The ProsenPeople

The Red Devil

Friday, February 03, 2012 | Permalink

Earlier this week, Matthew Shaer wrote about the genesis of his book, Among Righteous Men, and divisions within the Crown Heights community. He has been blogging here all week for Jewish Book Council and MyJewishLearning.

In December, not long after Among Righteous Men was published, I returned to Crown Heights. The evening was unseasonably warm, and I walked east from my apartment, past the lip of Prospect Park, and down the undulating clamor of Eastern Parkway, my hands in my pockets. The neighborhood, where I had spent so many months reporting—some happy, some not  appeared largely unchanged.

There was the proud façade of the main shul at 770 Eastern Parkway, and there were the clusters of yeshiva students. There in the windows of one building hung the yellow flag of the messianists—believers in the divinity of Menachem Mendel Schneerson, the late Rebbe of Lubavitch. In a balcony overlooking the sidewalk, two women were chattering happily in Yiddish. I remembered a snippet from Alfred Kazin’s A Walker in the City, the best book about Brooklyn ever written: “Yet as I walk those familiarly choked streets at dusk and see the old women sitting in front of the tenements, past and present become each other’s face; I am back where I began.”

Kazin knew that an emotional connection to place can defeat mere geography. It is the not the physicality of a neighborhood that haunts us, after all. It is the connection between that physicality and our inner lives.

I strolled south down Kingston, towards Empire Boulevard. I had a single destination in mind: a tailoring shop owned by a man named Israel Shemtov. During the ‘70s and ‘80s, when crime rates in the neighborhood were skyrocketing, Shemtov had patrolled Crown Heights under the name the “Red Devil.” He was one of the first Jewish vigilantes––a predecessor to the Shomrim and Shmira patrols active in the neighborhood today.

Shemtov, who stands just about five feet tall, was also a master of image management. Where other Hasidim shirked press attention, he embraced it, regaling reporters from the Post and the Daily News with tales of bloody brawls and daring midnight takedowns. He compared himself frequently to Charles Bronson, circa Death Wish. “There will not be a crime in the neighborhood because they know they will be dead,” he said.

In 2010, I had visited Shemtov at his storefront on Empire. By then, he was two decades retired, pale and stooped. Jamming a soft pack of Kingstons into his front pocket, he showed me into his private office, and pulled the door shut behind him. The room was in appalling condition  water damage had browned half the ceiling, and near the only window, several panels hung loose, exposing a nest of wires and cotton-candy pink insulation. “Sit,” Shemtov said.

For the next two hours, he told me dozens of stories, and sometimes the same story twice: The time he saved the life of a shooting victim; the time he faced down a gang of local toughs; the time he yanked a suspected mugger off a bicycle and beat the kid into the ground with his fists.

“I’ll tell you, since I was a kid, I was a very tough — I was ten years old, and two kids on my bicycle knocked off my helmet,” he said. “I was a little shit. They said, come over here, I want to talk to you. And I came over and beat the hell out of them. I was strong. I still am, thank God.”

Toughness was necessary for a Jew, he explained—“We’ve been knocked around for too long.” During the 1920s, his father’s family had fled Eastern Europe for New York; behind them, there was only death and destruction. “Because of that,” Shemtov said, “I knew I always had to fight.”

Now, months after that 2010 interview, I found myself galloping faster down Kingston, hoping Shemtov had a few more stories left to tell. But when I arrived at the corner of Empire, I found the storefront dark, the door locked. I knocked several times; there was no answer.

That evening, I phoned my grandmother at her home in Boston. During the year I spent writing Among Righteous Men, I had often considered interviewing my grandmother about her mother, Edith, who, much like many of the older Hasidim in Crown Heights, had escaped Eastern Europe under terrible circumstances. For a variety of reasons, I had never gotten around to making the call, but now that the book was behind me, I decided that the timing was right.

My grandmother was good-natured about the inquiry. She told me her mother had long blocked out the worst memories of her girlhood in Eastern Europe; and yet, over time, some details had emerged. Edith Springer — later Edith Rosenthal — had grown up in an area called Gubernia, in modern-day Lithuania. She had several brothers, and no sister. One morning, her father heard a clatter in the streets outside, and peering out the front door, he was run down by a horde of Cossacks. He died instantly.

