Jumping Over Shadows

by Annette Gendler

  And what, then, was it all about? Observing Shabbat, celebrating the festivals, keeping kosher—those were the things I learned to practice in Zurich. What does it mean not to work on Shabbat? What are the central commandments of the festivals (Succot, Passover, Shavuot) and the high holidays (Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur), and what does one have to do to fulfill them? It suited me well that Judaism is expressed mainly at home, rather than in synagogue. I had never been keen on attending services, no matter what kind.

  Nevertheless, every Shabbat in Zurich, I went to the synagogue. The security guards came to recognize me and would nod me in. I sat alone in the women’s balcony, looking out over the men conducting services. The male-female segregation wasn’t odd to me; I remembered the women sitting on the left and the men on the right in the baroque village church in Schäftlarn. Here, life on the balcony went two ways: either you sat with your friends and chatted in whispers, or you prayed. Since I didn’t know any of the Jewish women in Zurich, I didn’t have anyone to gossip with; plus, there were hardly any women attending Shabbat services in the summer. So I was left to pray and make sure the rabbi noticed my presence at some point, usually when we all filed out of the building after services.

  The proper conduct during services is something you acquire over many years of attending. I had always felt out of place in Catholic services because my family didn’t go often enough for me to know all the retorts you are supposed to utter in response to whatever the priest says at certain points, nor did I know the proper melodies for the hymns. On the rare occasions that I did go to church (mainly for mandatory services at the beginning of the school year), I hummed along, pretending. Catholic services, however, last about one hour, whereas an Orthodox Jewish Shabbat service lasts about three hours, so there were a lot more melodies and congregational responses to learn. I had no way of mastering those in my weeks in Zurich. None of the prayer books was bilingual, as they tend to be in many American synagogues, so I could not sit and read the Bible, as I tend to do nowadays during Torah services, when the week’s portion from the five books of Moses is read on Shabbat. Instead, I practiced reading Hebrew. I knew the letters well enough from my classes at the Jewish Youth Center in Munich, and here and there I even recognized a word, such as baruch (blessed), chesed (compassion), shalom (peace), and, of course, “Israel.” When I didn’t hunt for words in the prayer book, I contemplated the peaceful atmosphere, the faded mint green of the walls, and the men in their tallith (prayer shawls) murmuring down below.

  When the day of my actual conversion came, Harry joined me in Zurich. The rabbi asked to meet with him that morning for a private conversation. It was crucial, in his experience, that the Jewish partner of someone who converted supported the way the convert would go about being Jewish. Often enough, a convert would be more observant and run the risk of ridicule. And that, the rabbi would not have. He also asked that Harry not meet me until it was over, so that I would be focused.

  Conversion is decided upon by a bet din, a court of three rabbis. The original role of a rabbi in the Jewish community is that of a judge, not a caretaker of souls. Right before my appointment with the bet din, I had to go to the mikvah, the bath that would ensure I was ritually clean. Going to the mikvah is something that a Jewish woman should do every month after her period is over and before resuming sexual relations with her husband, something that had become unfashionable and was, at the time, practiced mostly by the very Orthodox, or in preparation for rites of passage, like marriage, or, as in my case, conversion.

  The rebbetzin had shown me the mikvah the day before, so that it would not be a mystery. It was a small, deep pool in the basement of the Jewish Community Center. An elderly woman in a nurse-like kittel was in attendance to make sure that whoever came submerged herself properly. If needed, she also helped to recite the blessing. This setup reminded me of the Klofrauen (the toilet women) in Germany or France who reign over the decent public restrooms or those in better establishments. I had not appreciated these often-humpbacked women in their flowery frocks who scurried into the stall, wielding a brush, the minute you stepped out, while the toilet was still flushing, and who mumbled under their breath if you failed to leave a tip in the saucer by the door, until I spent a summer in Paris where unattended restrooms were unimaginably filthy.

