The ProsenPeople

New Reviews June 30, 2017

Thursday, June 29, 2017 | Permalink

The Importance of Intersectionality

Wednesday, June 28, 2017 | Permalink

Michelle Edwards, author of A Hat for Mrs. Goldman, has been guest blogging this week for the Jewish Book Council as part of the Visiting Scribe series.

Many years ago, when we still lived in St. Paul, Minnesota, my older daughters had the privilege of attending Jackson Magnet—at the time, a K-6 school with a large population of students from Southeast Asia. I never ceased to be awed by the cultural richness of Jackson Magnet, so unlike the homogeneity of School 18, the neighborhood grammar school I attended as a child growing up in Troy, New York. My daughters had several Hmong friends there. Like the great-grandparents they never knew, these friends were immigrants who fled their homelands. Through them, my daughters caught a feel of their own history.

What’s more, Jackson Magnet inspired me to write an early chapter book series called The Jackson Friends. It centered on the friendship of three girls: Pa Lia, Howie, and Calliope. Pa Lia, as you might guess, is Hmong. Howie is African American. Calliope James, with freckles and a gap between her two front teeth, is a Northern European mix. Pa Lia, Howie, and Calliope sprang forth as characters directly from the world I observed at Jackson Magnet.

Here’s an interesting anecdote, and the reason I bring The Jackson Friends into this post. One summer, while I was working on the series, my youngest daughter Leila, who did not go to Jackson Magnet, attended a day camp held at St. Thomas University near our home back then.

“Mom, there’s a girl in my group who looks just like Howie,” she kept telling me. “You have to meet her.” One day, I did. Howie’s twin was Caucasian. What Leila saw was a kid like Howie, kind with a warm smile. This surprised and delighted me on many levels. Lelia was already so well-versed in religious intermarriage that when she met a Jewish kid at camp, she always asked “half or whole?” [I promise you she did not learn that from her parents.] Still, when she thought of Howie, she did not think about the color of her skin—half, whole, or any other percentage.

When I wrote A Hat for Mrs. Goldman, I thought a lot about Mrs. Goldman and Sophia. I wanted to explore their relationship and the love they had for each other. The details of their backgrounds were, at first, incidental to the larger story of their friendship just the way they were to Pa Lia’s, Howie’s and Calliope’s friendship in The Jackson Friends.

There are obvious signs of ethnicity throughout The Jackson Friends. Mrs. Goldman’s wool is scented with the smell of her chicken soup. Her speech is peppered with mitzvahs and keppies. Then there’s the scratchy hat that Sophia finds when she looks through the hall closet. It’s one that her abuela wore in Mexico. Aside from those mentions, the reader can visualize other differences through the tender images offered by Brian Karas, the book’s illustrator.

What does intersectionality like this mean for the Jewish community?

Well, I am merely a mother, and a children’s book writer, not a sociologist, a historian, or even a political commentator. So what I can tell you from my dusty corner of the universe is that for me, intersectionality means hope. For all of us. That’s why I find myself revisiting it in my stories. There is great hope when we see beyond race, gender, and age. There is great hope when we open up to each other’s worries and march for our collective justice.

In my heart, and in my book, A Hat for Mrs. Goldman, another great hope comes from the kindness of wool and two sticks. Sophia Hernandez struggles through knitting a hat because someone has a very cold keppie. Someone she loves. She and Mrs. Goldman are more than neighbors, their lives are intersected. It is that intersection which makes their story about knitting and love.

Michelle Edwards is an award-winning author and illustrator of many books for children, one book for adults, and nearly one hundred essays for knitters. Her stories are about family, friendship, and community. They chronicle the large and small victories and defeats of everyday life. Michelle frequently shares her paintings and thoughts on Instagram, Facebook, and her website.

Sophia and Mrs. Goldman

Tuesday, June 27, 2017 | Permalink

Michelle Edwards, author of A Hat for Mrs. Goldman, will be guest blogging this week for the Jewish Book Council as part of the Visiting Scribe series.

“Why did you make Sophia Latina?”

That’s a question I have been asked several times in interviews about Sophia Hernandez, the protagonist in my newest book, A Hat For Mrs. Goldman. At first, I was surprised by that question. I hadn’t thought about why I made Sophia Latina. I just thought of her that way. Why wouldn’t I? Why wouldn’t Sophia be Latina or Hmong or from the Congo like many of the students my husband now works with at our local high school? They are here. They live with us. Our lives intersect, and at that intersection is a story. Why wouldn’t Sophia be a character in my books?

