The other day one of my good friends came over, and it just so happened that I was in the middle of doing the wash. Laundry day had arrived. I can’t afford a washer and dryer, plus it’s cheaper to just do the wash at home rather than schlepping all the way to the laundromat. So there I was, wearing my oversized rain boots (with knee pads to match) in the backyard, going at it – with a big bucket of soapy water. My friend started laughing to herself, and after much of my prying she finally blurted out “You’re such a Jew!” And I said – “Thank you.”
It’s true. All us Jews got a few things in common. We do what we gotta do to survive no matter how complicated the situation. It’s all a matter of making ends meet, and being a self-starter. We also love a good kvetch, can’t survive longer than a week without a bagel, and there’s of course that unforgettable history, of our people. Aside from that, we’re just like everyone else. We wanna survive life while subconsciously representing our heritage with pure unadulterated chutzpah. Of course, I’d always wished I had my own Rabbi. But to be honest, we never went to temple. Being a Jew had little to do with organized religion. At least, that’s how it was in my family.
There was one thing that was always a mystery to me though. I wasn’t exactly raised on books about other Jews. As a child, and into my teenage years, there were times when I had relatives who would approach me, strategically, during family gatherings; funerals, reunions, during the holidays—they would eventually whisper into my ear at the end of the night: “You don’t tell those kids that you’re a Jew. Even your friends, don’t mutter a word of it…if anyone asks, you say you don’t know where you’re from.” And even as an adult, my relatives still confess that they are fearful of anyone knowing they are of a Jewish heritage…what do they fear? Being captured. Being imprisoned. Being deported. And worse —being exterminated. But when you see the entire family together, it’s not difficult to figure out where we all came from. We’re short. We have dark hair, can’t resist a good argument, and every other word that spurts out from our mouths is a Yiddish companion to better illustrate our concerns. We have large elegant noses, and know exactly how to administer tough love.
While working at various bookstores on the West Coast, my own concerns were to stock up on books about my people. And I do have to admit, going through these historical documents & memoirs -that I didn’t pay that much attention to as kid- was an emotionally trying experince. That being said, on so many different levels, I have an unconditional respect for my people, as well as the multitude of individuals who have suffered (and are still suffering) from the inherit racism that pervades this country.
Lemme shine a little Yahrzeit light on that for you.
Because paradigms of Polish cinema reflect situations of the archetypal figure of Jewish intersections, we must investigate the proper resources to better illustrate sociocultural depictions of the Heroine, and the male Protagonist, in Polish film. Women were expected to fulfill traditional roles, such as childbearing and housekeeping -yet they were simultaneously already working in factories and on the land. The myth of the Polish Mother is therefore debunked in Mazierska & Ostrowska’s academic guide, as they discuss how ideological restraints & status shaped the future of Polish discourse.
Lest we forget, the collapse of communism was in 1989, not so long ago -albeit this apparition, post-communist cinema changed everything for present day filmmakers, writers, and authors; whether or not they escaped the Gestapo, or were born into a modern Jewish family. Since then though, the introduction of democracy has barely allowed for any real positive changes for the Polish woman's freedom. Examinations of these topographies are explored through the success of Polish women filmmakers: Dorota Kędzierzawska, Wanda Jakubowska, Barbara Sass and Agnieszka Holland, to name a few influential figures.
Démanty noci (Diamonds of the Night). A hypnotizing and nauseating filmic treasure —you may find yourself trembling in your seat, taking in all of the beauty and terror of this truly disheartening masterpiece. Although such a tale of disparity didn't exactly start with the film itself. Arnošt Lustig's Children of the Holocaust series, Darkness Casts No Shadow, was the publication which inspired Jan Němec’s cinematic debut. Démanty noci, an unapologetic and lyrical film which redefined storytelling methodologies, and was released in 1964. Deemed an “artificial documentary” by a handful of critics, the story depicts hyper-realistic imagery of the brutal struggles shared between two young men —whom escape a Nazi prison train; one which was transporting them to their next concentration camp. I had the opportunity to experience Démanty noci on the big screen years back -an evening that will never escape my memory.
The Little Book of Jewish Celebrations – Yelena Bryksenkova & Ronald Tauber – Mmmm festive rituals centered around scrumptious, holy meals. Released by Chronicle Books in 2014. The illustrations will make your heart skip a beat, and the text takes the reader through various scenarios that still ring true for some Jewish folks. Such as circumcision, Simchat bat, and uh, other ceremonies. Although I’m not much into the religious customs, I can relate to something profound here – I love those family gatherings! Even if Gramma always burns the Schmaltz and Gribenes.
