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Hidden in Central Park, a modest installation of Holocaust art — but what was it doing there?

I’m a big walker. It’s how I stay sane, if one could call what I am, sane. I listen to books, podcasts and music. The lake I live on upstate has a road straight around it, so it is a perfect and beautiful four-mile walk. I walk around it once or twice every day.

Not long ago, I went walking in Central Park, which is down the block from my apartment in Manhattan. About a quarter of a mile of the way in, I saw out of the corner of my eye something interesting on the curb. Oddly, it looked like art.

When I went over to see what it was, it turned out to be a beautifully, albeit austerely, painted brick, with what I thought were three viewpoints of a prisoner in black and white. On the side was a piece of masking tape with a series of numbers, which made it seem like it was an installation, and this was the edition number. Maybe it was some new Banksy installation, I thought, and greedily picked it up. Had I found some secret treasure? It was heavy enough to be an encumbrance, but already, in my assessment, too valuable to leave.

By the time I got halfway around the park, I collected three more and was trying to do my seven-mile walk carrying four heavy bricks in a plastic bag I picked out of the trash. I knew I’d never make it all the way around. I decided to hide them under a bush at 74th and Fifth and come back later to collect them.

The artwork is not signed, but the artist isn’t Banksy — at least we’re pretty sure it isn’t. Photo by Ricky Ian Gordon

I had lunch with my friend Christine who afterwards walked with me to the secret hiding place and helped me carry them through the park. She was equally astonished by them. When I got home, I showed my spouse, Kevin, a talented writer and editor, who knew at once what they were. They were Jewish prisoners from the concentration camps and the numbers hastily taped to the sides were some kind of identification numbers. I wondered if they were the ones tattooed on their arms.

Kevin looked on the web and found something called the Arolsen Archives where you could look up the numbers like the ones on the bricks and find out who the prisoners were, so they were more like the filing numbers, the tally of the murdered. It seemed logical, though I couldn’t find any of the four on the bricks.

Why hadn’t I immediately known what the images were? I am a Jew. I have always been obsessed with the Holocaust. I saw Claude Lanzmann’s monumental nine-hour documentary, Shoah, twice. I spent eight harrowing hours at Theresienstadt two years ago. I created an opera out of Giorgio Bassani’s Holocaust novel, The Garden of the Finzi-Continis. My grandmother flooded us when we were children with photos of everyone who was murdered in the little Polish village she mercifully escaped the day it was wiped off the map. But it took Kevin, a Catholic, to identify them.

I suddenly felt very strange. Had I disturbed some kind of Holocaust memorial someone was in the process of installing all over the park? But they seemed so delicate and randomly placed — one good rain might destroy them. The masking tape was already falling off. Maybe someone has an explanation, or knows what I should do with them, I thought. They should be protected. They are disturbing and moving, and chillingly beautiful. They should be seen.

Another solemn triptych found in Central Park. Photo by Ricky Ian Gordon

Taken by their aesthetic beauty, but curiously oblivious to their power, I arranged them on the shelves in our bedroom. But as soon as Kevin entered the room, he said, “Those cannot stay in here.” It never occurred to me that sleeping in a bed where these faces were staring down at you might be upsetting.

I posted my story and images of the bricks on Facebook seeking to find answers, and received all kinds of responses, including, especially from my writer and artist friends, an almost haughty and judgmental, “Put them back!” I felt guilty, ashamed, and thought about it, but it didn’t feel right.

This is what I wanted to happen: People would see what I had posted, understand how extraordinary my discovery was, and answer the questions that I had: Why would someone do this? The pieces were oddly located — one on the curb, one on a wall, on a bench, but all out in the open for anyone to find — was anyone checking on them? Why was I the only one that saw them? Was I, in fact, the only one? Were they a memorial? An installation? Were they Banksy? Was I holding a treasure and finally about to get rich? Of course I couldn’t sell them, but I thought about it.

No one had any answers, though, and none of my 5,000 Facebook friends raised their hand to say, “I made them, and this is why.”

What would you do if you found this artwork in the park? Photo by Ricky Ian Gordon

I am a composer, and sensitive to the gesture — an artist’s quiet activist act, the element of chance, the small revolution, the poetry of it. Perhaps I should have left them undisturbed, let the artist have his/her/their way. But I didn’t, I couldn’t, and here we are.

Now what?

