THE HOLOCAUST IS OVER WE MUST RISE FROM ITS ASHES

of now we got lost. We need to return to a point of certainty in the past, know wherewe turned the wrong way and try to get on another course, a better one. Tounderstand the wrong turn we took, we need to go back to the 1960s, the Eichmanntrial, the Six-Day War, and all that lies in between.My mother told us about Hebron where our grandfather rented an apartment fromhis Arab neighbor. In his old age the Arab bought a young Turkish wife. The Turk hadtwo sons with her, Yasser and Shaqer. One day, one of the boys fell ill and neededpenicillin or some other special medicine to recover. That night the doctors said thathis soul would leave his body and return to its Creator. My grandfather sat next to hisbed, prayed and read Psalms. And “obviously” in the morning the boy’s temperaturehad dropped, and he recovered. In the summer of 1929, my grandfather’s old Arabneighbor was in the vineyards, picking the lovely Hebron grapes. As was the customof farmers back then, he spent the night in the field, like Boaz in the Book of Ruth, inorder to till the land until dark and wake before first light to return to his toil.When the mobs began rioting, his wife sent her son to call him back from the field.When he returned, she ordered him to stand at the gate and defend his Jewishtenants. He was wounded by the rioters’ daggers and sharp blades but did not budgefrom the gate. Half my mother’s family was at the synagogue and were butcheredcruelly at the Sabbath’s high noon (save two, my uncle Hanaya and my cousinShlomo, who were hidden under the corpses and were saved). The other half of mymother’s family, including her, found refuge in my grandfather’s house, believing thatthe Creator would defend the rabbi’s house. Everyone who had sought refuge in mygrandfather’s house were saved by the Arab landlord and his Turkish wife--we owethem our lives. This is how the story was told and retold. At home, in memorialceremonies, in the media, while entertaining guests-fascinating, surprising, painful, butdevoid of almost any emotion.I recently watched a television program produced by my daughter, where mymother told the story of her life in Jerusalem. The interviewer, a young religiouswoman with rightist views, asked my mother why she didn’t return to live in Hebron.My mother interrupted her. “Hebron is trauma, Jerusalem is where my childhoodbegan. . . ” and that’s when I knew what my mother had felt all those years. Hebron