Amazed Where I Found Anti-Semitism in Europe

13 Jul

Our European adventure had the added delight that our daughter and her fiancé came with us for the cruise section of the trip. They live in Israel, so we do not see them very often. In fact we were looking forward to getting to know our future son in law a bit better.

It was wonderful, we would tour with them in the morning and sometimes have lunch in whatever port we were in, but when we returned to the ship each couple was on their own till dinner time.

We were so happy to see their joy. And to see what a very nice young man she chose to marry.

On these tours we met many different people. And since we chose to do many walking tours, there was time to talk and visit. It was interesting and at times enlightening.

I have to be honest, I was concerned about going to Europe, especially France, with all the news about anti-Semitism and anti-Israel activities. Our cruise was originally going to Tunisia, but that port was cancelled. We would have been there the day before the attack on the beach that left 38 dead. And the night before we entered St. Tropez, there was a vicious attack that stunned France as a lone terrorist tried to blow up a factory, but first he killed and beheaded his boss.

So there was some stress on my part as to be aware of what was happening around us. But I still was stunned by where the quiet anti-Semitism actually appeared.

We were touring around Barcelona on a walking tour we booked through our cruise. As we walked through the Gothic town, the old town, a young girl and her mother (from the USA and on our cruise) started a conversation with my daughter and her fiancé. The conversation seemed animated.   So I stepped back to listen.

I was drawn into the conversation, as the teen girl, who had just graduated high school, asked some of her questions.   This girl from a small town in Georgia had never actually spoken to or met Jewish people before. And she had lots of questions, as did her mother.

I tried to be polite. But it got a little difficult after I realized the girl had told my daughter and her fiancé that they were such nice people, and she felt really badly knowing that they were going to Hell since they did not believe in Jesus.

What?!? Her Mom asked me the same question, but about Jewish beliefs. Don’t we think people who don’t believe what we believe will go to Hell?

“NO!” I told her. We believe that as long as people, Jewish or non-Jewish, acted in a good way, did good deeds and followed ethical standards, there was no Hell. Believing in Jesus in our mind had nothing to do with being a good person. And being a good person was the most important.

We told them about the seven Noahide laws that all people have to follow. And as long as a non-Jew followed these laws, they were good. For example you cannot murder or steal.   You cannot eat the flesh of a living creature. You cannot have idolatry.

And then I think we blew her away when we told her that many orthodox Jews believed that Christianity was pagan because they kept graven images of Christ. And seem to worship him. We discussed the Greek influence on Christianity and how this might have made ancient Christians believe that Jesus was the actual son of God. Because in Judaism, this belief is impossible, God has no physical form. We all have the spark of God inside of us, but there is no way we could be the actual child of God. Impossible.

And I pointed out all the “patron saints” we had seen in some of the cathedrals…. actually dead bodies kept in glass coffins. These bodies were dressed and had masks over their faces. And in each place we were told that on their saint day, the coffins were taken down from their alters, carried through town and then placed in the center of the church for all to pay homage to these patron saints.

This is very far from a Jewish version of “have no other God before me.”

The mother stopped trying to tell me about Hell and belief in Jesus. She slowly walked away from me. Perhaps she realized I was not going to change my mind and have an epiphany and believe in Jesus.  Perhaps I had been a bit harsh, but I really do not like to be told I am going to Hell because I don’t believe in Jesus.

So here I was so afraid of anti-Semitism in Europe, when in reality the only anti-Semitism I faced was from other Americans from a small town in Georgia. That was eye opening and somewhat disheartening.

But then I am from Kansas. And just 17 months ago an anti-Semite attacked the Jewish Community in an effort to kill Jews. He instead killed three Christians. If some one is going to Hell it is him and all those who practice hatred.

Walking My Way Through the Perils of Stone Pathways in Europe

10 Jul

Shoes are the most important item to pack for a trip through southern Europe! Forget heels. No heels! Sturdy walking shoes are the only reasonable shoe to take and nice flats for the evenings. Believe me when I tell you that walking on stone streets and paths is not for the timid or the unbalanced.

Italy,  St. Peter's Stones/Bricks.

Italy, St. Peter’s Stones/Bricks.

I have learned to hate St. Peter’s Stones. These unusual shape stones make up many of the pathways in Rome. Each stone is about 4 inches wide at one end and tapers to about 2 ½ inches at the other end. Between each stone is about a half inch of grout…if you are lucky. Most of the time the grout is missing. A great place to get a heel caught and trip.   I asked some female Rome citizens how they walked in heels. Their answer, they don’t. I know why.

Stone walkways in the Jewish Quarter of Rome.

Stone walkways in the Jewish Quarter of Rome.

But it isn’t just the St. Peter’s Stones that can wear on the legs. Almost everywhere the sidewalks and streets are made of stone. And it makes sense. These are old cities. In the Jewish Quarter of Rome there were square stones that paved the walkways and streets.   I say this together because in the tight areas of the old city people and cars share the streets and walkways.

I cannot imagine what they are like when they are wet. We were fortunate and never encountered rain on our trip, but I can imagine that these stones cause much misery when they are damp or wet.   The only place I can compare it to is Jerusalem. Also a city paved with stone, Jerusalem is a place where I have experienced rain and snow and it was not pretty! After two days of walking in Rome, even with sneakers and flats, my legs were aching.