The world feels so precarious right now — violent and unpredictable. This looked like it might be some profound political statement, some cry from the artist’s studio, some shriek in the dark in these bricks. But I don’t know what it was, and I’m dying to find out.

I still question my obliviousness to what the images were when I first saw them. It rattles me. Could I be inured to such horrors?

Last night, when I went to sleep, I dreamt I was in a building with three other men. We were wiring a building to blow it up. When the blast was imminent, and the building started collapsing, they got out and I didn’t. I woke up startled, shaking, sweating and wondering: What do these bricks signify?

And why was it me that found them?

Can anyone tell me?

Anyone?

The post Hidden in Central Park, a modest installation of Holocaust art — but what was it doing there? appeared first on The Forward.

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Gene Shalit, a mensch with a personality as big as his mustache, turns 100

The television entertainment personality Gene Shalit, who celebrated his centenary on March 25, semaphored a Jewish appearance for decades to viewers of NBC’s early morning gabfest The Today Show.

With his Jew-fro hairstyle that fascinated celebrity interviewees and his abundant mustache that outdid Groucho Marx’s mere greasepaint simulacrum, Shalit was one of a kind. Born in New York City in 1926, he clearly aimed to be recognizable even through half-opened bleary eyes of half-asleep viewers. And audible too. Shalit’s precise pronunciation, always at a vigorous decibel level, sought to be comprehensible even during voiceovers. The Canadian comedian Eugene Levy, transfixed by this persona, imitated him on SCTV roaring at high decibel levels.

In one skit, Levy embodied Shalit with haimish affection, hawking a remedy for a migraine presumably caused by his own bellowing. In another, Levy spoofed Hollywood celebrities who were notorious fressers at local restaurants, including the American Jewish actress Shelley Winters (born Shirley Schrift). In still another lampoon, Levy-as-Shalit danced and also kibitzed with the late Catherine O’Hara as the Jewish gossip columnist Rona Barrett (born Burstein).

Shalit apparently kvelled at the notion that he was prominent enough in media culture to be affectionately kidded like other Jewish noteworthies Levy imitated, including Howard Cosell, Henry Kissinger, Menachem Begin, Milton Berle, Judd Hirsch, Jack Carter, James Caan, Lorne Greene, Norman Mailer and Neil Sedaka.

Years later, Levy recalled that when the SCTV comedy troupe was invited to appear on The Today Show, before the segment was filmed, chairs were arranged so that Catherine O’Hara was seated next to Shalit. Suddenly Shalit exclaimed: “Wait a minute, shouldn’t the person who [imitates] me be sitting beside me?” Another Jewish comedian, Jon Lovitz, would likewise attempt to imitate Shalit on Saturday Night Live, but without the zest of Levy’s indelible incarnation.

Gene Shalit on the ‘Today Show’ set with Sophia Loren, 1980. Photo by Raimondo Borea/Gartenberg Media Enterprises/Getty Images

Shalit once told showbiz reporter Eileen Prose that at first, his looks limited him to radio jobs in more conventional times for TV talent. By the more liberated late 1960s, when long hair and a hirsute upper lip were more common, he was hired as quasi-permanent house Jew on The Today Show. Although his mustache fit the counterculture in the mode of Jewish activist Jerry Rubin’s, Shalit as an aspiring journalist may have grown his facial hair more in tribute to earlier literati like the playwright William Saroyan or the eminent humorist Mark Twain.

At times, Shalit’s appearance could be clown-like or cartoonish, so it was natural that characters inspired by him would appear on animated series such as SpongeBob SquarePants and Family Guy as well as The Muppet Show.

Famous interviewees like Peter Sellers were plainly at ease with Shalit’s persona. A conversation filmed shortly before Sellers’ untimely death was cordial, with the sometimes tetchy actor on his best behavior, acknowledging Shalit as a fellow entertainer. And with Mel Brooks in 1987, Shalit looked to be in paradise.

A warm-hearted empathizer and enthusiast, Shalit was more suited to promoting films than criticizing them. In 1989, a tzimmes occurred when a memo drafted by Bryant Gumbel, a Today Show colleague, deemed Shalit a “specialist in gushing over actors and directors” and added that Shalit’s interviews “aren’t very good.” To his credit, Shalit minimized the controversy, telling The Los Angeles Times that Gumbel’s disses were “not big whacks.”

“Listen, I’ve been interviewing people on the show for 17 years,” Shalit said. “I must be doing something right.”

