Posts in In the Wake of Madness
Just Below the Surface...

And then I looked at a map – a beautiful old map with detailed drawings of Frankfurt residences, stately churches, elaborate gardens, and the Main River winding through its heart. Only then did I see it: the wall built to keep the Jews confined, the narrow lane that had to accommodate every Jewish resident from 1462 to 1811, when the ghetto was formally abolished.

The street, I soon learned, was only nine to twelve feet wide, leaving the community vulnerable to devastating fires. The walls extended for a fifth of a mile, the length of three football fields. In the early years, there were about a dozen structures, housing 100 inhabitants. By the 16th century, there were 195 houses. As the population grew, Jews had to build up, to divide and subdivide their homes into tall, narrow sections that could accommodate nearly 3,000 people. Dwellings were built behind dwellings so there were four rows of houses; upper stories were built over the lane until they almost touched each other. The smallest of homes was less than five feet wide. Jews and Christians could visit the other’s community during the day, as craftsmen and laborers often did, but three gates, locked at night and on Christian holidays, kept Jews in “their place.” For some inexplicable reason, the map made me viscerally understand.

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Discovering Frankfurt

I know. Discovering Frankfurt sounds like the title of a tour book. But it was a journey of discovery because my husband, Pat, and I had few pre-conceived notions other than an undercurrent of fear, a feeling that I should not wear my Jewishness on my sleeve. After all, this was the place my parents were forced to flee from the Nazia. But Frankfurt embraced me in ways I did not expect. My preeminent hope was that I would have a chance to meet Tilman Ochs, a local historian who lives outside of Frankfurt in a hill town called Kronberg. Tilman is an octogenarian and retired schoolteacher who volunteered to decipher my grandparents’ old-fashioned handwriting, allowing me to translate dozens of poignant letters from the tumultuous 1940’s.

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It’s A Jungle Out There

At the risk of sounding hopelessly naïve, I thought those horrors and stupidities, the outrageous lies and manipulative propaganda aimed at one group or another were relegated to history or, at least, to a shrinking segment of society. And yet, here I am, listening to the Republican presidential candidate blame Jewish voters if he loses. Here I am, scratching my head as white supremacist Neo-Nazi groups cheer on a former US President and his VP pick as they reiterate an old racist fallacy that immigrants eat pets, with real-world consequences for Haitians trying to build a better life. Here I am, watching an engineering genius, justly credited with the success of Tesla and Starlink, promote the “great replacement theory” that there’s an international conspiracy, led by Jews, to overrun white countries with minorities. Really? Really?

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To Pause and To Ponder

One of the biggest surprises of my recent visit to Omaha was the discovery of the Samuel Bak Museum: The Learning Center, a little-known gem with a big mission. Bak is an artist who blends history, symbolism, and personal experience to create layered, thought-provoking paintings. He is also a Holocaust survivor whose haunting memories and unanswered questions inform all of his work.

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When Dad Turned 36

On February 20, 1939, New York City’s Madison Square Garden wasn’t filled with hockey fans or boxing enthusiasts but with members of the German-American Bund – more than 20 thousand of them who gathered to support the Nazi cause. Safely in neutral Belgium, my Jewish father celebrated his 36th birthday while Nazi sympathizers railed against the Jews more than 3600 miles away. To this day, I wonder if he would have been shocked by such sentiments infiltrating the land across the Atlantic – the place he hoped would one day offer refuge.

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