Every day, on my way to college, I passed the Apollo and heard the music pulsating through the walls but had neither the money nor the nerve to enter. The Apollo was the beating heart of culture in Harlem. It started out as a whites-only music hall, but by the mid-1930s it had become a showcase for a broad range of African American talent. Over time, it evolved, promoting jazz, big bands, comedy, opera, gospel and soul music. Performers who trod the Apollo’s boards in the early stages of their careers became household names the world over: Ella Fitzgerald, Louis Armstrong, Duke Ellington, Richard Pryor, Aretha Franklin, the Staple Singers, Ray Charles, Otis Redding, the Jackson 5 and Stevie Wonder, to name but a few. The building, its stars and audiences, gave off such a positive vibe that just walking past, you could tell something extraordinary was taking place inside.
My best discovery in the area was the public library at 135th and Lenox, now called Malcolm X Boulevard. On my first day there, the librarian tried to be civil, but behind her plastic smile, I sensed I wasn’t welcome. To her annoyance, I began to browse. My attention was drawn to glass cases protecting original manuscripts of African American writers. Through gritted teeth, she explained they were part of the Schomburg Collection, an archive of material focused on Black culture.
I spotted an article lying on the desk about an African American called Richard Wright, who had died in Paris from a heart attack a year earlier at the age of fifty-two. The article stated that although Wright had written a number of works, very few people had heard of him. I was intrigued and borrowed Black Boy, a nonfiction work published in 1945—the same year I was liberated from Auschwitz.
Black Boy chronicles Wright’s experiences in America’s Deep South as he endured poverty, illness and racism. I was shocked that an American child could be subjected to such terrible abuse and violence, not only at the hands of society, but his family as well. Soon after, I announced to my professor that I would write my MA thesis on Richard Wright. But I needed my professor’s approval first.
“I am not sure that a white woman not born in America will understand the Afro American experience”, he said. Nevertheless, I wouldn’t take no for an answer, and I ultimately obtained permission after pressing my professor to consult with other committee members at the college.
While Wright’s sexual and violent imagery led to widespread bans on his books, I appreciated his honesty and empathized with his pain. He blamed institutionalized racism in America for the degeneration of his characters. They were intelligent, tortured and violent, which often led to murder. Searching for social justice, Wright joined the Communist Party for a decade but eventually quit, disillusioned by the lack of justice and its sheer hypocrisy. A party that supposedly stood for total equality among the working classes also espoused segregationism, which meant more racism. In an article called “The God That Failed”, Wright expressed his disappointment and disgust with communism. He died in self-imposed exile, in 1960, disenchanted and unaware of his influence on other writers.
I felt a certain kinship with Richard Wright. Even though we had very different backgrounds with different religions and skin colors, we both had endured abusive childhoods and had struggled to find meaning as wounded children in a harsh, racist society. His torment resonated with me.
I became pregnant with my daughter Risa while studying for my master’s. We named her after my mother. I was determined that any child of mine would have an upbringing free of hatred, unlike Wright’s and my own. Some of our neighbors had now become friends, and although money was tight, they gave what they could. Gifts of baby clothes, sheets and diapers made us feel as though we belonged to a community. Risa’s brother Gadi was born thirteen months later. During that Christmas, more gifts piled up outside our door, and although everyone knew we did not celebrate the holiday, they always argued, “Why should the children suffer?”
With two babies, life was hectic and there was little time for schoolwork. So we posted a flyer in the elevator offering free English and math tutoring in exchange for babysitting. After a slow initial response, we had gathered a few teenage girls requiring help with short composition essays whom we could trust with our babies. A twelve-year-old boy who was struggling with math also appealed for help. He couldn’t babysit because he was already taking care of his two young brothers, but Maier sat with him for hours going through numerical puzzles that became increasingly complex and challenging. The mysteries of math were unlocked and the boy made great progress. It still warms my heart that our tutoring deepened our relationship with our neighbors. Economic, educational and social differences melted away once we connected on an emotional level.
By early 1967, both Maier and I had finished our degrees and were ready to move on. Our neighbors threw a fantastic farewell party and we were very sad to leave. Little did we know that we were heading straight into another war.
Chapter Twenty-One. Israel
Warm, dry air enveloped me in a welcoming embrace the moment I stepped through the door of the El Al airliner and down the steps onto Israeli soil. It felt good to be back — this time with my husband, Maier, and two young children. I’ll always remember the date — May 3, 1967.
All the windows in the car were wound down as we headed northward along the coast on a thirty-minute drive from Ben Gurion Airport to Netanya. Squeezed together, our children, Risa and Gadi, leaned out the windows as far as they could, like flowers, turning their faces toward the sun. The heat was a balm, easing away the aches of a long flight and residual tensions of New York life. Already, the sensory contrasts between the Big Apple and Tel Aviv were impossible to ignore. We were blinded by the glare of the sun bouncing off white stone houses. The breeze carried the perfume of blossoms and the salty tang of the Eastern Mediterranean.
I could get used to this, I told myself.
Netanya was much smaller than Tel Aviv, but just as inviting. As part of our introduction to this young, developing country, we stayed in a uniquely Israeli educational institution called an ulpan, which immersed immigrants in the Hebrew language, along with the culture and customs of their new homeland. We registered for six months, which we thought would be sufficient to acclimatize and establish a solid grasp of the language.
Our ulpan’s compound was geared toward young families, and I was touched that a doll and a ball were waiting on the children’s beds. The gesture made us feel very much at home. Mealtimes were communal affairs, and the dining hall was filled with a competing chorus of different languages, including Russian, Polish, Spanish, French and English. Our instructor constantly tried to inject Hebrew into our conversations. I decided to change my name to Tova to sound more Israeli. I also chose it because it was close to Tema, the name of my maternal grandmother.
Initially, life was predictably routine and comfortable. Every morning, we’d take the children to nursery and then head to class for Hebrew lessons. We settled into the subtropical rhythm of resting in the afternoon while the sun was at its hottest, and we’d socialize and do homework in the cool of the evening. We loved Israel’s outdoor lifestyle and spent endless hours on Netanya’s pristine sandy beach.