  The mikvah attendant wasn’t vying for tips; nevertheless, she was, like the Klofrauen, involved in one’s private bodily dealings. Turquoise tiles covered the walls and floor of the mikvah; tiled steps and a stainless-steel railing led into the water. All I had to do was shed my clothes in the changing room, wrap a towel around me, hand it to the attendant at the edge of the pool, place my hand on the cool railing so I could grab it should I slip, step into the warm water, advance to where it was deep enough, lower myself until my head was underwater and my hair swirled above me, then resurface, wipe the water from my eyes, and say the blessing while the attendant nodded. I’m not sure why there is something slightly uncomfortable about this ancient cleansing ritual. Maybe it is being naked in front of a strange woman, even if she’s matronly and sweet. Maybe it is because this ritual is indeed ancient and you feel odd about performing something that is purely ritualistic and, in an era of daily showers, not necessary for hygiene.

  The rabbi had told me that another woman had her conversion scheduled before mine. I was already sitting on the polished wooden bench outside the room where the bet din was meeting when she approached, a petite woman with bobbed, curly dark hair, in a swinging, knee-length skirt. She led a little girl by the hand. The rabbi opened the door and motioned them in. As she passed him, he eyed me briefly and asked, “Und Sie sind bereit?” And you are ready? It was more of an observation than a question. I nodded.

  I sat on the bench in my nice clothes, my hair still damp from the mikvah. The hallway was empty and quiet. No one was about. Harry was supposed to come pick me up when it was over. I asked myself, one more time, if I could go this alone. Could I be a Jew without Harry? Could I, for instance, raise our potential children as Jews if he were to die early, like my father had? I was sure I could. My mind and my heart and my gut were in the same place. It all made sense.

  I heard mumbling through the door. I was a little nervous, of course, and reviewed the blessings and short prayers in my mind. But I had also been through three oral exams earlier that year for my master’s degree, so I was somewhat blasé about another “exam.” My predecessor’s conversion was taking awfully long, and I kept wondering what they might be grilling her about. After some time, a young man started milling about the far reaches of the hallway, eyeing the door of the bet din. I figured that must be her man, and, sure enough, once the door opened and she emerged with the child, she went straight to him. She had a wide smile on her face.

  Now it was my turn. The rabbi appeared in the door and motioned for me to wait for a second. As he went back into the room and closed the door behind him, I heard him say to his colleagues, “Nun, das ist ein ganz anderer Fall.” Now, this is a completely different case.

  I wished I had been able to hear more, but his voice trailed off. When he asked me in, it did seem like a familiar exam setting to me. The rabbis sat behind a long desk, their backs to high windows, my rabbi in the middle. A chair facing them was waiting for me. I don’t remember all they asked me. I know I had to recite the Sh’ma (the Jewish confession of faith) and a few blessings and was asked to explain the key mitzvah of a festival—which one, I don’t recall. The other two rabbis tested my knowledge, not my resolve, as I had partly expected, maybe because of my rabbi’s preamble. It was all over in about fifteen minutes and ended with the rabbis signing my conversion certificate and wishing me well. My rabbi patted me on the back and led me off to meet Harry, who was waiting outside.

  Harry’s hand slipped into mine, and he kissed me.

  “Now I will have to call you JAP,” he said.

  I frowned.

  “Jewish American Princess.” (His nickname for me, up until then, h
ad been CAP, which stood for “Catholic American Princess.”)

  I laughed. “I don’t think I’ll ever be quite that.”

  We found a phone booth to call Harry’s parents. His mother’s voice was warm as she wished me mazel tov. When his father came on the line, crackling with static, he said, “Nu, fühlen Sie sich anders?” So, are you feeling any different? (He was still using the formal address Sie.)

  “Not really, no,” I answered, and I heard him chuckle.

  Harry’s parents gave me a pair of silver Shabbat candlesticks when we returned to Munich. They were relieved that the deed was done, that I had indeed converted the proper Orthodox way, and that no one would ever be able to doubt the Jewishness, at least by birth, of their prospective grandchildren. Doubt remained, of course. Doubt as to how I would pan out, and if I would indeed manage to run a Jewish household and raise Jewish children. Harry claimed his parents would not rest easy until the grandkids were married under a chuppah. However, most Jewish parents harbor this fear. Whether the grandkids will be Jewish is an eternal fear and not reserved for the parents-in-law of converts.

