minor
. (Herr Rellstab renamed it “Moonlight Sonata” because it reminded him of moonlight over Lake Lucerne. But I always thought of it as Papa’s song. Sad and dreamy.) Mama rushed forward, kissing Papa, and he kissed her all about the face while Nanny took me upstairs to biscuits and tea.
Jews lived outside. Christians, like us, lived inside. Surrounded by Jews. Yet, my grandparents were Jewish; Mama’s and Papa’s friends were Jews. “I converted to Christianity to marry Mama,” explained Papa. “But I refuse to pass.” He was Jewish by culture; Christian, in religion. “But none of this really matters, little one. Individualism is beyond culture.”
I didn’t understand him then. I don’t understand him now. Even the choices that I thought were all about me—were they? Or were they merely reflections of sweeping social change, of my own self-delusions, of Frederick?
Abolitionist. Suffragette. Shadow wife
.
I do remember the next morning, packing my clothes, my books, my favorite doll. I wanted to give them to the butcher’s girl. Mama hugged me and Papa called me his dear little girl.
Mama consented to a few clothes but took away the books. “The child can’t read.”
I was shocked. All afternoon I cried. Not reading stories was great poverty to me.
At ten, I asked directly, forthrightly: “Why don’t people like Jews?”
It was Mama who kissed my fingertips in turn. “Religiousdifferences. Belief in an Aryan superiority. Nationalism without compassion. If each German could love one neighbor as I love your father, there’d be no room for hate.” Then, she pretended to bite my thumb. I laughed and squeezed her tight.
1830. Pogroms had begun.
Only inside our house could you escape violence. But sometimes it’d come right up to our door.
Of the four of us, Papa and Ludmilla looked the most Jewish. Ashkenazi heritage. Both tall, dark, thin. Ludmilla would sometimes have eggs splattered on her. Papa would come home, suit torn, hat missing. Bruises on his face and arms. Mother and I could roam unmolested throughout Germany. Only our Jewish neighbors knew us, and many would mutter “half-breed,” as I passed by. This was nothing compared to Papa’s and Sister’s trials. Ludmilla felt resentful. Sometimes, she’d pinch me. Or cut my best gown. I never told.
“Germany is a great nation,” Papa believed fervently. “In time, it will give up these cultural prejudices and realize Jews are as patriotic as anyone.”
1835. Pogroms again. For weeks, months, dark clouds would consume Papa. He’d barely eat or sleep. Even pretty Mama, whom he loved more than anything, couldn’t cajole him with her kisses.
“You children are our experiment,” Papa said. “Our proof that enlightenment is a moral, not cultural choice. Everyone is equal.” But even as he said the words, a stain of sadness would rest upon his face and mouth. He’d drink another glass of schnapps.
It was Papa’s choice to convert for Mama. Papa’s choice to change our name from Assur to Assing. Papa’schoice to live in a Jewish community. Yet, as I grew older, I wondered what choices Papa would’ve made if he looked blond and blue-eyed like me? I dared not speak these thoughts aloud.
Just as Ludmilla and I dared not go to school and endure endless taunts. Mama taught us things no conservative German would condone: “Life is for the senses”; “Passion over propriety”; “Great literature instead of morality tales”; “Nature is the heart of a woman.”
Summers, we traveled abroad. We met George Sand (how I adored her). Visited Keats’s grave in Italy. Weeping, Mama made us recite
The Eve of St. Agnes:
Awake! arise! my love, and fearless be
For o’er the southern moors I have a home for thee
.
Traveling abroad, we were always happy. No questions about identity, religion, or morality. All of us equally free to follow our hearts’ desire.
For my fourteenth birthday, Mama gave me an ink drawing of America.
. (Herr Rellstab renamed it “Moonlight Sonata” because it reminded him of moonlight over Lake Lucerne. But I always thought of it as Papa’s song. Sad and dreamy.) Mama rushed forward, kissing Papa, and he kissed her all about the face while Nanny took me upstairs to biscuits and tea.
Jews lived outside. Christians, like us, lived inside. Surrounded by Jews. Yet, my grandparents were Jewish; Mama’s and Papa’s friends were Jews. “I converted to Christianity to marry Mama,” explained Papa. “But I refuse to pass.” He was Jewish by culture; Christian, in religion. “But none of this really matters, little one. Individualism is beyond culture.”
I didn’t understand him then. I don’t understand him now. Even the choices that I thought were all about me—were they? Or were they merely reflections of sweeping social change, of my own self-delusions, of Frederick?
Abolitionist. Suffragette. Shadow wife
.
I do remember the next morning, packing my clothes, my books, my favorite doll. I wanted to give them to the butcher’s girl. Mama hugged me and Papa called me his dear little girl.
Mama consented to a few clothes but took away the books. “The child can’t read.”
I was shocked. All afternoon I cried. Not reading stories was great poverty to me.
At ten, I asked directly, forthrightly: “Why don’t people like Jews?”
It was Mama who kissed my fingertips in turn. “Religiousdifferences. Belief in an Aryan superiority. Nationalism without compassion. If each German could love one neighbor as I love your father, there’d be no room for hate.” Then, she pretended to bite my thumb. I laughed and squeezed her tight.
1830. Pogroms had begun.
Only inside our house could you escape violence. But sometimes it’d come right up to our door.
Of the four of us, Papa and Ludmilla looked the most Jewish. Ashkenazi heritage. Both tall, dark, thin. Ludmilla would sometimes have eggs splattered on her. Papa would come home, suit torn, hat missing. Bruises on his face and arms. Mother and I could roam unmolested throughout Germany. Only our Jewish neighbors knew us, and many would mutter “half-breed,” as I passed by. This was nothing compared to Papa’s and Sister’s trials. Ludmilla felt resentful. Sometimes, she’d pinch me. Or cut my best gown. I never told.
“Germany is a great nation,” Papa believed fervently. “In time, it will give up these cultural prejudices and realize Jews are as patriotic as anyone.”
1835. Pogroms again. For weeks, months, dark clouds would consume Papa. He’d barely eat or sleep. Even pretty Mama, whom he loved more than anything, couldn’t cajole him with her kisses.
“You children are our experiment,” Papa said. “Our proof that enlightenment is a moral, not cultural choice. Everyone is equal.” But even as he said the words, a stain of sadness would rest upon his face and mouth. He’d drink another glass of schnapps.
It was Papa’s choice to convert for Mama. Papa’s choice to change our name from Assur to Assing. Papa’schoice to live in a Jewish community. Yet, as I grew older, I wondered what choices Papa would’ve made if he looked blond and blue-eyed like me? I dared not speak these thoughts aloud.
Just as Ludmilla and I dared not go to school and endure endless taunts. Mama taught us things no conservative German would condone: “Life is for the senses”; “Passion over propriety”; “Great literature instead of morality tales”; “Nature is the heart of a woman.”
Summers, we traveled abroad. We met George Sand (how I adored her). Visited Keats’s grave in Italy. Weeping, Mama made us recite
The Eve of St. Agnes:
Awake! arise! my love, and fearless be
For o’er the southern moors I have a home for thee
.
Traveling abroad, we were always happy. No questions about identity, religion, or morality. All of us equally free to follow our hearts’ desire.
For my fourteenth birthday, Mama gave me an ink drawing of America.
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