Later, my great-grandmother, her brother and their mother managed to secure a berth on a ship bound for Ellis Island. During a bad storm, my grandmother told me, my great-grandmother — then only five — was found on the deck of the boat, clutching one of her Mary Jane shoes. The other had washed overboard. My great-grandmother was soaked, shivering, distraught.

But what about Edith’s father, I pressed. What did my grandmother know about that man who had been murdered, in cold blood, in the streets of a small town in Lithuania? “Matthew,” my grandmother said, “I’m sorry. I don’t know. I don’t think I ever knew, and the person who could tell us is long gone.”

So there it was: There was more, but it would remain forever out of reach, enveloped in darkness.

Matthew Shaer is the author of Among Righteous Men. His writing has appeared in Harper’s, Foreign Policy, andThe Washington Post, among other publications. He is a regular contributor to New York magazine. He tweets at @MatthewShaer.

Great Jewish Books...For High School Students

Friday, February 03, 2012 | Permalink

Posted by Naomi Firestone-Teeter

Attention high school students and parents of high school students! Did you know that the National Yiddish Book Center in Amherst has an amazing tuition-free summer program focusing on modern Jewish literature? In a week-long program, taught by Josh Lambert and Sana Krasikov, students will learn about authors like Babel and Kafka and Sholem Aleichem and Philip Roth and Grace Paley. Guest speakers include Allegra Goodman and Ilan Stavans. While it isn't necessary for applicants to have any specific Jewish knowledge, a love of literature is necessary

Basically, this sounds like an incredible opportunity, so, if you're eligible, you should definitely apply. The application deadline is March 15th and there are only eighteen spots available, so be sure to apply as soon as possible! Read more information about the program here

JLit Links

Thursday, February 02, 2012 | Permalink

Posted by Naomi Firestone-Teeter

Something out of Something

Thursday, February 02, 2012 | Permalink

Posted by Naomi Firestone-Teeter

In conjunction with his new story collection, Suddenly, a Knock on the Door, Etgar Keret and his publisher, FSG, have teamed up with BOMB Magazine to host a design contest. The contest, Something out of Something, encourages readers, artists, and designers to draw inspiration from Etgar's work and create visual art of their own. The submissions are published on the Something out of Something Tumblr, where they can be commented on and viewed by other readers. Twenty-five finalists will be selected on March 15th and the finalists' work will be sold at a silent auction on April 29th, with proceeds to benefit the PEN American Center. Visit Something out of Something to view the entries, read more about the contest, and dig deeper into the world of Etgar Keret. 

A House Divided

Wednesday, February 01, 2012 | Permalink

Matthew Shaer will be blogging here for Jewish Book Council and MyJewishLearning all week.

In my last blog post, I wrote about the genesis of my book, Among Righteous Men, and the emotional connection I often felt to Crown Heights, the Brooklyn neighborhood where the book is set.

Suffice to say that the sense of connection did not last forever, at least not in that unalloyed state. As time wore on, and I spent increasingly more time in the neighborhood, the epiphanic moments––I think of them now as moments of sheer electricity––became less common. Sometimes, they were replaced sometimes by more ordinary joys: Tours through rambling Crown Heights homes, evenings in the storefront shuls and grand temples, sprawling meals with gracious hosts, small gifts of kindness from strangers who have since become friends.

Sometimes, that initial electricity was replaced by fatigue, anger, and frustration. (Hasidim have never been particularly fond of the mainstream press, and I had more doors slammed in my face than I care to count.) And sometimes it was replaced by a deep and abiding sense of alienation.

By 2009, when I signed the contract to write Among Righteous Men, the scope of the project had expanded––I was no longer interested only in the Shmira, but also in the Shomrim, a rival group of Hasidic vigilantes competing for control of the same Crown Heights turf. The Shomrim and Shmira had once been united under a single shield, but in the late ‘90s, infighting consumed the organization, and the two groups had since set up shop on opposite ends of Crown Heights. In 2009, with the apparent help of one of the Shmira members, six Shomrim volunteers were charged with felony gang assault, in a case dating back to 2007.

