Think-Israel

THINK-ISRAEL

WHY DO THEY HATE US?

by Boris Zubry

I came over to the United States from the Soviet Union in early 1979. I was one of the lucky ones who were allowed to refuse Soviet citizenship and secured permission to leave the country without serious hassle. Yes, that was a rare occasion.

I applied for the exit visa in the early part of 1978 and in October I was told that I had two months to leave the country. In accordance with KGB regulations, I could fly only on Aeroflot, the only Soviet airline. The international flights of the Soviet planes going in my direction were available only twice a week and tickets were sold depending on your importance. Soviet spies, foreigners, diplomats, the military, government officials, and the limited number of Soviet tourists were much higher on the totem pole than I was. So they went first. There was only one ticket available and that ticket was for December 29. I said I'd like to celebrate New Year's Eve with my mother. I was told that if I would not leave within the given time frame, I would lose my visa. The time frame ended on December 30th. So the answer was "NO".

After a very harsh flight on the Soviet Aeroflot plane from Leningrad to Warsaw, Budapest and Vienna, a few weeks in Vienna and a few months in Italy, I arrived in the States.

I left the terrifying but well-known world of Soviet Socialism and came to the free but totally uncharted territory of the unknown society called the USA. This was a very dramatic experience. I was alone traveling in countries I only read about and in the company of people who were even more alone than I was. We were just a few Jews from the Soviet Union trying to find a little spot under the sun. We stayed together, striving to help each other, but it was like the blind leading the blind and often we got a little too close to the edge of the law, logic and sanity, but we kept moving ahead. We had to do it and, if not to accomplish something, then at least to say that we tried. And how do you measure accomplishments? Is it the amount of money or the amount of knowledge? They never seem to come together.

I think it was impossible for us to run away from anti-Semitism and the Soviet dictatorship. Our minds were permanently deranged with the knowledge that we were Jews, whatever it meant to the non-Jews of the Soviet Union. "Hey you, Jew," could mean anything, everything and nothing. We were Jews and the less people saw us, the less they noticed us, the better chance we had to survive another day, to live more of life. Many of us were afraid of our own shadow, imagining that it was them coming over, yelling, "Hey, Jew."

"Them" was a big term incorporating all of them "non-Jews" and many Jews, who wanted to be known as non-Jews and did everything possible and impossible to support that pointless desire. They kept missing the important detail that documents do not really matter for the anti-Semites of the world, and your face, your blood does. How do you change that? At the end, no matter what nationality is stated in your passport, you are still a Jew.

The decision to leave the Soviet Union, the country where I was born and lived for twenty-seven years, and the tearing-apart necessity to leave all I loved and cherished gave me my first gray hair. Traveling around the world with no money, no language skills, no friends, and no real destination gave me even more gray hairs. I was scared, insecure and confused. I think I was in shock. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, when I could not sleep in yet another strange place, I wanted to cry, but men don't cry. I swallowed the tears and held my heart tight with both hands so it would not break in too many little pieces, but later it broke anyway. The tearing force of the left-behind things, memories and loved ones - and who knows what's ahead - was always there pulling and twisting, and forcing us to bend, to brake. We tried to push forward but many had to take a few steps back, just for a little while, just to rest. They stepped back and they broke.

America was a pleasant surprise for me. I was becoming less scared and I saw some friendly faces, faces of people who meant well. Were they Jews? Yes, mainly, but not all. I was placed in a small town in New Jersey and people somehow knew me, knew of me. They knew who I was and they wanted to help, even if all they could do was to shake my hand. Often I did not have to ask and they would help with whatever they could, anyway. They smiled and they greeted me when we met. I greeted them too and we all smiled. That was strange but so pleasant. I liked these people of America, Jews and non-Jews, all alike.

One day the Rabbi of the Temple sponsoring me told me that the Rabbi before him had been given a new congregation in a small town in Pennsylvania and he wanted me to come over and meet with the children of the congregation. Children had so many questions and he thought that a meeting with me could answer some.

