She approaches, the wife of the president.
Sherlon, her name is. Sherlon Goldfarbstein.
“What a beautiful son you have,” she exclaims, gesturing towards my daughter.
She gestures enthusiastically towards my other daughter, thinking she’s my partner. “Such a beautiful son you’ve made.”
Upon clarifying the second of her two mistakes, that my partner isn’t here and she is actually talking to two children, she proceeds to her next talking point:
Have they heard about the holocaust?
My children reassure her that they have.
“My husband was born in s a displaced persons camp. Can you imagine that? That’s what it said on passport DP. Displaced person. No one wanted them.”
(“We’ve been presidents of this shul for 30 years, everyone loves him here…”)
“Can you imagine having no home? Can you fathom such a thing?”
We share glances. We are fathoming it as we speak. The world is fathoming it right now.
She gestures emphatically towards my daughter again:
“You should have your Bar MitzvahBar Mitzvas are the time in which Jewish boys are considered... More! Come to the synagogue! Say the prayer! That’s how you become a man.”