In our not quite two days in Rome, we walked 11.8 miles! And over our two-week trip to Europe I walked 62 miles, averaging 4.4 miles a day, including the two at sea days. I know for a fact as I wore my Jawbone Up the entire time! So believe me when I say I became intimate with the stone walkways of some of the cities along the Mediterranean. And I feel fortunate that we all survived intact!

To be honest, the stone walkways were so beautiful, I started taking photos of them. Lovely to look at in every city and island we visited… but terrible for the legs and feet.

Pompeii stone streets... Pretty good actually.

Pompeii stone streets… Pretty good actually.

I loved the incredible stone streets of Pompeii. That they lasted this long through fire and ash and 2000 years shows their durability. And actually the stone walkways in Pompeii were easy to walk on. I was amazed at how the craftsmen took irregular shaped stones and fit them so precisely together. They were just stunning.

Sicilian Stone walkways.

Sicilian Stone walkways.


Sardinian stone.

Sardinian stone.

On the islands of Sicily and Sardinia we encountered larger, more even stones. Rectangle and squares probably made it for easier for masons to install the stonework. They were also a bit easier to walk on in the more modern parts of town.   But still gave no relief to tired calf muscles!

Corsica at the citadel.  These stones were impossible! And yes, it was the only place to walk.

Corsica at the citadel. These stones were impossible! And yes, it was the only place to walk.

After Corsica, I knew the stones were starting to take their toll on people. In Calvi, Corsica, the citadel is located high above the city. You have to walk up a multitude of stone staircases before reaching the path that takes you into the citadel. Should I call it a path, or the stone walkway from Hell? These uneven and rounded stones pushed into the ground must be carefully and diligently watched as you walk. They look like giant river pebbles. When you walk on them there can be no looking up until you take a break. Just watch your feet. I thought going uphill was bad. But going downhill was much worse.

The day after the trip to Calvi, I noticed several people on our cruise ship now in wheelchairs with their ankles wrapped. An older woman, who had been on our flight to Europe, and was on our cruise, fell and was sporting a black eye. She spent two days recouping from that incident. Calvi’s citadel is not for the weak-kneed or anyone who needs help walking!

Monaco, beautiful patterned pebbles to walk on.

Monaco, beautiful patterned pebbles to walk on.

Monaco had lovely walkways, easy to meander through. But near the prince’s palace, where we watched the changing of the guard, there was a beautiful inlayed pebbled area, so beautiful to see, but perhaps difficult for the pedestrians in heels. I just took pictures, and tried to stay off of it. Okay, honestly, I had to walk on it at least once to test it out. It was okay, just a little rough on the soles of my feet.

St. Tropez, more stone for people and cars.

St. Tropez, more stone for people and cars.

St. Tropez’ older areas had more St. Peter’s Stone’s as well as larger rectangular steps. And I do not like St. Peter’s Stone! To be honest this was my least favorite stop on our journey. However it had the best story about the paved roads. The walkways in the ancient area are all made of stone, slippery when wet. Our guide told us that when people tried to invade the city, the citizens would pour olive oil into the street, which made the hilly stone paths impossible to navigate. I wish I could have seen the invaders’ faces as the olive oil came oozing down the roads. The slipping and sliding was not funny to them, I am sure. What an ingenious idea!

The beautifully stone paved Rambla.  Easy to walk on.

The beautifully stone paved Rambla. Easy to walk on.

We ended our trip in Barcelona. The new parts of town have easy to walk on streets. And we loved walking on the Rambla! The stonework was so pretty with waves of color. And the stones were even and comfortable for walking. But the old, gothic city also had its stone and uneven pathways. However, I understand that these streets and paths are over 1,000 years old. So I am not complaining, I am just saying BE Careful.

Notice the difficult walking through the trails at Montserrat.

Notice the difficult walking through the trails at Montserrat.

Our final stop was Montserrat, a beautiful mountain and Monastery about an hour from Barcelona. This area is so breathtaking with its views and buildings. It has three main walking paths. We took one.   You can see that they are trying to repair the paths in some areas, in others it was quite the challenge.   But so worth the effort!

My legs are still recovering from the hard walking. To be honest, I went for a leg reflexology on the cruise ship. It was wonderful after all those stone steps. I gifted myself an extra long 75-minute leg and foot massage. I figured that my legs had done me well, and they deserved pampering. When I got home, I went for a pedicure with massage at Old Town. It helped as well. Sixty-two miles of walking on stone paths was perilous, but worth every step!

How I Learned That I Really Am 60 Years Old

9 Jul

I admit it; I am 60. It happened suddenly. One day I was 25 and getting married. And moments later I was 60, married for 35 years and had two adult children. How did it happen? I am not sure. But I will tell you that I do not feel 60. In my mind I am much younger. How old, I am not sure; but definitely NOT 60.

I walk between 2 – 5 miles daily. I exercise. I work. I volunteer. I do word puzzles. I write. I read. I crochet. I visit with friends. I shop. I keep moving. I am mildly obsessive and overly concerned at times. Most people I meet do not think I am 60, except perhaps for the grey hair. I do not get my haired dyed. And many times I am in a room with women my age and older, and I am the only one with grey hair. So I guess that might indicate my advancing age.

But recently, I realized that in fact I was 60. I realize that being 60 has made a few changes in my life and how others view me. Perhaps, it is just others who do not really know me.

