was on the national board of CJC, the organization considered ending their efforts to bring (by then aging) war criminals to justice.

“I argued for continuing the effort,” says Krell. “My measure of success was different. I told my colleagues that it was not only about successful prosecution but also their knowing that, one day, they might hear a knock on the door. The sleep of Nazis should be no less disturbed than that of Holocaust survivors.”

Throughout the book, Krell recalls brushes with history and the figures who make it.

On a trip to Israel as a young adult, he was able to get a seat at the Eichmann trial, thanks to an aunt who had married into the family of Gideon Hausner, the prosecutor of the case. On the same trip, Krell went to Sde Boker and ran into David Ben-Gurion.

A few years later, Krell volunteered to serve in the 1967 war as a doctor fresh out of his internship but, given the chronology of the Six Day War, by the time he got to Europe, the conflict was over.

Two years after that, on another trip to Israel, his plane was hijacked by the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine.

Krell was able to attend the ceremony when his family-in-hiding – Albert and Violette Munnik and their daughter Nora – were inducted by Yad Vashem as Righteous Among the Nations (posthumously for Albert).

Krell’s book evokes an array of emotions. The psychiatrist’s self-assessment provides a sometimes startling look inside.

“I kept my rage suppressed, not repressed,” he writes. “It was not unconscious. I knew that it was there. I felt in danger from it and feared losing control. I played, studied and worked hard, surrounded by good friends.”

Milestones … Hart-Rappoport wedding, Canadian Jewish Literary Awards, new BGU residences

With gratitude to HaShem, mazel tov to Shmuel Hart (King David High School Class of 2016) and Reut Rappoport on their joyous and spirited wedding at Sakoya Gardens (just outside Jerusalem) on June 15, 2021. Elated parents – Alexander Hart and Kathryn Selby of Vancouver, and Rabbi Jason and Meira Rappoport of Alon Shvut, Gush Etzion, Israel – are so very proud of the newlyweds. The couple resides in Jerusalem, Israel, and both are currently studying at Hebrew University.

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Now in its seventh year, the Canadian Jewish Literary Awards recognizes and rewards the finest Canadian writing on Jewish themes and subjects. This year, the awards ceremony, which took place on Oct. 17, was presented on Zoom and is available for viewing on the Canadian Jewish Literary Awards YouTube channel.

The winner in the fiction category was Nothing the Same, Everything Haunted: The Ballad of Motl the Cowboy by Gary Barwin (Random House Canada). It follows a wannabe cowboy, Motl, as he and his mother flee Vilna and the Nazis’ massacre of the Jews. The ensuing events, characters and horror are met by Motl with humorous absurdity in the face of tragedy.

Plunder: A Memoir of Family Property and Nazi Treasure (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt) by Menachem Kaiser, which tells the story of the author’s quest to reclaim a residential building his family owned in Poland before the Shoah, won for best biography.

Lisa Richter won the poetry prize for Nautilus and Bone (Frontenac House). A reimagining of the unconventional life of Yiddish poet Anna Margolin, this collection also won the 2020 National Jewish Book Award for Poetry, the first time a Canadian poet has ever received the American honour.

For children and youth literature, the winner was Osnat and Her Dove (Levine Querido) by Sigal Samuel, with illustrations by Vali Mintzi. It is based on a true story. Although girls in 15th-century Mosul were told, “Reading is for boys,” Osnat convinces her rabbi father to teach her to read. As she grows older, she asks her father to seek a groom who will allow her to study Torah, and she helps run her father’s religious school while raising her own children. After her father’s death and, later, her husband’s, Osnat becomes the school’s leader, making her the world’s first female rabbi.

For scholarship, the awardee was Survivors: Children’s Lives After the Holocaust by Rebecca Clifford (Yale University Press), which is an exploration of the life trajectories of 100 children who were 10 years old or younger at the time of their liberation in 1945. Through archives found in 12 countries, including Canada, and through personal interviews, the author follows the impact the events of the Holocaust had on their lives, and on those who educated them.

In the category of writing about the Holocaust, the winner was In the Lights of Days: The Untold Story of Women Resistance Fighters in Hitler’s Ghettos (William Morrow) by Judy Batalion. The book points out the lack of recognition and the misrepresentation of women’s roles during the war, the actions they took to fight, as well as their crucial importance.

The Canadian Jewish Literary Awards jury for 2021 was Edward Trapunski, Pierre Anctil, Rona Arato, Miriam Borden, Rita Davies, Alain Goldschläger and Adam Sol.

For more information, visit cjlawards.ca.

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photo - Ben-Gurion University of the Negev student village — Ben-Gurion University of the Negev student village *(photo from CABGU)*

Fourteen new buildings have been added to the student village at Ben-Gurion University of the Negev (BGU) in Israel. It will allow more than 1,000 students options from studio apartments to married student housing.

