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A new exhibit honors writer Lore Segal, a child survivor and lifelong skeptic of easy truths
(JTA) — I’ve never read a Holocaust chronicle quite like Lore Segal’s autobiographical 1964 novel, “Other People’s Houses.” Mordant, unsentimental and sometimes painfully honest, it’s the story of an Austrian girl sent to England on the Kindertransport, as well as a portrait of the artist as a young refugee.
More than one of her legions of admirers have noted that Segal, who died in 2024 at the age of 96, was only one year younger than Anne Frank, and grew up to become the kind of writer Anne too might have become had she not died in Bergen-Belsen.
Segal’s work, which includes decades of stories in The New Yorker as well as a delightful children’s book, “Tell Me a Mitzi,” is also remarkable in its humility. Segal was adamant that memory — especially of traumatic events like the Holocaust — cannot be a perfect repository of truth. It’s not that authors couldn’t be trusted, but that neither the writer nor the reader should take anything for granted.
That challenge is captured in the title of a new exhibit mounted by the Leo Baeck Institute in New York: “And That’s True Too: The Life and Work of Lore Segal.” The title is a quote from “King Lear,” a favorite of Segal’s and a reminder to hold opposing truths in the same sentence, of resisting the false comfort of a single, final version.
“We tried to give you an insight into Laura’s ability to look at the world from many angles,” Karin Hanta, the exhibit’s curator, said at the exhibit’s opening on Thursday, just days before International Holocaust Remembrance Day.
At the event, actress Toni Kalem, who played Angie Bonpensiero on “The Sopranos,” read an excerpt from “Other People’s Houses.” Kalem, who met Segal years ago and discovered that their mothers shared the experience of the Kindertransport, spoke of Segal’s “unbridled curiosity” — a quality that runs through the display of photographs, manuscripts and family keepsakes.
Lore (pronounced “Laura”) Groszmann was born in Vienna in 1928; one month after the Nazi pogrom on Kristallnacht, she was sent to England and raised in a series of foster homes (her refugee parents would eventually arrive and find work as domestics). Later she would join her family in the Dominican Republic, and they eventually found refuge in Washington Heights, the Manhattan redoubt for German-speaking Jews. After she established herself as a writer, she became part of a circle of mostly Jewish writers in New York, including Cynthia Ozick, Vivan Gornick, Grace Paley, Norma Rosen and Gloria Goldreich. Her husband, book editor David Segal, was 40 when he died in 1970.
Hanta had hoped to write a biography of Segal, but when that project stalled, she pivoted. “With all the materials I had gathered,” she recalled at the opening, “why not stage an exhibition?”
The first iteration, mounted in Vienna’s Bezirksmuseum Josefstadt — located in the district where Segal grew up, and, as Hanta later discovered, near the hospital where she was born — drew thousands of visitors. The New York version, expanded and sharpened, shifts the focus westward, tracing Segal’s journey from prewar Vienna to Manhattan, where she lived for decades, taught generations of writers, and, according to the New York Times, came “closer than anyone to writing the Great American Novel.”
That novel, “Her First American,” appeared in 1985 and explored the uneasy intersection of race and Holocaust history through the relationship of a Jewish refugee and a Black intellectual. (LBI has scheduled an online event about Horace Cayton, Segal’s real-life lover and the inspiration for the novel.) “Other People’s Houses,” her first book, earned Segal a Guggenheim Fellowship, and her short-story collection “Shakespeare’s Kitchen” (2007) became a Pulitzer Prize finalist. All three books will be reissued in the spring of 2026 by the New Press, while Melville House is publishing a posthumous collection, “Still Talking.” Introduced by Gornick, it features the linked “Ladies’ Lunch” stories she wrote late in her career, about elderly Manhattan friends dealing frankly and often hilariously with the daily indignities of growing old.
The exhibit at the Center for Jewish History, where LBI catalogues the history and culture of German-speaking Jews, includes notebooks from Bedford College in London, where Segal studied after the war, filled with short stories entered into competitions. There are manuscripts marked and re-marked in a hand that never stopped revising. There are address books kept by her parents — one from England, one from the Dominican Republic — opened to pages that quietly testify to vanished worlds: cousins who hid behind kitchen curtains in France, friends who assumed false identities, children who never made it onto the trains.