It happened in Rome. My husband and I arrived on a Wednesday, arriving at our hotel about 11 am. Once we got into a room we decided to go exploring. Close to the hotel was the Castle of Saint Angelo, a lovely spot to investigate. We spent hours there going room to room, inside and out, lost in the corridors that date back centuries.

IMG_5723

The Castle of Saint Angelo.

We finally found our way out and walked back to our hotel for a nap before a meeting and dinner. Imagine our surprise when our host arrived 45 minutes early. We were tired, but we got it together. He took us to tour the Basilica of San Paola and its cloister. Then to the Bambino Gesu Hospital, Children’s Hospital of Rome, for a short tour and where my husband presented a talk to the allergy section. From there it was out to dinner with 13 others for a five-course Roman meal….delicious. And then a two-mile walk to what we were told was the best gelato in all of Rome, the Gelateria Frigidarium. It was delicious. But we did not get back to our hotel till midnight.

The Great Synagogue in Rome, Italy

The Great Synagogue in Rome, Italy

Now after traveling for 20 hours, touring and a giant meal and gelato, I was tired. But with jet lag, I still did not sleep that well. And we had to be at the Jewish Quarter by ten in the morning for a three-hour tour organized by Jewish Roma. We did it. It was wonderful. We ate lunch in the Jewish Quarter then grabbed a taxi to get to the Vatican where we had another, 2:30 pm tour scheduled.

A portion of the ceiling in the extremely long reception hall, also known as the map room because of the frescos of different areas of Italy.

A portion of the ceiling in the extremely long reception hall, also known as the map room because of the frescos of different areas of Italy.

Also planned by Jewish Roma, we had a semi-private tour with one other couple. I would say they were in their late 30s and the tour guide, perhaps in her late 40s. This tour would take us through the Vatican Museum, not air-conditioned, to the Sistine Chapel. The museum winds it ways through room after room of art works. Long halls, galleries, so much to see. So much walking!! And finally, we are all herded into the Sistine Chapel where everyone stands and looks up ward at the magnificent art drawn by Michaelangelo. At least it had some air conditioning.

It was in this room that I realized I am 60,and other people noticed. We had moved to the back of the chapel to look around there before going out. Our lovely tour guide Sylvia, suddenly turned to my husband and I and said, “There are some seats that just came available. Why don’t you go sit there!”

Okay, we can. We walked over and my husband and I sat down. I looked over at him. He looked really tired. I must look tired as well, I thought. Then I looked up. The three younger adults were looking down at us. And I had a epiphany moment, I knew what they were thinking. They were thinking that we were worn out. They were worried about us. Would these seniors make it through the tour? Are they ok? Wow! I now know what my parents thought when I sat them down somewhere to rest. And you what? I needed that rest. It felt wonderful!

After a few minutes, perhaps ten, we said we were ready to go on. Really, we reassured the guide and the couple. And on we went. When the tour ended my husband and I went into St. Peter’s Basilica for a while. But after about 20 mintues, I was done. It was time to go back to the hotel. And I was not going to walk!!! Even though my husband assured me it was just about a mile. NO! I won.

We walked to the edge of St. Peter’s Square and got a cab.

Back to the hotel. It was about 5:30 pm. I took a quick shower and went to take a nap. My husband said he tried to wake me at 7 pm, for dinner. I did not move. I also did not move at 7:15 when he tried again. Finally at 7:30 pm, I did wake up and we went out for dinner.

We went just a block from the hotel to a lovely restaurant; then on to a gelato shop for dessert.

It was a wonderful day. We walked another six miles. We saw so much and learned so much about Rome. But we also learned that we are 60 years old!

Always Searching For a Touch of Jewish History

7 Jul

Whenever I travel, I try to incorporate a touch of Jewish history into all my trips. It started when I had little children, and an older friend recommended that I include something of our heritage whenever we traveled. It seemed like a good idea, so I started this tradition.

Our first attempt to fulfill this commitment was seeing a production of a new opera about the Golem in the Aspen Opera House. It was a wild opera. Many people walked out. But my children LOVED it. A great success.

Great Synagogue in Buenos Aires.

Great Synagogue in Buenos Aires.

Since then we have visited Jewish sites throughout the world: Jewish museums thorugh out the United States,as well as the Jewish Museum in Vienna and my husband visited the Jewish Museum in Athens. We have seen the synagogue on St. Thomas, the Great Synagogue in Buenes Aires, the holocaust memorial and several synagogues in Montivideo, Uraguay. We have visited Jewish sites in Canada.

Holocaust memorial in Montevideo, Uruguay.

Holocaust memorial in Montevideo, Uruguay.

So my trip to Europe this summer was no different. We had to incorporate a bit of Judaism into our trip, especially with all the rise of anti-Semitism in Europe. I needed to do this!

While in Rome, we used the tour company, Jewish Roma, to book tours of the Jewish Quarter and the Vatican (to get a slightly Jewish slant on this very Catholic compound. ) The tour of the Jewish Quarter, or what used to b the Ghetto, was wonderful. Walking down the streets and seeing where so many Jews had been forced to live during the Middle Ages, in fact up until the 19th century, touched me.

I loved seeing the Great Synagogue and the museum with all its religious objects. I listened to the tales of the Shoah and the life of Jews in Rome for centuries. I was shocked to see the plaque on a church that once stood just outside the gate of the ghetto that was written in Hebrew but encouraged Jews to convert. I had heard of this practice, but to actually see it, was painful. I am glad they kept it there.

