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On the holiest day, this Jew told her to ‘Go back to China!’
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He survived the Nazis as a teenager in France, and he claims to be fiercely proud of his heritage. But on Yom Kippur, in the midst of a litany of forgiveness and atonement, Henry forgot everything that his life might have taught him. During a break in our afternoon liturgy, after hours of contrite and peace-seeking prayers, after all the music and poetry of mercy, this fierce old man defiled everything that filled our temple and defined our mission.
Walking past Henrietta, our brilliant and much-beloved choir director, a classical pianist and conductor, who came to this great country long ago from China, Henry blasted: “You should go back to China!” Never mind that Henry had been singing devotions for literally days that filled the hall poignantly under the artistic direction of this lovely and creative woman who is the heart and soul of our choral group. Never mind that this Asian woman of deep Christian piety knows more Hebrew than Henry and that she, in one of her famous smiling embraces of anyone in the congregation, displays more tenderness than her attacker could even conjure up in his wounded mind.
Never mind that the Jewish tradition is anchored by the following ancient rabbinic command: “What is hateful to you, do not do to any other person.”
Henrietta, dignified, often so funny, with impeccable standards, came to me and broke into tears. She leaned into my white robe and sobbed: “I’m not even wearing my Cross today.” My anguish and pain doubled as I recalled, indeed, that this was not the first time our troubled and misguided congregant had so egregiously assailed this gentle woman.
Months ago, he approached her during a choir rehearsal and incomprehensibly vilified her for wearing her necklace, blurting out unforgivable things about the symbol she wore across her neck. At that time, I personally warned Henry that such blatant bigotry will not be tolerated under any circumstances and that any member of our staff—and indeed anyone at all—who wears the Cross in our congregation is as much a part of God’s family as anyone else.
I admonished him sternly that, while I respect his personal history, the Cross has historically been a sign of peace and that his words and actions only mimicked those who had degenerated the symbol in the name of violence. “Words, too, can kill,” I cautioned the grim man, quoting again from the Jewish tradition.
This gray morning after Yom Kippur, I am so troubled and saddened. Yes, Henry suffered unspeakable things under the Vichy-sponsored detention camp he survived in World War II. But he is free to read from the Torah (as he has) in our blessed America, and his very experiences should inform him viscerally how destructive such wanton prejudice is.
I have to ponder now and decide what to recommend to our temple leadership about Henry’s future in our congregation. What shall I do? How to turn back what one cycle of cruelty has done to nurture a second wave of malice?
One thing for sure: If music has died in one person’s heart, it will still be made by another, so long as I represent the Jewish people.
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