Tatiana's Response

For 60 and some years since the truth about Hitler's 'Final Solution' was revealed, Jews and Gentiles alike have been struggling with the Holocaust. One of the latest attempts is Tatiana De Rosnay's "Sarah's Key".

"Sarah's Key" revolves around the infamous Vel d'Hiv roundup of Jews in the greater Paris area in 16 to 17 of July, 1942, so named after the local nickname for the Velodrome d'Hiver indoor stadium where over 13,000 detainees were held in appalling conditions until transferred to camps outside the city. The children were separated from their parents, who were deported to Auschwitz. The children were to follow in the weeks to come, and gassed upon arrival without even so much as a 'selection'. Perhaps the most outrageous aspect about Vel d'Hiv is that it was a totally French operation, which exceeded the expectations of the Nazi occupiers who initiated it.

De Rosnay weaves two stories together. One is 10 year old Sarah in Paris of 1942 who locks her little brother in a closet, hiding him from the French police detaining her family. The second is Julia, who's life intersects with Sarah's 60 years later. De Rosnay's plot alternates between Sarah's efforts to rescue her brother and Julia's discovery of Sarah and a secret from Paris the summer of '42.
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"Sarah's Key" is fiction but a possible, even plausible story; a gripping account of horror and tragedy .... until runs out of gas midway through the book. It’s a shame De Rosnay didn't quit while she was ahead. My advice is to open to page 175, tear it in two and toss the second half. You will end up with a shorter, but much better book. The pages in your waste bin are De Rosnay's attempt to respond vicariously through her characters. It's a guilt fest; they wallow in remorse for crimes that belong to others and to the past. The moral of the story, so she says, is despair and self flagellation. To a man, all the major players in "Sarah's Key" set a course for one sort of self destruction or another.
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It's true that some survivors couldn't pick up the pieces of shattered lives, but the overwhelming majority chose life. They established second families on the ashes of the ones that had perished.

With nowhere to go, and no one to turn to, the remnant of European Jewry created a home in the wilderness their forefathers dared only to dream of. They remembered, they documented the crimes against humanity, they tried to build a new society in which genocide is unthinkable, but the bottom line is that they moved on.

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The generation of the camps is passing from this world, and now it's vogue to stir the ashes. For some, modern 'new Jews' who have little or no connection to their homeland or faith, the Holocaust is the only 'Jewish' thing left that they can identify with.

But really, how do we respond to the Holocaust?

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Some remember.....

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some are in denial,

 

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And some, like De Rosnay, accuse.

 

The Holocaust exposed a sickness of hatred and evil that has plagued mankind since Cain slew Able. 60 years later the collective 'us' is still licking its wounds. We can we can pick at it like a sore, drown in despair and sink into guilt– or choose life, choose to heal, to learn and even to forgive.

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It's overwhelming, the Holocaust. More than half a century later, we're still groping for the right response, but unfortunately "Sarah's Key" is wrong.

From the Back of the Bus

Once, long, long ago in a place far, far away, I rode a Tri-met bus home every day from school. A favorite pastime was teasing a Stephanie, one of my classmates, from the peanut gallery at the back of the bus. I don't know why I did that; she wasn't a bad person, not ugly or unpopular. Maybe I was just bored.

Now, 30 some years later, Stephanie comes to mind. A couple of weeks ago she was blogging poetic about turning 50, and today it's my turn. (Her profile picture is of a little girl. It's not her. She stalks preschoolers at playgrounds and probably will continue doing so until she's christened her first grandchild.) Or perhaps it was last week passing a mile or so from her little farm on the Columbia and wondering if she was home.








 Fifty for Stephanie is an adventure, a pleasure cruise on quiet waters. In fact, fifty is only one thing.

Old.

Forty is when you're getting old, at fifty you've arrived. Don't believe all that crap about being at your prime and starting out on the second half of life. (Who lives to be 100? Who wants to?) When you turn 20 and 30, you build your body. After 50 you try to preserve it. Parts break down and need to be fixed or replaced, starting with the eyes and teeth and ending up with the heart and mind. When you're young you don't greet strangers because you can't find your glasses.