The Great Synagogue in Rome, Italy

The Great Synagogue in Rome, Italy

The small community of 12,500 Jewish people in Rome support synagogues, a day school and a hospital. They are well aware of their standing in the community.  Near the synagogue is a square where over 1,000 Jews were rounded up by the Nazi’s.  This October date is memorialized.  Of the 1,000 taken, only 18 returned.

I learned that in Rome the Jews are neither Sephardic nor Ashkenazi in their religious practice. Their service comes from a time before the divide. It is a Roman service. How interesting!?  We also ate fried artichokes, a Jewish Roman delicacy.  I enjoyed walking through the Jewish Quarter, seeing the Jewish Day School, eating lunch in a kosher bristol.

Our tour guide, Sara, told us how her family was actually from Sicily but was forced to move to Rome centuries ago. So I was excited when we were in Sicily to have to tour guide point out the original synagogue, now a church of course, and the road where the Jews once lived. There is a plaque on the wall of the street indicating that it was once the home to the Jewish population of Sicily.

What was once the synagogue in Sicily, now a church.

What was once the synagogue in Sicily, now a church.

Although there were small Jewish communities in some of the other places we visited, like Corsica, it was not until Barcelona that we had our next Jewish encounter. Near the harbor is a hill that is still called Montjuic, Mountain of the Jews. It was where the Jewish cemetery once was located. But as our tour guide told us, when the Jews were expelled the cemetery was destroyed. In fact the Jews of Barcelona were cast out in the 1390s, a hundred years before they were expelled from the rest of Spain. Now this is part of the site of the Barcelona Olympics from the 1990s. So although there are no Jews there anymore, the name remains.

We walked in the Gothic area of the city where the Jewish population once lived and where the old synagogue still remains, although we did not see it.

Our other touch of Judaism was going to a Flamenco performance. I had read that many people believe the Flamenco dance was an outgrowth of the closeness of the Roma community with the Sephardic Jewish community. Our tour guide, Bettina, commented on this connection as well. She told us about how the Jews were expelled and forced to leave.  When our tour was over, I commented privately to her about my family’s distant roots in Spain.  And how our family, then known as Faya was forced to leave.  I guess, that   even though the Jews left Spain so many centuries ago, little pieces remain behind. And that brings me some peace.

I do wish I had booked a private Jewish tour of Barcelona before we went instead of relying on public tours and asking my questions. But I am glad that I have continued in my search to find a bit of Jewish heritage with every trip I take.

My Architectural Love Affair With Hundertwasser and Gaudi

6 Jul

In the summer of 1999, my husband and I took our children on a tour of Austria and Hungary, primarily to see these countries and to view the total eclipse of the sun that would be visible that summer. We were heading to Hervis, Hungary, for the best viewing.

Before the trip up to the mountains, we stayed for several days in Vienna. It was an informative trip as we went to the Jewish Museum, Judenplatz, other museums and visited the home of the white stallions. (See below for links to another blog about this trip.)

But along the way I was introduced to the work of Friedensreich Hundertwasser, the Austrian architect who was born in 1928, the same year as my father, and who had survived the Shoah with his Jewish mother by passing as Catholic, the religion of his father. In Vienna we saw the most unusual apartment building designed by him, The Hundretwasserhaus. This crazy looking building was multicolored, unusually shaped and had trees growing everywhere.

IMG_6071

But the most wonderful part of our visit that year, was our accommodations at what my then 8-year-old son called the ‘Wacky Hotel.’ But whom others call Hundretwasser’s Rogner Bad Blumau, a hotel that includes thermal baths and pools. The hotel has no rhyme or reason that an adult can see. But it has sparks of imagination that enchant a child. I was enthralled.   I became a Hundertwasser lover. Even though I have no background in architecture.

Our stay there was delightful, from the curving paths to the unusual windows to the wonderful pools and colorful design. I bought books about Hundretwasser. I was intrigued by his desire to help nature and bring all things natural to his architecture. Yes, I think he went a little far at times, but I so enjoyed his work.

I was also intrigued by his personal history and his survival. Born Friedrick Stowasser, he changed his name after the war to focus on his desire for peace and harmony with nature. I think I was also aware of another connection, my maternal grandfather was also from a part of Austria. He had moved to the USA in the 1920s, but like Hundretwasser, my grandfather lost almost 100 members of his family during the Shoah. Hundretwasser’s mother lost many of her family members as well. Our connection was that both of our families had been decimated by the Shoah.

I would love to see all the buildings Hundretwasser designed, but I realize this would be impossible. However, there is a winery in California, The Quixote Winery that I have to see! I love how he uses the natural contours of the ground and a need to protect the environment in his designs. I would love to see this winery in person.

My profound interest in Hundertwasser’s works lead to my interest in another European architect, Antoni Gaudi, from Spain.   Although he died three years before Hundretwasser was born, I see his influence in the work of my Austrian artist. For Gaudi, his Catholic religion was an important part of his designs. Not so for Hundretwasser, even though he was baptized to survive. But the form of their buildings and their interest in natural design fit so well together.

The towers on their buildings, the use of stone and color, the curves and contours reflect each other. Although Gaudi used religion to influence his art, and Hundretwasser used nature.