Still, I know why I am asked that question. But equally important, I think, to having a diverse character, is the depiction. The roundness and believability of that character. If I had been asked about that, how I was able to make her universal in her needs and wants, I would have a very different answer. It turns out that although I have always been interested in creating books that show diversity, I didn’t always understand what that meant. Many years ago, when I was working on La Pa Lia’s First Day, the first book of my Jackson Friends series, I had a chance to read an early draft to a small group of St. Paul school kids. The kids were part of Meera’s class—my oldest daughter—and included her Hmong friend, Kabo. In the ways that we share our lives with our school buddies, Meera told Kabo that I was writing a book about a Hmong girl. At that time, there were no children’s books with Hmong characters. Before I met with the group, I knew Kabo was anxious for my story. I had not really understood until I saw her anticipation that I was about to disappoint her. As I read my draft, I realized I had created a flat, almost folktale character. How had I missed that? After, I would change Pa Lia, make her worthy like Kabo. When I wrote A Hat For Mrs. Goldman, I knew that Sophia was Latina. I didn’t worry about her worthiness because I had learned a great lesson from writing about Pa Lia. I knew I could get Sophia right if I listened to her story, and followed her emotionally.

Of course, Americans need diverse books. We need to read about Pa Lia’s first day of school worries and Sophia’s relationship with Mrs. Goldman. We need the everyday in our books to reflect our everyday world. That means we also need diverse books for our young Jewish readers. Our Jewish communities are diverse, and our world, our country, our towns, and the neighborhoods we live in are diverse. We need books that tell all our stories and show us how we all connect.

That’s why Sophia is Latina.

Michelle Edwards is an award-winning author and illustrator of many books for children, one book for adults, and nearly one hundred essays for knitters. Her stories are about family, friendship, and community. They chronicle the large and small victories and defeats of everyday life. Michelle frequently shares her paintings and thoughts on Instagram, Facebook, and her website. Check back tomorrow to read more from Michelle Edwards.

Interview: Annette Gendler

Tuesday, June 27, 2017 | Permalink

Annette Gendler’s memoir Jumping Over Shadows pulls readers into the drama of World War II with its family tale of an ill-fated marriage between a Jewish man, Guido, and his Christian wife, Resi; interwoven is the equally gripping contemporary love story of Gendler—Resi’s great-niece—her German Jewish boyfriend and eventual husband, and her conversion to Judaism. See the full review.

Amy Spungen: Annette, please tell us how you came up with the idea of your memoir Jumping Over Shadows. Was it something you toyed with writing about for years or did you seize upon the idea and go for it full steam ahead?

Annette Gendler: My first trip to my grandparents’ hometown in the Czech Republic in 2002 is the origin of the book. I felt so many undercurrents there that I had to write about because I write to understand. I knew that what had happened there in the ‘30s and ‘40s had profoundly affected my life, and while I knew most of the stories, I didn’t know them well enough to reconstruct the sequence of events. When I presented a collection of essays on the family’s past as my MFA thesis in 2007, one of my advisors remarked that the past was only interesting in terms of how it affected the present. That’s when I understood the full scope of the project, namely that I had to tell my own story in juxtaposition to the story of the past. It took me another five years, on and off, to write my own story and complete the story of the past.

AS: Was it daunting to consider how much research needed to be accomplished to flesh out your story? The amount of time and effort that must have gone into traveling to places like Reichenberg in order to conduct research and beautifully recreate them for your readers was impressive.

AG: Thank you but it was not daunting at all. I love that stuff! The beauty of this kind of family history memoir is that it is valuable in and of itself to my family and me; I did the research for myself and in return got a book out of it.

AS: Did telling your own story come more easily, given your proximity to the subject (being the subject, really), or did you find that writing the Annette–Harry Gendler story had its own challenges?

AG: Writing my own love story was the hardest thing about writing Jumping Over Shadows. Not so much in terms of conceiving of myself or Harry as characters—I’d done that before in shorter pieces of memoir and in personal essays—but how do you write your own love story without being soppy? Conveying the subtle feelings between two people was really hard. I wouldn’t be able to tell you exactly how I managed it, but whatever I did, it seems to have worked because so many readers see the book as a love story.

AS: The title of your memoir is both intriguing and evocative. It’s based on a specific observation by Harry’s father but seems to apply more broadly to the themes of the holocaust and forbidden love. Can you tell us why you chose "Jumping Over Shadows" as the title?

AG: Coming up with this title was truly a group project; it was not my working title. I wrote about how it all happened in How to Come Up with a Book Title, but briefly: My publisher didn’t like my working title and I wasn’t married to it, so the copy editor brainstormed a few titles and sent me a list. It so happened that I had just read an essay by Ann Patchett about how she came up with the title of her first novel, The Patron Saint of Liars. I used her focus group technique with my memoir students, and they argued for the title Jumping Over Shadows. When one of them pointed out that she felt it implied an active protagonist, I knew this was the right title. I love that it comes organically from the book, that it’s based on a German idiom and thus encapsulates the multicultural aspect of the book. I also appreciate that it can be interpreted so many different ways by the reader.

AS: Could you tell us a bit about your writing process? There are practically as many methods to writing a book as there are authors to write them, but it’s always interesting to see what works…or doesn’t!

