The Lost Tribe of the Andes: A Jewish-American Family’S Struggle with Assimilation

Copyright © 2012 by Jane Genende.

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ISBN: 978-1-4620-8386-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4620-0884-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4620-0885-8 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011963575

iUniverse rev. date: 06/26/2012

Contents

PREFACE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

INTRODUCTION

BOOK I

CHAPTER I  Family History

CHAPTER II  The Outsider

BOOK II

CHAPTER I  A Room of My Own

CHAPTER II  A Year of Sundays

CHAPTER III  The Fearsome Foursome

CHAPTER IV  Summer Camp Refusenik

CHAPTER V  Pants Week

CHAPTER VI  The Porch

BOOK III

CHAPTER I  The Seder

CHAPTER II  Assimilation

CHAPTER III  Passover Revisited

CHAPTER IV  House for Sale: DNR

CHAPTER V  A Full-Circle Moment

BOOK IV

CHAPTER I  Pilgrimage Pilgrimage: Part II

CHAPTER II  From Manhattan to Suburbia

CHAPTER III  From Rockaway to Westhampton

CHAPTER IV  Closure Closure: Part II

BIBLIOGRAPHY

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

To Jack, Emily, and Seth

We shall not cease from exploration

And the end of all our exploring

Will be to arrive where we started

And know the place for the first time.

— T. S. Eliot, Little Giddings, Part 5

PREFACE

This book is a memoir, and the events depicted within these pages are written as seen through my eyes throughout different stages of my life up to now. Memory, by its very nature, is subjective and sometimes faulty, so it is entirely probable that other members of my family, notably my older siblings, will have a different take on the events I describe in these pages. However, as I wrote, in many instances we reminisced and were in sync regarding family events. When we were not in accord as to the nature of an event, we agreed to disagree, with the understanding that this book is a record of my memories, reflections, and interpretations.

Regarding family history, I relate what was handed down to me by various relatives. Whenever possible, I interviewed relatives and pieced together a collective narrative. I have tried to recall conversations with those who have passed away and convey their interpretation of events. In cases where I could not recall a conversation verbatim, I did exercise some creative license while taking care to remain true to the nature and tenor of the individual and the event. To protect the anonymity of persons who did not wish to be mentioned, while maintaining the flow and tenor of the story, some characters are a composite, and names were changed in a few cases.

When referring to actual historical events, I juxtaposed them to their impact on my family. All the historical events that are given a precise chronology have been confirmed through library research. However, many of the cited dates that related to family events were obtained from documents such as birth certificates, official travel papers, passports, green cards, citizenship papers, and army induction and discharge papers. Some of the timelines and dates given to me by family members are approximate. My trips to Prague, Budapest, Irshava, Auschwitz, and Israel with the help of knowledgeable guides were invaluable in writing this book.

In the days, weeks, and months after my father’s funeral, I found myself living in two worlds. The world of memories swirled around in my mind along with the real world of everyday life. I was trying to cope with my inner turmoil and go about my life, but I felt compelled to remain in the past.

Then, within six months of Dad’s funeral, Mom decided to begin to look for a smaller place and sell our family home. Helping Mom downsize only reinforced my tendency to revel in the past. Our house, which had been remodeled by Dad’s own hands, was loaded with forty-five years worth of memories. The house was inextricably linked to my memories of Dad. Saying good-bye to the house meant saying good-bye to Dad all over again and closing a large chapter in my family’s life. The symbolic closing of that chapter somehow freed me, and my reminiscing changed in tone and content from sadness and mourning to a bittersweet nostalgia. Saying good-bye to our family home became a significant milestone that helped me to accept the reality of Dad’s death.

At the one-year anniversary of Dad’s death, the traditional formal period of mourning ended. As my sadness lifted, I realized that the eulogy I had written for Dad had opened a floodgate. The months I spent ruminating about Dad and the funeral were partially based on the fact that I had more to say about Dad.

How could I make meaning out of his life? I needed a way to express and work out these feelings. I confided in a therapist and a colleague about my dilemma. Coincidently, they both suggested I keep a journal about Dad and the memories of my childhood that kept resurfacing. I never considered myself a writer. However, composing Dad’s eulogy showed me that writing was a source of comfort, so I decided to give it a try. Once I began to write, I couldn’t stop. More memories and stories came flooding back, and I felt compelled to get them down on paper. The process of keeping a journal helped me resolve my feelings of loss and work through the reawakening of memories of my childhood. It was the act of writing and then working through my thoughts and feelings in therapy that helped me accept Dad’s death. Those journal entries ultimately grew into the concepts that became the themes of this book.