After fifty, women turn invisible. They no longer attract the attention of men other than their husbands, and that only because they can't be ignored. It isn't much better for men – fifty is when your warranty runs out. You're useless and redundant; who wants a worn out and weary ol' coot.
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50 isn't just a number for me this year. Things that defined me are coming to an end. The army will be turning me out to pasture. My son will be replacing me, doing stuff I won't be able to share here because I don't need to know (and you, dear reader, need to not know.) It's my time to move to the back of the bus.
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But if there's something to be said for fifty, it's perspective. A lot of things happen over the years. You see things from the back of the bus.
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I think I know why I poked fun at Stephanie 32 years ago. She was a bit pretentious, a little presumptuous, and I couldn't believe that she and everyone else on the bus didn't see it. But now I think that they probably did, and liked her anyway. And if now at fifty she pretends a little, who cares? She's not a bad person, not ugly and not unpopular. She loves and is loved. She's happy. She has a bright take on life and paints it pretty. I think I envy Stephanie a little.
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So maybe I should try sitting quietly in the back, watch Stephanie, and maybe even learn something.






Happy 50th, Steph!

Introducing Golan

Meet Golan. She's one of our 11th graders. She's the one with kind eyes and the good nature.

Golan is a photographer.

When they started high school, I was the one with the camera. "Paparazzi" they called me. They protested and ducked at the glint of the lens, but not so much anymore, 3 years on.

They are all every one beautiful even if they don't believe me, in the spring almost summer of life. I want to capture the season for them, bottle their memories in film and preserve them for the day they will be gold.



I discovered Golan's work by chance while posting mine. She has something, is something I will never be. She's unobtrusive, inconspicuous, observing, has an eye for opportunity – innate qualities no less essential than expensive gear.

She has an eye for color and beauty in the ordinary and mundane details we mortals see and overlook.

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She catches a pregnant moment, tells an entire story at shutter speed.

Golan is a photographer, but she has taken the leap from craft to art. She is able to translate what she sees into ideas, and to give ideas and feelings visual, almost tangible expression.

Like loneliness……….

……….and eternity.

Our11th graders went to Poland this last winter. I didn't go with them, but Golan says without words how it feels as a young modern Israeli to return to the shadow lands of the Holocaust.

She steps into the shoes of new arrivals on the platform in Auschwitz, and she, and you, experience just a shade of uncertainty and finality of the doomed.

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About a year ago I completed "kissing the mirror" and needed to give it visual expression. A cover. Golan agreed to help me. I outlined the idea and let her run with it.

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She came back with this....

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Good, lovely, but too 'sexy'.


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This one was perfect. It said it all. The innocent, egoistic kiss.

But I decided I want something more subtle.So I saved it for a back cover cameo,
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and took this one...

...and cut it to get this for the front cover:

 

Viola'! ("behold" in French)

Walla! ("Wow!" in Arabic)

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"kissing the mirror" has the honor of being Golan's first professional job. Not her last.

Golan's working, and going places. No surprise here; I knew it already last year. The day is coming soon and Golan will be introducing me.

I was one the of teachers at Golan Levyathan's high school.

Yes, that's right, the Golan Levyathan, the photographer.

And thanks to Jeni for lending her beauty to "kissing the mirror".

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You can catch more of Golan's work at:

http://golan-ha.deviantart.com/

Don't Believe Everything They Say About Israel...

To Saint Catherine of the Wheel

Saint Catherine of Alexandria ...hmm

Venerated patroness of women scholars, they say you were condemned to be broken on the wheel by pagan Romans for your brilliant defence of the One True Church. The only thing is, torture on the wheel was invented long after Rome had converted and crumbled; the only Romans that broke poor souls over a wheel were Catholic priests tormenting heretics.

So Catherine of the Wheel, you may tickle certain uninformed ears, but you come off a bit contrived, even a little dishonest.

I visit you from time to time. You review writers, presuming to be a fellow; wax and spin sentimental stories you think we want to hear. Ho Hum. Maybe some readers' hearts are warmed, but not mine.

Because I know there's fire.

I've seen it burn, when you discovered a fallen angel under your roof, and even when you poured coals over my head. And I can't say that I always liked it, but Catherine flashing and flaming was never boring.

So you may earn peer recognition and you might find the right word, but if you can't be real and muster the guts to put it on the page, you will never more than scratch the surface, irritate the skin. And I know you are capable of piercing the heart.

There was no wheel and you're no saint, Catherine. Get that through your head and maybe you will be able to write.