A quiet morning. I just finished watching One Survivor Remembers—Gerda Weissmann Klein’s Oscar winning documentary.
Thank goodness my maternal grandparents chose to emigrate from Russia and my paternal grandparents chose to emigrate from Poland before Hitler’s mercurial rise to power (similar to Trump’s chilling rise, freeing the worst side of human nature to rumble, threateningly through our streets up to and inclusive of today.)
Gulp—
Good thing we live in a democracy in the southwestern desert, so I can walk outside, inhale fresh air and clear my mind of yesteryear’s darkly clouded history as golden beams of sunshine—streaming heartwarming thoughts of my freedom to create a lovely, sumptuous deeply meaningful Seder for beloved family and treasured friends on Shabbat of this coming week—offer my frown sound reason to turn around, freeing my spirit’s smile to sparkle with the same joie d’vive as had been true of Gerda Weissmann Klein once Kurt had opened the door, ushering a courageous young woman to go forth from savage slavery (just as Joheved and Miriam, having been enslaved during biblical times, fled from the whips of Pharaoh’s soldiers) so as to leave personal suffering, starvation and her daily struggle to survive brutality beyond belief behind (as has been true of the Jewish people in perpetuity) in favor of fully embracing her love of life, family, and freedom, which, in turn, inspired Gerda’s offspring (one of whom is my dear friend of 46 years, Vivian) to emulate both of their parents’ hopeful sense of resiliency so as to thrive from one generation to the next—bringing to mind my favorite Jewish ‘joke’ of all time:
They tried to kill us
We won
Let’s eat
Gerda and Kurt Klein
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