According to the Brooklyn DA, the Shomrim, responding to a call of distress from a Crown Heights yeshiva dormitory, had punched, strangled, and kicked their way through a crowd of rabbinical students. The Shomrim, for their part, claimed to have been ambushed by the students, or bochurim.

The gang assault trial, which began in the fall of 2009, was a particularly painful experience for the Shomrim, who believed they had been stabbed in the back by members of their own community. Making matters worse was the fact that accusers and accused fell on opposite sides of a religious schism which had roiled Jewish Crown Heights for years.

The rabbinical students, I came to understand, were messianists, who believed that the late Lubavitcher Rebbe, Menachem Mendel Schneerson, had been the messiah––the Jew who would usher in the second coming of man. That Schneerson was dead, and buried in Queens, did not diminish their fervor: He could still come back, they reasoned; holy men had before.

The members of the Shomrim, on the other hand, considered themselves to be moderates, who loved their Rebbe, but were embarrassed and uncertain at the fevered pronouncements of the messianists. (I want to stress that I am working here in very broad strokes. Messianist beliefs in Crown Heights, or lack thereof, fall on a wide spectrum, which encompass outspoken messianists, passive messianists, passive moderates, outspoken anti-messianists, and every stripe in between. The distinctions are sometimes described as existing on a “sliding scale.”)

In this light, the brawl at the dormitory took on a different light. It was a not just a fist-fight. It was a religious struggle––a struggle for the soul of Crown Heights itself. This was drama, I thought. This was Shakespearian––that adjective of choice of editors and jacket copy writers. It was a house divided. It was the Hatfields and McCoys, the Hasidic edition.

In the fall of the 2009, I spent several weeks in Brooklyn Supreme Court, observing the criminal trial against the Shomrim. (Want to know how the whole fiasco ended? Well, you’ll have to read Among Righteous Men.) I knew the trial would be the backbone of my book, but I felt there was much of Crown Heights that remained out of reach to me, and in the afternoons, after the court sessions had ended, I took the 2 train out to Crown Heights, to chat with acquaintances or hunt down additional sources.

I was frequently forced to perform strange feats in order to obtain an interview. Once, for instance, I spent an evening in an underground matzos factory, waiting for an potential source to finish firing the bread––a scene I describe in a 2011 issue of Harper’s Magazine. I strapped on tefillin, drank a lot of vodka, recited prayers. I accompanied a Lubavitch friend and Shomrim member to the Hunts Point Market, deep in the Bronx, at half past three in the morning, in order to hear a story about a fist-fight which my friend assured me I would find very interesting indeed. (He was right.)

I was almost always treated with respect, although there were exceptions. Because my book would deal with the rift between messianists and moderates, I needed to spend time talking with both groups. And yet Crown Heights is an exceptionally small place, geographically and otherwise, and since I was always dressed in “civilian” clothes—jeans and a fleece—my progress across the neighborhood was easy to track. I regularly received phone calls from moderates, who wanted to know what the hell I was doing talking to messianists; later, a messianist would call, and ask me what the hell I was doing with a moderate. Usually, these calls were friendly, but sometimes not. I can recall vividly one instance where I returned home to my apartment, in Park Slope, where my girlfriend had prepared dinner; no sooner had I sat down than my phone began to ring.

I recognized the number—the caller was a man I had interviewed two days before. I figured he had forgotten to tell me something. But when I picked up, he unleashed a barrage of profanities, beginning with motherfucker and ending with motherfucking traitor. As it turned out, he had assumed I was sympathetic to the messianist cause, but his cousin—“a man I trust and love, a good man”—had seen me “palling around” with a bunch of “no-good mossers,” or “rats.” Moderates, in other words.

“You should be very careful,” the man told me.

“Thank you,” I said. “I will.”

“Because,” he added, “there’s always someone watching. Do you get what I’m saying?”

“Yes,” I said, and hung up. I must have blanched considerably, because my girlfriend eyed me worriedly, and reached across the table to take my hand. “Are you OK?” she said.

I was, but the whole incident helped take the sheen off the kinetic connection I had first felt to Crown Heights. Of course, as I should have known from the beginning, despite the religious and historical aura that surrounds the neighborhood, Crown Heights is really just a world like any other, full of terrible joys and also the usual bitterness and anger.