“The student village lets them choose their living quarters in accordance with their personal preference,” said BGU president Prof. Daniel Chamovitz, “while everything they could need is nearby: the north campus and the conference centre, which are in development, a hotel for visiting students and faculty, stores and coffee shops … and the high-tech park, the train station and the university’s country club are just a short walk away.”

The student village offers apartments suitable for religious students and those with disabilities. Any registered student is eligible to apply for a room. The rooms come fully furnished with a smart TV, beds, closets, desks, a full kitchen, a sitting area and a solar water heater. Full maintenance service is offered, as is 24/7 security, a 24-hour service hotline, bicycle rooms, laundry rooms, and more.

“Situated in the country’s southern region, the university is known to be a destination institution,” said Mark Mendelson, chief executive officer of Canadian Associates of BGU. “This means that students who attend the university also live either on campus or in the communities in and around the university, including the city of Be’er Sheva. In addition, almost 60% of the undergraduate student body volunteers in their respective neighbourhoods, which is really something very unique to BGU and has brought outstanding community involvement to the citizens of Be’er Sheva.”

Exploring her family’s past

Afterlife is Isa Milman’s first work of nonfiction. (photo by Shea Lowry)

Midway through Isa Milman’s Afterlight, which came out this week, the author cites Reb Nachman of Breslov, who said, “The whole world is a very narrow bridge.” In Victoria-based Milman’s new work, we encounter bridges of various sorts: those that serve as a crucial lifeline to the survival of the denizens of cities, particularly at a time of war, and the bridges that bring together people from different continents in the pursuit of understanding an unconscionably horrific time in Eastern Europe.

And then there are the bridges that link us poignantly to our past – to those we know through words and photos but have never met. In Afterlight, one such bridge connects Milman to her mother’s twin sister, her aunt Basia, who perished in the Holocaust, and who, like Milman, wrote poetry. (Milman is a recipient of the Canadian Jewish Book Award for poetry.)

Milman’s journey began in 2013, when, following her mother’s death, she sought to find Basia’s poems from the 1930s. The book alternates between the present and the past (the war years), as Milman tries to uncover a layered tale. She travels to Europe where, at times, her quest for information leads to dead ends and, at other times, she finds details in unlikely places – a photograph in Amsterdam, for example.

At one stage, Milman finds poetry written in a Polish publication from the 1930s. She writes, “Reading the children’s poems, I felt a terrible nostalgia rise up – a dangerous nostalgia. Even now it hurts too much, this intense longing for a conversation with Basia, for a meeting, a recognition that we’ve lived on the same planet, come from the same earth, share blood and bone. We share a love of poetry, but I shall never know her, not even as smudged ink on a page.”

At one point in her exploration, Milman pens a poem to her aunt. “How many tiny flowers make one lilac sprig? / How many stars in the night sky have names? / How many yet to be seen? They disappear with morning sun too soon but in darkness or in light tucked in their beds they remain,” the poem reads.

Basia’s story is but one piece of the book. Afterlight also traces the journey of Milman’s parents and her other surviving aunts through the Holocaust and examines questions about the trauma, displacement and identity caused by the Holocaust to succeeding generations.

“I’d lived my life in a black hole of absence, of never having the experience of grandparents, of feeling rooted and at home with extended family. And this was not because of a tsunami, an earthquake, forest fire or plague. It was because of tribal hatred,” Milman writes.

As well, she explores the issue of reconciling the Poland that Jews thought of as their home with rampant antisemitism and the brutality of the war years. “Why couldn’t I choose how to think about Poland, even if it meant going against most everything I’d learned?” Milman asks. “Why couldn’t I revise my notion and accept that Poland is a place that I can love as well as despise and fear? Why must it be either/or? Was it possible to live in the uncomfortable in-between, where both realities coexist?”

Afterlight is Milman’s first work of nonfiction. At first, Milman, whose collections of poetry include Prairie Kaddish, Between the Doorposts and Something Small to Carry Home, was reluctant to write a nonfiction account of the Holocaust. However, recent surges in antisemitism around the world led her to change her mind.

“The lessons of the Holocaust need to be taught, and not just by citing facts and reportage,” she said. “Telling stories about real people and their experiences is the most effective way of reaching and teaching people about how evil can happen, and how we must fight our worst human inclinations and speak out against hatred and inhumanity.”

A big part of her decision to write a memoir was realizing that her family’s story did not match a more common Holocaust narrative. Hers is a lesser-told account of Jews from eastern Poland, some murdered in what’s known as “the Holocaust of Bullets” and others, like her parents, who survived because of deportation by the Soviets to the Gulag.