Church of Sagrada Familia

So, of course, on our recent trip to Europe and Barcelona, I had to go to see some of Guadi’s designs. The amazing church, the Sagrada Familia, which has been in progress for over 120 years! Wow! What a creation! My husband envisioned termite hills reflected in the towers. Our tour guide was not too happy with that comparison. But it is true. The towers do look like termite hills to us!

Casa Batllo Casa Batllo

We toured the Casa Batllo. I loved it! The mushroom fireplace, the lovely curved doors and windows, the delightful stone and tile-encrusted façade all brought me some joy! The private garden in the back on part of the roof was enchanting.

Unfortunately we could not get tickets to Park Guell, so I guess I will have to go back to Barcelona one day to view this park and see how it compares to the Rogner Bad Blumau.

I find it so unusual that one man, born in the mid 1850s and dying in 1926, who based his architecture on his religious beliefs; and another man born in 1928, who died in 2000, and had to escape from religious persecution, both designed buildings with such unique and imaginative styles.

Although some believe the word gaudy comes from Antoine Gaudi’s name, it does not. My search of several dictionaries revealed that the word, gaudy, was first used in the 1500s to mean garish or flashy. Yes, it is somewhat like Gaudi’s buildings, but in this case his name was not the reason for the word, just a serendipitous event.

And although some might call Gaudi’s works gaudy, to me they are inspiration! To me, to be honest, neither the work of Gaudi nor the work of Hundretwasser should ever be considered gaudy, rather they should be seen as works of imagination! Just as the song about Figment in the Disney ride “Imagination” used to say, “One little spark of inspiration is at the heart of all creation!”

I believe their designs will be joy to many others for generations because they hold the spark of imagination. And so I will continue my architectural love affair with their buildings.

Update with a newest Gaudi visit: https://zicharonot.com/2018/10/08/i-do-love-gaudi-my-second-barcelona-gaudi-adventure/

https://zicharonot.wordpress.com/2015/04/19/behind-the-beauty-and-facades-of-vienna/

tour the rogner bad blumau spa, designed by friedensreich hundertwasser

My second Gaudí adventure: https://zicharonot.com/2018/10/08/i-do-love-gaudi-my-second-barcelona-gaudi-adventure/

The Sad Scandal That Forever Scarred My Grandpa Harry

14 Jun

My paternal grandfather, Harry, was a difficult man to love. He never hugged us or played with us. He kept his distance, except to sometimes reprimand us from eating too much cake. “The Trolley Car Stops, Too,” he would intone if we spent too much time at the dessert table. Or to tell us to “Quiet Down.”

In the summers he would take long walks and sit by himself. Grandpa Harry, “Hersh Zvi,” was not one to dole out love.

When I entered high school, he actually began talking to me. I took some sewing classes and was making my own clothes and clothing for my sister and Mom. Grandpa was a retired tailor. And suddenly we had a language to share. He taught me how to match plaids and make my slacks more tailored. He could explain about French seams and other ways of making the clothes I made stand out. We formed the tiniest bit of a bond. I know he was so proud of everything I made, which made me feel good as well.

I knew he had had a difficult life. I remember my paternal Grandma Esther saying to me, “When you get married, make sure you check out the family. You do not only marry the man, you marry the entire family. And they can be crazy.”

And that was my Grandpa Harry’s family according to my Grandma. His family could have been a column in the “Bintel Brief” columns of the old Yiddish Jewish Forward. Except I am not sure my Great Grandma Sarah could write.

We think this is Grandpa Harry on his bar mitzvah day.

We think this is Grandpa Harry on his bar mitzvah day.

My grandfather was the oldest of six children: Harry, Harriet (Hady), Muriel, Jacob and two ‘maiden’ sisters. When he was either 13 or 14, his father abandoned the family and took off for the west coast. Disaster.

Grandma Esther once told me that my great grandmother was a ‘schrier,’ someone who screamed a lot. And although my great grandfather Abraham was probably unhappy, he should not have left my grandfather with the mess. And that is true.

Abraham was one of three to five brothers who all came to America at different times, or so we think. Their original last name was Grau, but in the USA Abraham Grau became Abraham Rosenberg. I believe he was from Russia, perhaps Bialystok.

So we know this is a posed photo, but it is when Grandpa crossed the USA looking for his father.

So we know this is a posed photo, but it is when Grandpa crossed the USA looking for his father.

In any case he was not a mensch at all.

My grandfather at age 15 took off across America by himself to find his father.   He traveled through the plains, up the mountains, to Seattle, Washington, in the early 1900s. Grandpa was born in 1888 or 1889. So this was in 1903 or 1904. Can you imagine! He might have wanted to get away as well. But I think he really wanted to find his father.

Well he did find him, in Seattle, living with another woman as if she was his wife. Or as my grandma called her, the ‘churva,’ which I believe means prostitute in Yiddish.

Grandpa Harry was not happy. I do not think the meeting went well. So Grandpa turned around and traveled all the way back to the New York, where he became the bread winner and head of the family.

He worked as a tailor and never finished school. But his five siblings, four girls and his brother, ALL went to college. He paid for it. His brother even became an attorney and lived Up Town.   Grandpa sacrificed his life for his siblings. He was a mensch! He gave them food, clothes and a college education in a time when women did not go to college. And he did not get much in return. I think this is why he so unable to show affection to his own children and grandchildren.  He held back.

