Stories About The Occasional Non-lament(able) Post

Updated Dec. 27

I was in New York recently to see a jolly round of nine shows. A surprise favorite was the musical “Harmony” about the Comedian Harmonists, an internationally famous German singing group that was forced to disband because of antisemitism amid the rise of fascism before World War II.

The musical, which opened on Broadway in November, was a stark and timely reminder, not only of the peril of antisemitism but also of the constant threat to democracy across the globe.

The all-male sextet was made up of three Jews and three non-Jews. They were Harry Frommermann, Erich A. Collin, Roman Cycowski, Asparuh “Ari” Leschnikoff, Robert Biberti and Erwin Bootz.

Cycowski’s name may sound familiar. He was a longtime cantor at Temple Beth Israel in San Francisco, which is now part of Congregation Am Tikvah. Cycowski then served as cantor at Temple Isaiah in Palm Springs for several decades before his death in 1998.

The Comedian Harmonists performed from 1928 to 1934. Their repertoire ranged from folk to classical to popular songs, often performed amid comedic bits.

In their show, during a triumphant appearance at Carnegie Hall in December 1933, the members debated whether to return to Germany amid rising overt antisemitism in their homeland.

The musical is brought to a halt when Albert Einstein, visiting them backstage, issues this warning: “Throughout the course of history, the failure of democracies has set the stage for the success of tyrants. Greed and hatred is a proven formula for success. In the short term, at least. An unfortunate legacy for our species.”

The audience, clearly recognizing the power and timeliness of these words, went wild with applause. The action on stage paused for a moment.

The driving force behind the musical has been songwriter Barry Manilow who developed it with his longtime lyricist, Bruce Sussman. Getting the production to Broadway was a multi-decade work of love for 80-year-old Manilow.

His inspiration for the show came after seeing a 1977 German documentary about the group.

The musical offered little in the way of joyful sing-along moments of “Copacabana” or “Mandy.” How could it? It is about prejudice, Kristallnacht, the Depression, Hitler’s rise and World War II.

The songs were strong. The story was powerful. The cast was talented. The show was good entertainment. But most of all, it was a powerful reminder of what antisemitism and indifference to injustice can do.

For the original Comedian Harmonists, the lessons of their time were clear. First, the Nazis harassed them and banned pieces they performed by Jewish composers. Then, the Nazis forbade them from touring abroad and finally prohibited the group from performing in public at home.

The three Jewish members of the ensemble fled the country. For a time, the three non-Jews were imprisoned and then were sent to the frontlines to fight. The Nazis imprisoned the wife of Bootz, one of the non-Jewish singers. She was a Jew and a Bolshevik.

All six men survived the war.

Various incarnations of the Comedian Harmonists followed, but none was as successful as the original group, and the six men never reunited after parting.

Two of the members came to the U.S. and settled in California: Cycowski and Collin. The latter worked for Northrop, the aircraft manufacturer, and ran a small plastics workshop on the side.

Cycowski, the last surviving member of the sextet, continued to sing until his death.

“Harmony” not only honors the memory of the Comedian Harmonists but also serves as a powerful reminder of injustice in our own unharmonious times.

Correction: An earlier version of this column said Erwin Bootz’s wife, Ursula, died in the Holocaust. In fact, she survived and moved to California.

Many trips to Europe are filled with exhilarating tours of castles and cathedrals, museums and moats, art and architecture. I love these trips, but during my most recent travels in March, I got stuck on two troubling topics.

The first: Where are the proudly proclaimed markers of Jewish life in the great European cities? Why are they — we — erased or at least largely invisible from the tours and guidebooks?

Second, for all the glory and achievement, why hasn’t humankind learned to respect or, at minimum, tolerate religious, ethnic and cultural differences?

These questions quickly bubbled up as my husband and I began a five-country trip.

In Split, Croatia, within a 3rd century Roman fortress stands a tiny synagogue, one of the oldest Sephardic houses of worship still in use. Built in the early 1500s, the Split Synagogue somehow has managed to survive, much like the vines and shrubs that cling to the walls of the ancient fortress.

Accessed via security camera and buzzer, the combined shul/community center is the focal point of worship and solidarity for Split’s 100-plus Jews. It also is a symbol of endurance. On the wall to the left of the bimah is a plaque with the names of 150 Jews killed in the Holocaust. Around the corner is another plaque recalling Split’s own Kristallnacht when Jewish businesses were ransacked and shopkeepers beaten.

