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New Jewish Book Council Reviews

Friday, June 12, 2015 | Permalink

This week's new Jewish Book Council reviews:

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My First Midrash

Friday, June 12, 2015 | Permalink

Earlier this week, Julie Baretz wrote about leading Christian tours of Israel and why she decided to make aliyah. Her book, The Bible on Location: Off the Beaten Path in Ancient and Modern Israel, is now available. She has been blogging here all week for Jewish Book Council's Visiting Scribe series.

The idea for my book, The Bible on Location, grew from a study project designed to enrich my professional capacity to guide biblical sites in Israel. I set out to delve more deeply into the post-Torah books of the Tanakh – the ones that chronicle the Israelites’ trials and tribulations after arriving in the Promised Land – so that in addition to reading the stories on site, I could also provide commentary and food for thought.

Just as my teacher and I opened the Book of Joshua to the story of Rahab and the Israelite spies, an article appeared in the weekend newspaper about a rehab program for prostitutes in Israel. This led to an intriguing discussion of Rahab’s possible motivations for assisting the spies and betraying her people. As we read on, many fascinating questions arose, often in response to current events but also in the wake of cryptic information provided by the biblical authors and editors. Why is it stated that Ehud Ben Gera was left-handed? Why did Samson reveal the secret of his strength to the obviously manipulative Delilah? Why didn’t David punish his son Amnon for raping his sister Tamar? Did Ahab and Jezebel have a good marriage despite the zero-tolerance campaign she waged against his prophets?

Early on in the study process I knew I wanted to share what I was learning by writing a book. I chose twelve stories with compelling questions and set off to the library in pursuit of the answers, wading through books and articles on history, archaeology, literary criticism and rabbinic thought. I gathered threads from myriad sources and then wove them into commentary that answered my questions.

The process of literary sleuthing was exhilarating, but I soon realized that twelve sites didn’t sufficiently cover the biblical narrative arc or the geographic diversity of Israel. I chose eight more stories to complete the picture, but ran into a wall with the prophet Elisha, Elijah’s successor. I wasn’t able to connect to him, but as the subject of fifteen biblical stories, I couldn’t ignore him. I eventually found two illuminating articles on the story of Elisha and the wealthy Shunemite woman (II Kings 4). One lucidly explained the prophet’s role in the birth, death and resuscitation of the woman’s child, and the second discussed a commentary by an Israeli politician who, in a modern interpretation infused with Israeli political reality, accused Elisha of adultery. Good stuff, but neither article answered a curious question: why did the Shunemite woman, who had no sons, rebuff the prophet’s attempt to reward her with the birth of a baby boy?

I sniffed around for hints in the text. Shunem is mentioned a few times in the Tanakh, most notably as the hometown of Abishag, a beautiful young woman who was selected to warm the elderly King David in bed (I Kings 1). Maybe Shunem was well-known for its fetching females? Perhaps a limited but protected gene pool was producing outstanding beauties with similar features? It may then follow that the same inbreeding resulted in a tragic genetic mutation which caused death in infant males, which might explain why the Shunemite woman didn’t jump for joy at the prospect of conceiving a boy (I know, it’s a stretch). Yet, if the biological father came from a different gene pool the results could be different. This theory wouldn’t hold water academically, but I could respectfully present it as a midrash – traditional Jewish creative interpretation of text.

In a significant departure from the other nineteen chapters of the book, I wrote the commentary on II Kings 4 in the voice of the Shunemite woman. In presenting her version of the story, the two biggest challenges were explaining the genetic reality without using the word ‘genetics’; and elucidating how she conceived without specifically naming the father or casting aspersions on her husband or the prophet.

Is this modern midrash convincing? Read chapter 17 and decide for yourself.

Julie Baretz received her license from the Israel Government Tour Guides training program in 1987. Since then she has guided thousands of Jewish and Christian visitors to sites all around the country. Read more about her and her work here.

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Reading Tanakh with Christians

Wednesday, June 10, 2015 | Permalink

Earlier this week, Julie Baretz wrote about why she decided to make aliyah. Her book, The Bible on Location: Off the Beaten Path in Ancient and Modern Israel, is now available. She will be blogging here all week for Jewish Book Council's Visiting Scribe series.

