Springtime: A Memory, A Table, A Passport, A Message

I loved walking up the steps to my Oma and Opa’s house on Sunset Avenue in Nashville, Tennessee. As the door opened, the aroma of good food would welcome you even before the hugs and kisses. The table was set with the best dishes, the tablecloth white and lace, the room filled with family — my mother’s parents, Claire and Israel Reinheimer, and her younger brother Lud, in his navy blue uniform, with his wife Margret. Then, as the greetings took place and we sat at the table, almost as mysterious and unpredictable as life itself, one more family member would arrive.

Uncle Fritz was tall and handsome, with a raspy voice and pockets filled with lemon drop hard candies with a white sugar coating and large silver dollars that he could make magically appear from your ears. He wore a sharkskin silk suit, alligator shoes, and a crisp white shirt that smelled of aftershave and whiskey. He carried himself with confidence and a self-assuredness that begged his untold story to be revealed. 

We were gathered for the Passover Seder, the Jewish Festival that commemorates the Israelites’ Exodus from Egypt. It is called Zman Heruteinu, the Time of Our Freedom; it is also called Hag HaAviv, which celebrates the coming of spring. Seder means Order, and the ritual meal has a set order that is pedagogical in nature. Each symbol on the seder plate helps tell the story of our miraculous journey from slavery to redemption, from the exodus of Egypt to the pathway to the Promised Land of Eretz Israel. We are guided through the Seder with the Haggadah, which means the telling; it is the most widely published Jewish book — even Maxwell House Coffee published a version. 

This Seder would be conducted in German by Opa Israel, my grandfather. He was the paradigmatic German, stern; his muscular face and strong jawline were devoid of any smile or sign of emotion. He rarely spoke unless he had something to say; he was all business and no monkey business, which is what made Seder so unique in my experience of him. Even though my wool jacket was itchy, I would not dare move at the Seder table while he spoke. If so, I might get the “Reinheimer Look,” something he had certainly passed down to my mother. When my Opa looked at you, the discipline came with no words, but you knew you had better stop whatever you were doing or else, and you did not want to find out what else might be! 

At the beginning of the Seder, Opa would read the opening passage, repeating slowly the words as he held the matzah, ”This is the bread of our affliction.” As he repeated these words, he would lift the white lace tablecloth and touch the table’s surface, especially an awkward wood patch. Later, I would learn that this was the table on which his mother had been murdered by the Nazis; the patch covered the spot where she had been killed with an ax. As his mother was murdered and he was taken into custody by the Gestapo, my Oma, my mother, and my Uncle Lud escaped and fled to hide in the woods of the Black Forest. 

Ha Lachma Anya, “This is the bread of our affliction,” he said with profound grief, and the man who never showed any emotion on his face was in tears as the words grasped from his mouth seemingly echoed into eternity. As startling as this was, it was followed by my Uncle Lud starting to giggle. This was a particularly infectious giggle once it escaped his lips, which were pulled tight, trying desperately but unsuccessfully to keep it to himself. My mother, Uncle Fritz, my Oma, and everyone burst into laughter that literally took your breath away and would send my mother running from the table to the bathroom. 

Now my Opa, who had shed tears of grief, was trying to catch his breath and had tears of joy running down his face. I had never seen him cry, and I had never seen him laugh. This in itself was a microcosm of Judaism, tears of grief followed by tears of joy. We can and are even commanded to find joy in life. Our toast is simple and resonates beyond all the tragedy we have faced as a people and still face today in this unprecedented time of antisemitism and hatred in America and around the world. It is L’chaim: To Life! 

I have the last remaining piece of furniture from my grandparents’ home. It sits in my living room, a buffet cabinet with a broken clock on top, frozen in time. Inside, I keep my menorah collection of Hanukkiyot, which we use on the holiday of Hanukkah when we are reminded of the Miracle of the Oil. One small flask lasted eight days. At a time when the world faces the greatest time of darkness, we Jews kindle light; we bring light into the darkness. 

After the war, my Opa returned from the concentration camp back to his house in Germany, where the family was in the midst of preparing to leave for America, packing dishes, a dressmaker was there to fashion new clothes, and ironically, in good German efficiency, they had patched the damaged furniture to send it to America, where Israel and Clare Reinheimer found a safe haven. 

As a Rabbi for over 40 years, I am all too well acquainted with the reality of Jewish history and am shocked and dismayed by the hatred and bigotry found in America today. So much so that I worry about a safe future for American Jews today, which brings me to “The Passport.” This year, Israel Reinheimer’s children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and great-great-grandchildren are all applying for European Union passports through the auspices of the German government as Holocaust survivors and descendants of Holocaust survivors. 

We have just finished celebrating Passover, telling our story from degradation to liberation, from slavery to freedom. I will remember a white lace tablecloth being lifted and the tears of grief and tears of joy, and I will lift my cup and toast, L’chaim to life!