AG: What works for one writer doesn’t work for another. Committing to writing early in the morning made a huge difference in my development as a writer. I churned out the first draft of Jumping Over Shadows during a residency at the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts. While there, I employed Hemingway’s method of producing at least 500 words per day but also calling it a day when I’d reached a good point and when I knew where I’d continue the next day. However, big chunks of time entirely devoted to writing happen only rarely in my life, so the daily practice of putting pen to paper, even if it’s only to do my Morning Pages (I’m a firm believer in that practice) makes all the difference.

AS: Do you feel like you are done with the memoir form now or do you see writing another down the road? Please tell us about the writing projects are you working on now. When can readers expect to see something new from you?

AG: Memoir is my favorite genre but I don’t think I’ll write another book-length memoir myself; my life, thankfully, isn’t that dramatic but you never know, right? I do have a children’s book ready that is based on a true story that happened to my mother-in-law as a hidden child in France. I only have to find a publisher! I’ve done all the research for another children’s book that would also be historical fiction, and I have another adult story that I’d like to pursue that most likely will also turn into historical fiction, so that might just be my new genre.

AS: What would you advise someone preparing to delve into their family history in hopes of writing a memoir?

AG: Start small. Find one story, one occurrence that you find compelling, perhaps because it affected you personally (the past, after all, is only interesting in terms of how it affects the present!), and then work on shaping it into a story. Down the line, several small projects can turn into a book—that’s how it worked for me—but it is best to learn how to write by focusing on making a short piece work.

Amy Spungen, a freelance writer and editor, lives near Chicago in Highland Park, Illinois.

Knitting and Love

Monday, June 26, 2017 | Permalink

Michelle Edwards, author of A Hat for Mrs. Goldman, will be guest blogging this week for the Jewish Book Council as part of the Visiting Scribe series.

I have been knitting all my life, since the age of five or so. Much of what I have done, I have done with my needles at the ready. So, it makes sense that I would have some stories to tell about knitting and life. Still, it took me a long time to realize this, and to tap into the well, which now often feels bottomless.

It was 1997 and I was at a small exhibit with Serge Klarsfeld’s collection of photos of French children who perished in the Holocaust, when I discovered how much of life I had viewed as a knitter. The show was in St. Paul, Minnesota, where my family lived back then. My kids were young—too young, I thought, for the bigger questions and stories about the children. So they stayed home. Instead, I asked my husband to join me. We went out to lunch first, then we walked to the exhibit. There were many noisy school kids there. Looking back on it, I wonder how they felt when they saw the black and white photos from decades before, clearly not American kids like themselves. Well, that’s another topic. Let’s make this one about knitting.

What I am sure of now, though, is that we each saw something deeply personal. And, in my case, knitterly. Among the photos, there were snapshots of the Jewish French children, sometimes with their mothers, clearly wearing some hand-knit item, like a sweater. I knew what having something handmade just for you meant. In the long and cold Minnesota winters, I had knit plenty of warmth for my own children. They came with me to yarn stores and cuddled skeins to test for softness and spring. They helped me sometimes, winding the wool into balls, so that they were easier to knit from. They took off their socks and let me measure their feet for more socks that I was knitting them. They allowed me to mess up their hair, all for the sake of getting the hat to fit.

We had a unique relationship that was all about making for them, loving them in a wooly way. That is what I saw in those pictures. Clearly, the child in the beautiful sweater was loved the way I loved my daughters. Fiercely. This child had been to yarn stores the way mine had. Maybe, on a bitterly cold day she might have picked the softest, warmest wool in the store, an expensive alpaca indulgence reserved for our heart-songs. As it was being knit, she might have tried that sweater on endlessly, so the knitter, the mom, the grandmother, could get the fit just right.

I could see their lives through my knitter’s eye. I felt their untold stories in those pictures so deeply I could barely move. Eventually, I started to write about knitting, shyly, at first. Then came many, many stories. In fact, sometimes I need to button-up when I am in yarn stores, at fiber gatherings, or around other knitters. They mention a knitting problem or a wooly discovery, an entanglement with yards of finely spun whatever, and I smile instead of letting them know how I wrote about that once.

I had planned this post to be a knitting story somehow tied to my latest book, A Hat For Mrs. Goldman: A Story About Knitting And Love. But here I am, nearly at the end of the story I had wanted to tell, and only now, through finally writing down about that day, do I realize how the two stories connect. Knitting and Love. That’s it.

Michelle Edwards is an award-winning author and illustrator of many books for children, one book for adults, and nearly one hundred essays for knitters. Her stories are about family, friendship, and community. They chronicle the large and small victories and defeats of everyday life. Michelle frequently shares her paintings and thoughts on Instagram, Facebook, and her website. Check back tomorrow to read more from Michelle Edwards.

My Father’s Letters

Friday, June 23, 2017 | Permalink

Ronna Wineberg, author of Nine Facts That Can Change Your Life, has been guest blogging for the Jewish Book Council this week as part of the Visiting Scribe series.

After my mother died six and a half years ago, at 84, my father did not want to live in their house alone. They had lived in a small house near Chicago for fifty five years, and raised two daughters there. He came to live in New York with me for a few months, and my sister and I had to decide what to do about the house.