A man once got on a bus I was riding in Israel. He greeted the driver and a conversation ensued. Rapidly, however, the tones escalated until the two gentlemen were bellowing at each other. I didn’t speak much Hebrew at the time, but it looked like the passenger was about to sock the driver in the teeth. Yet, when we reached the next stop the tension evaporated as quickly as it had materialized. The driver opened the door, the two men shook hands and the passenger alighted with an amicable wave. I then realized I had just witnessed a thrilling round of Israel’s favorite national sport – the friendly argument.

A major impetus for writing my book, The Bible on Location, has been my work guiding Christian pilgrims in Israel. Christians who come to experience the Holy Land and walk in the footsteps of Jesus comprise about 70 percent of incoming tourism - bread and butter for Jewish tour guides. I work frequently with American evangelicals; they are fervently interested in the context of Christian scripture and anything that will shed light on the Israel and the Judaism that Jesus knew. But their interest is not limited to the Gospels; they are just as passionate about Hebrew scripture. Most of them know the Tanakh very, very well; way better, in fact, then most Jews. Many of them have read it numerous times from cover-to-cover and almost all of them attend Bible study groups at their churches.


Jordan River Baptismal Site

How embarrassing it was, then, for me to realize that my Jewish smarts didn’t count for bupkis if I was only superficially acquainted with my own family history, the same one which the gentiles had so warmly adopted as their own. Serious study was in order, so I found myself a rabbi and together we dove deeply into the biblical texts. I was so intrigued by the timelessness of the biblical characters and by the endless associative modern parallels, that early on in the study process I knew I wanted to share my discoveries by writing a book. Meanwhile, I honed my commentary on my Christian pilgrims.

It’s been said that for Christians the Bible is the last word, while for Jews it’s the first. Jews like to question, to deconstruct, to dissect the biblical personalities, to up-end assumptions. In the attempt to crack the true meaning of a text we relish a difference of opinion and delight in debate. The smart aleck is king and there’s nothing we love more than a good argument l’shem shamaim, for heaven’s sake. But before I can spin an irreverent riff on Elijah the over-zealous prophet or the conniving, skirt-chasing murderer King David, I must first expound on the roots of our tradition to my gentile audience. That’s when I call on the undefeated champion of challenge, the super-hero of squabble, the Hebrew hammer of haggling: Abraham.

Abraham was fearless. When God threatened to destroy the wicked people of Sodom and Gomorrah in Genesis 18, Abraham called him on it. “What if there are fifty righteous people there – will you sweep away the innocent with the guilty?” God conceded and Abraham boldly bargained Him down to a far better deal, convincing Him to save the two corrupt cities for the sake of a mere ten righteous people. This well-known and beloved story helps to explain that when justice is at stake, not only are we permitted to argue with the Creator, but we are obligated to do so. Hence our Jewish penchant for noisy disagreement. It’s helpful to point out that Jesus was a man of this culture; living at a time when Jewish law had not yet been finalized, he took an active part in the national discussion on how to interpret and understand the Torah.

After giving this explanation about Jews and arguing recently, a young pastor approached me with a concerned look on his face. It seemed he had something important to say. He took me aside. “Julie,” he said. “I think my wife is Jewish.”

Julie Baretz received her license from the Israel Government Tour Guides training program in 1987. Since then she has guided thousands of Jewish and Christian visitors to sites all around the country. Read more about her and her work here.

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Organic Zionism

Monday, June 08, 2015 | Permalink

Julie Baretz received her license from the Israel Government Tour Guides training program in 1987. Since then she has guided thousands of Jewish and Christian visitors to sites all around the country. Her book, The Bible on Location: Off the Beaten Path in Ancient and Modern Israel, is now available. She will be blogging here all week for Jewish Book Council's Visiting Scribe series.

Israeli tour guides are legendary. With their encyclopedic knowledge, hyper-enthusiasm and salt-of-the-earth dedication to the Zionist enterprise they magically draw you into a parallel universe where everyone’s Jewish, accomplished, and proud of it. Watching them in action thirty years ago, I knew this job was a perfect fit for me.

In truth, I didn’t have too many options. I was on my way to Israel a year out of college, my English literature BA wound tightly under my arm. I had no professional experience and no practical skills. Just stars in my eyes – the kind with six points.

My poor parents never understood me. They raised a fine Jewish family but making aliyah was not part of their game plan for us. Until his dying day my father insisted I moved to Israel to run away from my problems. My mother still maintains I was brainwashed by Young Judaea, my "fanatical bund." How else to explain this peculiar child who abandoned her family, boarded an El Al plane, and never looked back?

