OVERWHELMED BY THE SUFFERING IN THE WORLD--NOW UKRAINE

 Now our attention focuses on Ukraine. I have made it my responsibility to follow this conflict in the news, since the latest fighting several years ago.  I feel a connection, since I visited Lviv, Ukraine in 2019, as part of a Human Rights trip to Poland. We visited Lviv because it had been a center for Jewish life before the Holocaust. 

As I experienced with the Poles, I observed the Ukrainians to be resilient, tough, and forward thinking, in spite of the trauma that has affected multiple generations. We stayed in a modern hotel in Lviv with updated food choices. Clearly, the employees aimed to demonstrate their progress. The food was tasty, appetizing, and suited to contemporary sensibilities. 

Our guide explained the modern history of the Ukraine, and we visited sites that explained the horrors caused by the Nazis, Soviets, and Russians. The synagogue was a wreck. I understand that the larger Jewish communities shifted to the capital and other southern cities, now in extreme danger. 

Standard of living in Lviv was not up to that of Europe or the United States. However, construction and the presence of businesses catering to modern society popped up throughout the city. The inhabitants moved about with focus and purpose.

People I know express shock, anger, and sadness at the present war. However, the former President again uttered seditious comments which I am certain his base has chewed and spit out. The armed conflict will change the balance and nature of international relations. 

I cannot imagine the fear, anxiety, and uncertainty of people who must run for their lives, with small children and the elderly. 

Not only do I hope for the safety of the innocent and the bravery of the Ukrainian resisters, but I wish for Americans to realize that we too must remain vigilant for our Democracy, develop more sensitivity to those in distant lands, and appreciate the life we lead.

pictures from trip to Lviv, 2019; the children in the upper left had lost a parent to the conflict with Russia

© 2022 Karen Levi

Who Cares?

 Various media sources reported that some hours after International Holocaust Day, a suspect--without a home or some such euphemism--spray painted over 100 swastikas and racist epithets on the facade of Union Station. The national news media did not find the story sufficiently exciting to bring it to the attention of citizens. CNN, local news, and the Washington Post sent out short blurbs on the event. 

Why? I suppose something else caught their attention on that day. Oh, I know, a "cyclone bomb"was blowing up the eastern seaboard, previously known as  a "Nor'easter." The old time fisherman and boatmen of the New England coast laughed in their graves over this nonsense. Massachusetts and Maine are known for wicked storms. So people in the D.C. area stocked up on toilet paper, bread, eggs, and milk while there were over one hundred symbols painted on the outside of Union Station, the train depot mere steps from the U.S. Capitol. "Never mind, oh well, who cares." Merely defacement of public property I was told, when I mentioned the situation to a leader in the Jewish Community of the metropolitan D.C. area. Disturbing yes, but not a hate crime.

I, for one, do not care if drawing swastikas on public property is a misdemeanor or meets the defintion of "hate crime." What bothers me is the uptick of obvious hatred in our country while civic authorities dismiss certain actions and blow others out of proportion. Certainly, graffiti is not a bombing, shooting, or taking of hostages. No one was hurt. However, hate is expressed in symbols, pictures, and words. Amtrak police may not care particularly, and someone is covering up a lack of security.  But swastikas are swastikas and send a strong message. 

© 2022 Karen Levi

https://www.wusa9.com/article/news/local/dc/union-station-swastikas/65-b3f5c8d6-0d21-4909-860c-9f75eef93503

WASTE NOT WANT NOT

  Just today, my sister said to her husband, "it's war, we have to eat the granola." An inside joke to be sure, my sister refers to past events which are no laughing matter. In addition to "war," we refer to "Shanghai," to describe practices refugees resorted to in wartime China. 

Our mother was a stateless person in Shanghai throughout World War II, a relatively safe haven for German and Austrian Jews. During the war, my mother and her compatriots subsisted on a starvation diet of soy milk, bread, beans, potatoes, turnips, chicory coffee and whatever else could be wangled. Not only was there a food shortage but also rampant inflation. Sound familiar? A bit, maybe.

