Sins of the Fathers

During an emotional visit to Pearl Harbor’s U.S.S. Arizona Memorial years ago, I recall being surprised and somewhat offended at the presence of Japanese tourists.

My initial reaction was, "How dare they?" Turning to my companion, “That would be like my traveling to Hiroshima wearing my high-school cardigan.”

OK, so I wasn’t even alive when the attack on Pearl Harbor occurred, and yes, I drive a Toyota. But, Dad was a WWII Navy man prior to our family’s relocation to Los Alamos…. where my ‘68 high-school yearbook depicts a group of smiling teenagers sitting astride replicas of Fat Man and Little Boy. Never mind that my father was merely a security officer for the then-Atomic Energy Commission.... I’m enormously proud of the work those men (and women) did ~ and continue to do on the “Hill.” (I’ve digressed, but you get the irony.)

So there in the middle of a Hawaiian funk I missed it, but later learned that those “interloper tourists” at the Memorial were spotted silently weeping.
Color me, ashamed.

Fast-forward, 2009:
A chronic nail-biter, I’m reduced to concealing my 10 ragged stubs under a pretty acrylic coat. French tips, if you must know. :)

Unfortunately, this disguise requires bi-weekly maintenance; hence, my carrot-and-stick dilemma. Am I the only lady of a “certain age” who feels uncomfortable patronizing the Vietnamese nail salons that have cropped up everywhere? I mean, come on! Seems we go to sleep and viola’ the next morning, here’s another!

Call me paranoid (OK, I’m paranoid), but I’d enjoy the experience lots more if it didn’t involve some impossibly pretty techie taking my hands in hers … shaking her head at the chewed cuticles … then giggling with her co-workers in a foreign tongue for the next 45 minutes. One might reason, they’re just recalling “Meet the Fokkers” … I don’t think so.

Once after being nicked by a tech’s Dremel tool (without benefit of an "I'm sorry"), I made a note to ask Hubby… did he pick up any Vietnamese dialect during his 60’s tour of duty? Then, “You suppose they’re too young to understand ‘Charlie’”? Always the Tolerant One, he just shakes his head … you don’t even want to go there. (I hate it when he’s right.)

So, I originally began this post a couple months ago, but really want to say that I’ve found a new Happy Place to take my fingers. Yes, it’s apparently owned-and-operated by Vietnamese, but these folks speak mostly English and giggle lots less. In fact, my favorite tech is a lady about my age with a sweet, sweet soul. We visit about many things, but our histories stay hidden. I reckon that’s for the best.

One Silent Night

Note: I photocopied this article several years ago. 'Think it appeared in my folks' December issue of Readers Digest? Unfortunately, I cannot locate the exact source --so to credit the author, an individual named "Shlomo" (I don't know if that's his first or last name).
Still, it's message so moved me.....and I hope it does you, as well.

Of the narrow escapes my sister, Judith, and I had from discovery during our year in the orphanage, one stands out particularly. It was Christmas of 1944 -- a white Christmas, with snow falling outside, but warmth within from extra coal and larger food portions. We even had meat -- meat! A Christmas tree stood in the corner, and we children were seated on both sides of a long table nicely arranged with plates. We were singing Christmas carols, their simple and pleasant melodies totally out of context of the savage war that had been raging for six consecutive Christmases.

The pleasant feeling of food in our stomachs loosened our tongues, and contrary to the usual silence enforced during meals we were permitted by the sisters to converse quietly. Boys and girls were separated as usual, but Judith and I could see and smile at each other.

Then suddenly, the door opens and Mother Superior enters, accompanied by a German officer. Judging by his uniform he must be at least a general.

"Children," Mother Superior says, "the commander of the German garrison in Zilina is a devout Catholic, and he asked to spend the evening with you. He also brought you a nice present."

The present turns out to be a large chocolate cake. It is delicious, but I cannot escape an oppressive feeling. Even on this night must the Germans intrude on the tiny and shaky island of peace I have tried to carve out for myself? I notice, too, the tension on Judith's face as she eats her cake silently, her apprehensive eyes on Herr Commandant.

Again we sing some carols -- one of them "Silent Night, Holy Night," itself so close to a prayer.

When we finish there is a pause, and the commandant whispers something to Mother Superior. After a moment's hesitation she asks: "Is there anyone here who can sing 'Silent Night' in German? It will make our distinguished guest very happy."

Both Judith and I know some German; actually we had learned the German version of this song before the Slovak one. But should I now stand up and sing it for our enemy?

As I hesitate I see Judith slowly rise from her chair and walk toward the commandant. The decision has been made for me, so I stand beside her and we join our voices: "Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht ..." As we sing, the face above the medals becomes animated and involved in our performance -- the lips move together with our words.

Then suddenly Judith gasps and stops, terror in her eyes. She has suddenly realized what I, too, had feared: Why are we two the only children who know the German version? Where are the others? The answer is simple, and surely the German officer knows it. In this part of the land it is only Jews who understand German. The Commandant has trapped us -- he knows we are Jewish.

He motions to us to approach. It seems an eternity before he speaks. Then looking at us, he says softly: "Hab keine Angst, deine Mutter und Vater werden zuruck kommen" -- "Don't be afraid, your mother and father will come back."

For him, too, it was a silent night.