Jewish Journey

Jewish Journeys

Hi everyone - L’shana tovah - or, as my family would say “Betta dir aus alles gute” - which means roughly “may your prayers bring good things”.

My name is Helga Spizman and I was asked to do a Jewish journey this year.

It’s made me think a lot about how I got from “there” to “here” so I’ll share some of the things that have come up for me.

July 16 th of this year, I was 73 years old.

August 14th of this year, I was Bat Mitzvah’d.

A little late - but that’s the journey.

If you h ad told me five years ago, that I would have done this - this Bat Mitzvah - I would have laughed, or at the very least been incredulous.

Who me? Well, yes - me.

How did I get from there to here. Good question - because I didn’t really know the answers. The opportunity to do a “Jewish Journey” made me look at my past and examine my reasons, my history - myself.

First of all, I was born in Berlin, Germany in 1937. NOT as auspicious time or place for Jews. We escaped Germany in increments, first my Father, then my Mother and myself, leaving behind friends, family, home, history and roots.

First my Father went to England to help build a refugee camp in 1938. From there, he had a better picture of what was happening in Germany and wrote my Mother to leave - leave everything just take the baby - me - and come.

My Mother had a visa to be a housemaid in England but she had been trying to sell the business, household goods etc. She and I arrived in England in July of 1939 and war was declared 6 weeks later.

When the war broke out, my Father was put in a detention camp for enemy aliens - after all he might be a spy. Mother was told she had to work, but no-one wanted a maid with a 2 year old in tow. So the agency that had organized the Kindertransport, helped find a family who was willing to raise a Jewish child.

From a religious perspective, my family was assimilated or thought we were. My Father, German through and through - proud of his heritage, proud of the German history, culture and accomplishments and angry at the Allies for the resolution of WWI which left Germany in tatters and prey to Hitler.

My Father died young, at 46 only 5 years after we came to the United States. I was 14 and had no chance to really get to know him. No opportunity to find out how he felt about Germany now - after the war. After we had seen the photos of the concentration camps.

My Mother said my Father was Bar Mitzvah’d but, though he attended temple here in the United States on High Holy Days, I saw nothing that indicated he had any attachment to things Jewish. Or ever had.

My Mother, on the other hand, was a Polish “schtetl” Jew. Raised in a pretty Orthodox home in a small community. My Mother lived and breathed Judaism. Without even thinking about it, sentences began or ended “thank G-d” or “G-d forbid”.

My Mother lit candles every Friday of her life even when it was dangerous in Germany. And I grew up thinking the candles needed to be hidden - not visible from the street, not “out” when people entered our home, and I interpreted that as being ashamed of being Jewish. Or that being Jewish was dangerous. And it was.

Oh yes, I knew I was Jewish. But I had little or no clue of what that meant.

I was different. I was not included in the social activities of my school friends. I was sent out of the classroom when prayer time came (I suspect at my Mother’s request) and waited in the hall with the gypsy children. The teachers called me “the little Polish girl”. I think to relieve the onus of being from Germany and Jewish. I’m pretty certain that town hadn’t seen a Jew since the 13th century and maybe longer than that.

All I knew, was we had to lie. To hide our Jewishness - and who were really were.

When we collected canned food for “refugees” I was sure I would be struck dead in church - where the food was collected - because I knew I didn’t belong there.

My Mother accommodated my Father. He liked pork. She cooked pork.

Far from keeping kosher as she had been raised, she accepted the label of being a backward, superstitious Polish Jew - a label my Father’s family apparently applied to her. Yet………..she made holiday meals, said the prayers and tried to teach me Hebrew.

One day when I was 5 and my Mother had taken me back from the English family with whom I had lived for a couple of years, she took me out into the garden on the farm where we lived and said “Look around, see the beauty of the world around us. This was all made by ONE G-d.” And I thought - something like “well, of course, that makes sense.” She also taught me the Sh’ma.

Somehow my Mother found for me, religious books for children. Maybe only one or two. But I remember loving the 23rd. Psalm and memorizing it of my own volition.

In England, we were one of two Jewish families - both refugees - in the town where we lived and as I said, I don’t think the people there had seen a Jew since the 13th century. I had Shirley Temple curls and on more than one occasion someone would run their hands through my hair looking for horns.

