Rosh Hashanah 2009 - South African Jewish Board of Deputies

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JEWISH AFFAIRS ROSH HASHANAH 2009before his tormentors. The penalty for failure toplease was the gas chamber, the reward for successa slice of bread. He survived because of his magic,unlike his parents, his uncle (who had been brutallykilled in a police station) and his friends.After the war, Hans advertised in the paper tryingto find family. My uncle, Joe de Haas, saw his nameand went to Holland to find him. Uncle Joe and myfather, Jack Lessem, brought Hans and his new wifeShelley out to Salisbury and found him a job.Many years later, my 16-year-old daughterDanielle went on the March of the Living to visit thedeath camps at Auschwitz and Dachau. She returnedno longer a child, but the grown daughter of a secondgeneration Holocaust survivor. Soon afterwards, shewent for a walk with “Uncle Hans” on Cape Town’sClifton Beach. After a long stroll, they watched thewaves pounding on the beach. For hours he did notspeak.Danielle hoped he would ask her about herexperiences. She hoped he would speak about theunspeakable. But he remained silent.So many questions: What was going through hismind when my Granny insisted that he do a commandperformance for an audience of spoiled children whodid not know or care about the numbers etched intohis skin under his long sleeves? The numbers he hid.Even on the hottest summer days he would not weara short sleeved shirt. What else was he hiding?When the children yelled for more, what was hethinking? Was he reliving the pleasure he had giventhe Gestapo when he performed his magic for them?Was he hearing the laughter of the children of the offdutyGestapo officers, who ruled the camp with suchbrutality? Did he envy the happiness in my friends’faces, the happiness of the “normal childhood” thathad eluded him because of the atrocities of NaziGermany? Why was he determined to have nochildren of his own?And still more questions. Did he know that in myeyes, he was special and talented? But how did he seehimself? Did he see himself just as a trickster, whohad tricked the Gestapo into sparing his life? Afterthe war, in another world, when he became famousfor his tricks, did he ask himself who he might havebecome had he not been born in Nazi Germany? Didhe get pleasure when he was made president of theMagic Circle of Los Angeles and when some of hiscard tricks, still named after him, entered into themagicians’ repertoire? Even then, he ignored thepraise. “When you steal one trick, they call itplagiarism”, he would say, “When you steal many,they call it research”. In the dark nights of his soul,did he ever ask himself why his magic wand hadspared only him and not his loved ones?My mother did not have the vitality of her cousinHans. She wore her suffering like a cloak around herall the time. She felt that my brother, sisters and I hadan idyllic childhood. After all, she had grown up inNazi Germany, suffering humiliations at the handsof the Nazis. Many of her friends had died in thecamps.“I am feeling depressed”, I once confided to her.“Depressed?” she said, “What do you knowabout depression? Did you grow up in NaziGermany?”That was very much it. Living in Salisbury, wewere not entitled to feel too much pain. Her sufferingin Germany was so monumental that our sufferingpaled into insignificance.I was discouraged from being too ambitious – lifeended the same way for everyone. In my mother’swords, “life was short and beshissen like a baby’snapkin”. Everything should be ‘downspilled’, not‘upspilled’. When a friend of mine told her shethought I was intelligent, my mother retorted, “Ja, inze kingdom of ze blind, ze one-eyed is king”.Like Hans, she would not accept or give praise.We were taught not to be too enthusiastic aboutanything, or anybody for that matter. I would returnfrom school with a new friend. When she had left, Iwould say to my mother, “Isn’t she wonderful?” Mymother would reply, “Ja, but somesing,somewhere…”There was always “something, somewhere” forher to disapprove. She would look at all my friendwith a jaundiced eye – projecting the darkness ofNazism onto the still unwritten narrative of theirlives.Another of her sayings, one I only appreciatedonce I entered adulthood, was:“Don’t envy people who seem to have a betterlife style than you. Life is lived in the valleys, not onthe mountains. You only go up to the mountain tobreathe.”My mother played a great deal of bridge. Herbridge allowed her to enter another world, a moreregulated one, one over which she had some control.We children used to say that she “bridged overtroubled waters.” When she was playing bridge, shehated to be interrupted - especially if we were“upspilling our pain.”When I was a teenager, I wrote this poem:I must have been seven, or was it eight?When I returned home from a party late.A motorcyclist who did not see meHad knocked me to the ground.When I came roundI ran home to blurt out my story.My mother involved in a game of bridgeWelcomed me with the warmth of a fridge,“Has blood been spilled?” she said.“Is someone perhaps dead?“Go straight to your bedroom.Don’t speak of doom and gloom.You have a cut and a graze,Nothing time will not erase.”Her scars, you see, would always last.She was a victim of the Holocaust.The author hereby thanks Gwynne Schrire forher encouragement and assistance with this article.35