Matthew Shaer is the author of Among Righteous Men. His writing has appeared in Harper’s, Foreign Policy, andThe Washington Post, among other publications. He is a regular contributor to New York magazine. He tweets at  @MatthewShaer.

Discover Anna Solomon on Twitter

Tuesday, January 31, 2012 | Permalink

Posted by Naomi Firestone-Teeter

In preparation for our February 21st Twitter Book Club with Anna Solomon you should not only read her book, Little Bride, but you should also start following her on twitter at @SolomonAnna (and I'm just going to assume you already follow us). Here are a few of our favorite recent Anna Solomon tweets (and, by the way, I don't know why it's in Spanish...if you have a solution, email me):


Book Cover of the Week: Treasure Island!!!

Tuesday, January 31, 2012 | Permalink

Posted by Naomi Firestone-Teeter

Check out this debut novel from Sara Levine, published last month by Europa: 


JBC Bookshelf: International Edition

Monday, January 30, 2012 | Permalink

Posted by Naomi Firestone-Teeter 

Apologies for the silence! We've been busy with award season here at the JBC. In case you missed it, the 2011 National Jewish Book Award winners and finalists were announced in early January and the 2012 finalists for the $100,000 Sami Rohr Prize (SRP) were announced last week. In the coming weeks, we'll hear more from each of the SRP finalists on the ProsenPeople and we hope you're as eager to hear what they have to say as we are! Last week, we added a new reading list on Soviet Jewry and announced our March Twitter Book Club with Nathan Englander. And, as usual, we're continuing to add to our ever-expanding book database (currently tackling 2006-2008 titles). Now, a few from the shelf that give a nod to our friends overseas:

Izak Goller: Selected Poems, Plays and Prose, Izak Goller; Gabriel A. Sivan, ed. (January 2012, Vallentine Mitchell)
Izak Goller (1891-1939) was a gifted and inspiring teacher, poet, playwright, novelist, and thinker from Liverpool

The Escape of Sigmund Freud, David Cohen (March 2012, Overlook)  

The story of Freud's escape from Vienna and Anton Sauerwald, the man who helped to make this a possiblity

Suddenly, a Knock on the Door: Stories, Etgar Keret; Nathan Englander, Miriam Shlesinger, Sondra Silverston, trans. (March 2012, FSG)
Read JBC's review of Etgar Keret's 2008 collection, The Girl on the Fridge, plus check out the Something Out of Something, an Etgar Keret design contest

The Poetry of Kabbalah: Mystical Verse from the Jewish Tradition, Peter Cole (April 2012, Yale University Press) 

The latest collection from National Jewish Book Award Winner Peter Cole

You Are Not Like Other Mothers, Angelika Schrobsdorff; Steve Rendell, trans. (April 2012, Europa Editions)
Angelika Schrobsdorff's memoir of her mother, originally published as "Du bist nicht so wie andre Mütter" in 1992


Returning to Crown Heights

Monday, January 30, 2012 | Permalink

Matthew Shaer is the author of Among Righteous Men: A Tale of Vigilantes and Vindication in Hasidic Crown Heights. He will be blogging here all week for Jewish Book Council and MyJewishLearning.

I did not set out to write a book about Jews.

In fact, I was warned repeatedly against it—by friends, acquaintances, publishing professionals. I remember an early phone call with a well-known editor at a publishing house in Manhattan, who told me, in no uncertain terms, that “people don’t buy Jewish-themed books.” He must have heard me collecting my breath on the other end of the line, because he quickly added: “Even Jews don’t buy books about Jews. And definitely not books about Hasidic Jews. Sorry.” Still, I considered what I stumbled across to be a good story, and I was loathe to take his advice.

In the spring of 2008, I had been dispatched by New York magazine to the Crown Heights neighborhood of Brooklyn, to interview the members of a Hasidic anti-crime patrol called the Shmira (“Watchers,” roughly, in Hebrew). For the most part, the Shmira were considered a relatively benign community presence––responsible for ferrying elderly women to the bus stop, or fixing flat tires, and so on––but that spring, a couple members of the group had allegedly set upon a black college student named Andrew Charles, and beat him around the back and arms with a night stick.