In Split, we toured the former mausoleum of Roman emperor Diocletian. In life, Diocletian persecuted Christians. After his death, Christians took revenge, emptying his tomb and that of his wife and converting the mausoleum into a cathedral. The attackers missed the combined tiny tomb of his two daughters. It still sits high atop the cathedral’s entrance, a lonely reminder of parental love and hatred between rival groups.

We next traveled to Mostar, Bosnia-Herzegovina, where 2,000 people died in religious-secular wars as Yugoslavia unraveled with communism’s collapse in the 1990s. Today that city is rebuilding. Yet the scars of war — bombed-out buildings and shrapnel-pocked roads — are everywhere. Also, everywhere are the calls to prayer at mosques and the pealing bells at churches.

As for the Jews? We saw only an empty lot with a Star of David and a menorah on a fence — remnants of a synagogue destroyed during World War II.

In contrast stands Prague’s robust Jewish Quarter in the Czech Republic. Prague’s Jewish community is one of Europe’s oldest recorded, dating back to at least 965 CE. Before WWII, the city’s Jewish population was estimated at 92,000. At least two-thirds of them perished in the Holocaust.

Today while just 2,000 Jews live in Prague, there are synagogues of all denominations, a home for seniors, a kindergarten, kosher restaurants and a hotel with a kosher kitchen. Among the more memorable and humbling sights are the Old Cemetery, which dates to the 15th century and the Pinkas Synagogue, which lists the names of 77,297 Czech Jews who perished in the Holocaust.

Outside of Prague is the city of Terezin and the concentration camp with gates that 150,000 Jews walked through. The guide at Terezin kept calling it a “transit site.” This insistence was unsettling, disturbing, a soft-pedaling of the atrocities that occurred there.

In the Netherlands, we spent a joyous few days seeing tulips galore, 290 Van Gogh paintings, Rembrandt’s home/studio and seven Vermeer masterpieces. Then, we plunged back into our explorations of Jewish history, touring Anne Frank’s hiding place, the just-opened National Holocaust Museum and the Hollandsche Schouwburg, a theater the Nazis used as a deportation center.

More happily, we visited the 17th century Portuguese Synagogue, still an active house of worship and site of one of the world’s oldest Jewish libraries.

After three weeks, we flew home. We had seen the best and the worst of civilization. Tulips and turmoil. Art and anguish.

Unpacking, I continued thinking about my initial questions. Generally, I understand why Jews, along with other non-Christian religions, are not the focus of the “story” of Europe. We are not the majority, not the main interest of most tourists.

It makes me grateful that there is now a thriving industry of Jewish-themed heritage tours. Still, I wish there was greater religious, ethnic and cultural inclusivity in all tours.

Of course, the problem of “uncomfortable” truths also challenges the telling of Jewish and other peoples’ stories. Antisemitism, racism, colonization, the Holocaust … the list is long.

As for my second query about mankind’s failure to constructively engage with one another and peacefully manage conflict, what can I or anyone say?

Still, it occurs to me that my seemingly unrelated questions are connected. If we all learned more about our unique — and simultaneously shared — histories, maybe we would be more tolerant of our differences. And perhaps, someday, that tolerance could foster greater respect and reduce hatred and violence.

Here in the United States, politics are fraying the bonds between families and among friends. How then can strangers of profoundly different backgrounds stand a chance of getting along?

This wasn’t an abstract question for me. It was a concrete concern as I readied our house for a homestay visit of a college exchange student from Jordan.

From the brief biography we received, I knew Abdel observed halal dietary restrictions and did not drink alcohol. In the days before his arrival, my husband and I excitedly planned menus and outings. I imagined topics to discuss — family, customs and life in Jordan.

Then, it occurred to me: We’d eventually talk about the fighting in the Middle East. How would we navigate that topic, coming at it from such wildly different backgrounds?

Then, a second thought: I knew our guest was Muslim, but did he know I was Jewish?

My concern was mostly for him, a 20-year-old, religiously observant, first-time visitor to the U.S. How would he feel staying with Jews? We were fine. We were adults, who had willingly opened our home, but how about him?

Would he, who had merely been assigned a random housing slot, feel blindsided, uncomfortable, overwhelmed or, God forbid, hostile? If he was hostile, would we really be “fine”? Would we all be able to manage his time at our house, or would his stay with us end before the allotted time? What if he refused to stay?

At first excited, I now felt nervous and unsure.

I contacted the exchange program director, who reaffirmed that the whole point of a cultural exchange program was dialogue and education. More specifically, he affirmed that Abdel was “cool” and could handle the religious issue.

So, it was all systems go.

The night before Abdel’s arrival, I stepped into the guest room to do a final balaboosta dusting and pillow fluffing when I saw it — or more precisely — didn’t see it.