We see shortages in the markets and inflation due to the pandemic, though insignificant compared to wartime in China. Nonetheless, one ought to consume available products and cease wasting food. A well-known phenomenom, Americans discard comestible and spoiled provender daily. Refuse from edibles hastens the deterioration of the planet, as dump sites overflow.

The daughters of immigrants, my sister, Connie, and I belong to the "clean plate club." As children, we gobbled what our mother served, for the most part. She calculated and cooked the precise amount of food she considered appropriate for our family. We laugh now when we share the experience of a good meal--"I ate every bite." Waiters often remark, "I guess you liked the food," said in good-natured jest. To avoid overeating, we request carry-out containers. We bring the leftovers home, including rice. 

I complain about the empty shelves, but then I remember the past and present reality. Afghanistan suffers from a food crisis. Some Americans go to bed hungry. If we cannot find plain flavored water, at our favorite store, buy seltzer; if no romaine lettuce, substitute spinach; if no Honeycrisp apples, try Kiku; no black shoe polish, live with it and so on. If supermarkets and pharmacies in the United States sold half their inventory, people from elsewhere would still gawk at the selection. 

I feel ashamed about my throw-away mentality. I try to squander less; but, I am a product of the consumer society. Recycle, reuse, donate, repair--my mottos--discouraged by businesses. Local governments work diligently to reverse the trend; but for now, do what you can--eat what you find in your pantry, refrigerator and market.

© 2022Karen Levi

Wake Up

 The new year began a day ago. I read an article about devices for measuring time--for example, grandfather clock, sundial, metronome, stopwatch, timer, apple watch, and the atomic clock.  I decided to record the pandemic in shortages, similar to my count of days of the virus, alternatives to documenting time.

The pandemic has been with us for two years. We enter our third winter of the virus. I began counting days of the virus on or about March 13, 2020, approximately when Governor Hogan announced a complete shut-down on the emergency alert system. FYI--we are on day #652. 

So back to shortages which seem to be completely random. In 2020, we experienced shortages of toilet paper, wipes, paper towels, and hand sanitizer. I clearly remember the Friday before I began counting. My friend in Irvine, CA was desperate for Purell hand sanitizer, at the time the only brand we recognized. I thought, what the hell, how difficult could it be to locate the stuff which I had scoffed about for years. Germs are good. Dirty is better than too clean. We need to strengthen our immunity system. Needless to say, my daughter, Isabel, and I never found hand sanitizer that blustery March day. On a whim or call it a premonition, I bought small bottles of hand sanitizer in February at Bath and Body Works. So we had some, but none to ship to California.

I picture the images in my mind from that time. The news reported that "older Chinese men" in a far-off province in China became sick and died. I felt reassured, since I am not a man or Chinese. Of course, I had no inkling of what was to come. When the first shutdown occurred, it seemed frightening but surreal, like a blizzard warning. Huh, we'll stay inside, be safe, and all will be well soon. 

A few days before the Purell shortage, Isabel and I tried to track down medical gloves and masks. We found gloves in Virginia but masks, no chance. That was the day, Isabel and I attended our last performance in a large indoor theater. Asking for masks was met with nervous laughter by sales clerks.

Luckily, in the early days of COVID-19. we found cheap paper masks sold individually from behind the counter, $1.00 a piece, at our small local CVS. Little did I know that masks--did I say masks?--would become a fashion accessory. One had to consider color; material--cotton or paper; theme--holiday, season, political; and source--country, department store, seamstress, a talented friend, or Amazon? Now we buy KN95 masks by the box. I even succumbed to purchasing self tests. 

Shortages--black shoe polish, bleach for color wash, tuna, sandals, holiday decorations, all types of furniture, certain brands of water and soda, canned soup, pasta, multi-vitamins, facial tissue--examples-- nonetheless an indication of something amiss. No American today experiences true hardship when the shelves seem empty. As a consumer, I feel curious. Rationing and a lack of necessities has not occurred in my lifetime. Some Americans do go hungry due to other reasons.

