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I belong to that peculiar generation of Jews who have the duty to speak Yiddish, my mother tongue, in a tongue at once familiar and “foreign”—French. Though Yiddish is still used as a vernacular…
The Street was my father’s life. He was a commission merchant in Washington Market, contracting for crops from farmers in Florida, Georgia, the Carolinas, California, Texas, and just about everywhere…
[…] On my first research trip to France as a professional scholar in the summer of 1982, I set out to find the only fascist intellectual discussed in my dissertation who was still alive; his name was…
Egyptian Jewish American author André Aciman describes celebrating his last Seder in Egypt with his bags packed to leave his homeland for good.
I’d known right away that I’d dressed all wrong for the interview, and I sensed even this early that it was becoming a formality. I’d prepared myself to play it in Jack Carter’s cool way. But the imp…
The Moshava of Pardes-Hannah is the place I come from, but since I left it, my eyes have been turned away from it, as if I couldn’t look at it. Until I went to the army, the Moshava was a whole place…
[…] I made the mistake of stopping in for Sabbath services. Dutifully I tried praying but was distracted by the dance of light reflecting from people’s wedding rings on the walls. When everyone stood…
The parting was not long in coming. My father died two months before I turned six.
To this day, I go to him at difficult times. Mostly to complain that he abandoned me. The handful of memories that he…
I have a lovely period photo, sepia coloured, with all the characters in a row, and their gentle trusting faces, photograph faces that nobody ever looks at now. They are the shifbrider, the ship…
At the end of King George Boulevard stood a tall building with two black, cavernous entrances. It served as a brothel, first for Arabs and later for Allied troops. When passing in front of this…