I must have been about 7 when we went to the movies as we did religiously every Saturday night. In those days they showed the Movietone news as part of the “entertainment”. On this occasion, they showed the Allied soldiers entering concentration camps. I was appalled. I didn’t know what we Jews had done to deserve that - but I certainly saw the price of being Jewish.

My parents sat next to me in the movie. We didn’t discuss the news or talk about what we had seen. What they felt or thought about it was not available to me - only many years later did I realize that there were my grandmothers, my aunts and uncles and a cousin who were swallowed up on that Holocaust - my parents brothers and sisters, mothers……..

So what did I know about being Jewish? Well, it was something that made me different; it was something that was somehow dangerous to be; it was regarded as a “less than” quality. I didn’t know any other Jewish children

And had no one to bounce my identity off of other than white, Christian,

Anglo Saxon, small town, English people. And in the United States, it wasn’t that much different in 1947 when we came here.

It has always been hard to me to imagine a G-d, the G-d my Mother talked about, who was all knowing, all powerful, all good and yet who would allow this, this Holocaust, to happen. It has been the biggest stumbling block on my journey.

We went to London a couple of times when it was safe. My Mother took me to a Jewish temple for a service. I thought it was the most exotic and alien thing I had ever seen or heard. Nothing there related to anything I understood. No surprise.

When we came to the USA, I was 10 - we went to Los Angeles because one of my surviving Aunts and Uncles lived there and had sent us a visa. They were closer to my Father’s point of view than my Mother’s. BUT, we did do Pesach, Rosh Hashana, and Yom Kippur with them. My Uncle went through the motions of reading in Hebrew while everyone else talked about other things. It was perfunctory and cold - disrespectful even although the table and food were lovely.

I think my Uncle was concerned about my ignorance, because he bought a comic book version of the “Old Testament” - and that was my source of information about the stories and drama of the Torah. That was ALL I knew. I am now grateful for that - it was another step in my Jewish journey.

A much more positive step than much of anything else I had experienced to that point.

When we bought a house it was in a totally Christian working class neighborhood. If there were Jewish kids in my school, I didn’t know more than one or two of them. My closest friend was another refugee child whose family came from Vienna. And they were even less observant than my family. SHE went to school on the High Holy Days.

The “temple” we went to was whatever store front was rented for the purpose. I spent most of my time outside playing with other kids. Of Jewish education there was no sign or, as far as I was concerned availability.

I don’t think Jewish education was something high on the list for girls of my generation. My family seemed not to think it was important and the focus was on cooking the right foods for each holiday and that was about it.

After my Father died and my Mother remarried, my stepfather was concerned I would never meet any Jewish boys and drove long distances to take me to a Jewish Center and to Bnai Brith Young Women meetings and activities. That was where I met my husband.

.

I married a Jewish man because, among other reasons, it was inconceivable that I marry someone not Jewish. One Jewish guy I went out with shot himself in the foot, when he asked me if I HAD to wear that - Star of David - ALL the time. I did.

Don’t ask me why. But I did.

Conflicted as I was by my Jewish identity, I clung to it. I had Christian friends, but, as one friend said, I became more Jewish the longer she knew me, because I felt safe the longer I knew her. When I met new people, I told them I was Jewish right away and asked if they had a problem with that. I didn’t want to be rejected after I had developed a connection with them.

My husband came from an Orthodox home, but rejected all that. He asked nothing of me in the home other than we not have pork or shellfish. We expected to circumcise our sons and Bar Mitzvah them - we only had one.

Our girls, we chose to send to Sunday school because I knew from my experience that they would always be considered Jewish and had a right to know what that meant - historically, culturally if not religiously.

We went to my husband’s Uncle and Aunt for the holidays - at least initially

And there I found little difference from my own family’s holidays. The patriarch read in Hebrew, mostly to himself, while the rest of the family talked and cooked. I did find out that children had four questions to ask and afikomen to seek - something my family didn’t do. But there were lots of children to do that and it bypassed me.

I was interested in things Jewish and read books about history, Israel

And folklore. But I didn’t find a foothold for me to grow as a Jew. I didn’t even know that I was looking for that foothold.

It was many years later that I was invited - with my husband - to a Passover at a Jewish friend’s house and I was surprised - even stunned - to see that they LOVED the songs (which we had never sung), the ceremony (which we had glossed over) and being Jewish. That was a real milestone in my Jewish journey. To know that there were people who really LIKED being Jewish! And that it was possible to take joy in Jewish ceremonies.

