by Kate Stewart
Text copyright © 2019 by Kathryn Stewart
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Little A, New York
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ISBN-13: 9781503904156 (hardcover)
ISBN-10: 1503904156 (hardcover)
ISBN-13: 9781503904149 (paperback)
ISBN-10: 1503904148 (paperback)
Cover design by Kimberly Glyder Design
Cover photography courtesy of Guy Rosner
First edition
For the librarians, including Jack, my grandfather Silvia, my aunt Alice, my mother and Peter, my friend
Contents
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Prologue
Part I: Everybody Who Was Forbidden
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Part II: A Whole World of Ideas
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Part III: Your Life Is a Battle, Your Peace a Victory
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Part IV: Don’t Bet on It
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Part V: It Is All Such a Vicious Circle
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Part VI: What Else Can One Do in This Mad World?
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Part VII: Ruthie’s Little Empire
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Part VIII: Some Days I Wonder What Ever Made Me Become a Cataloger
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Part IX: Come Sit Awhile
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Bibliography
Notes
Index
About the Author
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Research into Ruth Rappaport’s life led me to a seemingly endless array of sources in many archives and in multiple languages. I started with her oral history and tried to verify the stories she told. As it turned out, some of them were impossible to track down in other sources, and I’ve tried my best to reconcile the sources I could track down with Ruth’s own words. While some historians don’t trust oral histories, I’m a firm believer that even though stories can change over time and memories can become fuzzy, interviews can reveal how a person sees their own life and how they want to be remembered. The translators who worked on Ruth’s diary, which was written in German, agreed that she had an unusual writing style that was either uniquely her own or reflective of a teenage trend at the time. They and I have tried to keep Ruth’s writing style while also altering it for readability.
Prologue
I was working at the American Folklife Center reference desk at the Library of Congress, or LC, as we librarians often call it, when my coworker Peter Bartis stopped by to invite me to an estate sale. He told me that a friend of his, Ruth Rappaport, had died six months earlier, and she had chosen him to be the executor of her estate. She had been a longtime employee of the Library of Congress and retired in 1993, long before I began working there. Her row house, just a block behind the Supreme Court building, was filled with papers, books, and objects she had acquired over her eighty-seven years. Peter told me about Ruth’s life: she had escaped from Nazi Germany as a teenager, lived in Israel during the 1948 war, and worked as a librarian for the US military in Japan and Vietnam during the 1960s. While I wasn’t very interested in acquiring any more clutter for my own home, I was certainly curious about this woman and her long, eventful life.
The estate sale was on a beautiful April day when cherry blossom petals littered the sidewalks of Capitol Hill. Despite my feeble resistance, my boyfriend, Greg, and I bought several of Ruth’s belongings, including a fondue pot, a wooden sugar bowl, an old knitting machine, two obscenely large brass candlesticks, a few silk scarves, two Asian prints, and a Jewish cookbook. At home, and surrounded by her things, I searched for Ruth’s obituary online and found a tribute written by neighbor and Washington Post columnist Petula Dvorak.1 Dvorak described Ruth’s adventurous life, her sharp wit, her penchant for regaling others with captivating stories from the stage of her front porch, and her refusal to move out of her home as she aged. Everyone in the neighborhood knew Ruth, and she had friends all over the world.
Ruth continued to hover in the back of my mind for the next few months. Every time I looked at her things in my house, I thought about her and wanted to know more about her life. When I hosted parties, I pointed out to my friends that the ridiculous candlesticks standing at both ends of the couch had belonged to a globe-trotting librarian named Ruth Rappaport. I would tell them, thirdhand, what I knew about her—in, I later realized, my own game of telephone, where I had jumbled the original facts.
A year and a half after the estate sale, I went to the American Library Association’s (ALA) midwinter conference in Seattle and stayed at a hotel across the street from the new Seattle Public Library. My family—my mom and stepfather, my two brothers, their wives, and my three nieces—came up on the train together from Portland to spend the weekend with me. In a family with four librarians spread across three generations, is there any better place for a family reunion than the ALA conference? (“You guys are like a medieval guild,” Greg likes to say.) Like kids in a candy store, we rushed straight to the exhibit hall, where publishers distributed free advance copies of books. Late at night, alone in my hotel room, I thought about all the ALA conferences that Ruth must have attended and wondered whether she had ever run into my grandfather at any of them (or more likely, at a nearby bar). I remembered from Dvorak’s column that Ruth had lived in Seattle when she first came to the United States as a teenager. I imagined her in the 1940s climbing those steep hills, probably in heels, on her way to the stately old public library.