JEWISH AFFAIRS ROSH HASHANAH 2009AUGUST IN LATVIA(for Maja Abramowitch)*Bernard LevinsonIt is August in Latvia. The sun, echoing still thesummer’s heat, rises in a cloudless sky. There is stillthe soft woody scent of forests waking. The air iswarm and soft. Families eat their meals on the patiosin the warm afternoons.The Daugava River is alive with early autumn’sgold-flecked foliage. Trees, bridges and rows ofwooden houses shimmer on the surface.Lisa brushes my hair. Her hair is long and dark.She lets me braid her hair. I would love to brushmy Papa’s hair but he has so little hair. When Isit on his lap he nibbles my short, almost blond,hair on the back of my neck.My Papa owns two shops on the main street. Heteaches me French at night. Only a few words.We have visitors every night. My Mama andPapa speak so many languages. I can hear themtalking French and German. Papa’s alwaysaway in Paris. Mama loves all the health placesin Germany. They leave me with Lisa.The town of Daugavpils is almost asleep in theautumn heat. In the forest, the faintest blush of rustdances on the tips of the trees. The birds are singing.It is August and the birds are still singing. The crying– the silent underground crying – the endless darkshrieks of the dead have not begun. The birds will bethe first to hear it. They will hear it all. It will silencetheir singing for ever.My nanny’s name is Petronella. I can’tpronounce her name. I call her Lisa. Lisa sleepswith me. She’s an old lady. I think she is 50 yearsold. I love Lisa. She knows everything about me.She calls me her baby. She knows I am afraid ofstorms. When there is thunder she holds me. Sheloves my little black dog Mushka. Mushka ismosquito in Russian. We only speak Russian. Wego for long walks. Lisa, Mushka and I. Lisaalways holds my hand. I think we live in a forest.There are trees everywhere. Behind our housethere is a green space. I love lying on the grass,watching the birds float in the warm air.Bernard Levinson is a distinguished South Africanpoet whose work has appeared in numerous scholarlypublications and anthologies, including JewishAffairs. Professionally, he is a psychiatrist based inJohannesburg.The German invasion is lightning quick andbrutal. The year is 1941. Overnight the Russians whoannexed Latvia and became so strongly a part of theirlives have vanished. One moment all of Latvia belongsto them, then there is nothing. The Germans areeverywhere. All night the rumbling of heavy vehicles.The marching of men. The very core and fabric ofLatvia is suddenly seeped in this German tide.In Daugavpils there is a public hanging of asingle young woman. An ominous warning. A clearmessage for the entire town.Frauline Elsbeth is my German governess. Sheteaches me German. She talks to me while wewalk in the forest. I don’t like her. She stands sotall. She walks fast and l can’t keep up. I see hertwice a week. And twice a week Mr.Charmatzcomes to our house. He teaches me English.He’s a funny man. He only knows two things.One nursery rhyme and one book. Every time hecomes I repeat ‘There was a little girl who hada little curl right in the middle of her forehead….’The book he knows is about a Prince. He readsit to me. We do this again and again. I learn it byheart. We sit at the dining room table. He’s agrubby little man. He dresses so badly. And hesmells…Within a day of the German occupation a noticeappears: “All men from 16 to 60 must report to thetown square immediately. They must bring shovelsand pickaxes”.The rumor is that there is a need for work parties.There is much to clean up in Daugavpils…My Mama teaches me to play the piano. Sheplays really well. I love sitting on the piano stoolwith her. Once a week I go with my cousin toBallet school. It is run by Madam Mirceva. I’mafraid of her. Her hair is smoothed back into atight ball. It pulls her eyes sideways. Sometimesshe looks almost Chinese. She is very strict. Mycousin and I are the dolls in the Ballet Coppelia.I love the costumes. Mama had them madeespecially for us. I am very small for my age. Andthin. I think I look like a doll…We have the only double story brick house in ourstreet. Mama, Papa and me, and of course Lisa,live upstairs. Papa’s brother and his family livedownstairs. I go to school with my cousin. She isexactly my age. I knock on the floor with the36
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Rosh Hashanah 2009 - South African Jewish Board of Deputies

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