My story is just one example of a reaction to a set of common circumstances. Dealing with the vicissitudes of the assimilation of a Jewish American family, complicated by the impact of the legacy of the Holocaust on future generations; the social changes that began in 1960; coming of age in the baby-boomer generation; separating from family and becoming an independent person; establishing a family of your own on your own terms; and coping with aging parents are all the basic universal themes and struggles described in these pages.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I began writing this book in 2005 as way to mourn the loss of my father and deal with saying good-bye to my childhood home. The process of remembering and the need to reevaluate and work through the past became the driving forces that enabled me to embark on the journey to complete this project. The act of writing about the memories that came flooding back to me was the vehicle through which I came to a deeper understanding and resolution of my past and present life.

Along the way, I was encouraged and guided by influential people in my life. Dr. Gerd Fenchel, director of Washington Square Institute, gave me the idea to keep a journal. Dr. Joanne Intrator helped me navigate through rough waters, exploring my feelings, and offered wisdom and encouragement throughout the years. Kathrin Seitz, my writing teacher, took on a fledgling writer and had confidence in me when I didn’t have it in myself. She critiqued my journal entries, urged me to keep writing, and gave me the incentive that they could evolve into chapters in a book.

Without my travel guides, Greg and Tatiana, my trip to Irshava would not have been possible. My parents and three brothers helped shape my personality, and their life experiences and memories are at the heart of this endeavor. I am grateful to members of my extended family—aunts, uncles, and cousins—who shared enriching family anecdotes. I wish to single out my cousin Barbara, a former English teacher, for supporting me from the beginning by reading my journal entries, which grew into stories, and Aunt Rhoda for the photos of Hinda, which have meant a great deal and helped motivate me to see this project to its completion. My husband, Jack, who has been a tremendous support, sounding board, editor, travel companion, and coach, championed this project, and without him, it would not have been possible. My children, Emily and Seth, are my inspiration. They supported and participated in this project from its inception.

INTRODUCTION

It was late morning on Tuesday, June 14, 2005, a warm and cloudless day. I was in my New York City office in Greenwich Village, where I conduct my psychotherapy practice. I had already seen my last client, and I was doing paperwork when I received a call from Barry, the oldest of my three brothers. He called to give me the news that Dad had died sometime that night. Dad had battled with Parkinson’s disease for eight years and was receiving in-home hospice care, so his death was expected, but it still came as a shock. It was as if I had been punched in the stomach. All the wind was knocked out of me, and I was left with an aching emptiness.

We agreed to meet at our parents’ house. I hung up the phone, and sitting at my desk, I broke down and cried. All I could think about was that Dad had been lucky to have died in his sleep, and I wanted to see him for one last time to say good-bye before he was taken to the funeral home.

In the midst of crying, trying to let the news sink in, my next thought was that I had to call Jack. Through my tears and fog, I relayed the news. I barely got the words out before I heard my husband say, Yes, I know. Who had told him? I wondered, but I didn’t ask.

Stay in your office, he said. Don’t leave alone. I’m coming to pick you up with a car service, and we will go up to the Bronx together. He had known what to do and had taken care of everything before I spoke to him.

I was overwhelmed by the strong sense that time was moving forward as events were being orchestrated around me, and I was passively being carried along as if I were caught up in a strong ocean current. Our family would meet at my parents’ home to plan the funeral, which would take place the next day.

From that moment on, I felt I had entered a parallel universe. The world and people around me were functioning as usual, but for me, everything had come to a halt. Don’t they know someone has died? How could they continue on as though nothing has happened? I thought. I felt disassociated, as if I were outside myself observing rather than participating in the world. I felt like I was being ushered through the events that were unfolding. Everything seemed to be occurring in slow motion in this parallel world. As I moved, I felt as though I was navigating chest high through ocean waters. I had to force myself to slowly put one leg in front of the other, pushing through the force of the water and methodically moving forward.

I had a strange thought that I had secret information, and if I didn’t divulge it to anyone, maybe it hadn’t actually happened. If I didn’t tell any of my colleagues that my Dad had died, maybe it wasn’t real. In that space and time of not conveying my news out loud, I felt that he was still alive. I found that even if I tried, I couldn’t utter the words, My dad passed away. So I left work, telling the receptionist I would not be in on Wednesday because, I had a death in my family, and I have to go to a funeral. I asked, and she agreed to notify all my Wednesday appointments. We went over the list and phone numbers. She expressed her condolences. I nodded and said thank you.

It was around 2:00 p.m. when Jack came to pick me up, and we drove up to the Bronx. As we rode north, I vacillated between feeling numb and being flooded with complex emotions. After his long battle with Parkinson’s disease, including nine months of in-home hospice care, Dad’s death was somewhat of a relief. He would suffer no more, and Mom would no longer have to deal with the daily trauma of a steadily deteriorating, terminally ill husband. However, in addition to feelings of relief and the guilt related to this sense of relief, I felt a tremendous wave of sadness coupled with disbelief.