Eventually, on February 26, 1922, he married my Grandma, after he finished supporting his siblings and mother. He was in his mid 30s when he married. Since, my grandmother’s father, Louis, was also a tailor, I believe grandpa married his partner’s daughter. In fact my grandparents and my great grandparents continued to live together.

As for my great grandmother, Sarah Rosenberg, we know nothing. Not her maiden name. Not when she was born or died. I do not think she was a very loving person either.  In fact, my brother reminded me that years later Grandpa found out his father was sending money, but his mother never told him!

My Dad on his Bar Mitzvah day on the roof of a building in the Bronx.

My Dad on his Bar Mitzvah day on the roof of a building in the Bronx.

I do know that in 1941 my great grandfather and his second ‘wife’ showed up in New York City, in the Bronx on the day of my Dad’s bar mitzvah. I do not know if one of the other siblings had kept in touch with him. I do not know why he chose that day. All I know is that my grandfather would not let him into the house. I believe my Dad met his grandfather in the hallway.

As for my grandfather’s siblings, we never met any of them except for Aunt Hady and her husband, Lenny. The others were not part of our lives. However, I do know that my Aunt Leona, my Dad’s sister, took piano lessons with her cousin at the apartment uptown. So she had some weekly contact with my great Uncle Jacob and his family when she was a child.

But I would one day like to know, where did my great grandfather end up and was buried? What was my Great grandma Sarah’s maiden name? Who was she?

And where are the children of Muriel, who had two sons; and Jacob, who had two children: Delilah and Betram.

I wish my Grandpa Harry had not been so scarred by his own father.He was a good man.  He provided for his family.  And he cared about us. I know in the moments that he discussed sewing with me that he wanted a connection with his family, he just did not know how. He was forever scarred by the scandal of his childhood.

Finding Katie!

13 Jun

When my maternal grandmother immigrated to the United States in 1922, she was sponsored by her father’s sister: her Aunt Gussie. I wrote about this in another blog, which I will reference at the end.

Grandma became very good friends with her first cousin, Katie L. They remained friends throughout their lives, even though they did not live near to each other. But the letters and phone calls seemed to keep their love for each other in tact.

Katie’s married name was Katie Alexander. That is the name we always heard, and this was the name we thought of when we spoke of Katie. It was so ingrained in our lives.   Grandma loved her cousin, Katie; she spoke of her often!

I think my sister was the most in love with the name.   She named her son, Alexander. And four years later, she named her daughter Katherine, or Katie. My Mom at first said, “How can you name her Katherine?” My sister was naming her daughter after my grandmother, whose name was Thelma in English/ Tova in Hebrew.

My sister reminded my Mom that Katie was Grandma’s friend and cousin. And since she did not want to name her daughter Thelma, she thought she would use Tova as the Hebrew name and Katie, Grandma’s cousin’s name for the English.

I laughed. I often tell my sister that she named her children for Katie Alexander. And so the name stays alive in my family.

Album

Last summer, while we were cleaning out the attic of the Catskill’s home that had been both our grandparents and parents, we found an old brown leather photo album. It was filled with photos from the 1920s. Many had no names. Some had Yiddish or Hebrew writing on the back. Some had just an address or a place.

Grandma:Katie

But within the photos was a photo from 1924 of Grandma and Katie. That was it. I decided I had to find out what happened to Katie Alexander’s family. Thanks to the Tracing the Tribe Facebook group, I now have that information. The wonderful members of the group found members of Katie’s family for me. And then I contacted them.

I have been in touch with one of her sons, a niece and a granddaughter. I have found out that another name we often heard in our home was Katie’s brother. We never knew Katie’s maiden name. She was always referred to by her married. But I realized after I send them some photos, that the Sam L. that my grandmother spoke was Katie’s brother. WOW!

I am hoping that they will be able to identify more of the photos in the album so we can put names to those nameless young men and women who were so important to my grandmother. I am so happy we were able to find Katie.

https://zicharonot.wordpress.com/2014/05/29/grandma-thelma-knows-what-she-knows/

https://zicharonot.wordpress.com/2014/08/19/old-photographs-bring-memories-to-life/

How I loved the Golden Chair! But Giving it Away Might Be A Blessing.

11 Jun

As a child I was in love with the Golden chair that was situated in front of a vanity table at my grandparent’s home. This small easy chair had been my mother’s chair. It was once upholstered in a print fabric, but sometime after my Mom got married, my grandmother had it upholstered in a golden leatherette.

I LOVED that chair. It was the perfect size for a child to sit in and imagine. I imagined I was a princess when I sat in that chair! I imagined I was on an adventure when I reclined in the chair. I would read a book and lounge there, dreaming. I so wanted that chair.

I used to ask my Grandma, all the time, if my parents could bring the Golden chair home and keep it in my bedroom. And my Grandma always said, “No!” She would not give up the chair.

She never sat in it. I am not sure if she kept it because she knew I loved to sit in it; or if she had another reason? My Grandma did not like to give things away. She did not horde, but relinquishing her possessions was difficult. Perhaps it was the results of her childhood in Europe in the early 1900s? I do know. I only know she would not give me the chair!

The chair was in my grandparent’s apartment in New Jersey. There was an area that was kept locked and separate. Behind the locks were the living room and my mother’s old bedroom. As I got older, Grandma would unlock the door and let me be there on my own to dream in the chair.