Where once behind the bed hung three rows of my beloved record album covers, framed in a perfect grid, now hung only two rows. An entire row was missing and the five holes in the wall patched.

“What the …?” I gasped, bewildered.

Without discussion and for reasons unclear, my husband had “destroyed” my prized record collection display. This was decorating blasphemy!

I stomped/clomped down the hall, heart pounding in a roaring rage, to demand an explanation.

Glancing up from the TV, Jon laughed gently and said, “Oh, sorry. I forgot to tell you. One of your albums struck me as a bridge too far for our guest. You know the Jewish comedy record with the scantily clad woman on the cover? It just seemed so culturally insensitive. So I took it down, but that messed up the design. So, finally, I took down the whole row. I promise I’ll put them up right away when Abdel leaves.”

The “offending” album was “Jewish Comedy Songs” by the Barton Brothers, a postwar Yinglish comedy duo. The record had belonged to my parents. Putting aside the title, the image of the nearly naked babe had, in fact, mortified me as a child. So I can just imagine what our five-times-a-day praying guest would have thought!

I apologized to my husband and praised him for spotting the questionable “art.”

As for the visit with our young Jordanian guest? We had a lot of fun showing him around our community, discovering similarities between our cultures and cuisines, talking about family life, work, culture and religion. I even had a giggly conversation with Abdel’s mother in Amman via FaceTime — although she darted offscreen when my husband walked over to say hello since she wasn’t wearing her hijab.

On Adel’s last morning with us, we finally talked about the Middle East. “Are you sure we should?” Abdel asked, raising a worried eyebrow.

Our views were, not unexpectedly, wildly divergent. Abdel told me Hamas was not “as bad” as we in the West are being told, and that he believes Israelis do not want a two-state solution.

We listened to each other’s views respectfully, holding our tempers and tongues when necessary. Obviously, this 70-year-old Jew and the 20-year-old son of a Palestinian refugee father were not going to alter each other’s opinions over one breakfast of scrambled eggs, turkey bacon and toast.

But at least we proved calm debate could occur. We also proved that two families — even via FaceTime and translation — could find common ground over shared recipes, love of children and belief in the value of education and hard work.

Our young friend has since returned home. We have exchanged emails. Abdel wants to return here for work next summer. And my record album wall grid has been restored … at least until then.

There is no grand moral to this story. All that can be said is that a friendship was formed. Domestic life goes on for two families — one Muslim in Jordan and one Jewish in America. Meanwhile, war wages on in the Middle East.

The holidays are long over. I’ve scraped the menorah of its drippy wax. I’ve washed and ironed the hand-embroidered tablecloth. Only the extra weight and the credit card bills remain as evidence of the festivities. 

I was yearning for inspiration to keep me moving forward in the new year — amid the unsettling political landscape, the troubled state of the world and especially as we marked International Holocaust Remembrance Day on Jan. 27, the 80th anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz.

I needed a hero and, happily, I found one. His name: John Pehle.

A son of German immigrants, Pehle was born in Minnesota in 1909. Shortly after graduating from Yale Law School, he started working at the U.S. Treasury Department.  

At Treasury, he co-authored “The Acquiescence of This Government in the Murder of the Jews,” a 1944 report on the U.S. government’s failure to rescue Europe’s Jewry. Perhaps even worse, the report detailed the government’s efforts to prevent and obstruct such rescue attempts and to block information about Jews from reaching the American public. 

The report title alone was so damning that it was softened to “A Personal Report to the President.”

On Jan. 13, 1944, Pehle and Treasury Secretary Robert Morgenthau presented that report to President Franklin Delano Roosevelt. They also handed him a draft executive order to create a new government agency tasked with the “immediate rescue and relief of the Jews of Europe and other victims of enemy persecution.”

One week later that order was signed and created the War Refugee Board. Pehle was its first director. He was 34 years old. 

He was interviewed shortly after his appointment. 

“I am aware that we face perhaps the greatest humanitarian task of all time. I am aware of the urgency of that task. We must thwart the Nazi program swiftly and decisively,”  Pehle said. “We have no blueprints to guide us. We have no precedents to show us the way. There are no panaceas, no pat formulas to meet these problems.” 

To do the job, Pehle and his self-described staff of “red-tape cutters” negotiated interagency conflicts, streamlined humanitarian aid to Europe, released detailed reports of the horrors in the Auschwitz and Birkenau death camps, financed evacuation efforts, established refugee camps, issued visas, created false ID papers and reportedly even laundered money and paid bribes to Nazi sympathizers via covert agents. In short, he and his staff did everything they could to save lives.

