As soon as classes start, I have little time to worry about my place in the city, or in the growing German empire, for that matter. My head is too full of the marvels of modern medicine. With awe, I walk by Professor Röntgen’s laboratory at the university. I have seen the images from his rays, which look through the skin and muscles to the skeletal structure of the body. On occasion, I see the professor himself. Like many of the other faculty, he and his family live in apartments above the physics classrooms and laboratories.
Of course, Röntgen rays – he calls them X-rays – are not the only discoveries revolutionizing the study and practice of medicine. The lecture halls are filled with the bacteriology work of Louis Pasteur, Robert Koch, Paul Ehrlich, and Ferdinand Cohn. The fact that some of these scientists are Jewish gives me greater hope for the future. The more we can contribute to the intellectual advancement of our country, the more our work will be recognized and we will be proudly embraced as German citizens.
In my spare time – what little I have – I often pass by the impressive Juliusspital and stroll through its botanical gardens, wondering if I’ll ever treat the sick in this centuries-old hospital. Then I remember my goal. I’m going to be an army doctor. No fancy hospitals with beautiful gardens for me. I’ll be caring for the soldiers who are offering their lives for the Fatherland – young men like Christof who represent the best of Germany.
On the weekends and rare days of no classes, I get together with my new friends for quiet walks through the public gardens, scientific discussions over a glass of the local wine, and rowdy political and philosophical debates in each other’s rented rooms. My friends, for the most part, are Jews, but few of them are religious, which makes it hard for me to keep my promise to Papa and the rabbi.
I’ve walked by the Hauptsynagoge several times, but I’ve yet to attend services. It’s difficult to force myself to go to synagogue when my friends are planning study sessions and outings in the countryside. I keep telling myself I’ll go next week. But something always comes up, and I put it off again. One of these days.
* * * * *
At last I’ve done it. I’ve gone to synagogue. Actually, I go quite often now. Not because of my promise to Papa, but because of Hanna. I met Hanna at the university; she’s the cousin of one of my friends. But unlike Emil, Hanna’s quite devout.
I know it sounds silly, but the moment I met Hanna, I loved her. She’s so much like Mama – gentle, patient, wise beyond her years. Hanna makes me want to be a better man, and a better Jew. Because of Hanna, I say my prayers daily, I read Torah, and I go to synagogue regularly. I even wear my yarmulke in classes and around town. My friends tease me, but I don’t care. I love Hanna. And, miraculously, she loves me.
Today, Hanna talks my friends and me into going to a memorbuch service at synagogue. I confess, I have some reservations. Although most Jewish communities haven’t read their memorbuchs for years, I’ve heard about them – long lists of local Jewish martyrs dating back to the First Crusade, along with prominent members of the community who have died over the centuries. Some of the books have thousands of names. I’m concerned about the time the service will take. My studies are piling up and I have several exams in the next few weeks.
The custom was for each community to read the names in its memorbuch in a special ceremony twice a year – on the ninth of Av in remembrance of the two destructions of Jerusalem and on the Shabbat before Shavuot, the anniversary of the massacres that took place in the First Crusade. The reading gave the martyrs back their names and ensured they wouldn’t be forgotten by God. When Jewish communities were forced out of a town, they would take their memorbuchs with them, grafting their memories and their ancestors into their new homes.
Papa often mentions the Frankfurt memorbuch, sometimes reciting whole passages from it. He refers to the people of the book as if they’re old friends. When I was a boy, it took me awhile to realize that Papa had never met Rabbenu Gershom, “the Light of the Exile” and one of the names in the Frankfurt memorbuch. I learned later that this great Talmudist was the first entry in most memorbuchs.
Gershom lived nearly a thousand years before Papa was born, yet Papa talks about him as if they were boyhood friends. I swear, even if I should live to be 100, I will never understand Papa’s obsession with the past. Yes, it’s important to know where one comes from, but I think it’s much healthier to live for the hope of tomorrow than to be mired in memories that can’t be undone. Papa can have the past. I will look to the future – with Hanna.