The Tale of Meshka the Kvetch – Carol Chapman – Pictures by Arnold Lobel. A charming Yiddish tale about a cute little plump woman named Meshka, who got herself into some big time trouble by contracting “the Kvetch’s Itch,” which entails that everything she Kvetch’s (complains) about, comes true before her very eyes. Sounds frightening doesn’t it? If ya do a little googling, I’d say don’t waste your time -there’s no ebook available for Meshka the Kvetch.
Hungry Hearts (Short Stories) – Anzia Yezierska – I especially have a fondness for Wings, which follows a young janitress living in poverty, named Shenah Peshah. She is eventually befriended by a male sociologist, around her age, who brings her in to live with him. Together they study closely his patients, and fall in love. My favorite line from Wings is as follows: “But from where can I get the money for new clothes? Oi vey! How bitter it is not to have the dollar! Woe is me! No mother, no friend, nobody to help me lift myself out of my greenhorn rags.”
Manja – Anna Gmeyner – 526 pages of the life of Manja, one out of five children, who take refuge in Germany, between the years 1920 and 1933. Manja is a Polish Jew, and her five friends are German boys; one who is partly Jewish yet fearful of this fact. The children meet two days a week, on Saturdays & Wednesdays. Their meeting spot, a dilapidated house above a river. The story is roughly about friendships being tested, in a time when the after effects of the war were inescapable.
Hana’s Suitcase – Karen Levine – You may have read it already, but if it’s new to you, then I suggest you grab a copy of this tragic yet enlightening true story of a woman working at a Japanese Holocaust center; who discovered the suitcase of a young orphaned Czech girl named Hana. Levine’s story departs from the year 2000, in Tokyo. Those who attended the museum could visit Hana’s suitcase, as it sat behind glass in a cabinet. I don’t want to give away too much here, because the book is so full of revealing facts to keep you reading it from front to back cover in one sitting. I will say though, Hana’s favorite song was I Have Nine Canaries (Ja Mam Devět Kanaru). Which I’ve tried desperately to find a copy of, but all I could dig up was a modern version of the song, on a compilation titled The Buffooneiest Czech Oldies II.
Jewish Eating and Identity Through the Ages – David C. Kraemer – Habitual eating, food politics on biblical laws that limited Israel’s diet choices, and how a Jew living on the Lower East Side of Manhattan in the early 20th century chose to eat Italian food rather than black bread and borsht. I’ll admit, I’m not much of a cook, which often makes my babushka a little ferklempt when I’m in the kitchen. I guess the apple falls really far from the tree. Either way, I found Kraemer’s guide to be easy enough to follow, and packed full of realized facts on not only the Jewish history of identity through psychogeography, but in depth chapters on Torah eating laws in ‘The Rabbinic Period’ which proclaims “Thou shalt not eat a calf with a mother’s milk”. I especially found interest in chapter 8, which is titled “Separating the Dishes”. There’s even a quote by Claude Levi-Strauss in the introduction which reads “Cooking is a language through which that society unconsciously reveals its structure”.
Just the other night, I asked my babushka if she could tell me some more stories revealing her life as a young Jewish woman. And at first she seemed quite emotional.
“Will ya make me a little somethin to eat first?” She asked me. Of course, I couldn’t refuse. So I cooked up some sausages, poured her a glass of some diet soda, got out my notebook, and sat there wide-eyed and all ears.
“There were many hardships, see. For those of us who moved to the states before the war, we still had little options available. No Potential. No future. We changed our last names, so we couldn’t be tracked. Dinner was either soup made from chicken bones, or potatoes and meatloaf. The majority of us held down dangerous jobs, in slaughterhouses, on the streets as pimps, or dancers. Some even sold flowers to the Italian mob.” As she told me these things, I started getting a little choked up. Then, she took a bite of her sausage and leaned in closer to me.
“Although there were times of great struggle, we never gave up. And neither should you…A bi gezunt, bubbala! -in other words, don’t worry my darling -you’ve got your health!”
I never knew exactly what it was that my great-grandmother did for a living. She was raised in Lithuania, and was the only sibling in the family who had icy blonde hair and a tough-as-nails attitude. Some say she was a business woman. But in what sort of business exactly, was never actually revealed to us. Her husband (my great-grandfather) grew up in Minsk, and after making it over to the states he worked his days at a slaughterhouse, and his nights on the streets. As a pimp. So, perhaps my great-grandmothers ‘business endeavors’ could be somewhat assumed.