It certainly wasn’t nurture; I was the first person in my family to visit Israel. It wasn’t a religious awakening; I was done with synagogue services the day after my bat mitzvah. It wasn’t for love, either; I found that later. Ultimately it was nature, pure genetics; a mutation of the Jewish double helix as it spiraled down through the Diaspora over the ages. My Zionism is organic, the manifestation of a gene whose volume is dialed up really, really loud. “Julie,” it booms, “you’re Jewish. Get your butt over to Israel where you belong!” Some folks have a driving need to save the environment, or the animals. I feel compelled to save the Jewish people.

I share this gene with such notables as Moses, Ezra the Scribe, Golda Meir and Shimon Peres, although we are a select bunch. Of the 1.5 million Jews who left Eastern Europe from the turn of the twentieth century to the First World War, only 33,000 of them turned eastward to dusty Palestine, a meager two percent. A member of my family who was destined to join them was somehow bamboozled, or drugged, or dragged by the hair and ended up on the shtetl wagon heading west. That’s how I mistakenly wound up in America.

Don’t get me wrong – America is a wonderful place. I feel privileged to have been born and bred there, and I will never be Israeli in the way that I am American. But the two parts of my identity struggled with one another for years, and ultimately the Jewish side overpowered the American one. By a knock-out.

It’s undeniable. My neshama longs to be in Israel, surrounded by other Jews and immersed in Hebrew culture. It revels in the reverberations of antiquity humming down the pavements of the streets, through the books in the libraries and the in pots simmering in the kitchens. It pulses with the imperative to mold the work-in-progress that is the Jewish state. It aches to know all there is to know about Israel.


Ein Gedi

So, tour guiding was a calling waiting for me to answer. What do you seek in Israel - a spiritual experience at the Western Wall, or a mystical revelation in the mountains of Tsfat? The discovery of a historical thread beneath the stones of an ancient mountain fortress, or maybe a desert link to an ancestor who stood at Sinai? Tales of heroism, moral dilemmas or the juxtaposition of the words ‘Jewish’ and ‘democratic’? Would you like to meet a ‘new Jew,’ or perhaps an old one? Come. Take my hand. I promise to tell you everything.

Read more about Julie Baretz and her work here.

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The Doomed Generation

Monday, June 08, 2015 | Permalink

Joshua Cohen's most recent novel, Book of Numbers, will be published this week by Random House. He is blogging here today for Jewish Book Council's Visiting Scribe series.

The Torah is a stickler for chronology, and all its he-begot-she’s, and she-begot-he’s, are as much attempts at establishing a lineage as they are at establishing authority—documentation issuing from the Father of Fathers, God. There are ten generations between Adam, the first man, and Noah, the second first man, and then ten generations again between Noah and Abraham—whose son was Isaac, whose son was Jacob, whose sons went down to Egypt, where their descendants were enslaved.

To insist on this provenance is to insist that the people Moses led out of Pharaohnic bondage were a People—Israelites or, once they’ve received the Torah, Jews. In Hebrew, the fourth book of the Torah is called Ba-Midbar, literally “In the wilderness”—though in English the title is Numbers, after the census with which it begins. God orders Moses to poll the members of each tribe: Moses thinks he’s raising an army, God knows he’s counting the dead. None of the numbered will be allowed to cross the Jordan into Canaan—none will survive to fulfill the Promise of the Land. The Torah’s penultimate book is rife with the ultimate, as the newly liberated are condemned to drag through the desert for forty years—a generation’s span—until all who’d hesitated at the shore of the Red Sea, and revolted at Sinai and worshipped the calf, have expired. Slaves don’t get kingdoms, is the rabbinic interpretation—either be born into freedom, or die from its lack.

This, then, was my source: a story about how story breaks down—with the symbolism of Genesis and Exodus sacrificed to the literalist bureaucracy of Leviticus, which rendered it unto smoke, and accountancy. With the last of the great characters punished and perished (Moses’ sister, Miriam, followed by Moses’ brother, Aaron), the masses are left lugging the tabernacle around until they too have wasted away—into corpses computed like so many shekels, gerahs, ephahs, and cubits.

