Although Israel was ultimately victorious, there was a sense that the country would not always enjoy military superiority. In human terms, the price was high. Over 2,000 Israelis were killed and many more wounded. Once again, we found ourselves in bomb shelters. This time, I was with my three children, aged ten, eight and four. We painted the streetlights and car headlights blue and covered our windows with blackout curtains so as not to be targeted by any bombs. The streets were eerily quiet with everyone in their shelters.
Although the war was over fairly quickly, it was six months before Maier was allowed to return home. He was exhausted but returned straight to work. Many Israelis were very angry because prior to the war, the government had been smug, overconfident, and had misread the danger signs. The prime minister, Golda Meir, felt responsible and resigned, and the economy tanked because of high inflation and the international oil embargo, imposed by Arab oil producers to create leverage in the wake of the war.
I gave birth to a son — Shani. I had always thought I would have six children, one for every million Jews murdered in the Holocaust. But after having two girls and two boys, we decided that our family was complete.
Unfortunately, around this time, Maier’s project lost funding and eventually closed. My department at the university also cut its staff by 50 percent and I found myself jobless. Maier took a position in the solar-energy industry, and I enrolled at the Hebrew University. We desperately tried to hold on, but when Maier was offered a post back in the United States, we weighed our options and reluctantly decided, for financial reasons, that we should pack up and leave Israel after ten happy, fulfilling years. As we said farewell with heavy hearts, we promised our friends, family and ourselves that we would be back in three short years.
Chapter Twenty-Two. We Remember
I never imagined how distressing it would be to leave Israel. Even though we had spent many rewarding years in America, returning to the United States was something of a culture shock and required some major adjustments, not just for me, but also for my family. The instant we landed in cold, wet Newark, New Jersey, I found myself pining for the sunshine and warmth of Jerusalem, along with the light, which infused colors with a vibrancy rarely replicated in the latitudes of the northeastern United States.
The sound of America was so different, too. Sirens, air-conditioning units, construction sites and traffic all conspired to create a wall of sound that reverberated off the skyscrapers. As the days passed, I yearned for the more human scale of Jerusalem’s soundscape, where the stones seemed to absorb the bustle of its narrow, ancient streets. I craved the aromas of Middle Eastern spices and cooking and missed wearing the invisible cloak of history that came from living in one of the cradles of civilization.
Over time, I became acclimatized to the sensory changes. But I struggled with the spiritual differences. We had lived an emotionally invested life for ten years in a country created as a haven for my people. America, on the other hand, is the great melting pot.
When I try to explain the reasons for how I felt, inevitably I fall back on the Holocaust and Auschwitz, because those experiences in my formative years forged the way for almost every thought I have and every action I take. I love and respect the United States. I believe in almost everything this nation stands for, and I will forever be grateful for the sanctuary it provided, along with my education, and the gift of my husband, Maier, and my family. But I was unable to disconnect from Israel. I ran up enormous phone bills calling my friends every day, pumping them for news. I devoured coverage of Israel’s culture, politics and social issues.
We bought a small three-bedroom house in Highland Park, a pleasant town on the banks of the Raritan River near Rutgers University in New Jersey. In material terms, we were comfortable, but I was overwhelmed by feelings of emptiness and uselessness.
One spring day, I was wandering with my youngest child, Shani, on the grounds of Rutgers. Crowds of enthusiastic young people were milling about the campus. I was pushing Shani in his stroller and was very much the odd person out. It was registration day, and students were signing up for classes in their first semester. My interest was piqued, and as I entered the building, a guidance counselor assumed I had come to register and ushered me into a room. Within forty-five minutes, she had convinced me to enroll at the School of Social Work. She said my age and background virtually guaranteed a full scholarship if I studied gerontology — the effect of aging on the individual and society. It was an epiphany, a moment of recognition that a portal to a new direction had opened.
Although I had started out with a bachelor’s degree in psychology, my love of literature and interest in Richard Wright had diverted me from what I now believed was my true vocation. That day felt like both kismet and serendipity. I was receiving a gift that would enable me to work with vulnerable, fragile elderly people — the very same segment of the population targeted by Hitler at the start of the war because he deemed them to be worthless. As a child, I had hardly known anyone over the age of fifty. My new life would introduce me to a diverse group of people weighed down by a broad range of challenges.
During my internship at a nursing home, I met a lovely eighty-nine-year-old woman who would sit wrapped up in a hat and coat next to a packed suitcase. She was waiting to be picked up by her son. She had been waiting for three years. He had died five years previously. I sat with her, we talked about the life she’d had with her son and she seemed to relax. Eventually, she stopped dressing up for the trip that never came and accepted that he was gone.
I remember another senior who was convinced she was being poisoned and, as a result, hardly ate anything. With staff approval, I brought in food that we ate together. Proving that her food had not been tampered with enabled her paranoia to gradually subside. Another elderly resident was constantly teetering on the edge of depression. Being outside in the fresh air seemed to keep the darkness at bay. We walked around the grounds together as often as we could, and the experience lifted his spirits.
The care that I was providing and the difference I was making were a revelation to me. There was also a reciprocal effect. I felt much less useless.
With Maier’s moral and practical support over three years — often typing my papers and covering my household chores — I earned a master’s in social work, gerontology and counseling.
A week after graduating, I began working on a home-care program for the elderly at a Jewish Family Service — a nonprofit agency that helped people regardless of their religion. It was an eye-opener. I learned more from my clients than I ever thought possible. They unburdened themselves about past traumas, fear of illness, death, abandonment and destitution. Often, all I could do was sit and listen. But just being there, I believe, is a key dynamic of the healing process. A person can change their self-image once they understand that they are truly being seen, heard and valued. I encouraged my clients to think about their past achievements and to concentrate on their strengths. Recovery wasn’t instant. But after several months of visits, there were noticeable signs of improvement. Those who had been listless and indifferent became more engaged, dressing up smartly for our sessions. They opened up more about their pasts and seemed to grow as people, deriving confidence and pleasure from accomplishments earlier in their lives.
One of my unforgettable clients was a ninety-two-year-old former lawyer. Immaculately dressed, tall, if a little stooped, he had been living alone and increasingly needed more help to maintain his independence. Over a cup of tea, the lawyer shared his background with me. He had emigrated to America all alone after the Second World War. He retrieved a photo album full of prewar pictures of his wife and children in his law office in Hungary. All perished in the Holocaust.