THE MEMORBUCH
As usual, the sound of the shofar stirs me as it resonates throughout the synagogue. I have never understood how a simple ram’s horn can produce such beautiful, haunting music. Closing my eyes, I hear it echoing through history, calling the faithful to prayer, the nation of Israel to repentance, and our great warriors to battle.
Despite the solemnity of the service, I can’t help but chuckle under my breath. I’m thinking like Papa! Then it hits me. The purpose of tradition. It ties us irrevocably to the past and to our ancestors. But at the same time, it reaches forward, connecting us to the future and to our descendants – so long as they remember and honor the traditions. It’s a cycle that holds us together as a people. I savor the thought, vowing to be more understanding of Papa and to honor my Jewish traditions no matter how German I become.
As the echoes of the last notes of the shofar fade, the congregation sits down, and the reader approaches the bimah with the Scroll of Esther. He carefully lays the scroll on the stand and unties the satin cord that binds it. As he chants the familiar story of the Jewish girl who became queen and her victory over the murderous Haman, the congregation grows raucous, shaking fists and booing and yelling whenever Haman’s name is mentioned. Again, it’s tradition. The story of Purim – of triumph at the moment of defeat. A story that happened thousands of years ago, but for us, it is recent history.
When the reading is finished, the scroll is carefully rolled and tied. The cantor comes to the bimah, carrying a huge leather-bound book with hundreds of handwritten pages. A reverent silence falls upon the congregation as the cantor carefully opens the worn memorbuch. “Mi she-Berakh,” he intones as he chants the familiar Hebrew blessing. “May He who blessed the souls of our fathers Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob bless the souls of...” And then he chants the list of names and dates, beginning with the Würzburg victims of the First Crusade and continuing to the Second Crusade. “Isak ben Moses – murdered 1147. Isak ben Eljakim – brother of Hiskia ben Eljakim, martyr 1147. Mose – murdered together with his wife Belet 1147...”
The names of the rest of the victims of the Second Crusade, along with those of long-deceased rabbis and scholars, continue in a monotonous hum. One catches my attention: “Isak ben Ascher haLevi – Born 1200. Broken on the wheel, 1221. Disciple of Eliëser ben Joel haLevi.” Twenty-one – my age. And just because he was a Jew, he was condemned to one of the most painful, gruesome deaths ever imagined. Could my faith stand up to that test?
The cantor is now chanting about the 900 Würzburg Jews who were killed in the Rindfleisch pogroms in 1298 – “the ten sons and daughters of Menachem ben Natronai Kobelin; Chamlin ben Ephraim – murdered with his family; David ben Meir – murdered with his family; Elia ben Samuel – murdered with his wife and son; Ephraim ben Abraham – together with his family drowned to death in the mikveh; Isak ben Natan – murdered with his family; Jechiel ben Ephraim – murdered with his family; Josef ben Nathan – murdered with his family; Meir ben Elasar haDarschan – murdered; Simon ben Jakob haLev – slain in his home.” The list seems endless.
Finally, we reach the Black Death persecutions when the Würzburg Jews were accused of poisoning the town well. “Asriel ben Eliëser – author of a section in Midrasch Schoftim. Died in the persecution year 1349. David haKohen – murdered. Goldknauf – murdered. Simon ben Levi – last rabbi of the Jewish community in 1349. Voluntarily chose death in the flames.” The names give way to numbers in the families who, l
ike ben Levi, chose to set fire to their homes and die at their own hands rather than face the tortures of the Würzburg mob. The names and numbers continue – disturbing, and yet numbing, in their quantity.
The cantor continues with name after name, but the stories of horrific persecutions end. Yes, there are reminders of the bans and exiles of Würzburg Jews, but for the most part, the lists now are memorials to the rabbis, Talmudic scholars, and other notable Jews of more recent times. Of course, “recent” is relative for us.