One small object carries particular weight: a childhood friendship book, the sort in which relatives and friends inscribe poems and well-intentioned advice. Segal’s includes an entry from her first English foster mother, urging her to cherish friendship — advice that reads differently if you know, as Segal later wrote, that their relationship was fraught. Her father’s contribution, a drawing of a boy hiking in the mountains, echoes a story Segal drafted as a young woman about a prewar hike in the Alps with him. She revised that story at 90 and retitled it “Dandelion.” The New Yorker published it in 2019, 70 years after its first draft.
The exhibition is accompanied by a season of in-person and virtual programs, and Hanta has her own wish list of commemorative projects: She hopes that a park in Vienna where Segal played as a child might be renamed in her honor; that the exhibition might travel; that “Other People’s Houses” might be distributed free in Austria in 2028, the centenary of Segal’s birth and the 90th anniversary of the Kindertransport.
On opening night, before reading from “Other People’s Houses,” Kalem paused to apologize for the necessary cuts she made. “As you know, all her life, Lore was a master of meticulously crafting and scrupulously revising her work,” said Kalem. “So it feels like literary malfeasance on my part to attempt to edit a word of Lore’s story. It feels akin to cutting Shakespeare by shortening Hamlet’s soliloquy…. So Lore, I hope you understand and I hope you will forgive me.”
The exhibition also includes a video produced by Hanta and Segal’s grandson, Benny, which captures Segal late in life, still circling her subjects, still attentive to the elusiveness of truth. At the opening, Segal’s son Jacob spoke of his mother’s ambition and her modesty, her seriousness about art and her refusal to be undone by success or disappointment.
“She always made the world larger,” he said. “It’s smaller now.”
“And That’s True Too: The Life and Work of Lore Segal” runs through April 15 at the Center for Jewish History, 15 W. 16th St., New York, New York.
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Why I’m vibing with the pope’s first big statement
I have long been obsessed with the Vatican and the inner workings of the papacy. (I majored and did my Master’s in religious studies.) But usually other people are not as tickled as I am by analyzing the newest theological statements from the Holy See.
Not this week. Pope Leo XIV just put out his first encyclical — the term used to refer to official statements outlining the church’s stance on a topic — and it has gone viral. “Spitting fire right out the gate,” said one of many similar trending posts, as though the encyclical was a rap song.
The topic is buzzy: AI, which the pope casts as one of the greatest threats to human flourishing and morality. (The encyclical is titled “Magnifica Humanitas,” or “Magnificent Humanity” in English, if that gives you the gist.) “Humanity, created by God in all its grandeur,” it opens, “ is today facing a pivotal choice: either to construct a new Tower of Babel or to build the city in which God and humanity dwell together.”
The document notes many of the concrete risks of AI — sexual abuse, distortion of facts, job loss — and calls for pragmatic solutions. But it is, at its heart, a testament to what makes humans human, written with palpable adoration for the people of the world: our creativity, our empathy, even our weaknesses. It’s a declaration that machines can never have the ineffable qualities of God’s children.
Structuring our world around technology, Leo writes, reduces “creation to an object of exploitation and human beings to mere cogs in a system driven toward ever greater efficiency.”
Later, in a paean to the importance of deep thought over easy answers, he goes on: “The speed and ease with which answers or summaries can be obtained risk extinguishing the desire to ask questions,” he writes, calling on the world “to protect our young people from the promise of the perfect machine” and warning against rendering “human thought seemingly superfluous precisely when it is most needed.”
“Magnificatus Humanitas” is a major statement, both in length — more than 43,000 words — and in symbolism. A pope’s first encyclical indicates the issues they believe are most important to the church, and signals the likely direction of their papacy.
That direction, for Pope Leo, is to be a voice for moral leadership, writ large. He addressed the encyclical not only to Catholics or even Christians, but “to all men and women of goodwill,” and cited thinkers like Hannah Arendt and J.R.R. Tolkien alongside the Bible.
It’s a declaration of a new — or, arguably, very old — relevance for religious leaders. As people rush through our increasingly fast-paced, frantic world, striving to keep up with the newest technology or geopolitical shift affecting markets and jobs, the slow-moving, zoomed-out perspective of religious leaders seems to be more and more important.