Fewer locales are more sensitive to the specter of racial violence than Crown Heights, the site of three days of deadly rioting in 1991—local Jews continue to call the event a “pogrom”—and within a week of the incident, the neighborhoods had taken on the appearance of what the Times termed a military camp. Police riot vans mobile command posts were stationed on Kingston Avenue, the high street of the Jewish community; packs of uniformed cops worked west to east on Carroll and Empire, flashlights in hand. Local politicians, fearing the worst, issued public pleas for calm.

Accusations were thrown back and forth with increasing alacrity. The large African-American and Caribbean population blamed the Shmira for targeting black men. The leadership of the Chabad-Lubavitch movement, meanwhile, which had been headquartered in Crown Heights for decades, pointed to an uptick in violent crime, and claimed that the police had abdicated their duty. In that vacuum, the argument went, the Shmira were bound to act. In late April, I reached out to Yossi Stern, a Lubavitcher Hasid, and the spokesman for the Crown Heights Shmira. Stern was wary of the media attention, but when I asked if I could pay him a visit, he agreed, and invited me to his home on Union Street.

That evening, I walked from my apartment in Park Slope, down Eastern Parkway, and into Crown Heights. My only previous experience with the neighborhood consisted of momentary glimpses out of the window of a cab, as I hurtled out to the airport, in Jamaica, Queens—I remembered packs of black-hatted men, grand old apartment buildings, the sun-dappled and tree-lined footpath which runs down the southern lip of the Parkway. What I found was something very different; something deeply jarring.

I should say here that although I consider myself in many ways to be culturally Jewish, I am not observant nor particularly religious, and I spent much of my childhood attending Unitarian services with my mother, who was born into an old Unitarian family. And yet some of my earliest memories are of sitting on the floor of my great-grandmother’s apartment building in Newton, and listening to the circuitous clucking of Yiddish. My paternal grandmother spoke Yiddish sometimes, too, usually when she wanted to say something to my grandfather that the kids wouldn’t understand; even now, when reporting on Orthodox communities in New York, I am shocked at how much of the language I must have internalized.

I knew, vaguely, the story of my great-grandmother, Edith Rosenthal, whose father had been murdered by Cossacks before World War I. I knew that she fled Eastern Europe with her mother and brothers, and passed through Ellis Island, before settling outside of Boston, where my grandmother was raised. But I had never been able to visualize the world from which she had come––a Jewish shtetl––until I began the process of reporting the New York magazine article, and then the book.

Here in the midst of bustling Brooklyn was a small enclave––no more than six blocks by ten––that seemed to operate by the codes and customs of a bygone era. Here was a world where Yiddish was the common language, where Hebrew adorned the storefront signage, where one could walk three steps from the haberdasher to the bagel maker and then on to the fishmonger, whose wares––wet, pink, scaly––were displayed on large beds of ice, behind densely-fogged glass. Initially, I found it all to be quite thrilling, and after my interview with Yossi Stern, I returned frequently to Crown Heights, although I had no new assignment in the area.

I read every book on Jewish Brooklyn I could get my hands on––I started with Henry Goldschmidt’s expert Race and Religion Among the Chosen Peoples of Crown Heights, and worked outward from there. Later, I read Martin Buber, Elie Wiesel, Gershom Scholem. I muddled through long religious services, staring at walls of complicated theological text no more discernible to me than kangi; when I grew weary, I’d peek up at the upper reaches of the shul, where the Lubavitch women, separated from the men by a heavy sheet of Plexiglas, davened in a room of their own.

I have lifted the following excerpt from a journal I kept during that time, when I was first beginning my research. I think the date was February of 2010––I had been invited by a Lubavitcher rabbi friend to attend services at his shul. At the end of services, the congregants, all young men, began to dance. I watched them for a moment, doing my best to make it clear that I did not particularly want to join, but eventually, I felt a heavy hand on my shoulder, and I was quite forcibly dragged into the midst of the melee:

Outward we whirled, in faster in faster circles, my yarmulke at one point slipping off my head. It was the closest I have been to pure joy in Crown Heights—the closest I got to understanding the neighborhood. It was also the closest I came to understanding the faith of the Hasidim. For if I had remained outside the circle, taciturn and grudging, I would never have allowed myself the emotional space to become involved. I would have shrugged it off. Inside the circle, though, pressed elbow to elbow with these grinning, happy men, I understood finally the importance of comradery—us against the outside world. It was a warm place to be.