I remembered that Rabbi. He was a very fine young man who actually was responsible for me being sponsored by that Temple. It was his initiative, I was told. I met him on a number of occasions and I enjoyed his friendship tremendously. I could not say "No" to his request and I would not say "No" to anything designed to build the Jewish spirit. I thought it was my obligation. After all, these people had done so much for me that whatever they could or would ask from me was not enough to pay back their kindness. Of course I said "Yes" and one day the new Rabbi and I went to visit the old Rabbi of our Temple and his new congregation.

It was a very warm day, late spring or early summer. The meeting was set up outside in the lovely setting of the Temple's backyard.

I was seated at the long table between the two Rabbis and the Temple's President, and the Director of the religious school facing a few rows of chairs filled with dozens of children of all school ages and a number of parents almost as eager to meet me as the children. I was getting stage fright and the butterflies in my stomach were flying in all directions.

I nervously drank a glass of water not being certain if I could handle it. It was the biggest audience I ever had and my English was not there at all. My English had not arrived yet and, as far as I knew, it was not in a hurry. I spoke very limited English and I could not understand much. Well, I could guess but whether it was accurate, I did not know. The Rabbis, both of them, saw my condition and promised to help. I knew I could count on those guys.

Within the next two hours I was attacked by a score of questions flying from all directions. At the beginning I was not doing very well, missing many of them. I could not understand the kids but the Rabbis got a hang of it really fast and translated every question for me from English into English and my answers back to the kids. We were moving along and I felt like a hockey goalkeeper who was not missing too many goals and who could feel the end of the game coming. I started to breath deeper. The Rabbis smiled and the Temple's President was patting me on the back. I guess I was doing okay and the torture would be over in a few minutes. The promised early dinner or late lunch was occupying all my thoughts. I was famished. In my case, brainwork was as exhausting as physical work.

Suddenly I saw a thin, small hand rising up, indicating a question. It was a little girl with wavy black hair and beautiful huge brown eyes. She was wearing a white blouse and a black skirt going well below her knees. I looked at her and knocked my head ready for a question. She stood up with some difficulty and adjusted her clothes. She looked so gentle and extremely fragile. Than I saw why her skirt was so unfashionably long - she had braces on one of her legs. She did not try to hide it but she did not force the issue either. She did not ask for special treatment and she was not ashamed of the handicap. The whole thing was just a matter of fact.

I waited for the question. What could be on her mind? I thought we covered almost everything but yet she wanted to know more. These eyes! They were so huge and so deep. My sister has eyes like that; my mother had eyes like that. Many Jews have eyes like that. These were Jewish eyes full of pain, questions, anticipation, and often, hope, hope for a future with no pain.

She had such a tiny voice but I could hear her through the whispers of wind and the gossip of leaves. People were quiet. The Rabbis looked at her with an intensity. No, it was not an intensity. The Rabbis looked at her trying to absorb her pain and give her more strength. Could they? Was it a part of the job or from the heart? I often wonder.

"I was listening to you, Sir, and to the Rabbis and to my teachers... Also I saw some programs on TV and I read books. My grandfather has a tattoo on his forearm. He said that he was just a few years older than I when it happened. Why do they hate us so much? Do you know?" I could not take my eyes away from hers, from these eyes. I was hypnotized by this little girl, her voice, and her questions.

"Why do you think, Sarah, they hate us so much?" Now the Rabbis looked at me and that was intense.

"I don't know. I was thinking about that and I don't know. Do you think they hate us so much because we love each other so much?"

I don't really remember what happened after that. The Rabbis took care of the rest of the conversation. We had our dinner but we did not talk much. I could see that everyone could still see the little girl, Sarah, and hear the question: "Why do they hate us so much?"

I had never been to that Temple in Pennsylvania again and I never saw Sarah after that short meeting. I don't know her story. But for the last twenty-five years I kept hearing Sarah's question and trying to answer it and there was only one logical explanation: "They hate us so much because we love each other so much."

Boris Zubry is a mechanical engineer. He was born in the Soviet Union and now lives in the United State. Mr. Zubry is also author of "Chess Master," a political thriller; "Miles of Experience," a collection of short stories and "Arrogance of Truth," a collection of satiric short stories and poetry. Contact him by email at boriszubry@comcast.net or at his website, http://www.boriszubry.us