I searched online again for that article in the Post. I found it, but this time I browsed through the other search results. I couldn’t believe what I discovered: a link to Ruth’s oral history at the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum (USHMM) in DC.2 Was this really her? My Ruth Rappaport? The interview had been recorded just a few weeks before she died of lung cancer. I stayed up well beyond midnight listening to it. I was delighted by her German-accented, rough voice, peppered as it was with Hebrew phrases, curse words, and her hacking cough. I felt as though I were finally meeting her, as if she were speaking from beyond the grave and through my computer to me. Even on the first listen, I could tell she was bullshitting somewhat, exaggerating her connections to famous people, and brushing off her interviewer’s attempts to extract some testimony about the trauma that she undoubtedly experienced as a teenager and young adult. But what I latched on to, more than anything, was this fellow librarian’s memories of reading and her love of books. When asked which authors were her favorites as a teenager, she replied: “Everybody who was forbidden: Lion Feuchtwanger, Max Brod, Leon Trotsky . . . and what we did was we passed around the paperbacks. We read them, and as we finished reading
, we tore up the pages and destroyed them so we wouldn’t get caught.”
Back in DC, I couldn’t wait to talk to Peter about the interview.
“You know I donated her papers there, right?” he said.
I felt so stupid that I hadn’t asked him before. I just assumed that because she had such a turbulent young life, she wouldn’t have been able to save anything from that time.
Peter walked me to his desk and handed me a file of photocopies of Ruth’s ID cards, a job application, and letters she had written from Israel in 1948 while the war for a new Jewish homeland raged around her. The collection comprised only a small sample of the diaries, letters, documents, and photographs he had found in an old metal suitcase in the basement of her house. Most of the items are now at the Holocaust museum’s archive.
That night I read through what he gave me and realized that here was another story, the one Ruth couldn’t or wouldn’t fully tell when she had been interviewed. This was a heartbreaking narrative of a confused, angry young woman, bitter about the lot she had been dealt in life and upset with her futile attempts to find a home, a family, and a career that would satisfy her ambitions after so much loss and upheaval. But somehow she still had that singularly Jewish sense of humor, making screwball wisecracks and laughing at herself, despite her deep melancholy.
In the memorable episode of Seinfeld titled “The Library,” Lieutenant Bookman of the New York Public Library shows up at Jerry’s apartment to investigate his decades-long overdue library book from 1971. The next scene cuts to Kramer and the librarian, appropriately named Marion, shouting “Helloooo!” in the cavernous Fifth Avenue library after hours. Lieutenant Bookman startles them, then strolls up to Marion and tells her, “I remember when the librarian was a much older woman. Kindly, discreet, unattractive. We didn’t know anything about her private life. We didn’t want to know anything about her private life. She didn’t have a private life.”3 The audience roars with laughter: Who would want to know anything about an older librarian’s private life?
Ruth knew that her own life was worth documenting and that her experiences were, as she put it, like something from a novel. While in Israel, she kept a detailed diary with the aim of one day writing a book about her experiences there. For whatever reason, she gave up on that goal, although she continued to sarcastically tell friends in letters “I should write a book” when describing any number of her classic stories.
I repeatedly came across glimpses of Ruth’s reading life in the extensive paper trail she left behind, not only in her papers at the Holocaust museum, but also in other archives and personal collections around the world: a mention of an author here, a title recommendation there, her work as a research assistant for a few authors, an extensive bibliography on German Jews she had written as a library science student, lists of books she ordered for soldiers in Vietnam while chain-smoking late at night. In her application to Berkeley’s School of Librarianship, she wrote that watching book burnings and reading banned books had inspired her to become a librarian. On LC’s internal staff website, I found Ruth’s cataloger code on a list of former employees, searched the catalog for it, and pulled up a list of the many thousands of books she had cataloged or corrected over her twenty-two years there. Mesmerized by the never-ending flood of books that had floated across her desk, I saved the list as a spreadsheet. These were all her books, and she had wanted to share them with the world. Books were the one constant in a life full of trauma and turmoil, and she always turned to them for reassurance, renewal, and solace when she had no one and nothing else. Librarianship was not just a job for her, but her tikkun olam, the Hebrew phrase for “repairing the world.”
Above all, this book is a tribute to a teenage girl who understood the power of forbidden books: that by reading them she would find a way to liberate herself. She devoted the rest of her long life to liberating them for the readers of the world. That includes you.
Part I:
Everybody Who Was Forbidden
LEIPZIG, 1923–1938
Chapter 1
When Ruth Rappaport left Germany at the age of fifteen, she was a completely different person than who she had been just a few years earlier. She remembered herself as a shy young girl, and a photograph reveals that she was cute, with dark, curly hair and a mischievous smile. But by the time she was a teenager, her circumstances had changed dramatically. She had also developed the physical characteristics—frizzy hair, a larger nose—that instantly marked her as a conspicuous foreigner, a Jew, which, to the Nazis, also meant a radical. Shyness, in other words, was no longer an option.
