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Timebinder, v. 1, issue 4, 1945

Page 6

Dame overshadowing him.

Two weeks later it was a bright Sunday afternoon when he again went past Notre Dame, browsed among the bookstalls, bought a few etchings, looked at the art exhibits, and wandered farther into the fabulous neighborhood which contains the Sorbonne, the Ecole Normale, the Institute Pyschio-Chemistry, and the Radium Institute of Madame Curie.

There was a place there that he knew of: a foyer, or canteen for servicemen, run by a Jewish organization. This afternoon, just for curiosity, he would look into the place and perhaps meet some of the Parisian Jewish colony and hear what they had to say.

The place was a school building, called the Ecole Primarie des Israelites, of unprepossessing appearance. He looked at the posters in the lobby, wondering what to do next. He said, "Bon jour" to a lady who came in, and she asked him in French, "Are you Jewish"? When he replied "Yes". she began speaking to him in the Jewish language, which he fortunately understood.

At this point he grasped the realization of something he had long suspected. That to be Jewish was not merely to belong to a religious group. To him the religion meant nothing -- he did not believe in the basis nor in the ritual. To him these people might have been Catholics or Druids -- he would have had the same sympathy towards them. But they recognized him as one of their clan, and whether or not he believed in the religion would have made no difference had he been in Germany in 1939. He was a member of a social group spreading horizontally between national boundaries characterized by a certain cultural background and with an international language more widespread than Esperanto. And in this particular place he was an emissary from fabulous America, come to visit his brethren.

A young man in civilian clothes came into the room and looked at him in curiosity. Greetings were exchanged, and the young man introduced himself as if he were eager to tell everyone his story.

"My name is Maurice Rothman", he said, in German. "I have just spent six years in six concentration camps".

The American soldier rocked back on his heels.

"My name is Rothman", he exclaimed. The miracle was not merely in the coincidence of the name, but in the fact that any person could have spent six years in the infamous concentration camps and still be alive, well, and sanve.

The German paused, startled himself. "Come in here," he said quickly, and the two went into a room where several cots stood in rows. A long conversation ensured: Maurice Rothman was no relation of the American Milton A/ Rothman. One family stemmed from Poland; the other from Russia. Maurice Rothman had been taken from his home in Hamburg, Germany, on September 1, 1939. (Remember that date?) He had been in Dachau, Buchenwald, Nord-

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Dame overshadowing him. Two weeks later it was a bright Sunday afternoon when he again went past Notre Dame, browsed among the bookstalls, bought a few etchings, looked at the art exhibits, and wandered farther into the fabulous neighborhood which contains the Sorbonne, the Ecole Normale, the Institute Pyschio-Chemistry, and the Radium Institute of Madame Curie. There was a place there that he knew of: a foyer, or canteen for servicemen, run by a Jewish organization. This afternoon, just for curiosity, he would look into the place and perhaps meet some of the Parisian Jewish colony and hear what they had to say. The place was a school building, called the Ecole Primarie des Israelites, of unprepossessing appearance. He looked at the posters in the lobby, wondering what to do next. He said, "Bon jour" to a lady who came in, and she asked him in French, "Are you Jewish"? When he replied "Yes". she began speaking to him in the Jewish language, which he fortunately understood. At this point he grasped the realization of something he had long suspected. That to be Jewish was not merely to belong to a religious group. To him the religion meant nothing -- he did not believe in the basis nor in the ritual. To him these people might have been Catholics or Druids -- he would have had the same sympathy towards them. But they recognized him as one of their clan, and whether or not he believed in the religion would have made no difference had he been in Germany in 1939. He was a member of a social group spreading horizontally between national boundaries characterized by a certain cultural background and with an international language more widespread than Esperanto. And in this particular place he was an emissary from fabulous America, come to visit his brethren. A young man in civilian clothes came into the room and looked at him in curiosity. Greetings were exchanged, and the young man introduced himself as if he were eager to tell everyone his story. "My name is Maurice Rothman", he said, in German. "I have just spent six years in six concentration camps". The American soldier rocked back on his heels. "My name is Rothman", he exclaimed. The miracle was not merely in the coincidence of the name, but in the fact that any person could have spent six years in the infamous concentration camps and still be alive, well, and sanve. The German paused, startled himself. "Come in here," he said quickly, and the two went into a room where several cots stood in rows. A long conversation ensured: Maurice Rothman was no relation of the American Milton A/ Rothman. One family stemmed from Poland; the other from Russia. Maurice Rothman had been taken from his home in Hamburg, Germany, on September 1, 1939. (Remember that date?) He had been in Dachau, Buchenwald, Nord- 6