A few weeks later, I walked out of a private residence and into the purple twilight, and caught a glimpse of a trio of Yeshiva students, skipping down Kingston, hand-in-hand. In the windows of the nearby apartment buildings, candles glowed. A line of men filtered through the front door of 770 Eastern Parkway, the headquarters of the Lubavitch movement, their heads hung, their eyes on the leather-bound books which they held out in front of them like beacons.

Not for the last time, I felt that some part of Crown Heights belonged to me. It was my history, the history that I shared with my grandmother, and my great-grandmother, and her father, who had died without ever setting foot in America. Or perhaps it is more accurate, in the end, to say that some part of that place was me, in a profound way that I did not yet understand.

Matthew Shaer is the author of Among Righteous Men. His writing has appeared in Harper’s, Foreign Policy, and The Washington Post, among other publications. He is a regular contributor to New York magazine. He tweets at @MatthewShaer.

My Influences Are Showing

Friday, January 27, 2012 | Permalink

Earlier this week, Liana Finck let us peek behind the curtain at her source material for him comic based on A Bintel Brief. She showed us the first two pages and the second story. She has been blogging here all week for Jewish Book Council and MyJewishLearning

I keep a collection in my head of the names of stories, movies, pictures that seem perfect to me. They all have a certain feel to them.

“The Artist of the Beautiful,” a story by Nathaniel Hawthorne
“The Black Monk,” a story by Anton Chekhov
Charulata, a movie by by Satyajit Ray
The Rules of the Game, a movie by Jean Renoir
The Deleuge at Norderny, a story by Isak Dinesen
The Tempest, a play by William Shakespeare
The Enchanted Castle, a novel for children by Edith Nesbit
Alice in Wonderland, by Lewis Carroll
Ponyo, an animated movie by Hayao Miyazaki
Aladdin and other stories from the Arabian Nights
A lot of Japanese prints, Chinese scrolls, Islamic pictures

What do these things have in common? A certain magic. I think it’s that they are all miniatures, stories glimpsed through a keyhole. I think comics are miniatures, too.

For this story about Nasye Frug, I borrowed the butterfly (not introduced in this page) fromThe Artist of the Beautiful, aspects of the garden from The Black Monk, the marriage from Charulata, the observant girl character from Alice in Wonderland.

I think Nasye was the most ambitious of the stories I made for this project. I’ve had to do it over a few times to simplify it. I do my first drafts painstakingly, with a lot of different types of pens and white-out. Then I scan the pictures into the computer and change them around a lot in photoshop. I make later drafts by printing out the first draft drawings, and tracing them quickly on a light table. These later drafts are a lot of fun because I know what I’m doing and am confident enough to improvise. The first drafts are stressful.
This is a page from the tenth and last story. A girl, much like Nasye, is wrestling with the angel of death, a cartoon, after having lost her fiance in the Triangle Shirtwaist Fire. This story was influenced by a comic I looked at but didn’t read by Racheli Rottner called The Other Side of the World. I like when more or less realistic characters interact with imaginary ones. I think comics are the best medium for treating fantasy as reality. Because they’re so simple, and drawing in different styles on one page is like having a conversation in your head with imaginary friends, different versions of yourself.


***

People I’ve spoken to about the Bintel Brief agree that Abraham Cahan wrote some of the letters himself. The connective tissue of my comic, the part of the book I’m still working on, will revolve around this mystery. It will be very loose and light and I’m nervous about making it come out just right, which is why I’ve saved this part of the book for last. I hope it will leaven the stories somehow. Anyway, fun fact about this narrative: whenever any character sets out to do something (Abraham Cahan sets out to help the woman whose watch was stolen, I set out to learn about my culture and heritage) he or she will wake up, disoriented, in his or her bed.

Liana Finck's Bintel Brief comic is being made with help from the Six Points Fellowship for emerging Jewish artists, a partnership between Avoda Arts, JDub Records, and the Foundation for Jewish Culture. The comic is being serialized inThe Forward Newsaper.