By this age Ruth had grown into a diligent, intense, bespectacled bookworm who questioned everyone and everything. She had also developed an interest in photography and fashion, and dressed to make an impression. She would have rarely left the house without a camera or a book in hand. Or without a particular thought on her mind: after what she had seen and heard in Leipzig over the past five years, she knew she had to get out of Germany. And when she saw an opening to escape, she took it. When she left, she carried a suitcase with her worldly possessions, including clothing for every season and documents that proved her identity and accomplishments. She saved those papers for the rest of her life and guarded that suitcase and its contents with a fierceness known only to the stateless and the orphaned.
Ruth came into the world at a most unfortunate time and place for someone who happened to be Jewish. Her parents were part of a wave of émigrés from eastern Europe who had come to Leipzig, Germany, to take advantage of its international trade fairs and growing business opportunities for Jews. Although Ruth was born in Germany, she was not considered a German citizen. Born to immigrants, she was immediately marked as an outsider and classified as an immigrant. She remained classified that way—by one government or another—until she died.
Her father, Mendel, was born in 1877 in Roztoky, a small town in the Bukovina region in the Austro-Hungarian Empire.1 His family owned forested land and worked in the lumber business.2 Mendel moved to a larger town nearby, Vyzhnytsya, and married a woman named Rachel Kamil. She died in childbirth with their first baby, Clara, who was raised by Rachel’s parents. Mendel moved to Leipzig in 1911 with his second wife, Frima Feiger, and younger daughter, Mirjam (also spelled Miriam). He joined the booming furrier business there.3
Leipzig had long served as an important trade center not just for Germany, but internationally too. Since the Middle Ages, each year the city has hosted two fairs, which remain the oldest continuously operated industrial fairs in the world. Leipzig was also a cultural center with a world-renowned publishing industry and was the home of composers Johann Sebastian Bach, Felix Mendelssohn, and Richard Wagner. Bach was the cantor of Saint Thomas Church, a monastery that sponsors a boys’ choir that, founded in 1212, remains one of Europe’s oldest and most famous.
Since the 1300s Jews had been permitted to participate in the fairs with various restrictions, but they were largely banned from living in the city until the nineteenth century. The first large, permanent synagogue was built in 1855, and twenty years later the Jewish population was about seventeen hundred. By 1914 the fur industry in Leipzig consisted of nearly four hundred businesses, nearly half of them Jewish owned. Most of the businesses were located on or near the Brühl, a Jewish neighborhood and market street in the center of the city.
When Germany entered World War I in 1914, every family in the country was affected. Mendel Rappaport was drafted into military service in 1917 and served with the Austro-Hungarian military in forestry service.4 He was discharged and returned to Leipzig on November 12, 1918, the day after the armistice agreement was signed. Just six weeks later, his wife, Frima, died of tuberculosis in Leipzig, leaving yet another motherless daughter. Having been widowed twice in such a short time was undoubtedly traumatic for Mendel, although not unusual for the time. The horrific violence of World War I and rapidly spreading contagious diseases, including influenza, had ravaged families all over Europe. Mende
l was just one of many widowed in Leipzig. Mirjam was sent to live in Vienna with her mother’s sister for a time.5
Ruth’s mother, Chaja (also Chaya or Helena) Rubinstein, was born in Mielec, Poland, in 1885. Her parents were Markus and Reizel Perlsheim Rubinstein.6 One of Chaja’s cousins (or second cousins), also named Chaja (later Helena) Rubinstein, would immigrate to Australia and the United States and start a successful makeup business. Two of Ruth’s uncles on her mother’s side, Carl and Abraham, immigrated to the United States in 1900. Carl had been so desperate to leave Poland that he stole money from his father to fund his trip.7 Another one of Ruth’s maternal uncles, Leo, and his growing family moved first to Hanover and then Leipzig, where he started a metals and rag trading business. When Ruth’s mother moved to Leipzig is unclear, but she was living with Leo and his family when she married Mendel on October 4, 1922.8 Ruth was born the following May.
By 1925, two years after Ruth was born, the Jewish population in Leipzig had reached its height of 13,030, or 2 percent of the total population, largely through immigration from eastern European countries, especially Poland and Russia.9 This influx, nearly 70 percent foreign-born, created a division within the Jewish community between more-assimilated German Jews and the Orthodox Jews from eastern Europe, known as the Ostjuden.10
Rabbi Ephraim Carlebach arrived in Leipzig in 1900 to start a new Orthodox synagogue, Etz Chaim. A popular rabbi who was German-born but served the immigrant Orthodox community, he was an important mediator among the different factions of the Jewish community.11 Ruth’s family attended his services at his synagogue, an ornate building newly constructed in 1922—the year before Ruth was born.12 Ruth’s parents were Modern Orthodox. When her uncle Carl later asked her if her father was Orthodox, she was unsure how to answer. On further reflection, she questioned, “Did I tell the truth? I think so, but actually I don’t think Papa himself knows what he wants and what he is.”13