Shalit at NBC Studios, 1979. Photo by Raimondo Borea/Gartenberg Media Enterprises/Getty Images

Part of his inspiration was a sincere appreciation for humor, Jewish and otherwise. His 1987 anthology, Laughing Matters featured contributions by Jewish wits such as Dorothy Parker, S. J. Perelman, Woody Allen, Fran Lebowitz, Samuel Hoffenstein, Philip Roth, Mel Brooks, George S. Kaufman, Milt Gross, Arthur Kober, Leo Rosten, Allan Sherman, Max Shulman, Calvin Trillin, Rube Goldberg, Sam Gross, Roz Chast, B. Kliban, Robert Mankoff, J. B. Handelsman, Jules Feiffer and George Burns. The volume was dedicated to, among others, the Jewish screenwriter Samson Raphaelson, who was Shalit’s instructor at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign.

His visceral reaction to Jewish parody was such that during one commuter train ride, Shalit admitted in a preface, Perelman’s story “No Starch in the Dhoti, S’il Vous Plait” caused a conductor to lean down with concern, stating: “A passenger says you’re crying.” To which Shalit retorted, choking and rubbing away tears: “I’m laughing.”

The subliminal message of Shalit’s book was that without Jews, America would have distinctly fewer tears of laughter. And he regretted not being able to include funny Jews like Jack Benny and Ed Wynn whose performances could not be transferred to the printed page.

Shalit also reviewed books for years. Sticking firmly to the content of cultural products with a few brief hints of value judgment, Shalit seemed to have neither the time nor presumably the inclination to subject new items to analysis of Freudian intensity. He clearly preferred boosting things to panning them, and when a film displeased Shalit, he could be uncomfortable saying so.

One occasion when Shalit raised hackles was his response on The Today Show to the 2005 film Brokeback Mountain. Shalit described one of the gay characters as a “sexual predator.” The LGBTQ media group GLAAD objected to Shalit’s characterization as a homophobic stereotype. Shalit’s son Peter wrote an open letter to GLAAD, identifying himself as a gay physician with a Seattle practice helping the gay community. Peter Shalit admitted that his father “did not get” the film in question, but was “not a homophobe.” He might have added that his father had even included an excerpt from Harvey Fierstein’s Torch Song Trilogy in the aforementioned humor collection.

Shalit followed up with his own apology, stating in a mensch-like way that he did not intend to cast “aspersions on anyone in the gay community or on the community itself.” When Shalit finally retired from broadcasting at age 84, with the Yiddish-inflected declaration: “It’s enough, already,” he left behind admiring viewers and decades of bonhomie as one of morning television’s most genial protagonists.

Mazel tov, Gene Shalit. Biz hundert un tsvantsik (May you live until 120)!

The post Gene Shalit, a mensch with a personality as big as his mustache, turns 100 appeared first on The Forward.

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How a song about the food chain became a Seder mainstay

I’m almost positive I heard about the old lady who swallowed a fly before the father who bought a goat for two zuzim.

This occurred to me a few years ago while riding in my sister’s minivan. My niece was in her car seat fidgeting with a toy that plays a catalogue of public domain children’s songs. But unlike the version I’d grown up hearing, where the old lady’s ravenous habit of devouring ever-larger animals is met with the prognostic shrug of “perhaps she’ll die,” the refrain was changed to the more kid-friendly “oh me oh my.”

The Seder tune “Chad Gadya,” which involves a quite similar conceit, has no such timidity when it comes to the ravages of death.

Jack Black once described it as the “original heavy metal song” for the way it progresses along the chain of life from a little goat bought for two zuzim, to the cat who ate the goat, to the dog who bit the cat, all the way up to the angel of death. (“Very Black Sabbath.”)

It is pretty metal — in a kosher Kidz Bop, tot Shabbat kinda way. But why we sing it should, in Jewish circles, be as popular a seasonal question as what a bunny with a clutch of eggs has to do with Jesus’ resurrection. (Some Haggadot explain the greater significance of “Chad Gadya;” my Maxwell House does not.)

Dating the song or rooting out its precise origins is not easy.

As historian Henry Abramson wrote, scholars have noted the song’s similarities to a late Medieval German folk rhyme. While the fact that it is mostly in Aramaic, not the vernacular in Europe in the Middle Ages, suggests an earlier provenance, it is missing from extant Sephardic and Yemenite Haggadot, where one would expect to find texts originating in the language, and the Aramaic itself has many errors.