When they moved to the Catskills for the entire year, the chair went with them. It was always a part of their home. It was a great place for me to read a book on a rainy Catskills day.

Grandma did know how I longed for the Golden chair. She always told me that it would be my chair one day: that I would own their bedroom set and the chair. So I should not worry. She knew that I loved the golden chair. But I did not want to wait! I wanted the chair then, when I was a girl.

My grandmother died when I was 26 years old. My grandfather passed away when I was 34 years old. About a year after my Grandpa died, my parents had the bedroom set and the Golden chair shipped to my home in Kansas.

It was bittersweet. I was glad the Golden chair was finally mine. But I missed my grandparents.

The chair

I knew exactly what I wanted to do with the chair. I had it re-upholstered in a sparkling geometric print fabric. And I placed it in the room of my then three-year-old daughter. It had the place of honor in a corner with a lamp behind it. I told her that it would be her reading and imagining chair. And it was. She sat there often with a cat either on her lap or under the chair. She read many a books in that chair.

When she was older, she used it as a desk chair, even though it really was not intended for a desk. I think she loves the chair as much as I do.

My Mom once asked me if I was happy that I finally got my chair. And I was happy, but I told my Mom I would have enjoyed the chair even more if Grandma had given to me when she was alive. Receiving the chair after they died put a pall on it. I told my Mom that I would have loved having the chair to read in all the time, not just when I visited my grandparents.

Most important, if Grandma had given me the chair when she was alive, I would have known that she really wanted me to have it. Getting it when she had passed away took some of the joy out of the chair. In fact, I never have sat in the chair in all the years that I have owned it.

My parents gave us items when they were alive. In my mind,I think the Golden chair had something to do with it. When each of my siblings and I had a child, we were presented a piece of family jewelry.   Artwork and furniture was given as well.   Yes, when they passed away a few months apart, we had many other things to go through. But they had always been so generous and loving, we were able to say that there was nothing worth fighting over! These were my brother’s favorite words.

I hope to be that way with my children. I do not want them to wait till I am dead to get something from my house that they really want. My husband always says that ‘we don’t own material items, they own us if we let them.’   There is no item in my house that I need, except maybe my computer.

I would rather see the joy on my children’s faces using something they love from my home. I hope that one day my daughter says to me, “Mom I want the Golden chair.” And even though I have always loved that chair, it would be a blessing for me to give to my daughter.

Stormy Weather Was My Sister’s Worst Nightmare

3 Jun

Ever since I moved to Kansas over 30 years ago I have been amazed by the storms! Where I grew up in the New Jersey/New York area, you never really saw a storm coming. Yes, the sky turned grey; yes it got windy; yes there was lightening and thunder. But you never actually saw an entire anvil thunderstorm cloud or could see the twirling clouds that at times become tornados.

Over the years I grew used to the sound of the sirens being tested the first Wednesday of every month at 11 am, unless there was bad weather. I learned that a bow hook on a radar echo was a very bad sight to see. The sight of pea size, dime size, nickel size, quarter size and baseball size hail taught us to stay indoors! Oh how I hate to be driving my car when hail starts falling!

I taught my children that when the sirens go off, they go to our basement shelter. No discussion, no arguments, just get the cats and go. And they never argued. Tornados are not something to argue about.

For three years my nephew, my sister’s son, lived in Kansas while he studied at the University of Kansas for his master’s degree. I was not sure how my sister would deal with the stormy weather. You see, my sister is petrified of storms.

It dates back to a storm in the Catskills when she was very young. She insists that I was not there when it happened. But since I remember it just as well, I think she is wrong. And I am 3 ½ years older. So I believe I was there,at least for one storm. The one I remember was frightening enough.

It was in our grandparents’ home in Kauneonga Lake, the big house, which was an all season house, not just a bungalow.   There was a storm going on outside. It might have been the hurricane that came up the coast in the early 1960s. In any case we were watching television and a bolt of lightening hit the house and shot from the television into the refrigerator. It went right past me in the family room. This is what I remember.

My sister has a slightly different memory. But since I am the one blogging, I will go with my memory.

However, being a good sister, I will give her side. She says she was in the kitchen and saw lightening hit the stove as it went past her. “It was right after the kitchen was remodeled, and the lightening broke the clock on the oven.  As you may recall it never worked again.”

“The thing that cemented my terror,” my sister said, “was the power went out (no surprise there) and Grandma took a candle and went all through the house looking for fires from the lightening.” She was “petrified being alone in the dark with just a candle and still seeing the afterimage of the lightening and smelling the burnt insulation from the stove.”

It was absolutely terrifying. To this day, I cannot watch television when there is lightening and thunder. I go around the house turning off computers and televisions. I have a wonderful weather radio I listen to during storms. And with modern technology, I now have a weather ap on my phone to let me know tornado and thunder storm warnings and watches, as well as the radar.

For my sister, who was about four, the memory was paralyzing.   She became absolutely terrified of storms. When thunder and lightening occurred she would cry and need to be held. And since I shared a room, I often shared my bed with her during a nighttime storm.

As we aged, I have to admit, I was not always pleasant about her fears. I remember one storm in particular. She was in middle school, and I was in high school. I woke up during one of the worst thunderstorms I ever heard in the Catskills.. But I kept quiet and did not move. I knew if I said anything, my sister would crawl into bed with me, and I was not in the mood. After a few minutes of listening to the storm, the door opened. My mother was standing there.

