October 8, 2008--The Ladies of Forest Trace: The Brown Shirts
“I’m so upset.”
It was 9:00 am and my mother was calling, much earlier than usual, from Lauderhill. She had changed her medication schedule recently to help her get through early morning anxiety attacks and I assumed that this was not working, not taking the edge off her worries about the world and the family, some of whom were struggling with personal and health and financial problems. She took all of this on, even for those who moved far away and who she hasn’t seen or heard from for decades. As the 100 year-old last survivor of her generation she feels it her responsibility to take care of everyone, literally everyone—even strangers struggling with shopping carts in Publix—so that, as she put it, “When they take me for the last time to Mount Lebanon, where my mother and father are, and all my sisters and brother, and dad, I can tell them that ‘Everyone is as you, Momma and Papa would want them to be.’ I will have to put it that way since I can’t lie to them.”
I knew what she meant. Though most in the next generation were well and doing all right, times for others were hard and for the next, the youngest generation, the one with whom most hopes now resided, many were not doing well at all. So I said, since I couldn’t lie either, “Things are fine but they will get better.”
“It is that that has me so upset. Things. About which I’m not so sure, as you, that they will get better.”
“We of course can talk about that, but I am sensing that something more specific is upsetting you.” I was hoping to get her to tell me about her Xanax. That that was what was on her mind. It would be good to have something that specific to deal with, with everything else in the world seeming to be gyrating out of control.
“This morning, at breakfast, Fannie, who is always so strong, before she could finish her prunes, which is what she has before her cereal, you know how she can talk, well, after not saying a word, not even a hello, she broke down in tears.”
“Is there something wrong?”
“What else? Of course there’s something wrong. This is not my Fannie. As I told you she just sat there crying to herself, not saying anything.”
“Did you find out why?”
“You know the girls—of course we did.”
“Is she sick? Didn’t you tell me she had a doctor’s appointment? Is there bad news?”
“Not that kind of bad news.”
“So what is it then?”
“The election.”
“She’s was crying about the election? As you said, that doesn’t sound like Fannie. She’s a fighter. Didn’t you tell me once that she was a suffragette? That she fought to help get the vote for women?”
“Yes, that’s true. But now she’s afraid about what they are saying about Obama. Not about his policies. But about him. How they are attacking his character. Making up vile stories about him. McCain and that witch.”
“This is nothing new, mom, isn’t this what Republicans do when they get desperate? You know that, and from what you tell me Fannie’s been around a long time and has seen things just as bad. I’m sure she remembers Willie Horton.”
“Yes, she does and so do I. What they did to that poor little man from Vermont.”
“It was Massachusetts, mom. Michael Dukakis was the governor there.”
“You see how I’m losing my memory.” She wasn’t—hers is much better than mine--but I didn’t contradict her. “But I do remember other things, much worse things, which Fannie reminded us all about. Not that the ladies and I need much reminding. That in fact was what had her so upset. What this kind of campaign reminded her of. Which so upset her and spoiled her breakfast, which she needs to eat, poor thing, she’s so thin.”
“So what was it, mom?”
“Did I ever tell you about her family? Her sister and brother-in-law?” She might have but I didn’t remember. “Not her sister Sharon who I know you know about.” I didn’t know about her either. “She’s a wonderful person and lives in Virginia. Not her, but her oldest sister. The one who never came here.”
“To Florida?”
“No, to America. The one who stayed behind.”
“Behind?”
“In Germany. With her husband. The professor. At the law school in Berlin.” This I would have recalled and so I was sure she had never mentioned them. “The one about whom she is so proud—his learning, his reputation, the life they were living before.” She trailed off; but though this was the first time I was hearing about them, I know of course about what my mother meant by “before.”
“What a wonderful wife and hostess she was. Rifka, Fannie’s sister. She came from a fine Orthodox family but she had an education. Fannie’s parents were wealthy and though girls then did not then receive much of a formal education, especially in religious homes, they had tutors for her. Rifka was in her own way also a scholar. She spoke six languages. The parents owned a department store. One of the finest in Germany. Like so many, they thought they would be left alone. They were ‘fine’ Jews with many gentile friends. That was before.”
“I know how so many people believed that they would be all right. They saw themselves as assimilated and German. Not as Jews.”
“That was not true for Fannie’s parents. They were proud of being Jewish. But for her sister and her husband, that was another story. Especially her husband. His family were like goyim. Look, you know all about the history of the Nazis and what they did. You always tell me about the books you read about those times.”
It was true. I grew up in Brooklyn during the late 1940s and 50s and knew a few survivors. Like other kids who heard stories about the camps I had a morbid fascination with displaced persons, DPs we called them, who had somehow managed to make their way from Auschwitz and Bergen Belsen after the war ended and had, to us who were still naïve and innocent, strange and mysterious looking numbers tattooed on their arms. It was only later that we came to learn the full horror of what that meant.
“Without upsetting you with the details so early in the morning, you can only imagine what happened to Fannie’s family.”