Our driver, oblivious to the plight of his passengers, performed his job with a formal approach. He did not attempt to make any conversation with us, and I was relieved. However, I began a curious habit. While leaning forward, straining the straps of my seat belt and looking at the traffic lights, wishing for green ones, I kept pressing my right foot down on the ground on an imaginary gas pedal, as if that would speed up our trip. I was anxious to get there to say good-bye to Dad before he was taken away. Jack and I rode sitting next to each other, holding hands. We exchanged few words in short, clipped sentences. Communicating in this way enabled us to suppress our emotions.

Are you okay? Jack asked.

I answered with a quivering voice, I don’t really know how I’m doing. I guess I’ll have to wait and see the situation at the house.

As I sat in the car, I began to picture my parents’ house in its various forms over the years. All their furniture was circa 1960s. Everything in the house showed signs of age and neglect. During the nine months that Dad received in-home hospice care, the kitchen had been turned into a makeshift nursing station with clusters of vitamins, nutrition supplements, and medications on the counter and the table. On the refrigerator the letters DNR (do not resuscitate) were written on a printed sign. One corner of the living room was furnished with a hospital bed, a commode, a walker, and a wheelchair. During the period of Dad’s hospice care, the first image I saw when I walked into my parents’ house was Dad in his hospital bed. I didn’t know what I would see this time.

We arrived at my parents’ house about an hour later. The moment I walked in, I saw that Mom was busy on the phone talking to the funeral home, but she rushed to the door and we hugged each other and cried. She said that the funeral parlor was on its way to pick up Dad’s body and that she was relieved we had arrived.

Dad was still there. After Jack and I spoke to Mom briefly, we were confronted with Dad’s stiff, lifeless body, which was lying in bed, with his eyes closed. I wondered, is he really dead or just asleep?

I decided to study Dad’s face. As I did this, I realized that the face I was looking at bore little resemblance to the father I knew. Parkinson’s disease and old age had radically altered his appearance.

During this time, Jack was sitting in the dining room pretending to read the paper while watching over me and giving me space. He did not want to intrude on my private moments with Dad. I felt compelled to lean over, kiss him on the forehead and say, Dad, you can be at peace now. No more pain and suffering, and we will be okay.

Afterwards, I sat down in the dining room and had a good cry. Jack came over to me, we hugged and I cried some more. He was worried about me, and I was worried about him, although he probably didn’t know I felt that way. He and his family have had their own tragic experiences. His parents are Holocaust survivors, and as if that wasn’t more than enough for a family to bear, he had an older sister, Ester, who died of a congenital heart disease when she was twenty-four. Jack was twenty years old at the time. He is no stranger to illness and death. His early tragic experience left emotional scars, and a new tragedy can reopen old wounds, so I wondered how he was feeling. Throughout the course of the day, we periodically checked in with each other by continually making eye contact and exchanging reassuring words and glances.

In the meantime, Mom was in the kitchen still making phone calls and arrangements. With the receiver in hand, she paced back and forth between the kitchen, dining room, living room, and hallway. As she moved about, the extra-long phone cord would coil and uncoil, and I developed a habit of watching the cord as a way of distracting myself from the painful present.

It was at this time that the people from the funeral home came. I was glad that I had been able to say goodbye at home before Dad was taken away. Saying goodbye in that way helped me accept the reality of his death.

Ironically, I thought about the fact that after he became ill, he hated to leave the house, whether for pleasure or a doctor’s appointment. He feared he would not be back and would shout and struggle with his aide: Where are you taking me? Where am I going?

Now he would never be back. He was leaving his house for the last time.

Mom held on to the telephone receiver as if it were a prop to help her feel grounded while she walked to the hallway, stretching the cord to its limit as she watched the gurney containing Dad’s body being removed from the house. She mumbled something to the men. Then she sighed and looked at the gurney, and her lips were moving. She seemed to be saying something to Dad. I imagined she was saying her good-bye. Then as she watched Dad being carried away, her facial expression became one of shock, disbelief, and profound sadness, all trying to emerge from a thin mask of stoicism. Although I could see her eyes well up, she was standing stiff-backed, trying to remain in command of her emotions.

It was around this time, after Dad’s body was taken away, that Barry and Steven, my youngest brother, arrived. After we greeted and hugged each other, we went into the dining room and automatically chose our customary places that had been assigned to us since childhood. Jack sat next to me. While sitting at the table, one of us asked if anyone had spoken to Jerry. Mom told us that she had spoken to him earlier that day to give him the news. He regretted that he would not be able to make it back home in time for the funeral, but he would have a service in his home in New Mexico and come to New York afterward.

Mom, attempting to take a break from her phone calls, offered to make some tea and put out snacks. But while she began to prepare the tea, phone calls began to