  A year later, we returned to Zurich for my rabbi to marry us in a Jewish wedding ceremony. I asked the rebbetzin to escort me under the chuppah. She was, after all, my spiritual mother in this.

  The rebbetzin and I just before the chuppah, June 1989

  CHRISTMAS

  THAT MY BECOMING A JEW COINCIDED WITH OUR immigrating to the United States provided a clean break. We wouldn’t be part of the Munich community, where I would be “the one who converted,” wouldn’t be whispered about on the balconies of the synagogues, wouldn’t be scrutinized for whether my lifestyle was Jewish enough or too Jewish. I wouldn’t have to make my old friends understand that we now kept kosher or that we were observing Shabbat and not going out on Friday nights. In our new life I was Jewish, and we forged our way of being Jewish. In a way, we had our cocoon back—in a new apartment, a new city, a new country. We could be who we wanted to be.

  When friends from our old life visited, and a lot of them did (we became a tourist destination), they readily accepted our new way of living, which wasn’t that different anyway. We kept kosher, so we alerted houseguests not to bring any food into the house and showed them which dishes were used for what. If they stayed long enough to grocery shop, we pointed out where to find the circled U or bolded K to determine whether something was kosher. But mainly a houseguest needs to know where the mugs are to fix a cup of coffee, or the glasses for a sip of water, or the bowls for breakfast cereal, so they felt quite comfortable. At least I assume so, based on their many return visits.

  The question they most often asked was, “But don’t you miss celebrating Christmas?”

  When I replied that I didn’t, they usually looked at me in disbelief. “Really? How could you not miss Christmas?”

  The short answer is that I kept the things I liked about Christmas—baking special cookies, gathering with the family, lighting candles—and made them part of our Chanukah celebration, and got rid of those I didn’t. I do have warm memories of Christmas as a child, but once the make-believe of childhood had vanished, Christmas left me with an emotional emptiness that I recognized as a spiritual void only once I was living a Jewish life.

  In the village of Schäftlarn, where I grew up, Christmas was preceded by the four weeks of Advent, and St. Nikolaus was celebrated on December 6. On the night before, der Nikolaus would walk the streets, either in my imagination or for real (a neighbor dressed up in a red suit and white beard), with a burlap bag bulging with treats slung over his shoulder—not unlike Americans’ vision of Santa Claus. He would be trailed by Knecht Ruprecht, his evil twin, who beat his chain against the pavement so its rattle sent shivers through the kids lying in wait. My siblings and I never fell victim to Knecht Ruprecht, but tales of near whippings and being chased down a dark street whispered among the village kids were enough to make him seem real. And our dad’s tricks.

  On the eve of St. Nikolaus, we played in my sister’s bedroom, far from the kitchen, with the door closed. Suddenly, something thundered against the door and sent us squealing into the far reaches of that tiny room. We crouched in the corner until the clatter died down and silence set in—a silence we didn’t trust, wondering whether we should risk opening the door to see what was out there. When we finally did open it, we found a smattering of nuts on the floor. Then we raced to the kitchen to report what had happened and to check whether Dad had been up to this. He sat, most innocently, at the kitchen table with Mom, intent on their conversation, their heads drawn together by the pyramid of light from the cloche-shaped lamp. I still marvel at how he managed to wipe off his face the smirk that must have been there seconds before we bounded onto the scene.

  The thunder of nuts was the most we kids had to fear on St. Nikolaus. On the morning of the sixth, we would patter out of bed and open the apartment door to where our little red plastic boots with the white fake-fur trim were lined up on the doormat. We would kneel down, the stone floor of the entryway cold under our bare feet, and dig out the goodies in the boots—lots of chocolate, hopefully, and Lebkuchen (gingerbread), one or two boring oranges, and the occasional coal or onion for bad behavior.