After Numbers, nothing’s left. Deuteronomy isn’t a book, but what happens after books: just recaps (in case you missed the action since Sinai), summaries (in case you missed the action at Sinai), instructions (What Thou Shalt Do, and What Thou Shalt Not Do, Beyond Moab), and lists (The Top Ten Commandments)…

To read about Numbers’ doomed generation was to read about my own—a generation born in the 1980s enslaved to the page, but by the millennium freed by the screens, to search—or, in alternate terms, to wander. The Cloud now guides us by day and guards us by night, securing while surveilling—our manna is data, information, the content that never quite contents us. Because for all the sites of our sojourning, we keep moving on: nothing can hold us, nothing sustains. It’s as if we’re always seeking a site just beyond—a text that stills us, but that can still be passed on.

Book of Numbers is my attempt at writing just that: a novel that encrypts my experience of this transition, from the culture of the book, which I continue to idolize, to an online Zion—a Zion 2.0—that will remain in Beta forever. The forty years of Numbers became 1971 (the microchips) through 2011 (the leaks). The sand of the desert became the Silicon of the Valley. My company in peripety is a search company—Tetration (the number four abounds). Moses—whom Freud regarded as a foreigner, an Egyptian prince—is Moe, an Indian engineer of genius. Korach, the rebel, is Kori, Tetration’s treacherous President. The CEO is named Joshua Cohen, who just happens to share that name with the failed novelist hired to ghostwrite his memoirs (the JCs also share an age: almost forty). May you find whatever correspondences you seek—but don’t forget Joshua the spy, who was sent out from the wilderness to the borders of Canaan, to determine whether or not it was conquerable.

Joshua Cohen was born in 1980 in Atlantic City. He has written novels (Witz), short fiction (Four New Messages), and nonfiction for The New York Times, London Review of Books, Bookforum, The Forward, and others. He is a critic for Harper’s Magazine and lives in New York City.

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Jewish Through and Through…

Friday, June 05, 2015 | Permalink

Earlier this week, Talia Carner defined tzedakah and wrote about growing up as a a seventh-generation sabra among the Second Generation of Holocaust survivors in Israel, thereby inheriting a piece of their legacy of remembrance. She is the author of four novels, including the recently published Hotel Moscow, and has been blogging here all week for Jewish Book Council'sVisiting Scribe series.

My last two novels feature strong Jewish themes. Yet readers are often surprised that not only am I not religious, but I do not even attend synagogue services, yet my writing testifies to being “very Jewish.”

Indeed I am very Jewish, but in Israeli fashion: I was born in Tel Aviv to a secular family that, like most Israelis, did not practice religion. My parents played Canasta on Yom Kippur. My grandfather, who studied at his synagogue for two hours morning and two hours in evening, did not wear a yarmulke, nor was my grandparents’ kitchen kosher.

We never doubted our Jewishness because the country possessed then—and still does—an unmistakably Jewish culture, where even minor holidays are celebrated: On Shavuot, an agrarian holiday rooted in the history of the Temple destroyed 2,000 years ago, people get together for a festive dairy meal of blintzes. The mitzvah of inviting people for a Passover seder who do not have one became a national mission when, in the 1990s, one million Russian Jews arrived. Tens of thousands of Israeli families opened their homes to introduce the newcomers to this most celebrated holiday, complete with the reading of the Hagadah—in Hebrew, of course. In the shopping mall, every store sports a mezuzah on the threshold. Upon finishing combat leadership training, the IDF gifts a bible to the each new commander.

I studied that Bible all of my twelve years at school, mandatory by the secular state curriculum. I loved its richness of language and poetic rhythm in the book of exquisite literature that was never presented as the word of God, even as He was present on every page. The Bible was a compilation of living history, vividly recalled when I dined at a restaurant at the port of Jaffa, from where Jonah had tried to escape God’s mission, or when I drove through the Elah Valley, where David had defeated Goliath. In sixth grade I won a Jeopardy-like bible contest, yet, when visiting France at seventeen and asked about prayers, I knew none. I was unaware that the dozens of passages I could cite in my sleep were prayers, because I had never been to a synagogue.

