Read Online Hitler Made Me a Jew by Nadia Gould - Free Book Online Page A

the Bronx—I didn’t remember the name of the hospital or even that it was a hospital. I remember that everything in New York was gigantic. The space of it! The white walls, sparkling glass, white glass of milk, cold milk, white slice of wonder bread, soft bread, soft toilet paper, huge paper napkins…disposable, white tiles in the immense bathrooms, stainless steel, straight lines, cleanliness and shine, bare surfaces, huge window panes and mirrors, white enameled tables, detergent smells, order and efficiency—America!
    We stayed a few days in that place. Some children were sent to the Jewish Children’s Home, an orphanage in Newark. Mr. Johnson had told my parents that I, too, would be going to stay in a home with children, but for some reason I was placed instead with an Orthodox Jewish family in Philadelphia on Darien Street. My parents had specified that we were not religious but that didn’t seem to be important to anyone but me.
    My social worker was business-like, a professional. She carried a large folder with confidential notes about me. She had come to take me to “my family,” and she spoke no French. The children in my group were the wards of the Federal Government and the social worker regularly had to send a report about each child to Washington. Washington in turn sent a copy of the report to the parents. I was still going to see a social worker for a casual visit every so often when I was in college.
    My first home in Philadelphia was a brownstone with a stained-glass front door. As soon as we entered the living room, I noticed the piano, and I touched a few keys lightly. The lady of the house and the social worker smiled at each other. They were pleased, I showed an interest in something. The social worker had warned the lady that I cried a lot since I cried as soon as I had met her. The first memo in my dossier was that I cried constantly.
    We had coffee, bagels, cream cheese and lox in the kitchen of the lady. These were new foods for me. I forced myself to eat because I wanted to please. I was distracted and forgot my usual sorrow for a while. I felt numb, almost as if I were not even there. I was thinking maybe everything would be O.K. Then the social worker got up. She had to go, and I felt a stab in my chest. I could not control my distress. I started to sob hysterically. I didn’t understand what was happening to me. I didn’t even like the social worker, but at that moment she was the one holding my folder; she was my only anchor. The lady was uneasy, and the social worker alone knew how to keep her cool. Unflinchingly she opened the door and without looking back she left us.
    The lady took me by the hand and led me upstairs to “my room”—a cheerful room papered with rose flowers. Through the window, across the street, I saw a house with an American flag. As soon as I saw the flag it waved and I took this as a sign. It reproached me for having chosen to come to America. I wished I were dead. Death presented itself as a solution and thinking about it was almost a consolation. I couldn’t think about my parents. I was sure I would never see them again. I felt I didn’t really exist as if I were disconnected from myself. I wanted to be dead.
    The lady’s husband was taciturn and I was grateful. Had he made the slightest gesture toward me, I would have lost my countenance and cried. I refused to eat. I couldn’t eat.
    That first evening friends of the lady came to look me over. They spoke fast and eagerly with high voices. The lady told them that music is an international language and that I had touched the keys of the piano. Everyone approved. One woman, to be friendly and make conversation, asked me where I had come from. I answered, “From Lisbon, Portugal.” She exclaimed, “Oh! In England!” and I cried. Full of good will, the ladies stuffed my pockets with money.
    As the days passed, I made more money wherever we