Supply-chain difficulties, including a decrease in longshoremen, truck drivers, and factory workers result in the gaps in the neatly displayed items on supermarket shelves. Are the workers sick, taking unemployment rather than low wages and poor benefits? Probably, yes. Causes include partisan politics; reliance on cheap foreign goods; and a long-standing trend of de-regulation, trickle-down economics, and tax incentives for corporations and the super-wealthy. 

A lack of awareness causes me angst. Some fellow citizens do not read warning signs--among them able bodied people unwilling to work for nothing. Leaders shy away from strict short-term mandates for vaccines and masks, so the variants of the virus continue to cause havoc. We have a Bill of Rights; however, our founding mothers and fathers certainly would not condone harming one another. We prize freedom of choice, but should a few obtain options and opportunities without regard to others?

Generosity and hospitality are not in short supply. Many Americans give their time, money, and food to the needy every day. But heeding warning by curtailing appetites seems to be impossible. What about driving the humongous SUVs; flying helter skelter anywhere to "get away," purchasing luxury residences in cities around the world, and non-stop partying and bar hopping? Why do homeowners remain nearsighted to the need for solar panels, the pollution caused by natural gas, or the use of a gas guzzling vehicle to drive a significant distance to bike or hike? Americans rush to buy generators in case of a blackout due to the fear of discomfort; extra freezers to store food for doomsday; and guns to protect and defend, But they do not consider the risk of accidental shootings and the "opportunity" for suicide attempts, as well as the pollution caused by extra large appliances, especially those hooked up to gas lines.

A few days ago, I saw videos of raging wildfires in Colorado in late December! The sky displayed an eery orange glow, and the landscape parched to a dull brown. The area, adjacent to Boulder, is not the desert, yet it resembled one. The video switched to a panicky scene in Chucky Cheese. Young families scrambled to grab coats and children and ran out into a weird wind/smokestorm. The families jumped into their SUV's, young ones safely buckled in, and drove off. The kids stared out the windows. No one said a word. If this does not scare you, I am dumbfounded.  

© 2022Karen Levi

Not a Wild Goose Chase

 

Put simply, I cannot get my mother out of me. Why was Mom frequently correct? Typical North American psychologists and social workers agree that individuation and separation constitute important developmental stage. Baby Boomers and Generation X strive to differentiate from their parents. The trajectory for Millenials and younger groups confounds me, (though probably similar). 

My parents were immigrants, double the trouble. First generation offspring automatically discard foreign superstitions and generational differences into the dumpster of ridiculous nonsense. My mother disparaged the use of plastic bags for storing foods which I ignored--turns out she had a point. Mother refused to do take-out meals, especially drinks in the car, an enduring habit of mine. Yes, sitting down with a non-disposable cup and saucer in a cafe or at home facilitates relaxation and mindfulness. My generation and the succeeding one enriched their young children with a myriad of activities. Certainly, such practice exposes the kids to a wider world. But independent play, as my parents' generation encouraged, without adult intervention, enables self-reliance. No argument there. My mother recycled before it was a sound environmental policy. I need not continue, since the examples stretch on into infinity. If you include grandparents; fresh air, home cooked meals, walking, not too much T.V., and Saturday opera from the Met on the radio add to the list of worthwhile suggestions which I have embraced.

My parents maintained contacts with people around the world. The names and vital information were printed legibly in little leather address books, found in my parents' and grandmothers' possessions after their deaths. From A-Z, in their proper sections, one discovered--B for Bloch in London, or S for Stern in Johannesburg. My grandparents used the addresses for a back-up plan in their escape from the Nazis. 

By the time I grew up, my elders, still in possession of the well-used address books, asked me to ring "so-and-so" when I was in New York, for example. I dreaded those cold calls, feeling extremely awkward, insecure, and annoyed to bother strangers who may or may not be interested in me.