Either way, there are a few stories that had been passed down through generations in my family, and one story had always stood out in my mind. It involved a boy named Junior Chekov, an illiterate young girl (my grandmother), and her mother’s obsession with Sonja Henie.
It all began on a sultry summer morning, on the south side of Chicago. The year was 1936. A young Norwegian ice skater, a prodigy named Sonja Henie, had just won her third Olympic title at Garmisch-Partenkirchen; a popular ski town in the Bavarian Alps. My great-grandmother was watching a re-run of this very event on the television in her kitchen. Probably steaming up some potatoes and liverwurst. That’s apparently all they ate back then. When you’re dirt poor, the options were soup, potatoes, and…well, soup.
(You’re wondering -wait a second, was there television in the 30’s? It just so happens that Sonja Henie’s performance was the first live broadcast of a sporting event in the history of television.)
A younger version of my grandmother was playing out in the streets with one of her friends. A young boy named Junior Chekov. Most of the time, they got along. They would play games like kick the can, hopscotch, or stickball. But today, her and Junior had gotten into an arguement. My grandmother leaned against a fire hydrant, and sipped on a cup of melted pistachio ice cream. Her long hair was tied in a delicate bun at the top of her tiny head. She was known as the only dark-haired jew in the neighborhood.
“Mom? Hey, mom!” Called out the young dark-haired girl. Her mother (the business woman) leaned out of their apartment window, which was on the 6th floor.
“What now? You know I’m watching my Sonja!!” Shouted my great-grandmother.
“Junior Chekov called me a dirty jew!” Said the young girl.
“HE WHAT!?”
“And he said that I killed christ!”
“Call him a dirty polak!”
“Okay! But, mom, aren’t we Polish?”
“Who told you that?”
“My father…”
“Well, yeah. You’re a Polish Jew!”
“Okay. But, mom?”
“Whaaaaaat?!”
“Who the hell is christ?”
“Never you mind!!” She shouted back to her daughter, and hurriedly retreated through the window of their apartment. I would do anything to revisit that time. To catch just a glimpse of what their place might have looked like. Back then, wallpaper was a growing trend, as was over-the-counter pain killers…heroin, that is. You could order it straight from a Montgomery Ward Catalogue.
Now, my grandmother’s not a religious woman, she never was. Whenever I asked her why, she stated, “Whose got time for all that nonsense? It’s just a fairytale anyways, and a poorly written one at that.”
Of course, I agreed. Her and I joked about there being a big bearded man in the sky, who listened to the prayers of every single human being in the world; whereas in the real world racism soared, bombs were being dropped and wild floods were destroying communities. Didn’t sound like there was much of a god out there, to us. So then I asked her – “Grandma, if you weren’t into christ, then you never read the bible…so, what books did you read?” She paused for a minute, took a sip of her Diet Dr. Pepper, then leaned in toward me and said very proudly,
“Well, ya know, I never really learned how to read or write very well in school. But I always had a job. And over the years, I eventually picked up a few things about the english language.”
When I looked around my grandmother’s bookshelves, the truth was, I’d never seen one single novel, not even a book of poetry. And grandma LOVED Judy Garland -so I’d imagined I would at least find a memoir or two. But, none were to be found. All the books on her shelves were picture books. How-to manuals on making dolls, building outdoor furniture, or landscaping guides for gardeners. It often amazed me how so many detailed stories were passed down by this woman, who’d never read a single book, and didn’t even learn to properly read or write until she was a teenager. That says a lot about storytelling, doesn’t it? This encouraged me to do one thing. I was determined to find books that I could read with my babushka. There had to be something she’d find fascinating. I began by bringing over a bag of books each time I’d go over to visit her. I’d start reading one to her, but would soon lose all interest. So I picked up another, and another…
“There’s no pictures in there?” She asked me.
“Well, no, there’s no pictures. See? It’s just some words, grandma.”
“How awful.” She replied back, chewing on a protein bar and reaching for the remote control.
“You gotta use a different part of your imagination…” I told her. She laughed for second,
“Oh, jesus.” Then turned on the TV; searching for some movies she’d recorded off the cable box.
“I know how to use my imagination. The best way to do that, is through a picture. Cos with a picture, especially with a film, you get shape, and sound, and then…well maybe not smells, but ya can imagine the smells, maybe even dream up something wild about the characters.”
“Somethin’ sexy?”
“Yes. And so, eventually you wake up one morning and have all these great ideas to work with. Just last week I saw this wonderful documentary about the Wooly Mammoth, and the next day I started sketching out a new painting; of these hefty, clumsy, ugly things with long flowing hair, and they’re grazing in a field of sunflowers.”