The Vatican held massive authority both moral and military for much of Western history. But its sway faded in the modern age. As democracy rose, Christianity broke into factions and religion’s prominence weakened, leaving the Church without the same ability to bestow a divine mandate on nations and rulers.
So many modern popes have kept their sights more narrowly focused on the theological. Even Pope Francis, who was a liberal, modernizing force for the church, and spoke out strongly on topics like the environment and immigration, focused three of his four encyclicals on Christian theological concepts like the Sacred Heart and Christianity as the world’s guiding light.
Pope Leo, however, seems to have found his way to modern, secular relevance by speaking out clearly on major issues of the day. He notes that he drew inspiration for “Magnificatus Humanitas” from Pope Leo XIII, an influential pope in the late 1800s and the inspiration for the modern Leo’s own papal moniker, whose 1891 encyclical “Rerum Novarum,” on the economy and conditions of the working class, was criticized for insufficient focus on the Gospel. The current pope’s own document is remarkably concrete and political.
Making political statements isn’t new for Leo, but the encyclical canonizes his boldness into an official form. In the past few months I’ve written about the ways in which Pope Leo has used sermons and statements to directly counter those made by U.S. leaders. After Pete Hegseth made a speech implying the U.S. military is doing God’s will, the pope gave a homily saying that prayers for war cannot be heard by God. He has made strongly worded comments about the rights of immigrants as Trump announced increased ICE raids, and made a point of appointing foreign bishops in American parishes. He has refused to visit the U.S. despite the fact that he is American and has been invited numerous times, including for the nation’s 250th birthday; he is instead planning to visit an island that serves as a refugee landing point in the Mediterranean.
It’s not all that surprising that Leo is making pronouncements on the justness of wars; popes have always given commentary on the world, albeit often less pointedly. Of course, Catholics have always looked to the pope for moral leadership — though that is increasingly under question, as renegade Catholics doubt the pope. (Even J.D. Vance, a Catholic convert with a book coming out about his conversion, has warned the pope to be “careful” with his theological interpretations — a near heretical statement. That’s how Protestantism came about.) The difference today is that everybody is listening.
I think the reason is that there is a certain ineffable quality that can’t be accounted for in so much of modern-day discourse in our metrics-focused world. Everything needs to be provable with a statistical analysis or some quantifiable indicator, or it needs to be as profitable as possible to extract value. But so much of what is most valuable in the human experience is intuitive — experiences and emotions like love, joy, transcendence. Connection with each other. Religious leaders have been honing the language to talk about these qualities for centuries, and they guard one of the only arenas in which the intangible remains central.
Of course, there are also plenty of issues with religious institutions, and the Vatican in particular is famous as a site where abuses of power were hidden and protected. But “Magnifica Humanitas,” and its virality, points toward a new relationship with religion, and a newly important role for it to play.
Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking, a hope for my own increased importance as a religion reporter.
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How can I live freely as a Jew in a world where strangers rip my mezuzah off my doorframe?
Twice, the mezuzah on my front door was ripped off.
The first time, I was shocked. The second time, I made a decision that still pains me. I did not put it back up.
This was before the Hamas attack of Oct. 7, 2023.
That is the part I keep coming back to. The fear did not begin after the Hamas attacks. It was already there, intruding with the quiet calculation of whether a small Jewish symbol on my home made me less safe.
A mezuzah is not a political statement. It makes no argument about a government or a war. It is a sacred object, a marker of memory, a tiny declaration that says: Jews live here. I thought about that mezuzah again recently when the Anti-Defamation League released its annual audit showing that antisemitic physical assaults in the United States reached record highs in 2025. That increase reflects something many Jews already feel in daily life: the slow erosion of ease, the daily calculation of whether to speak up or stay quiet — things I have felt since the first time my mezuzah was violently torn off my doorframe.
Since then, the realm in which I feel safe as a visibly Jewish person has been shrinking from all directions.
After the Oct. 7 attack, the bulletin boards in my apartment building began filling with calls to boycott Israel. Campaign flyers for a Jewish political candidate who came to speak there were defaced with Hitler mustaches. I learned to scan the walls before I scanned my mail.