 In 2017, my sister and I accompanied my mother to Santa Fe, or rather she took us. Our mom removed a dog-eared postcard with an artist's name and number from her travel bag. 

She announced, "I'd like to contact this artist."

My sister and I groaned. The situation triggered my trauma of phoning strangers."This card is an advertisement. Why would you think the artist would see you personally?" I said too emphatically, since I dreaded the eventual phone call. My sister drove and I, relegated to the backseat, made the call. After several attempts--"Mom she's unavailable!" I yelled, while making faces that my sister could see in the rearview mirror. 

"Try again, just one more time," she pleaded.

So I did. We connected with the artist who directed us cheerfully to her home studio the following afternoon. My sister drove to a lovely residential area of Santa Fe with cactus lined streets. We arrived at our destination, and I said, "ok, Mom, here we are."

"Oh great, let's go." She replied.

We sisters refused to leave the car, believing this to be silly endeavor. Our mother left the car and walked up the driveway to be greeted by the artist. After five minutes or so, the two returned and beckoned us to the studio. We agreed reluctantly. Exploring an actual artist's studio, with a view of a beautiful backyard, peaked my interest. Another few minutes passed, and we realized this was not a wasted field trip to a boring place.

That is the day we met Sandra Duran Wilson, a talented, innovative artist and teacher, certainly "the real deal." Prolific, she creates pieces of art in multi media. First and foremost, she is gracious, empathic, and down-to-earth, not at all like other artists I met that day in the artsy section of the town. 

My mother had found Sandra in an art show on her first trip to New Mexico, which explained the wrinkled post card. The day we visited, mother, at the age of nearly 90, bought the second of two of the artist's works. I purchased two of Duran-Wilson's paintings on the Internet last week. Ms. Duran-Wilson originates from the vivid surroundings of the American Southwest that inspired such artists as Georgia O'Keefe and writer Willa Cather. 

So our intensely curious, intelligent, and old-fashioned mother was right again!

(Sisters flanking mother, in case you think we are all sisters!)

© 2021Karen Levi 

Where Do They Come From?

 How funny and strange to see people who seem to have walked out of a different century. Today, I stopped for a woman at a crosswalk in a small shopping area, pushing a cart filled with groceries. She was older--but how old could she be compared to me? Not that old. The woman wore a scarf on her head knotted under her chin and what appeared to be an apron over pants and a thick woolen sweater. All in black, not your typical Saturday afternoon outfit for a female in a Maryland suburb of Washington D.C. She crossed the street slowly, as if there was nothing special about taking a Giant shopping cart out of the parking lot. Other people occasionally take carts off the property, but her posture and movement were different. She was crouched over a bit and pushed the heavy load. Somehow, she brought to my mind a woman working her way home in a small European village. 

Her husband or male companion followed. He struck out his hands to halt traffic. I already had stopped my car. This action reminded me of manual traffic control in a tiny town without lights or signs. He, too, seemed out of our world. I thought--Tevye or Zorba. He wore a black fisherman's cap, baggy trousers, and a heavy woolen sweater. His shoes were clunky, and he walked slowly with slightly bent knees. 

When I see people like these--minding their own business, not bothering a soul--I think where did they come from? Maybe somewhere in the former Soviet Union where time has stood still. This couple was Caucasian, so I ruled out Asia and Africa.

I used to live in a area of North Bethesda that has a relatively high population of Sephardic Jews. The reason is the sephardic synagogue. Nearly everyday, a group of elderly men and women congregated nearby. They strolled, shopped, and perched on benches to converse. I say elderly, but I am what is considered elderly. These individuals dressed in a fashion that I associated with my grandmothers. The women wore scarves on their heads, skirts, and proper shoes, for example plain pumps with a small heel or tied oxfords. The men, weatherworn and wrinkled, wore caps, slacks, and zipper jackets. 

Their slow pace seemed to hearken back to fifty or more years ago. They did not speak English. I could not catch what language they spoke. Old world emanated from them. But where is the old world? We are one world now. Had they lived in a village in Turkey, Portugal, Georgia near the Black Sea? I am mystified. No one I know strolls, shops, strolls, and sits on benches.