He wanted to move to a senior community in the same town where he’d lived. He didn’t want to spend time in the old house or sort through possessions. They reminded him too much of my mother. My father didn’t say this, but it was clear that the house, which had been a happy place, was full of sadness for him now. After she died, he wandered around the house in a way he never had when she was alive or he just sat in the kitchen. The house felt empty of her presence, yet somehow full of her presence.

My sister and I consulted with him, but she and I took over the task of selling the house. We had to find a realtor, set a price, and prepare the house for sale.

This was a difficult time. We were all grieving my mother. But the task of dismantling the house had to be completed and done quickly. My father moved to an apartment in the senior community, a trial, to see if he would like living there. In the meantime, my sister and I began to clean the house, go through closets, drawers, cabinets, shelves, our parents’ lives. There was so much emotion and discovery. Fifty-five years’ worth of possessions were crammed into the rooms.

As a writer, I find that my emotions sometimes make their way into fiction. This doesn’t always happen, and I often imagine emotions, but it happened with the house. In my new collection of short stories, Nine Facts That Can Change Your Life, there are two stories about a parent’s death and cleaning out a family home, “Relocation” and “Excavation.”

I was astounded by the things we found in my parents’ home: cards, letters, invitations from sixty years ago, war savings bonds, old photos, old clothing—even my mother’s home-made wedding dress. So much family history. I imagined other objects one might find and other scenarios; these made their way into the stories. The stories are fiction. What is true about them, though, is the emotion—the feelings of loss, letting go, the discovery of a parent’s past that a child may not have known about.

Over the course of months, my sister, some cousins, my children, and I cleaned the house. In a small room in the basement, my father’s office, we found a bulging manila envelope in a pile of papers. Inside the envelope were letters he’d written home from the army during World War II. Some were written on thin pieces of paper, airmail stationary, in his tiny scrawl. He wrote to his mother, sisters, and brother, sometimes just to a sister, about what it was like to be a soldier at that time in history and time in his life. I discovered he wrote beautifully.

My father was a quiet man and often listened when in a group of people. He had a great sense of humor and intelligence. He owned a wholesale store in Chicago where he sold men’s clothing and later was a manufacturer’s representative for a company that imported men’s clothing. The family story is he had wanted to be a doctor when he was young, but his father died when my dad was seventeen. My father helped support the family then and took over the small dry goods business.

He was responsible, smart, informed, practical, nurturing, and devoted to the family. We all understood that in the hierarchy of importance, he felt family came first. He knew about politics, facts, figures, history, and enjoyed music and theater, but he did not talk much about emotion. He did, however, in the letters.

The letters are sitting in the bulging envelope in a file cabinet in my apartment. I have read only a few of them. He died four and half years ago; the loss had felt too fresh. Those I’ve read offer a glimpse into a part of my father he did not talk about.

I didn’t, of course, know him when he was a young adult, but his voice, hopes, disappointments are there on the pages he wrote home. The war, history, and politics are on those pages, too.

“I read years ago that every letter has two lives,” a character in my story collection says, “One in the writer’s mind, and the other that the reader gives to it.”

I’m ready to read my father’s letters now, to give them their second or, perhaps, third life. Who knows what I will find or the emotions that will arise as I read them, the emotions I will discover. Perhaps in some form, some manner, they will make their way into fiction someday, too.

Ronna Wineberg is the author of On Bittersweet Place, her first novel, which was the winner of the 2016 Shelf Unbound Best Indie Book Competition, and a debut collection, Second Language, which won the New Rivers Press Many Voices Project Literary Competition, and was the runner-up for the 2006 Reform Judaism Prize for Jewish Fiction. Her newest book is Nine Facts That Can Change Your Life. She is the recipient of a scholarship from the Bread Loaf Writers Conference and fellowships from the New York Foundation for the Arts and elsewhere. She is the founding fiction editor of Bellevue Literary Review, and lives in New York.

New Reviews June 23 2017

Friday, June 23, 2017 | Permalink


Thursday, June 22, 2017 | Permalink

Ann Komaromi, the editor of "We Are Jews Again": Jewish Activism in the Soviet Union, has been blogging here all week for Jewish Book Council's Visiting Scribe series.

Alexander Smukler presents a samizdat copy of Exodus in Russian to
author Leon Uris. Moscow, November 1989. Collection of Inna and Yuli Kosharovsky.

Jewish activism in the Soviet Union, supported by a movement to free Soviet Jewry abroad, resulted in a massive exodus. As Yuli Kosharovsky noted, concerning the late Soviet period and early 1990s, “In the years of mass emigration, the overwhelming majority of Jews—more than 1,500,000 people—left the borders of the former Soviet Union. The majority of those who left—around 900,000—settled in Israel.” The struggle and its outcome were of massive historical proportions, and it seemed natural to many observers and advocates to use Biblical language when they demanded that the Soviet leaders “Let My People Go!” and when they spoke about the liberation of Soviet Jews from the grip of the “Red Pharaoh.”

