No, they weren't served on the same table.
My mother was a Catholic; my father, a Jew.
Growing up I had a foot in both worlds.
Neither one was observant, especially my father, who often commented that religion had done nothing but bring misery to the world. "You don't have to die to find hell. Hell is right here on earth."
For a man who disappeared from high school to make his way in the world, he was always well-read. Newspapers were a way of life for him. As a teenager, he ran away from his parents' delicatessen,yet he never lost his taste for good food. "You can't cheat on your stomach," he would say as he dug into his sirloin. He was a jovial man who enjoyed his shot of Canadian Club followed by a glass of water. If my father had too much to drink, which was seldom, he remained lively and delightful. He would tap dance, do the shuffle- ball- chain. In the mornings when he shaved, he sang "O Solo Mio."
I have read the letters between my mother and father when, in his 40s, he served in World War II in Africa. When he was stateside, he took his leaves in New York City where he could sleep on the cool white sheets of a hotel and find a good restaurant. I am not sure if Luger's Steak House existed then, but that was always one of his favorites. Serving in the army with its deprivations was very hard on this man who wore white-on-white French cuff shirts and suits brought in from New York City. I have a picture of him, grizzled and unwashed, in Africa. He told me he managed to get out of KP because he peeled potatoes into stubs. Imagine that. A Jewish boy who could slice pastrami with the best of them. And when I was growing up, he never suggested that we have a picnic. "Who the hell wants to eat with ants?" he would growl. Africa had taught him well. country.
I have another photo of him as a young boy standing outside of the temple where he is holding his prayer book. He looks angelic. When he was an old man living with me, I asked if he remembered his Hebrew. He never answered. I think he skipped Hebrew School to smoke in the alley behind the delicatessen.
His brother graduated from Harvard Law School, but my father graduated from nothing. Incredibly, one of his first jobs was writing for a Detroit newspaper and selling advertisement. Then, the life of a traveling salesman was his utopia. He was the consummate salesman, and not because he proclaimed it. As a young adult I was substituting in a public school, when a teacher asked me if I were related to "that man who had the wholesale store on Franklin Avenue." I was. He told me that he remembered my father who could sell anything; he could make you want to buy a fur coat in summer.
The compliment was lovely, but I remember most that my father never used an offensive word for Catholics, Protestants, blacks, or any ethnic group. He never joined a temple; he never went to services; he never observed any religious holiday. Yet, I know that he had the best qualities of a Jew or Christian: he was generous to a fault, forgiving, caring, and never held a grudge. I wish sometimes that I had more of his nature. He never hid his Jewishness. He was not ashamed.
Before I was born in l948, my father and mother, went from city and town together as he sold whatever he was selling at the time. Sometimes they had difficulty in finding a hotel room. My Slovak mother was a tall, dark haired, olive skinned beauty, with black piercing eyes. My father looked liked his Hungarian mother, a woman with dewy white skin, black wavy hair, and hazel eyes. He told me that often people did not want to have a Jew in the building and glared at my mother, as if she were the Jewess.
My mother, one of eight children born to Slovak coal miner in West Virginia, did not have my father's intellect. However, she could put basketballs into hoops with either hand, and she did graduate from high school. While never a reader, she had her own talents as a jack-of-all-trades, for she could hammer a nail straight and shovel coal into the furnace. Excelling at housekeeping, she had the cleanest house in the county. She was known for her housekeeping as my father was known for his salesmanship. Our painted basement floor was so clean one could wear white and roll around on the floor without acquiring a speck of dirt.
I learned from my mother to admire order, a place for everything and everything in its place. Clothes were never tossed about. Towels were hung up. She believed that flamboyance was a sin. Unlike my father's closet, hers never bulged, as she had no interest in the latest fashions. My father would beg her to buy a pretty dress or hat. One time on a trip to New York City, we went to a high end dress shop. With her height, she wore clothes like a model, and how the salesperson gushed over how she could wear those clothes. My father bought her that stunning outfit which hung barely worn for years in the closet. She never liked excess of any kind, and often criticized my father for his.
But at Easter she gave me baskets bulging with candy, and always a dark chocolate fruit and nut egg with my name written on its top. Often we would drive to West Virginia to spend the holiday with her mother, father,brothers, and sisters. My grandmother spoke little English and prayed everyday from her worn missal. She said the rosary in Slovak. I could understand none of it, but sensed her deep faith. Arising early on Easter morning, I would meet her at the kitchen table where she had the ham and Easter bread filled with raisins waiting for the priest to come for his blessing. Listening to the his prayers, I was convinced the food was special. "Holy," my grandmother said in English. "Holy,"
I had learned that during Passover, Jesus had a Seder. He blessed the food, and told his disciples that the unleavened bread they were eating would become his body and blood. That became the rite of communion. When back in my hometowm, whenever I would eat matzos, I thought of Christ. To me, it all made sense, through different rituals, to remember and to be thankful for the Lord of the Universe.
The Christmas ritual meant a live tree covered in bright lights. My mother jockeyed it up and took it down by herself. My father did not help her because he was all thumbs, and she had no patience for clumsiness. I loved awakening in the morning to see the gifts under the tree, and nestled under one of the branches was the manger. We all shared gifts. It was such a happy time.
At Christmas my mother and I went to Mass. I loved the incense and the poinsettias. Amidst all the kneeling, standing, and sitting, most of the time I gazed fascinated at the saints painted on the ceiling and behind the altar, the painting of Christ ascending into heaven. The church was gilded with gold, and the scent from the beeswax candles was intoxicating. The Latin added to its mystery, much like prayers intoned in Hebrew. I thought all of it was holy.
When I was in third grade, I decided my religion was "half and half." Now hanging my head in shame, I will tell you that I was Jewish then when it was convenient, for I could stay home during the Jewish High Holidays out of respect for my father. We did not go to services, and I spent the day at home doing art work. My public school had many Jewish kids, so when they were absent for a religious holiday, the teachers taught nothing new. The pace was slow. It was a free reading day or a review day. Oh, I hated those reviews. On the other hand, I was not about to give up Christmas carols and Christmas trees. And an Easter basket with yellow peeps and jelly beans was divine. Half and Half was the ultimate.
But I grew up.
I have heard during my lifetime that you are what you are. I think that is true. In my case I think the genes of my Jewish ancestors rushed through my veins. As a child, the first time I was in temple and saw the Torah removed from the ark, heard the silver bells tinkling, and then touched the Torah with my prayerbook, I knew that I was a Jew. I was filled with an indescribable joy, a rapture so intense my knees shook. So in my twenties I converted to Judaism.
My husband laughs sometimes because I told him my mother had me baptized when I was a baby. He thinks I have hedged my bets very well, It is funny though. If I go to heaven I still will belong to a minority: a baptized Jew.
Perhaps some would shake their heads at my childhood experience. I feel I was blessed because I developed the antennae to feel bigotry and hatred. Yes, there were times when I had to defend the religion of my Catholic mother or my Jewish father. When I would hear a degrading comment about Jews, Catholics, or Slovaks, I rose to the occasion with a counter argument. As a little girl I started to develop an ecumenical vision, but today I find it heartbreakingly difficult to keep that vision, as I witness what Islam, in its blind orthodoxy has brought to the world.
I am the worst kind of infidel: half Christian, half Jew. Sura after sura in the Koran debases my heritage, and I raise both my right and left hand in defense.
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