My friends’ parents who were Holocaust survivors claimed that “God died in Auschwitz.” And while the Nazis were slaughtering our brethrens, my Sabra grandparents’ and parents’ generations created the miracle of the State of Israel. How could we take kindly to the Orthodox sector that gave God all the credit? No. This was our Jewish country, rich with our new culture of a revived language and of new songs celebrating every Zionist milestone, starting with the first swiveling sprinkle head that brought water to the desert. Our new humor was nourished by the stumbling nascent bureaucracy, by the experience of idiosyncratic military service, and by the dozens of accents immigrants spoke Hebrew. In the absence of Hebrew curses, we borrowed them from Arabic, Russian, and Polish. We baked under the hot Israeli sun in our shorts, took juicy bites from our home-grown oranges, and defended our new country with our lives for ourselves and for world Jewry.

My New Yorker protagonist in Hotel Moscow, Brooke Fielding, doesn’t have all that to create Jewish identity, not unlike many secular American Jews I’ve met. Having grown up in a sad home of Holocaust survivors, Jewish history for her had no depth before the 1940s. When Brooke visits a synagogue on Yom Kippur she is uninspired by the praising of God and His justice or fear of His wrath. She is all too familiar with both His justice and His wrath. New Age spiritualism—shamanism, “sacred” scarves, Goddess Earth ceremonies, or mystical stones—seemed pagan to her. It is only in Moscow, where Brooke encounters unabashed anti-Semitism, that she finds an answer, not in faith so much as in her Jewish values.

When Golda Meir was asked if she believed in God she responded, "I believe in the Jewish people, and the Jewish people believe in God.”

I, too, believe in the Jewish people, and am committed to their future while preserving their past. I am “very Jewish.”

Talia Carner’s fourth novel, Hotel Moscow, was just released by HarperCollins. It is the story of an American woman who travels to Russia shortly after the fall of Communism, becomes embroiled in investigating a business crime, and when facing anti-Semitism, comes to terms with her parents’ Holocaust legacy and her own Jewish identity. For more about the author and the book, please visit www.TaliaCarner.com.

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New Jewish Book Council Reviews

Friday, June 05, 2015 | Permalink

This week's new Jewish Book Council reviews:

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What Is Tzedakah?

Wednesday, June 03, 2015 | Permalink

Earlier this week, Talia Carner wrote about growing up as a a seventh-generation sabra among the Second Generation of Holocaust survivors in Israel, thereby inheriting a piece of their legacy of remembrance. She is the author of four novels, including the recently published Hotel Moscow, and will be blogging here all week for Jewish Book Council's Visiting Scribe series.

As we raise our children to be aware of the world around them, to think of others, and to be generous, we try to instill in them the practice of tzedaka.

“But what is tzedaka?” my daughter once asked me.

Saying “be good to others,” didn’t cut it for me, as I know the Hebrew root word tzedek means “justice.” The directive to do good was more than merely the notion of giving or even correcting a wrong. The value of tzedaka is woven throughout the Bible, Jewish wisdom and culture, and encompasses the meaning of the intentions behind benevolent actions. After some research, I was able to better explain tzedaka:

  • “Pursue justice.” Tzedek, tzedek, tirdof translates as: “Justice, justice, you shall pursue.” Righteousness is not passive, but rather an act one must “pursue” it. This value requires us not only to respond to injustice and suffering when we see it, but to actively search for opportunities to act in righteous ways.
  • "Love thy neighbor" means that we should treat others as well as we treat ourselves. It is a commandment to care for others through direct action.
  • Pe’ah, helping the poor while making sure they keep their dignity: In ancient Israelite society, a landowner had to leave a corner, or pe’ah, of his field or orchard unharvested so that the poor could pick choice fresh food, not rotten leftovers.
  • Gemilut chasadim means “to bestow loving kindnesses.” Unlike charity, which awaits the cry of distress, benevolence anticipates it. It comes from within, from a compassionate heart, and involves active goodwill of sharing whatever one has with another who is deprived.
  • Protect the Earth: "Earth is the Lord's" expresses the idea that we live in a world that we did not create and nothing in it really belongs to us. All things are on loan to us, for safekeeping.
  • Tikun olam means that, since the world we live in is imperfect, each of us must find opportunities to actively participate in improving some part it.

The breaking down of tzedaka to smaller components helped my daughter notice her own behavior. It helped her become mindful of situations and take action—from stopping bullying to preserving a receiver’s dignity. It helped her become a better Jew and a better person.