Certainly, there were important geo-political factors at work in the events that unfolded leading to this massive exodus, many of which are detailed in "We Are Jews Again". Against the backdrop of those forces and the high-level decisions and negotiations that took place, there was a core of more modest and incremental efforts that made the huge Aliya and revival of Jewish culture in the Soviet Union possible. Such grassroots initiatives included the work to make texts like Leon Uris’s 1958 novel Exodus available to Soviet readers in so-called “samizdat” (self-publishing). An early Zionist activist, David Drabkin, talked about translating Exodus with fellow activists Viktor Polsky and Vladimir Prestin for readers of Russian. At that time, in the late 1960s, Moscow was, as Kosharovsky wrote, a center for production and distribution of samizdat:

Moscow was a clearing house for samizdat distribution. Some books and printed material, including Leon Uris’s novel Exodus, were produced simultaneously in a few places. The quality of the translations and of the production work and the scope of samizdat distribution varied greatly. The movement was ripe for more effective coordination and division of labor.

The variety of translations of Uris’s novel – which appeared in samizdat editions as both Iskhod and Eksodus – may have been inevitable, given the powerful appeal it had for Soviet readers. Viktor Polsky recalled in his interview with Kosharovsky:

We received literature from the Baltics. Lea Slovin would come to us. David Drabkin had a channel. We … translated, copied, bound, and disseminated the novel Exodus. This book transformed my mother from a woman who had been intimidated by relentless persecution into a Zionist. For me, this was incontestable proof of the novel’s power to exert a strong emotional effect.

People recalled doing and reading 600+ page translations of Uris’s novel. The amount of labor that would have gone into producing that kind of samizdat text at home, with a typewriter and/or a photographic camera and prints developed in the bathroom, speaks to the feelings Uris’s novel inspired in Soviet readers. Others were moved to produce their own translations or slimmer adaptations. All accounts agree that Exodus was a central text of Jewish samizdat for activists and non-activists alike. Evidently, Uris’s tale about building and defending the state of Israel resonated profoundly with Soviet Jews who felt anxious for and then proud of Israel during the Six-Day War. That pride counterbalanced the often vicious anti-Israel propaganda from Soviet authorities. Moreover, Uris’s portrait of muscular, modern Jews resonated with qualities many Soviet Jews wanted to see in themselves, as it counteracted persistent negative stereotypes of cowardly Jews who shirked military service.

Alexander Smukler, pictured above with Uris, was one of those who helped expand the variety of material available to Soviet Jewish readers. Soviet Jewish samizdat included fictional works and poems from home and abroad, Hebrew language-learning materials, news bulletins and journals with articles and commentary on world events and administrative affairs. For example, the samizdat journal Jews in the USSR, initiated by Alexander Voronel and published from 1972-79, provided a crucial forum for Soviet Jews to reflect on their identity and concerns, in their own words and without the burden of official censorship. Smukler and a handful of others published the Information Bulletin on Issues of Repatriation and Jewish Culture, which appeared between 1987 and 1990, in Moscow. Foreign help – including the imaginative charge of Uris’s novel – mattered a lot for Soviet Jews. However, without the networks of readers and writers Soviet Jews created for themselves, working together to share stories, information, news and reflection, the revival of Jewish culture in the Soviet Union and the massive aliya would not have been possible.

Ann Komaromi is the editor of the recently published "We Are Jews Again": Jewish Activism in the Soviet Union.

Excerpt: All Our Wrong Todays

Wednesday, June 21, 2017 | Permalink

Excerpted from All Our Wrong Todays, Elan Mastai's latest science fiction novel.


So, the thing is, I come from the world we were supposed to have.

That means nothing to you, obviously, because you live here, in the crappy world we do have. But it never should’ve turned out like this. And it’s all my fault-well, me and to a lesser extent my father and, yeah, I guess a little bit Penelope.

It’s hard to know how to start telling this story. But, okay, you know the future that people in the 1950s imagined we’d have? Flying cars, robot maids, food pills, teleportation, jet packs, moving sidewalks, ray guns, hover boards, space vacations, and moon bases. All that dazzling, transformative technology our grandparents were certain was right around the corner. The stuff of world’s fairs and pulp science-fiction magazines with titles like Fantastic Future Tales and The Amazing World of Tomorrow. Can you picture it?

Well, it happened.

It all happened, more or less exactly as envisioned. I’m not talking about the future. I’m talking about the present. Today, in the year 2016, humanity lives in a techno-utopian paradise of abundance, purpose, and wonder.

Except we don’t. Of course we don’t. We live in a world where, sure, there are iPhones and 3D printers and, I don’t know, drone strikes or whatever. But it hardly looks like The Jetsons. Except it should. And it did. Until it didn’t. But it would have, if I hadn’t done what I did. Or, no, hold on, what I will have done.

I’m sorry, despite receiving the best education available to a citizen of the World of Tomorrow, the grammar of this situation is a bit complicated.