In truth, in spite of my lifetime of reading about that time and attempting to understand how humans could act that way, still I could not understand or imagine. So I asked, “That was so long ago but what had her in tears at breakfast?”
“To her it was only yesterday.”
“What happened to her yesterday?” Again, I was thinking about Fannie’s doctor’s appointment.
“Not that kind of yesterday. Not Friday, but then. Then to her is like yesterday.” I finally understood.
“When we got her to talk with us she told us about her granddaughter who lives in Pennsylvania. In Bethlehem. Her husband is a lawyer there and Jackie, her granddaughter, teaches at the community college. English. She is such a wonderful darling. She never forgets to call Fannie every Thursday. Such a sweetie.”
“So what did she tell you about Jackie?” I had an appointment in less than half an hour and needed to keep an eye on the clock.
“They were there last week.”
“They?”
“McCain and that Alaska woman.” I said that I had seen some of their rally on TV. That is was getting a lot of coverage because it was in Bethlehem or all places that they had spoken about Barack Obama “palling around with terrorists.”
“I know what you are thinking. About how they were slandering him with innuendoes.” In fact, that is what I had been thinking. “That was bad enough. But what Fannie heard from Jackie, which was covered on the local Bethlehem news, was who was there at the speeches and what they were saying about Obama. The names they were calling him. And how some, when his name was mentioned not only booed but screamed ‘Traitor’ and ‘Kill him. Kill him.’”
I had heard that too and seen their angry, hate-filled faces. “Fannie said that unless this is stopped, with the economic crisis such as it is, it could become here like it was in Germany in the 1930s, where desperate and fearful people turned on the Jews, seeing them as the source of all the problems.”
“I don’t think that will happen here. There isn’t the same history of anti-Semitism in America.”
“I hope you’re right. But that’s what Fannie’s family thought, and look what happened to them. Everyone dragged away and put in gas chambers.”
“But ma, I really think . . .”
“I know what you really think. We’ve spoken about this before. But I’m old and I remember and am not so sure. So I worry.”
I couldn’t think of what to say to make her feel better. “But now it’s not the Jews that Fannie and the rest of the girls are concerned about. It’s him.” I knew who the “him” was. “I saw those faces in Bethlehem and heard them calling for him to be killed. This rage and hate is very deep and very powerful. Also, very familiar. And not just to Fannie.”
About this I had even less to say. “They killed every one of them.”
I knew that it wasn’t “everyone,” that some somehow managed to survive but did not move to contradict her with my knowledge of history since my mother and Fannie and the rest of the women were right to worry.
It was 9:00 am and my mother was calling, much earlier than usual, from Lauderhill. She had changed her medication schedule recently to help her get through early morning anxiety attacks and I assumed that this was not working, not taking the edge off her worries about the world and the family, some of whom were struggling with personal and health and financial problems. She took all of this on, even for those who moved far away and who she hasn’t seen or heard from for decades. As the 100 year-old last survivor of her generation she feels it her responsibility to take care of everyone, literally everyone—even strangers struggling with shopping carts in Publix—so that, as she put it, “When they take me for the last time to Mount Lebanon, where my mother and father are, and all my sisters and brother, and dad, I can tell them that ‘Everyone is as you, Momma and Papa would want them to be.’ I will have to put it that way since I can’t lie to them.”
I knew what she meant. Though most in the next generation were well and doing all right, times for others were hard and for the next, the youngest generation, the one with whom most hopes now resided, many were not doing well at all. So I said, since I couldn’t lie either, “Things are fine but they will get better.”
“It is that that has me so upset. Things. About which I’m not so sure, as you, that they will get better.”
“We of course can talk about that, but I am sensing that something more specific is upsetting you.” I was hoping to get her to tell me about her Xanax. That that was what was on her mind. It would be good to have something that specific to deal with, with everything else in the world seeming to be gyrating out of control.
“This morning, at breakfast, Fannie, who is always so strong, before she could finish her prunes, which is what she has before her cereal, you know how she can talk, well, after not saying a word, not even a hello, she broke down in tears.”
“Is there something wrong?”
“What else? Of course there’s something wrong. This is not my Fannie. As I told you she just sat there crying to herself, not saying anything.”
“Did you find out why?”
“You know the girls—of course we did.”
“Is she sick? Didn’t you tell me she had a doctor’s appointment? Is there bad news?”
“Not that kind of bad news.”
“So what is it then?”
“The election.”
“She’s was crying about the election? As you said, that doesn’t sound like Fannie. She’s a fighter. Didn’t you tell me once that she was a suffragette? That she fought to help get the vote for women?”
“Yes, that’s true. But now she’s afraid about what they are saying about Obama. Not about his policies. But about him. How they are attacking his character. Making up vile stories about him. McCain and that witch.”
“This is nothing new, mom, isn’t this what Republicans do when they get desperate? You know that, and from what you tell me Fannie’s been around a long time and has seen things just as bad. I’m sure she remembers Willie Horton.”
“Yes, she does and so do I. What they did to that poor little man from Vermont.”