We lived most of our married lives on the fringes of the Jewish community.

We lived in an area where every 4 th person was Jewish.

I took classes on World religions, I tried Transcendental meditation. I read about Buddhism. Did I know I was looking for something? I don’t know.

Those years were ones where I called myself an “atheist” or, at best, an “agnostic”.

I realize now that I was very angry with G-d. I wrestled with feelings of attachment to a G-d I neither understood, nor seemed to care for my people.

What I realize now, is that although I was angry - I was always engaged in a dialog with my faith, trying to find a way to reconcile rational knowledge

With a need for something more - something “spiritual” in my life.

What I had seen of Judaism seemed to reject me as a woman - to make me feel less than in the eyes of G-d.

Only now am I seeing how all those social and cultural influences affected my religious and spiritual life. Sometimes it just takes time to come to understanding of some sort.

We took a trip to Israel in the 1980’s and I found another milestone. We stood on the Mount of Olives on that first day and I looked back at the city of Jerusalem and I cried, and cried and cried. I realized that that city, this country, had meant so much to my people for centuries. To actually be there and walk in the steps my people had trod so long ago was powerfull and unforgettable.

When we moved to Sonoma County, I missed my Jewish friends and neighbors. I felt isolated - much as I had felt in England. One had to be careful what one said - I felt. One could not find matzo for Passover easily

And certainly not anything like Chanukah decorations or good corned beef.

The important things in my Jewish life.

I became careful again about what I said to people I wasn’t sure of.

My first job in Sonoma County was as Home Health nurse. People commented on my being the first Jew they had hired. When they hired a second one, everyone ran to tell me. I think we were supposed to be best friends.

At Christmas time they exchanged ornaments and I told them we didn’t have a Christmas tree at my house - and they were amazed. I felt, once again, alien and out of step. Although they were kind enough and curious

About Jewishness.

Every patient I saw that first Christmas asked me if I was “ready for Christmas”

And my stock answer became “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.” I just didn’t feel safe to announce that I was Jewish.

We decided we needed a Jewish connection, a community. What I called my Jewish “fix”.

The next thing we did was go to a community Passover. We knew no-one.

We sat at the first table we saw seats and found to my surprise that I was sitting with women who were immersed in Judaism. They were the expression of feminist feeling in Judaism that was a growing force in the community and I hadn’t even known that such a thing was possible or growing around me.

What a surprise. The old, cold Conservative Judaism which was all I had experienced really; had been filled with misogyny and untenable dogma (at least for me). And here were the antithesis of that - women who learned, taught, prayed, (with a tallis yet!) chanted and sang! I was jealous.

So another step in my journey - a BIG one.

We went to a few temples and I was amazed to find that that was no aberration, that Judaism had moved on - Reform Judaism - which we had explored briefly in Los Angeles and which felt more like church than Judaism - had changed - at least here in Sonoma County it was warm, welcoming, inclusive, accepting and felt like home. It also harbored the possibility of intellectual and spiritual change………..Wow!

I need not feel uncomfortable because I didn’t know the prayers or the service. Someone would come over and show me the page, or words for the songs and prayers we were singing. Usually Judith.

I need not waffle about our practice or non-practice of dietary laws - no-one asked.

There were classes to introduce Judaism to Jews - there was Torah study to help interpret what we read.

I was always surprised at the freedom I felt to ask silly questions, to challenge unpleasant passages, to tear into the deeper meaning if I could find it.

No-one frowned at me; no-one criticized me; no-one condemned me. Because you see, although I identified as Jewish, and felt Jewish (whatever that means), I didn’t know what that meant beyond victimization and ostracism. And the strangest thing was the more we ripped into the Torah, the more spiritual I felt when I walked out. Another milestone on the Jewish journey.

There were people who befriended me - who offered me time and knowledge and exposure to Judaism as they live it now. Who shared their emotional connection and gave me suggestions as to how to pursue my own journey. I went to a mikvah - it was very special and only now do I realize what I did when I went. I thought I went for the experience - but I went to make a commitment….to follow through on my Jewish journey. All these mentors, guides and role models were around me.

Go figure.

And then my Mother died.

Even sick and in a skilled nursing facility, she had been the center of my Jewish life. The center of our family’s Jewish life. And then she was gone.