Maybe the first person is the wrong way to tell this story. Maybe if I take refuge in the third person I’ll find some sort of distance or insight or at least peace of mind. It’s worth a try.


Tom Barren wakes up into his own dream.

Every night, neural scanners map his dreams while he sleeps so that both his conscious and unconscious thought patterns can be effectively modeled. Every morning, the neural scanners transmit the current dream-state data into a program that generates a real-time virtual projection into which he seamlessly rouses. The dream’s scattershot plot is made increasingly linear and lucid until a psychologically pleasing resolution is achieved at the moment of full consciousness...

I’m sorry-I can’t write like this. It’s fake. It’s safe.

The third person is comforting because it’s in control, which feels really nice when relating events that were often so out of control. It’s like a scientist describing a biological sample seen through a microscope. But I’m not the microscope. I’m the thing on the slide. And I’m not writing this to make myself comfortable. If I wanted comfort, I’d write fiction.

In fiction, you cohere all these evocative, telling details into a portrait of the world. But in everyday life, you hardly notice any of the little things. You can’t. Your brain swoops past it all, especially when it’s your own home, a place that feels barely separate from the inside of your mind or the outside of your body.

When you wake up from a real dream into a virtual one, it’s like you’re on a raft darting this way and that according to the blurry, impenetrable currents of your unconscious, until you find yourself gliding onto a wide, calm, shallow lake, and the slippery, fraught weirdness dissolves into serene, reassuring clarity. The story wraps up the way it feels like it must, and no matter how unsettling the content, you wake with the rejuvenating solidity of order restored. And that’s when you realize you’re lying in bed, ready to start the day, with none of that sticky subconscious gristle caught in the cramped folds of your mind.

It might be what I miss most about where I come from. Because in this world waking up sucks.

Here, it’s like nobody has considered using even the most rudimentary technology to improve the process. Mattresses don’t subtly vibrate to keep your muscles loose. Targeted steam valves don’t clean your body in slumber. I mean, blankets are made from tufts of plant fiber spun into thread and occasionally stuffed with feathers. Feathers. Like from actual birds. Waking up should be the best moment of your day, your unconscious and conscious minds synchronized and harmonious.

Getting dressed involves an automated device that cuts and stitches a new outfit every morning, indexed to your personal style and body type. The fabric is made from laser-hardened strands of a light-sensitive liquid polymer that’s recycled nightly for daily reuse. For breakfast, a similar system outputs whatever meal you feel like from a nutrient gel mixed with color, flavor, and texture protocols. And if that sounds gross to you, in practice it’s indistinguishable from what you think of as real food, except that it’s uniquely gauged to your tongue’s sensory receptors so it tastes and feels ideal every time. You know that sinking feeling you get when you cut into an avocado, only to find that it’s either hard and underripe or brown and bruised under its skin? Well, I didn’t know that could even happen until I came here. Every avocado I ever ate was perfect.

It’s weird to be nostalgic for experiences that both did and didn’t exist. Like waking up every morning completely refreshed. Something I didn’t even realize I could take for granted because it was simply the way things were. But that’s the point, of course-the way things were . . . never was.

What I’m not nostalgic for is that every morning when I woke up and got dressed and ate breakfast in this glittering technological utopia, I was alone.


On July 11, 1965, Lionel Goettreider invented the future.

Obviously you’ve never heard of him. But where I come from, Lionel Goettreider is the most famous, beloved, and respected human on the planet. Every city has dozens of things named after him: streets, buildings, parks, whatever. Every kid knows how to spell his name using the catchy mnemonic tune that goes G-O-E-T-T-R-E-I-D-E-R.

You have no idea what I’m talking about. But if you were from where I’m from, it’d be as familiar to you as A-B-C.

Fifty-one years ago, Lionel Goettreider invented a revolutionary way to generate unlimited, robust, absolutely clean energy. His device came to be called the Goettreider Engine. July 11, 1965, was the day he turned it on for the very first time. It made everything possible.

Imagine that the last five decades happened with no restrictions on energy. No need to dig deeper and deeper into the ground and make the skies dirtier and dirtier. Nuclear became unnecessarily tempestuous. Coal and oil pointlessly murky. Solar and wind and even hydropower became quaint low-fidelity alternatives that nobody bothered with unless they were peculiarly determined to live off the main grid.

So, how did the Goettreider Engine work?

How does electricity work? How does a microwave oven work? How does your cell phone or television or remote control work? Do you actually understand on, like, a concrete technical level? If those technologies disappeared, could you reconceive, redesign, and rebuild them from scratch? And, if not, why not? You only use these things pretty much every single day.

But of course you don’t know. Because unless your job’s in a related field you don’t need to know. They just work, effortlessly, as they were intended to.

Where I come from, that’s how it is with the Goettreider Engine. It was important enough to make Goettreider as recognizable a name as Einstein or Newton or Darwin. But how it functioned, like, technically? I really couldn’t tell you.

