Dybbuk, shortly to enter the first grade, had just finished a week of drama camp, and was now set to return to the spa for children founded years before by a front group for the Communist Party.
“Bubbe” he asked his maternal grandmother, “did you go to camp?”
“No,” she sighed, “thank G-d we had an attic.”
Years later, Bubbe‘s cousin tried to get Yad Vashem to honor the Polish family who’d valiantly hidden them for four long years, giving them food when they barely had enough for themselves. Sadly, the only surviving member, who was but a child at the time, was too afraid of what the neighbors would think if they learned her family had hidden Jews.
Domestic Partner is possibly the only Polish born Jew under 50 living in America, and her family, who I call “The Rootless Cosmopolitans,” combine the traits of snobby European Intelligentsia with unexpected touches of Lee Avenue superstition.
For instance, DP, a connoisseur of every part of the pig, including the squeal, does not eat pork or shellfish on the Sabbath.
“What other commandments do you obey only on Shabbus?” I asked.
“Though shall not commit adultery.”
But despite their condescending European attitude toward Philistine products of Jewish suburbia, they were unimpressed by the universalist, internationalist vision displayed by the anti-Israel speech given by Brad Lander at his son’s bris.
Bubbe, now over 80, still rides a subway and bus everyday to work filling prescriptions at a pharmacy in Hasidic Williamsburg; she is possessed of sophisticated analytical skills and a sharp tongue, which she wields in at least four languages.
“How nice he doesn’t like nationalism.” said Bubbe. “It never did much for me; of course, if there were a Jewish state I could have gone to instead of an attic, I might feel differently.”
I say this only to preface what is for me the funniest punch line of this election season; the efforts by a Scandinavian-born civic leader in Brownstone Brooklyn, acting as an emissary from Brad Lander’s campaign, to try to persuade Domestic Partner to translate a piece of Lander’s campaign literature into Russian.
I scolded Domestic Partner for her unprintable response, and told her she should have politely agreed, and then instead translated the speech given at that bris.