I suddenly felt a great responsibility to reconnect with my family’s history.

To take my place in that generation to generation that “dor v’ador” of Jewish history. To pass it on as best I could. I had a commitment to all those who had died and I needed to do something more to give meaning to their lives and loss.

So we did Passover, Rosh Hashana, Yom Kippur, Chanukah as we had done for years but added Friday night - Shabbat. That felt really good. My Mother had done it without fail as long as she had her senses about her. And now I was doing it. Another step in the journey.

And then one day, a friend invited me to her Bat Mitzvah. I was stunned.

She was my age and it never occurred to me that such a thing was possible at our age. I went and loved it. I was so touched by these women, who at this stage of their lives were willing to learn, to commit themselves (as if they hadn’t all their lives) to being part of the Jewish community.

I wanted it. I wanted to know more, to understand more, to take part more,

And the more I did, the more I felt like an undernourished part of my soul was finally being fed.

I let go of trying to explain G-d to myself. I realized that for most of my life I had been angry at G-d; or trying to create a G-d where all these terrible things that had happened made sense. It finally occurred to me that any G-d I could imagine would be too small. I was like an ant trying to explain the Milky Way - it was enough that I prayed. It seemed to serve me to just be there, to sing, to say the prayers. To sing and sing - how I loved what that music could do for me. How I seemed to know that music in my genes.

There is no other explanation.

I don’t know if I would have been able to make this journey without this temple; without our Rabbi George. There is just so much heart, and love and spirituality here if you reach out for it.

So I signed up for the Adult class. 10 women - me being the oldest committed to study and learn Hebrew - to read Torah - to learn the prayers - to attend services. And to lead a service on a Saturday morning - sometime in the distant - at what seemed then a very distant future.

I can’t say it was easy. Learning to read from right to left in a different shape of letters with vowels popping up like fly specks here and there.

It takes time and lots of practice. But doing it together made it easier.

Then I had to learn my parsha. My portion of the Torah complete with trope (or singing patterns). I didn’t know if my brain could do it - but not only did I learn it, but I loved it. I love the sound of the words and music - I love the feelings that grip me when I read from the Torah.

And I have to mention my husband and myself writing our letter in our new Torah. I stepped up under the chuppah after saying all the prayers and washing my hands - And at that moment felt as though my brain whirled out into the cosmos eager to join with the stars. It was that kind of a moment. Transfiguring, transforming - certainly unexpected. And another step on my journey.

And all through this 18 month period, I kept getting messages that this was a journey I needed to do.

I heard from Germany about reparation for my Father’s business - this was 17 years after my Mother had instituted a case in our name. Finally, it all came together and I got my “inheritance” from my Father. It forced me to face being German, from Germany and deal with what it meant in my history.

Then I got a letter from the Red Cross giving me particulars about the time and place of my uncle, aunt and cousin’s death in Auschwitz. This was a search I instituted at least 10 years ago. The universe said “deal with it”.

Face it and let go.

I “shared” my Bat Mitzvah with my cousin who was only four when he was killed at Auschwitz.

Then I heard from an organization in Berlin that sponsors people like me - Berlin born but forced out by the Nazis - and provided a “free” trip for my husband and myself to visit the town of my birth for one week. That happened in June of this year.

I went reluctantly, and fearfully but found it lanced a psychic boil and I was free. The past would be the past - not forgotten, but not festering either.

So all these things happening made me realize that it was time….

The Bat Mitzvah was a transfiguring event for me. Many of the people who had changed my life and influenced my growth as a Jew were there. I saw their faces in the congregation as though shining out at me. I have spoken to audiences before, and they were always a blur in front of my eyes. At the Bat Mitzvah, I saw each individual face, glowing and shining with love and caring. It was a beautiful and remarkable experience.

My fears of failure to remember how to read or sing my parsha were not realized. My anxieties that we would bump into each other or fall off the beema didn’t happen - I can always think of something to worry about - I AM Jewish, after all. It all came together in a way that felt like a piece of my puzzle had finally found it’s niche.

So my Jewish journey is not at an end. I intend to study, grow, learn, increase my practice and teach my grandchildren what I can - if nothing else, model that growth is possible after 60 (or even 70).

I come to the High Holy Days with new insights, resolutions, and sense of spiritual completion.

I am among my people and I am home