Basically, you know how a dam produces energy? Turbines harness the natural propulsion of water flowing downward via gravity to generate electricity. To be clear, that’s more or less all I understand about hydroelectric power. Gravity pulls water down, so if you stick a turbine in its path, the water spins it around and somehow makes energy.

The Goettreider Engine does that with the planet. You know that the Earth spins on its axis and also revolves around the Sun, while the Sun itself moves endlessly through the solar system. Like water through a turbine, the Goettreider Engine harnesses the constant rotation of the planet to create boundless energy. It has something to do with magnetism and gravity and . . . honestly, I don’t know-any more than I genuinely understand an alkaline battery or a combustion engine or an incandescent light bulb. They just work.

So does the Goettreider Engine. It just works.

Or it did. Before, you know, me.


I am not a genius. If you’ve read this far, you’re already aware of that fact.

But my father is a legitimate full-blown genius of the highest order. After finishing his third PhD, Victor Barren spent a few crucial years working in long-range teleportation before founding his own lab to pursue his specific niche field-time travel.

Even where I come from, time travel was considered more or less impossible. Not because of time, actually, but because of space.

Here’s why every time-travel movie you’ve ever seen is total bullshit: because the Earth moves.

You know this. Plus I mentioned it last chapter. The Earth spins all the way around once a day, revolves around the Sun once a year, while the Sun is on its own cosmic route through the solar system, which is itself hurtling through a galaxy that’s wandering an epic path through the universe.

The ground under you is moving, really fast. Along the equator, the Earth rotates at over 1,000 miles per hour, twenty-four hours a day, while orbiting the Sun at a little over 67,000 miles per hour. That’s 1,600,000 miles per day. Meanwhile our solar system is in motion relative to the Milky Way galaxy at more than 1,300,000 miles per hour, covering just shy of 32,000,000 miles per day. And so on.

If you were to travel back in time to yesterday, the Earth would be in a different place in space. Even if you travel back in time one second, the Earth below your feet can move nearly half a kilometer. In one second.

The reason every movie about time travel is nonsense is that the Earth moves, constantly, always. You travel back one day, you don’t end up in the same location-you end up in the gaping vacuum of outer space.

Marty McFly didn’t appear thirty years earlier in his hometown of Hill Valley, California. His tricked-out DeLorean materialized in the endless empty blackness of the cosmos with the Earth approximately 350,000,000,000 miles away. Assuming he didn’t immediately lose consciousness from the lack of oxygen, the absence of air pressure would cause all the fluids in his body to bubble, partially evaporate, and freeze. He would be dead in less than a minute.

The Terminator would probably survive in space because it’s an unstoppable robot killing machine, but traveling from 2029 to 1984 would’ve given Sarah Connor a 525,000,000,000-mile head start.

Time travel doesn’t just require traveling back in time. It also requires traveling back to a pinpoint-specific location in space. Otherwise, just like with regular old everyday teleportation, you could end up stuck inside something.

Think about where you’re sitting right now. Let’s say on an olive-green couch. A white ceramic bowl of fake green pears and real brown pinecones propped next to your feet on the teak coffee table. A brushed-steel floor lamp glows over your shoulder. A coarse rug over reclaimed barn-board elm floors that cost too much but look pretty great . . .

If you were to teleport even a few inches in any direction, your body would be embedded in a solid object. One inch, you’re wounded. Two inches, you’re maimed. Three inches, you’re dead.

Every second of the day, we’re all three inches from being dead.

Which is why teleportation is safe and effective only if it’s between dedicated sites on an exactingly calibrated system.

My father’s early work in teleportation was so important because it helped him understand the mechanics of disincorporating and reincorporating a human body between discrete locations. It’s what stymied all previous time-travel initiatives. Reversing the flow of time isn’t even that complex. What’s outrageously complex is instantaneous space travel with absolute accuracy across potentially billions of miles.

My father’s genius wasn’t just about solving both the theoretical and logistic challenges of time travel. It was about recognizing that in this, as in so many other aspects of everyday life, our savior was Lionel Goettreider.


The first Goettreider Engine was turned on once and never turned off-it’s been running without interruption since 2:03 p.m. on Sunday, July 11, 1965.

Goettreider’s original device wasn’t designed to harness and emit large-scale amounts of energy. It was an experimental prototype that performed beyond its inventor’s most grandiose expectations. But the whole point of a Goettreider Engine is that it never has to be deactivated, just as the planet never stops moving. So, the prototype was left running in the same spot where it was first switched on, in front of a small crowd of sixteen observers in a basement laboratory in section B7 of the San Francisco State Science and Technology Center.

Where I come from, every schoolkid knows the names and faces of the Sixteen Witnesses. Numerous books have been written about every single one of them, with their presence at this ultimate hinge in history shoved into the chronology of their individual lives as the defining event, whether or not it was factually true.

Countless works of art have depicted The Activation of the Goettreider Engine. It’s The Last Supper of the modern world, those sixteen faces, each with its own codified reaction. Skeptical. Awed. Distracted. Amused. Jealous. Angry. Thoughtful. Frightened. Detached. Concerned. Excited. Nonchalant. Harried. There’s three more. Damn it, I should know this . . .