Healthy--lucky--American adults in their seventies and eighties walk for exercise quickly--swinging their arms in an effort to increase heart rate and wearing athletic outfits. If we talk, we converse as we move, somewhat breathlessly I might add. Benches? No time for that. When we shop, we usually load groceries into a car, carry our food back to our nearby residences in reusable bags, or pull a brightly colored Whole Foods shopping cart, purchased for $29.99.

The self-sufficient friendly "aliens" I notice are, in fact, models for how we should live, especially those of us "of a certain age." We should slow down and stroll everywhere for our health but also for the environment. Strolling decreases the chances for tripping over curbs, bumps, holes, and uneven pavement. The benches are around us for a purpose. Why are we not using them? Where are we hurrying to? 

I confess, I am trying to stuff in as much living as is possible before disaster strikes, as in illness. But are we not living in a fairly disastrous world? I think, if only I do this, that, and the next activity. There is no stopping time. I am what I am. I am acting as I think is best. But, I keep going. The elderly folks who seem so old-fashioned, certainly my age, probably view me as the alien. Why is she in a rush, they might ask? Slow down, say hello, and smell the roses. I do smell flowers and notice nature, but I keep moving rapidly.

 

   

© 2021 Karen Levi

EMMY

 Her name was Emmy. I know little about her. She was my great aunt, the older sister of my grandfather Karl. I never met him either, since he died in Shanghai--a stateless refugee--before my parents had met. He might have told me about his older sister. 

No one to blame for the silence, I suppose. My mother left Germany when she was 11 years old. Her scant memories of this woman were the remaining tidbits of a living, breathing person. Thankfully, I possessed the prescience to ask my mother about Emmy during my mother's last years. My grandmother Kaethe--who lived until I was in my early 20's--never mentioned her sister-in-law who nagged her to dress more stylish. Omi Kaethe suffered severe depression and enumerable losses. Possibly, Emmy represented one more tragedy my grandmother could not bear. 

Emmy sent her teenage son, Hans, to Shanghai before World War II broke out; my mother knew Hans in Shanghai. I met him in San Francisco as a young child, but he died early on, in the late 1950's. Hans and Elfie, his wife, had a son Robert. His wife, who I knew throughout my childhood, remarried. Their son, Robert, appeared at my wedding in 1976. That was the last anyone in the family saw him. 

I am sure Emmy had friends in Berlin. She and her mother, my grandmother Klara, owned a fancy dress shop. Emmy and Klara exemplified the independent, entrepreneural, and fashionable women of the 1920's and early 1930's, a new demographic in post World War I Germany. I picture Emmy tall, handsome, and dressed in the 1920's style of cloche hats and knee length dresses with dropped waists. I love the style and emulated the mode in the 1980's when Laura Ashley clothes were the rage. I continue to wear cloche hats . 

Emmy had relationships with men, as evidenced by her last name Brodnitz. Who was he? Emmy bore a son, Hans, with someone, but who? Hans was known as Hans Mayer. Emmy must have been a dutiful daughter, since she did not leave her elderly mother alone after the war began.  She knew to send her son away though. I discovered evidence that she traveled around Germany, perhaps to evade the Nazis. Her end is terrible, sent to Estonia on a train and shot behind a depot. The Nazis tried desperately to destroy each and every Jew. However, they failed. I am here to remember.

My sister and I arranged to have a Stolperstein placed in front of her last residence in Charlottenburg--Wilmersdorf. a fashionable neighborhood in Berlin. A few people attended the ceremony today. Gunther Demning, the artist responsible for the Stolpersteine project, personally placed her stone in the cobblestone sidewalk. We say the Kaddish and her name. One of millions.

Emmy's mother Klara as a young woman. I do not have a picture of Emmy.

Stolperstein for Emmy Brodnitz (nee Wolffheim) 11/9/2021

© 2021 Karen Levi