Talia Carner’s fourth novel, Hotel Moscow, was just released by HarperCollins. It is the story of an American woman who travels to Russia shortly after the fall of Communism, becomes embroiled in investigating a business crime, and when facing anti-Semitism, comes to terms with her parents’ Holocaust legacy and her own Jewish identity. For more about the author and the book, please visit www.TaliaCarner.com

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“Second-Generation” Forever

Monday, June 01, 2015 | Permalink

Talia Carner’s fourth novel, Hotel Moscow, was just released by HarperCollins. It is the story of an American woman who travels to Russia shortly after the fall of communism, becomes embroiled in investigating a business crime, and when facing anti-Semitism, comes to terms with her parents’ Holocaust legacy and her own Jewish identity. She will be blogging here all week for Jewish Book Council's Visiting Scribe series.

A seventh-generation Sabra, I grew up in Tel-Aviv among the "Second Generation," children of Holocaust survivors. My friends’ parents were a decade older than mine and spoke German, Czech, Polish, Russian or Hungarian at home. They had survived the war’s degradations and losses, then crawled out of the ashes and created a second family, producing one child who rarely had grandparents, aunts, uncles, or cousins. That child became a stand-in for all the dead relatives, and I described her in my short story, Empty Chairs.

In these homes, the Holocaust hung in the air in sepia-colored photographs, foreign language, food hoarding of the formerly starved, European cloths unsuitable for the hot Israeli summers, or stooped shoulders. The children lived what someone once described as “undecipherable childhood.” It was not the absence of an extended family, but rather in the existence of that extended family—as ghosts. Whether the dead were discussed or were shrouded in silence, they forever existed as cutouts around the family table.

We were rambunctious Sabras—in the street. At home, Second-Generation children were polite toward their parents who had suffered so much. How could a teenager gripe about pimples when her mother, at her age, saw her brother shot in the street? They knew that their parents’ victory over the Nazis was in their success. They practiced the violin and excelled in school—or they fell apart under the lifelong mourning. Our friend Elyahu slid into a life of drugs and drinking; I can still visualize his wounded parents, walking together to work—always silent, never smiling—and returning late to their dark apartment, still silent, people hollowed out and incapable of giving love to their one, lonely son.

My generation, born after the Holocaust, was assigned the mission “to remember.” When I was ten, our class visited the nascent Holocaust museum in Jerusalem. In a dark cave we were shown lamp shades made out of Jewish skin and soap made of body fat. There was no sparing of the horrors for our young souls. No, we were to bear witness to history. More vividly, we witnessed it through our neighborhood’s meshuggenehs, who roamed our streets, picking shreds of paper, mumbling to themselves or shrieking to high heaven. The code word “Auschwitz” was whispered to explain everything that happened “there.” “There” was different from “abroad,” which was where my parents traveled on vacation.

The older I became, the less I understood the Holocaust. But in December 1992, at the Holocaust museum in Sydney, Australia, I broke down, hysterical. Afterward, I was “Holocausted-out.” I could no longer bear the pain of such hatred.

That’s when the character of Brooke Fielding, the protagonist of my new novel, Hotel Moscow, emerged. She embodied my Second-Generation childhood friends along with the many Second-Generation American Jews I'd met since moving to New York. They would often confide in me that their parents’ agony is never far from their minds and hearts; the visions are as vivid as if they’d been “there” themselves, forever following them like a bubble of air they are breathing.

Unlike the friends in my neighborhood that shared that same past, Brooke’s friends are clueless about that part of her. She seeks Jewish identity undefined by the Holocaust, but for her, Jewish history had no real depth beyond the 1940s: the Holocaust was a starting point. Faith? Her mother had refused to talk to God until “He apologized for what he did to us.”

It is there in Moscow, when facing unabashed anti-Semitism, that Brooke comes to terms with who she is. Her years of running away from her legacy “to remember” are over when she feels the pride when being accused of having “a Jewish gene” and she flaunts her Star-of-David necklace.

My Sabra-Jewish genes go back to an ancestor who built the first synagogue in Jerusalem after the Temple had been destroyed. But while I can’t claim a tragic loss or a traumatic Holocaust past, I can claim belonging to the Second Generation, because I was conditioned “to remember,” and remember I do.

For more about the author and the book, please check www.TaliaCarner.com.

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New Jewish Book Council Reviews

Friday, May 22, 2015 | Permalink

This week's new Jewish Book Council reviews:

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