I silently pray my own Yizkor for my family members – my grandparents, my sister who died in infancy, and Mama. Having lived simply as Jews, they carried no prominent name or accomplished deeds for others to remember, but their memory lives within me. “Yizkor E-lohim,” I pray for Mama. “Nishmat imi morati, Elise bat Eliyahu, shehol’chah l’olamah, ba-avur sheb’li neder etayn tz’dakah ba-adah. May her soul be bound in the Bond of Life, together with the souls of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob; Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel, and Leah.”
When Shabbat ends the next evening, Hanna and I meet with some of our friends who had attended the reading of the memorbuch. We all are more reflective than usual. The reading hit each of us in different ways, but it definitely affected us. After a few glasses of wine, the quietness wears off and our contemplation takes voice.
“It was a beautiful service,” Hanna says. “I don’t understand why we have stopped the tradition.”
“Because it’s dangerous,” Emil retorts. “It binds us to a past that makes us fear and hate our German brothers. If we’re truly to become German, we must forget about the wrongs that happened hundreds of years ago and focus on tomorrow.”
“But if we forget the past, we could be lulled into a false sense of safety,” Yosl argues. He’s the Zionist in the group. “Anti-Semitism seems to go in cycles here. All it takes is one financial downturn, one failed war, or another Wilhelm Marr to make us the scapegoats for all that’s wrong with Germany.”
“But we’re entering the twentieth century,” Hanna says. “We’re all more civilized now. Even the Germans.”
“Are we?” Yosl asks scoffingly. “It was less than eighty years ago when a couple of students at our university touched off the Hep Hep riots. Just because one professor spoke in support of Jewish rights.”
Emil starts to protest, but Yosl cuts him off. “You want something more recent? Have you forgotten that, only a few years ago, the good Germans elected nineteen deputies to the Reichstag because of their anti-Semitic views? And the League for Anti-Semitism is growing.” Yosl shakes his head. “Germany will never be our Fatherland.”
“What do you think, Kov?” Hanna squeezes my hand.
I hesitate, choosing my words carefully. “While I’m not as pessimistic as you, Yosl, I realize a lot of Germans hate us.”
Emil and Dovet start to interrupt me, but I hold up my hand. “How many German friends do you have?” I ask them.
“A few,” Dovet says.
“Where are they? We’re with you all the time, and we’ve never met them. Why?”
“That’s not a fair question,” Emil chimes in. “We all come from religious families, right?”
“So what are you saying? That you can only become German if you give up your faith? You want to become a Mendelssohn?” Yosl shakes his head. “That’s too high a price for me.”
“No, you didn’t let me finish,” Emil says. “I simply meant we all grew up in Jewish neighborhoods, went to Jewish schools, and had Jewish friends. If we want the Germans to accept us, we have to let them get to know us. People only fear what they don’t know.” Point made, he sits back in his chair.
“I don’t think it’s as simple as that,” I say. “Yes, I grew up in a Jewish neighborhood, but I went to a German school. And I have one German friend to show for it. Christof is like a brother to me, and even though he tried to get the other boys to do things with us, he never succeeded. They always looked at me with suspicion.”
“So are you becoming a Zionist?” Tsirl asks.
“Hardly,” I smile at her. “I haven’t given up on the Fatherland.” I playfully punch Yosl in the arm. “But I don’t think the Germans are ever going to accept us unless we prove ourselves to them. We have to make them see that we love this country, that we are proud to be German.”
“And how are you going to do that?” Lazi has been sitting almost detached from the rest of us.
I swallow and look down at the table. I haven’t discussed my plan with Hanna yet, and to bring it up now – like this – doesn’t seem fair to her.
Lazi laughs at my silence. “Well?”
I clear my throat. There’s no way out. I look into the distance – anywhere but at Hanna. “I plan to serve in the army as a doctor,” I say quietly.
“How are you going to pull that off?” Lazi asks. “The Kaiser said a man who isn’t a good Christian can’t, under any circumstances, accomplish what’s required of a German soldier.”
I nod. “Yes, I remember. It caused quite a stir in the papers. And a number of them pointed out the bravery of Jewish soldiers serving in the army. I’ll be going in as a doctor, not a soldier.”