This was not happening on a campus quad or in some distant place. It was happening where I live.
Then, among my mother’s things, I found a Star of David necklace from the 1930s — marcasite set against black onyx, delicate and old. A boyfriend had given it to her when they were both 14.
I put it on in Florida, where I spend much of my time caring for my mother. I loved wearing it. It felt like more than jewelry. It felt like inheritance, memory, and a small way of carrying my family with me.
But when my mother knew I was going back to New York, she told me to take it off.
My mother is 102. She is not easily frightened. She has lived long enough to know when the temperature in the room has changed. She was not making a political argument. She was trying to protect her daughter.
I still wear that Star of David. But I admit I am selective. In New York, there are moments when I leave it visible and moments when I tuck it under my shirt. That calculation itself tells me something about the world I am moving through.
Recently, in a private Facebook group for women essayists, I shared a personal piece I had written for the United Kingdom-based Jewish Chronicle about how Oct. 7 changed life for my mother and me. It was not a political manifesto. It was a reflection on fear, Jewish identity, aging and visibility.
And still, I was attacked by other writers.“What about Gaza?” I was asked. The message was clear: even my personal Jewish pain had to pass a political test before it could be acknowledged.
That is the narrowing.
This ugliness is coming from more than one direction now. It stems from old conspiracy theories on the right and newer moral certainties in some of the progressive spaces where I once felt most at home. Different language brings about the same result: Jews become less human, less particular, less entitled to fear.
That collapse is what frightens me most: the definitional collapse between Jew and Israeli; Israeli and Israel’s government; Jewish symbol and political provocation; mezuzah and target.
As Jews like me reckon with that collapse, we must reckon with how much we’ll go along with it.
Right now, too often, Jews are being asked to choose between our own safety and our compassion for others. We should be able to prioritize both. I am a Zionist. I believe in the right of the Jewish people to a homeland. I also believe Palestinians are human beings who deserve freedom, dignity, and protection from suffering.
These beliefs should not cancel each other out. They should make us more careful, more humane, more committed to truth.
Yet now we must choose between speaking about antisemitism and being accused of indifference to other hatreds. That is no way to live.
Since Oct. 7, I have found myself going to synagogue on Shabbat, something I never did before. I was a High Holiday Jew. Now I seek out rooms where I do not have to explain why this moment feels frightening. I have learned where I feel seen. I have learned who can hold my fear without turning it into an argument.
The mezuzah I did not put back up is small. It fits in the palm of my hand.
But what it represents is not small: memory, faith, survival, home, and the right to be visibly Jewish without fear.
When I did not put it back up, I told myself I was being practical. But now — after Oct. 7, the bulletin boards, my mother’s warning, and the explosive allegations I’ve seen travel through respected media without sufficient care or verification — I understand it differently.
I was not just protecting a doorframe. I was learning to shrink.
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Podcast: A lively conversation in Yiddish with actress Lea Koenig
ס׳איז לעצטנס אַרויס אַ פּאָדקאַסט מיט דער באַליבטער אַקטריסע אין ישׂראל, ליאַ קעניג, וועלכע איז הײַנט צום בעסטן באַקאַנט ווי די ייִדיש־רעדנדיקע באָבע פֿונעם פּערסאָנאַזש שלום שטיסל אין דער ישׂראלדיקער טעלעוויזיע־סעריע „שטיסל“.
אינעם שמועס באַטייליקן זיך אויך יניבֿ גאָלדבערג — דער מחבר פֿון אַ נײַער ביאָגראַפֿיע וועגן איר אויף ענגליש; דער איבערזעצער און דראַמאַטורג מיכל יאַשינסקי, און דער ייִדישער זינגער און קולטור־טוער חיים וואָלף. דעם פּאָדקאַסט האָט טראַנסמיטירט די באָסטאָנער ראַדיאָ־פּראָגראַם „דאָס ייִדישע קול“.
ליאַ קעניג גיט איבער אירע זכרונות במשך פֿון איר לאַנגער קאַריערע אין ייִדישן טעאַטער, ווי אויך אינעם העברעיִשן טעאַטער, טעלעוויזיע און קינאָ. כּדי צו הערן דעם פּאָדקאַסט, גיט אַ קוועטש דאָ.
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