Abramson reasons that, given the surviving written versions, it was likely adapted sometime in the 14th century from a German children’s rhyme called “The Foreman that Sent Jockel Out,” about an idler named Jockel who a foreman tries to rouse to fieldwork with an escalating series of messengers, ending with a hangman. (Abramson notes the original is characterized by “some Teutonic weirdness,” like a witch sent to subdue a vulture.)

“Chad Gadya” belongs, like its Seder companion “Echad Mi Yodea,” to a genre called “cumulative song,” where verses build with new information a la “12 Days of Christmas.” But “Chad Gadya” stands out for its strangeness and its more oblique message.

Abramson and others see the goat, small and vulnerable, standing in for the Jewish people, and the ensuing parade of antagonists corresponding to historical enemies (Assyrians, Babylonians) and periods of time (Exodus, various conquests), ending with redemption in the Messianic age when the Holy One smites death.

As Rabbi Jonathan Sacks wrote in a commentary for his Haggadah, the song “teaches the great truth of Jewish hope: that though many nations (symbolized by the cat, the dog, and so on) attacked Israel (the goat), each in turn has vanished into oblivion.”

That this truth is conveyed in song, with much banging on the table or animal noises, speaks to the centrality of children in the Passover Seder. And, some think, its inclusion serves a practical purpose: keeping the kids awake through the last leg of a long ritual meal.

My own interpretation is admittedly less lofty. I don’t think of Israel’s tribulations. I do think of the abundance of stray cats in Jerusalem, said to have originated during the British mandate when the city had a rat problem.

And, in the years since my own days as designated Four Questions asker, I’ve been reading “Chad Gadya” into non-Jewish contexts. “The White Cat,” off of Mitski’s new album, Nothing’s About to Happen to Me, contains a lyric that recalls the song, only altered to be a metaphor for the predations of capitalism.

In it, the speaker says she must work to pay for the cat’s house and “for the bugs who drink my blood/and the birds who eat those bugs/so that white cat can kill the birds.”

These cycles speak across cultures and time because they represent a fundamental rule of nature: There’s always a bigger fish (or cat or dog or stick).

To erase death from the equation, like my niece’s toy does with that hapless, insect-ingesting pensioner, is a concession to today’s sensitivities. That’s not to say “The Old Lady Who Swallowed a Fly” represents anything more homiletic than a choking hazard warning, but in the case of “Chad Gadya,” death is the story, and an end to death is the hope.

“The Haggadah ends with the death of death in eternal life,” Rabbi Sacks concluded his drash on the song, which ends when God strikes down the Angel of Death. “A fitting end for the story of a people dedicated to Moshe’s great command, ‘Choose life.’”

I know it’s a principle of faith all over the Haggadah, but I’m more agnostic as to that Messianic promise and maybe more in the camp of our old lady. My understanding of Jewishness, which accords with Moshe’s command, says life is best lived knowing that — perhaps — we’ll die.

The post How a song about the food chain became a Seder mainstay appeared first on The Forward.

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Katz: ‘Israel’s Goal in Lebanon is to Disarm Hezbollah’

Then-Israeli transportation minister Israel Katz attends the cabinet meeting at the Prime Minister’s office in Jerusalem, Feb. 17, 2019. Katz currently serves as the foreign minister. Photo: Sebastian Scheiner/Pool via REUTERS

i24 NewsIsrael’s Defense Minister Israel Katz held a situation assessment Friday with senior military and defense officials, reiterating that the country’s policy in Lebanon remains focused on disarming Hezbollah by military and political means. Katz emphasized that the goal applies “regardless of the Iran issue” and pledged continued protection for Israeli northern communities.

Katz said the Israel Defense Forces are completing ground maneuvers up to the anti-tank line to prevent direct threats to border towns. He outlined plans to demolish houses in villages near the border that serve as Hezbollah outposts, citing previous operations in Rafah and Khan Yunis in Gaza as models.

The Defense Minister added that the IDF will maintain security control over the Litani area and that the return of 600,000 residents of southern Lebanon who had evacuated north will not be permitted until northern communities’ safety is ensured. Katz also reaffirmed that the IDF will continue targeting Hezbollah leaders and operatives across Lebanon, noting that 1,000 terrorists have already been eliminated since the start of the current campaign.

“We promised security to the northern towns, and that is exactly what we will do,” Katz said. He further warned that the IDF will act decisively against rocket fire from Lebanon, stating that Hezbollah “will pay heavy prices.”

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