Wow, grandma. You slay me.
I couldn’t agree more, the moving image is powerful. Although, I can’t help but also adore the experience of living vicariously through the characters in a book, in a way that I can’t always get from watching a film. Because as bibliophiles, we ultimately create the characters we read about, more or less. But I wasn’t gonna argue with grandma.
It’s clear to me now, that the history of storytelling takes on various shapes. Some tales are told through a drawing. While others are revealed through a film, or even -this story…manifests itself deep into the caverns of my own memory. And one day, I’ll tell it to my own kids. Well, that’s if I ever have any of my own.
On my way home from grandma’s, I stopped at the public library in my own neighborhood, and picked up a VHS copy of Sonja Henie’s performance, from that quaint little ski town in the Bavarian Alps back in 1936. I imagined my great-grandmother, and her obsession with the young Olympic star. By the following week, I had spent endless hours researching as much as I could about other iconic ice skaters, as well as pimps & slaughterhouses from the 1930’s. Maybe one day I’ll even shoot a film resurrecting this unusual past, and my grandmother will watch it on her TV set…
….
Over the years my childhood (and early adulthood) fetishes moved way past grocery store items, and into the direction of bric-a-brac and eventually…my demise as a book collector blew through the roof.
It all started a little over 20 years back. My parents would drop my sister and I off for the weekend at our Gramma’s place, the west side of the valley – known as the ‘most undesirable place to live’ in Southern California (if ya do a little research…or, just live there for a while).
A little crime watch goes well with those corn fritters.
Often enough, while rummaging through my grandmother’s closet, we hit the jackpot. Garbage bags filled with old ratty silk scarves from the 1940’s, stacks of Playgirl magazines, books about the movie stars living lavishly in far away places, and of course tchotchkes galore -like tiny sculpted elephants made from metal, or old perfume bottles reeking of the year 1956. We’d find a plethora of things to keep us busy. I’ll start with this one shelf here, the one above the microwave…
Montgomery Ward Catalogue 1872-1922 – Venture into a forgotten time, where you can finally afford a new pair of slacks. A gluttonous price guide for all your domestic needs, just under 670 pages. Exceptional values in denim overalls for only ninety eight cents. Let’s see here, Zephyr Gingham for thirty nine cents a yard, stylish raincoats, stock toxins & insecticides, genuine Rogers Silverware, and furs for girls & misses -all at “unusual prices”.
Harpo Marx with Rowland Barber – Harpo Speaks! – This humble account of Harpo’s life is a delightful read, especially if you’re a huge Marx Brothers fan like me. With chapters like ‘Poom-Pooms, Pedals and Poker’ and ‘The Oboe under the blanket’ the book is downright satisfying. You are, at times, granted access to a behind-the-scenes look at each of the Marx Brothers films. These guys were troublemakers, even off-screen. Did you know that Harpo was the brother who held his mother in his arms as she spoke her last dying words? Or that he played piano for brothels, and almost got kidnapped in Russia? Neither did I. Although, at over 400 pages long, I’d hoped that Harpo would have revealed some steamy and detailed love stories, but alas there were none to be found.
Sona Kovacevicova – The Slovak National Dress Through The Centuries – Smock frocks and laced bodices display political unrest, from the sewing tables of Hungarian refugees seeking sanctuary in Slovakia. The Carpathian Mountains never looked so frumpy & wild. This one is my absolute favorite book on the vast history of national dress. Here we can come to witness the cultural ornaments by Slovak designers over the last 500 years. One becomes drawn in to the materials once cultivated from imported silks out of Poland, Hungaria, and Italy. Color engravings by (little known) artists such as V.G. Kininger, and J. Heinbucher-Bikessy.
Regardless, my sister and I loved going to Gramma’s. She was always rearranging the furniture, building abstract sculptures out of trash, or making meatballs in the kitchen with her boyfriend, Papa Danny.
The smell of bleached linens lined the walls of our senses. On a typical afternoon, we’d trim the bougainvillea, scrub the fleas out of some family maltese (hounds), while Gramma fell asleep to some soap opera on basic cable. It was here where my sister and I would sneak off, and go through all of Gramma’s cabinets, inspecting closely what might lie behind each stack of towels and each closet door.
Over the years, I’ve noticed that my own collection has become entwined with the old bird’s random supply of books she’d hoarded herself. It’s hard to tell which ones are of my own psychosis, and which books were once stacked below Gramma’s trash bags of lingerie, prescription medications, and silk scarves.
—Originally published for The Last Bookstore