Finally had the chance to read through the latest issue of Lilith magazine. My favorite piece in this issue has to be “Anzia Yezierska and Me,” by Patricia Averbach. As a teenager, Averbach was hired to be Yezierska’s “literary assistant.” An unusual experience, to be sure, and one that Averbach’s family was frankly not all that happy about: “‘What kind of real writer needs a high school kid as a literary assistant?’ my mother asked. She was cooking dinner and didn’t look up. ‘Maybe she wrote some books, it doesn’t matter. I don’t want you locked up with some old lady. If she’s looking for company, let her hire a nurse.'” The essay isn’t (yet?) online, but hopefully at some point it will be.
Posts Tagged‘Jewish-American literature’
I’ve just discovered The Book of Life, whose tagline reads “a podcast about Jewish people and the books we read.” I have to admit that I still haven’t fallen completely in love with podcasts, but the blog itself seems well worth reading, with lots of references to Jewish books, writers, and publishers. Host Heidi Estrin directs the library at Congregation B’nai Israel in Boca Raton, Florida, and participates in a number of Jewish book organizations/activities. This is a welcome addition to my link list.
I’ve just received the New Yorker‘s summer fiction issue, and while I have yet to read the issue’s fiction proper, I have managed to make my way already through some of its nonfiction essays penned by fiction writers. In this issue, those essays are grouped around the theme of “Faith and Doubt.”
And they include a piece by Allegra Goodman, which begins as follows: “As a young girl, I spent more time outside synagogues than in them. Services were long, and I always found some excuse to get away.” Read the rest here.
Somewhat belatedly, I’m reading all about the first International Writers Festival in Jerusalem, which took place this past Monday-Thursday (May 12-15). And I’m wishing I’d been there.
Of course, all “boycott” talk I’ve found so far has to do with urges to boycott the Israeli-planned festival, not the Palestinian one (and I’m not going to do the proponents of that cause any favors by linking to anything explaining their “reasoning”). It seems that Nadine Gordimer, in particular, was the target of appeals urging her to cancel her participation. Kudos to Ms. Gordimer for resisting the pressure.
An essay bearing a subtitle that reads “A Childhood Obsession with the Holocaust” doesn’t exactly promise loads of laughs. But laugh I did, at given moments, as I read this piece by Rachel Shukert on Nextbook today.
Here’s an excerpt:
“We need to talk,” said my mother. The ballet car pool had just dropped me at home.
I wriggled impatiently, anxious to fix some microwave popcorn and return to my copy of Nuremberg Diary. “Um, not now, okay?”
“I got a call today from Mrs. Finkel.”
“The librarian. You know, at the Jewish Community Center. She’s friends with Grandma—”
“I know who she is. How did she get this number?” I demanded.
“What do you mean, how did she get this number? Probably she got it out of the Hadassah directory, the same way I would get her number.”
Nearly every Jewish woman and girl in the country belongs to Hadassah, the Women’s Zionist Organization of America. The local chapter directory is a veritable who’s who of area Jewish females. Earlier that week, I had casually mentioned to my mother that we might consider terminating our association with the organization and withdrawing our names from its records, as when They came for us, the Hadassah directory would likely be the first place They’d look.
“Mrs. Finkel told me that you tried to check out all four tapes of Shoah this afternoon.”
“So? You’re allowed to check out all four tapes! They come as a set! It’s like checking out one tape!”
She was still making that damn face. I hated that face. “She told me it was the seventh time you’ve tried to check it out in the past three weeks.”
“So what? She kept saying it was reserved.”
“It’s on the thirteen-and-over list, honey.”
“Meaning you have to be thirteen or over to check it out. That’s the rule.”
“That’s the first I’ve heard of any such rule.”
“Sweetie, that’s the rule.”
“IT’S A BULLSHIT RULE!”
My mother’s shrill temper flared at last. “And when were you planning to watch all NINE AND A HALF HOURS OF SHOAH, HUH? Were you going to take a night off from whatever weird fucking shit you’re doing to the walls of your room when the normal people are asleep?”
Never content to let a long period of insomnia pass unproductively, I had kept myself busy in the restless wee hours cutting out pictures of famous Jews from magazines and sticking them on the walls of my bedroom with bits of chewed gum, where they acted as talismans warding off the unspeakable evil that lay in wait. The resemblance to Anne Frank’s famous bedroom wall in the Secret Annex, touchingly adorned with colorful postcards and newspaper ads picturing film stars and babies, was not lost on me; however, I reasoned, if poor Anne had only been a bit more judicious, a little more ethnocentric in her selections, things might have turned out differently. The Gestapo wasn’t going to get me, not with that giant picture of Henry Kissinger on the wall.
I have to confess that there are aspects of this essay that really resonate for me. To some extent, the Holocaust “obsessed” me, a grandchild of refugees from Nazi Germany, during childhood, too. And it took me years (and, frankly, some therapy) to work through this obsession. I’m also convinced that writing fiction that might be labeled “post-Holocaust” fiction helped as well.
I’ve seen several reviews of Max Apple’s new fiction collection, The Jew of Home Depot. And they’ve all led me to check (and recheck) the New York Public Library catalog for the book’s arrival. But Ann Hodgman’s piece in Sunday’s New York Times Book Review sent me right over to Amazon to order it. Can’t wait for it to arrive.