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April 21, 2006
Dipping her toes into Judaism
Volunteering with bubbe creates wealth of knowledge – if
not complete acceptance.
SARAH EFRON
The first time I entered Hannah's tiny apartment, she told me to
sit down next to her and she grasped my hand. Hannah was in her
late 80s and her body was battered from various cancers and other
diseases she had survived, but she was full of energy. Soon she
was telling me all about her wonderful adventures over the last
half-century, working in remote corners of the country.
I volunteered with the Jewish Family Service Agency (JFSA) through
Shalom B.C.'s Adopt a Bubbe or a Zayde program. My father is Jewish
but my mother isn't, and I didn't grow up with much Jewish religion
or culture – but as I've grown older, I've felt a budding desire
to learn about Judaism. I feel some sort of connection, although
I feel strange attending community events. People are friendly,
but I can't help but think: Am I not the incarnation of the great
Jewish fear – the offspring of goy and Jew, a stranger to the
culture and religion?
My Jewish grandparents died before I was born, so I never had the
experience of learning about the culture through them. My father
has a strong Jewish identity, but often feels estranged from the
religious and political values of the community. Growing up in the
shadow of the Holocaust, he felt it would be safer to marry a non-Jew
and raise his children outside the religion. Almost no definition
of a Jew would include me, but I felt curious and ignorant, and
I hoped that volunteering with a Jewish senior would allow me to
learn more.
Hannah (not her real name – JFSA policy protects the confidentiality
of their clients) contacted the agency because she wanted someone
to take her out for walks, but every time I visited, she was too
tired to go out. Soon, I realized she didn't have much intention
of leaving the apartment – she just wanted companionship. Hannah's
homecare workers came every day and she received regular phone calls
from far-away family members, but she still loved to chat with new
people.
Over the next few months, I visited Hannah regularly. She was vibrant
and she enthusiastically gave me recipes to make at home. I'm known
as culinarily challenged, but even I had a great success with Hannah's
pie recipe. It turned out Hannah had attended the same university
as me – she told me tales of campus hijinks that happened 50
years before I studied there.
A couple of times when I visited, Hannah was irritable, recovering
from a nasty fall that had left her black and blue. "I never
thought it would be so hard growing old," she told me, "especially
if you've never been sick before." For the most part, we got
along well, although at moments it felt like a big commitment. It
really did feel like having an older relative, with the joys and
obligations that go with it.
Hannah didn't care that I was a half-breed. When she used Yiddish
phrases, she would stop and explain them, so I could learn what
they meant. She talked with great joy about Judaism and promised
to teach me how to make knishes and gefilte fish. We made many plans
– I agreed to take her to the Jewish Community Centre and I
said I would help write her memoirs, describing her travels around
the world. Whenever I left her place, she stuffed my backpack with
tea and other goodies from her home.
I made other forays into the odd and often baffling world of Judaism.
I attended a Friday night Shabbat dinner run by the Community Kollel,
where I fumbled through the prayer book as people jubilantly shouted
out the choruses of the songs. It was as foreign to me as a recent
visit I had made to a mosque with a Muslim friend.
Next time I went, I brought my sister with me. (Do two half-Jews
equal one Jew?) Soon we realized these events have a not-so-subtle
agenda of Jewish matchmaking, with the end goal of producing more
full-blooded Jews. I vaguely wondered if we might be discovered
– denounced as infiltrators who came to defeat their noble
goals. Plus, my boyfriend wasn't too happy when Jewish guys started
calling me to ask me out on dates.
I also attended one of Dr. Michael's Jewish club events. Again,
it appeared to be some sort of Jewish mating ritual, although with
a modern soundtrack of R&B and dance music. Dr. Michael told
me he welcomed the attendance of people like myself, who have a
Jewish background but who aren't technically Jews. "You're
Jew-ish," he joked, and I agreed that it was a rather fitting
description.
I was about to head off for several months of travelling and I went
by Hannah's apartment to tell her about my plans. She was excited
for me and she wanted me to send her a postcard. I wondered if she
would be alive when I got back, and she seemed to read my mind.
"Don't worry, I'll be here when you come home," she said.
"You can come over and tell me all about your trip."
During the first week of my travels, I sent Hannah a postcard from
Gorée Island, a former colonial outpost off the coast of
West Africa. When I came home three months later, I phoned Hannah.
A recorded message said the number was no longer in service. I tried
again, but I knew what had happened. A phone call to the JFSA confirmed
it: Hannah had died a few weeks before. There had been a small service
for her when I was away.
I was sad to lose Hannah, but I felt lucky to have had the chance
to meet a wonderful woman who was open to making new friends during
the final months of her life. There were moments when it did feel
like she was the bubbe I never had.
I still don't feel completely comfortable with my Jewish identity
– or lack thereof – and Judaism still feels to me like
an elite club from which I'm excluded. However, I remember Hannah
as someone in the Jewish community who accepted me for who I am.
Through Hannah, I finally had the chance to learn about Jewish culture
– and I got to see the immense joy Judaism brought her, right
until the end. And I was surprised last week, when I went to a synagogue
for the third time in my entire life, that it didn't feel quite
as foreign as I imagined. Somehow the symbols and songs seemed a
little familiar.
Sarah Efron is a Vancouver freelance writer. Her work
has been published in the Globe and Mail, the Georgia
Straight, Macleans and others.
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