“I loved entering the world of creative nonfiction,” she said. “Using my imagination to create scenes where I clearly was not present enabled me to inhabit the places and people I needed to describe. Everything became more real as I entered into the minds of my characters, who happened to be my parents and close family.”

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

Delving into roots of memory

I have more years behind me than most of you. I remember what seems to me all the big events. While prominent in my mind, I do try to pay more attention to the daily round. Today, for example, I bought some plants to fill spaces in my garden in the sky, seeking yellows and oranges to harmonize with the bountiful presence of the red geraniums, fully in their flowering. We ate breaded chicken for breakfast, a gift of our Jimmy, Cookie’s son, while watching the Tokyo Olympics results – Canada is doing great! I spent Saturday morning at the community centre, playing with clay, creating fantastical faces I would not hope to meet on my street.

I think it’s important that we pay lots of attention to the minutiae of daily life, glorying in the simple things that fill our present, appreciating how they add to the pleasure of living. But I also worry about losing the detail about my life in the past, the bits and pieces that brought elements of that life into the now. It takes some work to ferret things out. I’m rummaging about in the closets of memory, poking into the corners to see what I can find.

Can I remember what it was like when I was a kid? I was the only boy, being raised with sisters. Didn’t I get the feeling that I was favoured as the male, as my older sister was called upon to help my mother with the housekeeping? My youngest sister was nevertheless the spoiled one, being considered the most vulnerable to mistreatment. I recall how I tried to keep my room neat and tidy, so that was where we had our family meetings. All this might be a figment of my egomaniac’s self-image, and the facts would have to be checked with living witnesses.

Can I remember what it was like to be the only Jewish kid in the neighbourhood when the family moved to Jarvis Avenue in Winnipeg? The kids next door tried to make our lives miserable by throwing stones at our windows, and parading in front of our house with catcalls deriding my mother’s Jewish names for us. How many times did I fight with Mikey, down and dirty in the mud? And Tony and Danny, from three houses over, scrapping in the schoolyard? And Eddie, who knocked me unconscious in front of a crowd, in Grade 7? I survived the blemish on my brain, and Eddie, too. Didn’t my tiny sister protect me when Big Harry on Dufferin was going to beat me up on our way to school? What did it smell like outside our house, with the coal yard in front and the junkyard at the back?

And yet, it felt like we, my family, lived a totally peaceful, private life inside our home there. Dad had his job shoveling coal at the Cold Storage Co. down the street. (He would end up a graduate engineer after years of home study.) We ate our three squares a day in our rented home, and went the four blocks to Aberdeen school each day. We celebrated the Sabbath every Friday with a special bread and the best meal of the week. I frequented the library every chance I could – maybe escaping the then-current world – and often spent the night reading by flashlight under my covers. We went to the neighbourhood synagogue for the High Holidays. I remember eating chicken in the back lobby on fast days. And, there, I had my bar mitzvah, wearing a suit and with a fedora on my head.

Somehow, I don’t remember much about greenery, though Winnipeg had a reputation for trees. I do remember holding my arms round the trunk of one when we played Buck, Buck, How Many Fingers Up? I remember sucking the honeysuckles I gathered off the hedges for their sweetness, and holding dandelions, which were so plentiful, under our chins to see the yellow there. I remember we liked blowing the dandelions’ heads off when they were ripe. And collecting bulrushes from the ditches, where they grew in the gathered water. Winnipeg had some of the deepest ditches. Winnipeg was famous for its lilac bushes, I remember their heavenly scent.

In the summer, gangs of kids used to gather on the street corner, I think it was Powers Street, and play road games far into the night. Sometimes, we’d end the night raiding summer vegetable gardens and have fights with the tomatoes we stole. And, yes, I do remember the mosquitoes.

Winnipeg was a city with a diverse population. There seemed to be large communities of people from a dozen different origins, from Iceland to the Ukraine, from France and, of course, England; Russia, Germany, the Middle East and Asia were all represented. While city government was initially in “English” hands, it changed over time to represent other ethnic communities.

What I remember above all was how active the Jewish community was, and how every political viewpoint and every internal community need was represented by some Jewish organization. I got the feeling that, although I lived in Canada, I could in some way be living within a totally Jewish environment if I so desired. It dispelled the feeling of isolation that I felt in my younger years. And, when I launched myself into the wider world, when I left Winnipeg, I felt totally at home in my Canadian persona. I really only appreciate that now in retrospect.

Digging into the roots of memory and coming up golden!

Max Roytenberg is a Vancouver-based poet, writer and blogger. His book Hero in My Own Eyes: Tripping a Life Fantastic is available from Amazon and other online booksellers.