“It was Massachusetts, mom. Michael Dukakis was the governor there.”
“You see how I’m losing my memory.” She wasn’t—hers is much better than mine--but I didn’t contradict her. “But I do remember other things, much worse things, which Fannie reminded us all about. Not that the ladies and I need much reminding. That in fact was what had her so upset. What this kind of campaign reminded her of. Which so upset her and spoiled her breakfast, which she needs to eat, poor thing, she’s so thin.”
“So what was it, mom?”
“Did I ever tell you about her family? Her sister and brother-in-law?” She might have but I didn’t remember. “Not her sister Sharon who I know you know about.” I didn’t know about her either. “She’s a wonderful person and lives in Virginia. Not her, but her oldest sister. The one who never came here.”
“To Florida?”
“No, to America. The one who stayed behind.”
“Behind?”
“In Germany. With her husband. The professor. At the law school in Berlin.” This I would have recalled and so I was sure she had never mentioned them. “The one about whom she is so proud—his learning, his reputation, the life they were living before.” She trailed off; but though this was the first time I was hearing about them, I know of course about what my mother meant by “before.”
“What a wonderful wife and hostess she was. Rifka, Fannie’s sister. She came from a fine Orthodox family but she had an education. Fannie’s parents were wealthy and though girls then did not then receive much of a formal education, especially in religious homes, they had tutors for her. Rifka was in her own way also a scholar. She spoke six languages. The parents owned a department store. One of the finest in Germany. Like so many, they thought they would be left alone. They were ‘fine’ Jews with many gentile friends. That was before.”
“I know how so many people believed that they would be all right. They saw themselves as assimilated and German. Not as Jews.”
“That was not true for Fannie’s parents. They were proud of being Jewish. But for her sister and her husband, that was another story. Especially her husband. His family were like goyim. Look, you know all about the history of the Nazis and what they did. You always tell me about the books you read about those times.”
It was true. I grew up in Brooklyn during the late 1940s and 50s and knew a few survivors. Like other kids who heard stories about the camps I had a morbid fascination with displaced persons, DPs we called them, who had somehow managed to make their way from Auschwitz and Bergen Belsen after the war ended and had, to us who were still naïve and innocent, strange and mysterious looking numbers tattooed on their arms. It was only later that we came to learn the full horror of what that meant.
“Without upsetting you with the details so early in the morning, you can only imagine what happened to Fannie’s family.”
In truth, in spite of my lifetime of reading about that time and attempting to understand how humans could act that way, still I could not understand or imagine. So I asked, “That was so long ago but what had her in tears at breakfast?”
“To her it was only yesterday.”
“What happened to her yesterday?” Again, I was thinking about Fannie’s doctor’s appointment.
“Not that kind of yesterday. Not Friday, but then. Then to her is like yesterday.” I finally understood.
“When we got her to talk with us she told us about her granddaughter who lives in Pennsylvania. In Bethlehem. Her husband is a lawyer there and Jackie, her granddaughter, teaches at the community college. English. She is such a wonderful darling. She never forgets to call Fannie every Thursday. Such a sweetie.”
“So what did she tell you about Jackie?” I had an appointment in less than half an hour and needed to keep an eye on the clock.
“They were there last week.”
“They?”
“McCain and that Alaska woman.” I said that I had seen some of their rally on TV. That is was getting a lot of coverage because it was in Bethlehem or all places that they had spoken about Barack Obama “palling around with terrorists.”
“I know what you are thinking. About how they were slandering him with innuendoes.” In fact, that is what I had been thinking. “That was bad enough. But what Fannie heard from Jackie, which was covered on the local Bethlehem news, was who was there at the speeches and what they were saying about Obama. The names they were calling him. And how some, when his name was mentioned not only booed but screamed ‘Traitor’ and ‘Kill him. Kill him.’”
I had heard that too and seen their angry, hate-filled faces. “Fannie said that unless this is stopped, with the economic crisis such as it is, it could become here like it was in Germany in the 1930s, where desperate and fearful people turned on the Jews, seeing them as the source of all the problems.”
“I don’t think that will happen here. There isn’t the same history of anti-Semitism in America.”
“I hope you’re right. But that’s what Fannie’s family thought, and look what happened to them. Everyone dragged away and put in gas chambers.”
“But ma, I really think . . .”
“I know what you really think. We’ve spoken about this before. But I’m old and I remember and am not so sure. So I worry.”
I couldn’t think of what to say to make her feel better. “But now it’s not the Jews that Fannie and the rest of the girls are concerned about. It’s him.” I knew who the “him” was. “I saw those faces in Bethlehem and heard them calling for him to be killed. This rage and hate is very deep and very powerful. Also, very familiar. And not just to Fannie.”
About this I had even less to say. “They killed every one of them.”
I knew that it wasn’t “everyone,” that some somehow managed to survive but did not move to contradict her with my knowledge of history since my mother and Fannie and the rest of the women were right to worry.
posted by Steven Zwerling at
1:32 PM
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