Well, I'm Jewish — So What?

I will try to write these stories down, but not for my own sake. For the memory of those who have gone, and for my children.

The week after Dad's funeral, Mom sat down at the table and said that we should write a book about him, in his memory, and ask the people who had known him well to contribute. At that moment I was so full of the pain of losing him that I simply could not take in such an idea. Then Mom became ill, and then I left for Israel.

Only once, in our second-to-last conversation, did she let slip how sad it was that we had never managed to write about Dad. Forgive me. Now, from here in the Land of Israel, I will try to make up for it: I will write about Dad, about you, and about Grandma.

What can I say? I will begin with a short story.

It was the early 1990s, and we were standing in yet another queue for something. A low, anxious murmur ran through the line: that “something” might run out at any moment. Not everyone even knew exactly what was being “handed out”; the main thing was that there was something to buy. We could work out what to do with it afterward. After another rumor, the queue bristled angrily, afraid that its four-hour wait would prove pointless. An unremarkable little man with a string shopping bag stepped forward and, seemingly addressing no one in particular, said that once again the Jews had bought everything up, while ordinary, honest people like them were suffering.

Everyone welcomed the chance to find someone to blame, and plenty of voices immediately rose in support of him.

I wanted to hide, to become invisible. But unexpectedly Mom, who was thought not to care much for politics and to see nothing beyond her beloved architecture, stepped forward. (Oh, how I wanted to grab her hand and pull her back!)

Short, slightly plump, and with typically Jewish features, she lifted her head proudly and said:

“Well, I'm Jewish — so what?”

Without giving them a chance to answer, she began speaking as though she were addressing not a sullenly grumbling queue but, at the very least, the participants in an international conference. She spoke passionately about Jews and heroism, about Jews and compassion, and about how the ability to do good is the essence of being human in every age.

Everyone fell silent. The little man muttered, rather respectfully, something like “You Jews always stand up for one another,” and retreated to his place. Someone else added:

“Madam, don't worry, there will be enough for all of us. And you know what? Go ahead of me.”

...That day we came home proudly carrying rolls of toilet paper tied together with string.