  Since St. Nick had already come on the sixth, the Christkind, the Christ child, came on Christmas Eve. I imagined him as a child with golden locks in a gauzy blue gown, flying about on glittery wings and plopping gifts under the tree with the wave of a chubby hand. In our family, once the Christkind had deposited the gifts, he would wind up the golden music bell that hung in the living room window. We three children would wait with Oma in the room my brother and I shared, huddled in the lower bunk of our bed, listening, while Oma kept us silent with a raised index finger pressed to her lips. When we finally heard the bell chiming, “Ihr Kinderlein kommet” (children, come), we stormed out, tore open the living room door, and there—the Christmas tree glowed with the light of genuine candles, gifts were piled under the tree, and a tray heaped with Oma’s dainty cookies waited on the coffee table.

  Our parents filed out of the kitchen behind us. I still think it borders on magic that my dad could wind up the bell and, in the second or two that its mechanism took to engage, cut through the living room and hall into the kitchen and close both doors behind him, without making a sound or leaving a trace of motion. Even the window blinds were not left swaying. Years later, Dad would only smile when I asked him how he had done it. Some of it must have been the magic of Christmas, the art of suggestion.

  Once that childhood magic was gone, the letdown after Christmas Eve became what Christmas felt like—the emptiness left by the torn wrapping paper behind the couch, the crumbs on the empty cookie plate, the forlorn crèche on the windowsill. Christmas was never a particularly religious affair in our house, and the crèche was our only nod to what this holiday should have been about. We were not a family to go to church; I was already in my teens when I discovered that other people went to midnight Mass on Christmas Eve. In fact, to say I was raised Catholic is almost a misnomer. While I did have communion when I was eight, I took it as a dress-up affair and was upset when my parents bought me a white dirndl instead of the fancy dress I wanted. For my confirmation at thirteen, I did try to get into the spirit. I attended prep classes, came up with sins to repent for during confession, learned the prayers, and tried to feel the Holy Spirit enter my body during the actual ceremony. It didn’t work; I was conscious of going through the motions without a spiritual connection.

  During my teens, the Christmas anticipation of giving and receiving evaporated too quickly after gifts had been opened; Christmas Day and Boxing Day stretched into eternity. Our family of six was stuck in a three-bedroom apartment, supposed to make merry, and although we all got along fine—except for the usual sibling or mother-in-law–daughter-in-law scuffles—we didn’t exactly have anything to celebrate. We were not a family to go to church or socialize with neighbors. There were no relatives to visit or come over. Mom
’s family was in faraway America, and Dad’s was all present, consisting of him and Oma. Going off to read in bed, my favorite activity as a teenager, especially in winter, was antisocial, although I’m sure in later years I did it nonetheless.

  After my father died, we moved Christmas to Oma’s tiny apartment in Wiesbaden. My mother joined only for the first Christmas after his death; beyond that, she was no longer willing to put up with the mother-in-law–daughter-in-law scuffles. She deemed the intimacy forced, and she wasn’t going to make nice anymore. Oma was deeply hurt by this and never understood it. For her, family was family—you tugged, you pulled, you disagreed and disapproved, but you never gave up on each other. What else would make family if it weren’t the one relationship in life that could not be canceled? True to form, a card with 100 deutsche mark arrived for Harry’s first birthday after we were married. I was astounded: it was the same amount of money we grandchildren received. When I asked Oma about it on the phone, she said, “Yes, that’s correct. He’s my fourth grandchild now.”

  While I still lived in Germany and Oma was alive, we kids stuck with Christmas at Oma’s. We could not conceive of it otherwise, and Mom did not mind. For her, she said, Christmas had no special meaning, and she did not need to spend it with us. In the long run, though, the holiday did prove to be the glue of family togetherness that it was purported to be, and as my siblings and I scattered away from the hearth, over time, we did not return to a hearth that was untended for Christmas. My brother now celebrates with his wife’s family in northern Germany, my sister with her husband and children in her big house in the countryside north of Munich. Mom is invited to join them but never does. And I, of course, do not celebrate Christmas anymore.