Memoir, tribute, history

Actor Tovah Feldshuh talks about her new book, Lilyville, on April 15, in an event held in partnership with the JCC Jewish Book Festival. (PR photo)

The long-awaited Cherie Smith JCC Jewish Book Festival closing night event – Tovah Feldshuh talking about her new book, Lilyville: Mother, Daughter, and Other Roles I’ve Played – finally takes place on April 15.

The event was postponed to piggyback on the Book Festival of the Marcus JCC of Atlanta and JCC National Literary Consortium In Your Living Room Live series. It will feature Feldshuh in conversation with CNN correspondent Holly Firfer, and promises to be an entertaining evening with many laughs and lots of good advice, if Lilyville is any indication.

Feldshuh’s first book is a unique memoir in that it is framed in terms of her relationship with her mother – the longest and most important of Feldshuh’s roles having been the one she didn’t audition for, being the daughter of Lillian (Lily) Kaplan Feldshuh. The memoir is structured as a theatre piece, starting with the Program Note and ending with Exit Music, with three acts, many scenes and more in between.

Strong women characters, from the fictional Yentl (from the mind of Sholem Aleichem) to the very real U.S. Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg, dominate Feldshuh’s career. She has performed in theatre, film and television, winning numerous awards and nominations for the excellence of her work. She also has been recognized for her charity work. And, it seems, through it all, family has been a priority.

In Lilyville, Feldshuh writes about her upbringing, how and why she became an actor, some of the people and incidents that have influenced her, her marriage (to a lawyer, like her beloved father was, and which she considered becoming at one point) and being a mother herself. Given her successes, readers may be surprised at the professional challenges she has overcome along the way, including being told outright by a director that she’d never make a good actress, she should become an accountant. But the biggest obstacle for her was coming to understand that her mother, who seemed cold and shy throughout Feldshuh’s (and her older brother’s) upbringing, loved them. While hypercritical and emotionally closed throughout their growing-up years, their mother was always there for them. It was only after their father died that their mother – who had been raised to be what was considered a good woman back then, ie. a woman who dedicated herself to her husband and kids, her own aspirations be damned – blossomed.

In an interview with the Detroit Jewish Book Fair, Feldshuh said about writing Lilyville that she “felt compelled to tell her [mother’s] story and mine and how the two of us had a lifelong journey toward each other. In essence, I dig down into the primal relationship between parent and child, with the specifics between mother and daughter.”

Luckily for the women, they had the time to repair and build their relationship, as Feldshuh’s mother lived to 103. Through that century-plus, Lily Kaplan Feldshuh, who was born before women were given the vote in the United States, witnessed countless social, cultural and technological changes, and Lilyville is partly a history of women’s rights in that country.

General admission to Feldshuh’s book talk is free. Admittance to the pre-event meet-and-greet portion of the event comes when, in addition to registering, you purchase the book; the $36US includes shipping and you will receive a copy with a signed bookplate. Visit jccgv.com/jewish-book-festival.

Tale of transformation

Near the beginning of her acting career more than 50 years ago, Beth Kaplan wanted to improve the world through art. “I believe in the theatre as a tool for social change,” she told the director of the London Academy of Music and Dramatic Art when she arrived for a one-year program. “I’d like to touch people’s lives as a force for good.” His reaction? “Well,” he said, standing up. “I do hope you have a fruitful year. Best of luck.”

Kaplan writes about her journey from acting to writing, from youth to adulthood, from insecurities to self-acceptance, and more, in her memoir Loose Woman: My Odyssey from Lost to Found. Local JI readers may recall her name, as she was a part of the Vancouver theatre scene in the 1970s. But a 1979 trip that included a visit to France to see her best friend, who had moved there, changed Kaplan’s life.

Through her friend’s husband, Kaplan ended up for a spell living and working in a L’Arche community, which brings people with and without intellectual disabilities together. Initially uncomfortable there, the experience and the slower pace allowed her to learn about herself, and to not treat life as a performance. From her time at L’Arche, she sees how, “in one way or another, we are all handicapped.”

In telling her story, Kaplan seems to rely mainly on thoughts she committed to her diaries over the years. She’s kept one ever since her first, which was a gift when she was 9 years old. Some of the terms she uses, like handicapped, hearken back to that time, and it’s a choice Kaplan makes, “to be true to the time, hoping that readers understand that what is offensive now was not so then.” Indeed, through some of the language and the stories of her objectively wild life during the 1970s, Kaplan highlights the advances that have been made in areas like women’s rights and inclusion.

Loose Woman is an interesting book, even though Kaplan is not a completely likeable heroine, despite it being her own story. Some readers might chafe at her harsh judgments (even when she is the target) and her self-acknowledged mix of confidence (some might say arrogance) and insecurity. But others might revel in her tales of debauchery and her resolute openness.