Bear with me, just once more. I promise not to mention Jews again for one full year.
In the ‘40s, just after the Second World War, the Allies and the USA were quite ambivalent toward helping Jewish refugees. The robust corps of fascist types, back then, including such celebrities as Charles Lindbergh and Sir Henry Ford, frankly admired Hitler and campaigned to have the U.S. take his side. Throughout the ‘30s and the ‘40s, here within the U.S.A., genteel society, e.g., exclusive neighborhoods, prestigious law firms, country clubs and top-notch universities, were simply closed to Jews. (The words genteel and gentile are neighbors, as you know.) The Jews were an embarrassment, and like the Blacks down South, were not thought fully human, after all. One hopeful part of giving Jews a country of their own, at least within the minds of those who wanted rid of them, was that They might leave here and go live there, inshallah.
Since I was born in 1941, my first few years on earth took place during the war. I was too young to have been told about the camps and crematoria in Europe at the time. Back then, no one could say whether Hitler might really succeed, but if he conquered Europe and then came for the U.S., as was his plan, my parents knew things could get pretty dangerous for us. But then, we won.
In 1959 after my college freshman year, I bought an army-surplus rucksack, sewed a U.S. flag on top, and hitchhiked around Europe by myself. In those days most of Europe still respected the U.S. for having saved their ass in WW2. Therefore, the flag might help.
One rainy day in Germany, I stood beside the autobahn with my thumb out. Soon, a late-model off-white Mercedes sped by; then the brake lights went on and the driver backed up. The driver and his passenger were white, but with dark skin and thick black hair. They seemed like brothers or some sort of kin. Not German, from the look of it. Both guys were wearing coats and ties and spoke good English, though accented.
After a few moments of general chat, including the usual “Where are you from?” the passenger turned half-around as if to study me, and said, “You are Yooeesh?” I was a bit surprised, and even shocked, but I said yes. (A lot less scared than I’d have been if they were gaunt blond Aryans.) By saying “yes” it was as if I’d thrown a magic switch. These guys were Dutch, but Jewish, too, and started to regale me with accounts of all the awful stuff they’d seen during the war, when Nazis occupied the Netherlands—including having watched their parents sub-machinegunned on their own front lawn.
These guys were full of righteous rage, blind hatred of their enemies. The Nazis were alive inside of them. Their faces both got red. Their voices shook. The passenger, now crazed, still facing me, concluded with a burst of seething bile: “WE WILL NEVER FORGIVE THEM!” he yelled. To which the driver added, pounding on the steering wheel: NEVER!!!
To say the least, it seemed surreal. I didn’t know what to say or feel, beside discomfort, horror, and profound embarrassment. I nodded several times, but didn’t speak, intimidated by their anger, and aware that I had nothing real to say. While dazzled by their passion and their scary bitterness, my brain recalled that I had read, and several times been told: Forgiveness is the only thing that works —the only way to still the vengeful, bloody pendulum, which feeds on rancor, rage, and pain. It would have been obscene / presumptuous for a naïve twit like me to lecture them, who’d been through hell, on abstract virtues—or on anything. So I just sat there mortified and mute. Thank God I got out shortly after that. I thanked them for the ride, of course, and mumbled something hollow to acknowledge and express regret for their extensive pain. They nodded, said, “Goodbye. Good luck!” and quickly sped away, while I stuck out my thumb again.
Forgiveness IS the only way to break the nasty tit-for-tat, but, if you have even one drop of honest animal in you, how can you just accept such injury—at least before the wound has time to heal? I’m sad to say I do not know, which makes me much like Netanyahu, dear Hamas, and maybe you, mon frere?
Martin Levowitz can be contacted at brightoaf@msn.com