“You’ve got to be joking,” Yosl says. “How can you even think of putting on a German uniform? That’s not just forgetting the past – that’s turning your back on everything we’ve suffered. You might as well reach your hand back in time and add to the torture of our ancestors.”
I ignore Yosl. Instead, I look into Hanna’s eyes. I see surprise and confusion. I take her hand, knowing that I must convince her of my reasons – right now, right here – if we’re to have a future. It doesn’t matter what the others think. Only what she thinks.
“I’m doing this because of the past. But I’m also doing this for the future – for my future and for the future of my children. We can’t forget our history, but we can’t let it hold us frozen in time. We must learn from it and then move forward.”
I can’t read Hanna’s eyes. But she doesn’t pull her hand away, which I interpret as a good sign.
IN THE GARDEN
Taking advantage of the beautiful spring weather, Hanna and I stroll, hand in hand, through the botanical gardens at Juliusspital. We seem comfortable in our silence, but I know we both are thinking of the conversation last night, waiting for the other to speak. She brings it up first. “You’re serious about being an army doctor?”
“Yes. It’s why I came to school here.”
“What does your father think?” Hanna met Papa during a university holiday. As I thought he would, he loved her the moment he met her.
I kick at a pebble on the path. “I haven’t told him yet.”
“And what about me?” she asks quietly. “How do I fit into your plans?” She stops and gently grasps my arm.
As I look into her eyes, I can feel her love washing over me. I don’t want to hurt her, but even she can’t disrupt my plans. “Hanna, this was my dream long before I met you. It’s something I have to do.”
“I understand, Kov. But is there room in your dream for me? I need to know.”
I brush her blonde hair back from her eyes. “I love you more than life itself. But this is my dream, my plan. I can’t expect you to share it. Life as the wife of an army doctor isn’t easy. But being the wife of a Jewish army doctor would be worse. We could be separated for years at a time – or have to live far from here, where there are no synagogues and no other Jews. And we wouldn’t always be welcome, with either the Germans or our own people. I love you too much to ask you to shoulder that life with me.”
“But what if I want to?” she whispers, looking down as the toe of her shoe digs into the path.
I tilt her head up, peering intently into her eyes. “You deserve so much more. You deserve a husband who can be with you, who makes you his priority. I won’t be able to do that. Is that really the kind of marriage you want?”
Hanna laughs up at me. “If that’s your idea of a marriage proposal, I accept.”
I gulp. “Ar
e you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. You’re not getting out of this one,” she says playfully. She puts her arm through mine and leads me over to a bench. “I realize it won’t be an easy life. But you should know by now that life is rarely easy for us Jews.”
We sit quietly, letting the reality of our sudden betrothal sink in. Again, Hanna is the first to break the silence. “Have you heard the history of this place?”
“Of the hospital?”
“The gardens. Back in the winter of 1147, the body of a man was found in the river. Blaming the local Jews for his death, the good folk of Würzburg turned him into a martyr.” She pauses. I remain silent, waiting for her to connect this story to us.
“Meanwhile, the Crusaders, egged on by the rabble from the nearby villages, saw they didn’t have to wait for the Holy Land to kill some Jews. They attacked the Jews living here in Würzburg, murdering twenty-two people. One young woman was dragged to the cathedral where they tried to force her to be baptized. When she refused, they beat her, burned her, and left her for dead.” Hanna’s voice breaks.
I wipe a stray tear from her cheek, still wondering where her story is going.
“After the mob left, an old Christian widow found the woman and saw that she was still alive, although barely. The widow took the woman to her house, hid her, and nursed her back to health. Other Jews survived the massacre by hiding in the homes of friendly Christians and seeking refuge in the bishop’s fortress. Saddened by the slaughter, the bishop ordered that all the mutilated bodies of the Jewish martyrs be sanctified with holy oil and buried in his garden. In this garden. Later, he sold the garden to what was left of the Jewish community to be used as a cemetery.”
Mama Namibia: Based on True Events Page 8