“Are you okay?” She asked my sister, who then began to cry. I spoke up. “I knew she would do that,” I whispered.

I got in so much trouble!!! My Mom started yelling at me. “You were awake and you did not help your sister!!!”

Next thing I knew my sister was in my twin bed with me, where she spent the rest of the night. I was doomed from that point on to always share my bed during a storm. I guess it was great practice for years later when I had children.

So flash forward 35 years, and my nephew is now in the land of thunderstorms and tornadoes. My sister was not totally happy about the choice of Kansas as a place to live; although she tried to stay calm about it. She said, “Once my children were born, I made a concerted effort not to show my fear to either of them, and they didn’t know until they were teenagers that I was afraid of storms.”

The only thing that helped my sister at all is that he lived in a basement apartment, so he basically lived in a storm shelter.

I am honestly glad that my sister has never been here for a severe thunderstorm when the rotation starts and we have had to seek shelter. The swirl of the winds, the roar of the thunder, the sudden flashes of lightening make storms furious and intense in Kansas.  Living in Kansas through spring and autumn storms has taught me to be wary and keep aware of changing weather.  I am not sure that my sister would do well living through her worst nightmare.

Remodeling My Bathroom Reminds Me of Our Catskills House: The House Which Always Changed

30 May

I am in the process of having a little half bath remodeled. The old pedestal sink is gone. The old linoleum tiles are gone. The distressed paint is gone. In their place are a new cabinet sink, ceramic tile floor and new paint. The process has taken three days. And the entire time it has been in progress, I have been going back into time to our home in the Catskills.

My grandparents bought the ‘big house’ in the early 1960s. The home had been divided into four little apartments. Three were rented out during the summers, and the owner stayed in the one that was slightly bigger. My grandparents bought the house with the intention of reuniting it into one home. It became a forever process.

It slowly took shape. First they stopped renting out two of the three other apartments. They took down the wall that separated the upstairs from the living room. We now had two rooms upstairs and another bathroom. Of course there was a kitchen along one wall as well!

The fireplace in the center of the living room.

The fireplace in the center of the living room.

Downstairs they removed the kitchen and teeny bathroom that had been built behind the fireplace. They left the room on, but made it part of the living room. The children loved to sleep back there on the trundle bed. It was also a great hiding place. And the fireplace is a magnificent stone edifice. We love it. Originally it was at the end of the house. But now it stands in the living room.

They opened the doorway between the two sections of the house. Putting in a pocket door to close the living room off in the winter. Each room of the house was slowly redone.

They built a garage, since they started spending the winters up there. At first there was just a flagstone patio that led from the kitchen door to the across to the garage. But eventually walls were put up to keep the snow from blowing. At first my grandfather just put up some old windows and plywood to keep the wind out. But eventually real walls were built and a roof put on and another door creating what we all called stone room.

The kitchen was remodeled and remodeled several times over the years by my grandparents and then my parents.

The fourth apartment was changed. The bedroom that originally belonged to the main house was reunited, and a true apartment was built. This was rented during the summer.

The upstairs was remodeled. The kitchen came out and two bedrooms were created. And when a dining room was built onto the downstairs kitchen, a large attic area was created. This empty storage space became a bone of contention between my grandparents. My grandmother wanted a dormer put in so the room could be used. My grandfather could not. This debate created one of my favorite Grandpa memories.

I was a senior in high school and I was explaining parapsychology to my European grandparents. I explain how some people believed they could foresee the future. My grandfather looked at me and said, “I can foresee the future.”

“Really,” I naively responded.

“Yes,” he said. “In two minutes your grandmother is going to be screaming.” He walked passed me into the kitchen, and said two words: “No Dormer!”

He was right, my grandmother started to scream.

And my grandfather and I started to laugh. It was a great example of my Grandpa’s sense of humor, as well as an indication of my grandparents’ house remodeling issues.

The screened porch.

The screened porch.

When my grandparents passed away, and the big house passed to my parents, more remodeling occurred. My parents redid the kitchen and modernized it. They added a screened in porch, which we love. I think we spend most of our time there! They put in French doors that lead from the porch into the dining area. And they created a master suite with a small en suite bathroom.

The difference from my grandparents’ experience is that my parents hired an architect to plan and oversea the work. This meant that work was actually done to code. And so as they worked they opened walls and replaced all the electric wiring and much of the plumbing.   They also remodeled the upstairs bathroom, adding a small dormer to enable to addition of a shower. I will never forget the first time I saw the little dormer area. I could not help but think of my Grandpa Nat and his glorious sense of humor.

All the remodeling did not just stay in the house. I have not even mention all the changes that were made on the small bungalow that sat behind the home.   My parents, siblings and I stayed there. And over time it also got another bedroom, a real living room and a redone kitchen. A screened in porch was also added, while we stayed there.

The outside also underwent many changes over the years.  With four acres, my grandfather and dad had a lot to work with, and they did.  We had gardens and vegetable gardens; sitting areas and patios; trees put in and tress removed.  New wells were dug  and landscaping redone.

Over a 50-year period “change” was the word, and remodeling was the main entertainment! But now it is complete. My siblings and I own the house. Although we work to keep it maintained, we have no remodeling planned in the near future!

My little bathroom is not such a big deal as a house. But it did bring back the wonder of the house that always changed.