When the prototype Engine was first turned on, Goettreider just wanted to verify his calculations and prove his theory wasn’t completely misguided-all it had to do was actually work. And it did work, but it had a major defect. It emitted a unique radiation signature, what was later called tau radiation, a nod to how physics uses the Greek capital letter T to represent proper time in relativity equations.

As the Engine’s miraculous energy-generating capacities expanded to power the whole world, the tau radiation signature was eliminated from the large-scale industrial models. But the prototype was left to run, theoretically forever, in Goettreider’s lab in San Francisco-now among the most visited museums on the planet-out of respect, nostalgia, and a legally rigid clause in Goettreider’s last will and testament.

From the book All Our Wrong Todays by Elan Mastai. Reprinted by arrangement with DUTTON, an imprint of Penguin Random House. Copyright © Elan Mastai, 2017.

Friends From Abroad

Wednesday, June 21, 2017 | Permalink

Ann Komaromi, the editor of "We Are Jews Again": Jewish Activism in the Soviet Union, has been blogging here all week for Jewish Book Council's Visiting Scribe series.

This 1975 photo, used on the cover of "We Are Jews Again", shows noted refusenik activists Anatoly (Natan) Sharansky, Yuli Kosharovsky, Vladimir and Maria (Masha) Slepak and Vitaly Rubin along with a number of Israeli wrestlers and weightlifters who came to visit the Soviet Union and spent time with Soviet Jews. The photo acts as a window onto one of the brightest moments of Jewish life at that time. The smiles and relaxed poses of the people shown here – notice the way Masha Slepak leans her head familiarly onto Zeev Rom’s shoulder! – suggest that informal Jewish life in the Soviet Union was animated by happy social events and that it benefited from mutual support among members of the community and the friendship of allies from abroad. Unofficial Jewish life was warm and supportive in those ways, but such events took place under the malevolent gaze of KGB officers, who were certainly keeping an eye on this gathering. The possibility of persecution always haunted those involved in unofficial activities. Not too long after this celebration, in March, 1977, Sharansky, would be arrested on false charges of spying and imprisoned for nine years. The police would arrest the Slepaks in June, 1978, after they unfurled a banner from their apartment balcony with the demand for the right to leave and join their son in Israel. For that action the Slepaks were sent to Siberia. The Slepaks were able to leave the Soviet Union, like many of the activists, only after perestroika was well established, in 1987. Those were far from the first arrests for “Zionist” activity, and that hostile environment gives this seemingly ordinary moment the aura of the extraordinary.

People risked coming out with their families for unofficial Jewish celebrations, and foreign visitors made the long journey to see fellow Jews in the Soviet Union and bring them messages of encouragement and support. Such extraordinary efforts resulted in a profound feeling of solidarity and deep ties among people. Recently, work on identifying the people in the photo underscored the tenacity of connections created at that time. Enid Wurtman, a former American activist for Soviet Jewry and a research assistant working with Yuli Kosharovsky on "We Are Jews Again" since 2003, went to great lengths to identify and contact the people shown in this photograph. Enid located Solomon Stolyar, shown here in the back row, who is today head of the Israel Wrestling Federation. He helped put her in touch with the Israeli athletes who had been in Lunts Meadow on that fall day more than 30 years ago. Then-child Ephraim Rosenstein, seated at front with Yuli Kosharovsky, turned out to have been the bar-mitzvah “twin” for Enid’s son in Israel. Bar-mitzvah “twinning” was a common means for raising awareness of the plight of Soviet Jews who could not provide their children with that kind of celebration. In addition, Oksana Iablonsky (also spelled Oxana Yablonsky), standing on the right, was identified by Enid’s friend, Shoshana Fain, widow of the refusenik leader Benjamin Fain. Oksana, it turned out, is an acclaimed pianist who like Enid and like many other refuseniks made aliya to Israel. She played in a Chamber Music Festival in Eilat which Enid’s other son was involved organizing. There was something magical about the connections created and sustained for so many years over the course of this history of the struggle for the freedom of Soviet Jews.

The warm support and enthusiasm of all those contacted about the publication of Yuli Kosharovsky’s history of the movement testify to what that movement has meant to Jews both inside and outside the USSR.

Check back tomorrow for Ann Komaromi's final post for the Visiting Scribe series.

Photo Caption: Cover Photo. Refuseniks celebrate Succot with Israeli sportsmen in Lunts Meadow outside Moscow, 1975. First row, seated, from left: Anatoly Sharansky, Zeev Shakhnovsky, Ephraim Rosenstein (child), Yuli Kosharovsky. Second row: Isakhar Aharoni, Michael Bronstein, Menachem Berkowitz, Shlomo Fried. Back row, standing: Rami Miron, unidentified, Solomon Stolyar, Zeev Rom, Vladimir Slepak, Maria Slepak, Vitaly Rubin, Lev Gendin, Oksana Iablonsky.