And save lives they did. By the War Refugee Board’s own estimates, the organization saved tens of thousands of European Jews who otherwise would have died at the hands of the Nazis in the last two years of the Second World War. According to some historians, the number of lives saved exceeded 200,000.

Yet, Pehle — a man whose whistleblowing and leadership played a central role in every life saved — was modest in the extreme. 

“What we did was little enough. It was late. Late and little, I would say. Looking back at the board, the resources available were too small to deal effectively with the problem,” he later said. “But we were able to change the policy of the United States, and we were able to help the private agencies, and we were able to change the moral position of the United States in this area.”

After the war, Pehle entered private practice as a tax attorney. He died of cancer in 1999.

In 2006, Pehle was posthumously awarded a Congressional Gold Medal “in recognition of his contributions to the nation in helping rescue Jews and other minorities from the Holocaust during World War II.”

You can read more about Pehle in Rebecca Erbelding’s “Rescue Board: The Untold Story of America’s Efforts to Save the Jews of Europe.” Her book, published in 2018, won several accolades, including a National Jewish Book Award. Her research also played a major role in Ken Burns’ 2022 docuseries “The U.S. and the Holocaust.”

I’ve been thinking a lot about Pehle these days as the new administration restricts immigration and begins mass deportations. I wonder where someone of Pehle’s courage and conviction might fit in. 

His example gives me the courage to face the challenges ahead, large and small. As always, Jews must strive to create “a shenere un besere velt,” Yiddish for “a more beautiful and better world.”

I like to start my day with a kvetch and a stretch. I get my aching mind going and then my aching body in gear. Yet as any “almost oldster” knows, resilience is the key to getting through life. 

Recently — coincidentally on the same day — I met two models of resilience who supercharged me with inspiration and delight.

The first one I met was at dinner. My husband and I joined a long-ago work colleague who was in town with his wife. We had never before met the woman (whom I’ll call Linda for the sake of privacy). Linda is undergoing chemotherapy.

We spotted Linda first at the restaurant. She was wearing a funny, furry, floppy hat, making her hard to miss on a sunny day in a casual, all-you-can-eat sushi restaurant.

Even before we sat down and introductions were made, Linda rushed to say, “I have hair. Lots of hair, but I just got a massage, and my hair’s a mess. That’s why I’m wearing a hat.”

That hair comment was the only reference to Linda’s health made during the entire meal. The woman and her spouse were completely focused on the moment and the meal.

They were the most lively, joyous people I have spent an evening with in a long time. They spoke of their travels and the books they’re reading, and they peppered us with questions about our lives, work and interests. 

Linda took the lead in ordering. She ordered sushi like she was preparing for a party of 20. The waiter even asked if more people were joining us and if he should move us to a larger table!

Smiling, she said, “No, I just love sushi.”

And, wow, could that woman eat sushi. I never saw anyone eat like she did. Gusto is too mild a word for the way she chowed down. I, who shudder at the sight of fish, cooked or raw, giggled as she oohed and aahed nonstop.

When the meal — including three kinds of mochi for dessert — ended, Linda jumped up and said, “Gotta go.”

I worried that she was sick from eating so much, but no, she explained, she had just gotten a notice that a package she ordered had just been delivered.

“I never was good at crafts,” she said, “I can’t knit or sew, but I just read about punch sewing, which is a dumbed-down craft. I’m going to try it. I’m making coasters.”

And with that, our ebullient new friend and her husband sped off into the night.

May we all, in the face of life-threatening disease, live so fully, getting massages, wearing outrageous hats, eating heartily and trying new projects. That’s resilience.

Two hours later, I headed over to a sleep laboratory for a sleep study. That’s where I met my second resilience inspiration.

In this instance, it was a young person — the 27-year-old technician who works the night shift at the sleep lab. She has the laborious job of attaching the bazillion sticky wires to patients’ heads and bodies to track their brain waves and breathing. And then she monitors them throughout the night. 

Now, attaching those wires is no speedy task, and so Yolanda (not her real name) and I had a long time to talk. And talk we did. My young tech told me all about her life. She’s the mother of two, including one child who has a developmental disorder. She is in the middle of a second divorce, works full time and is going to nursing school. 

Was she exhausted? Bitter? Struggling? No. No. No. Just the opposite. She was all spunk and joy. She told me proudly that her 8-year-old son had just learned to say “mama” and how much he loves dinosaurs. She told me how much she loves her job and about her pride in going back to school. She spoke of her gratitude toward her parents for helping with her children so she could continue working toward her goals.

Now, as I age, I realize that resiliency is the skill we all need to cultivate even if our obstacles seemingly pale in comparison to those of others. We all have to be heroes of our own stories.