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Stumbling across Jewish history in a vintage store
I have never lived alone. I’ve never even lived with only my partner, at least not for all that long. We’ve always had roommates. And that means we’ve always had roommates’ stuff.
Honestly, I’ve loved this. I mean, I’ve had my issues with individual roommates, ranging from minor nits to major clashes. But generally, I have liked the benefits of living with people, which I’d summarize as: friendship, finances and furniture.
This time in my life is drawing to a close soon, however, as my partner and I prepare to move into our own place. And it’s time to figure out what my tastes are. Sure, I’ve accrued some things — a rug my grandfather braided, a bookshelf a Harvard School of Design student made and abandoned in my grad school apartment. But I’ve never bought a couch. And I’ve never had to fill a big wall, much less a whole apartment, with art.
As a culture writer, this task feels especially laden with meaning — I feel like my taste is on trial. I like abstract art, yet, at least within my budget, so many abstract paintings look like the visual equivalent of Muzak. I want my art to be meaningful, personal, to tell a story about who lives here and what they value. I would love my furniture, too, to be an interesting statement, but ultimately, we need something to sit on. I’m less willing to just fill walls.
Which is why I was so thrilled, finally, to be stopped in my tracks by a piece of art on the website of Johnny Cakes Design, an interior design store in Providence. An engraving, it depicts a naked man, slumped on the ground, his head hanging over a glass of wine, his beard carved out of spiraling lines. Two women, holding a bunch of grapes, stand over him, embracing. The description said the artist, Abram Krol, had lived through the Holocaust, but little else.
The store was closed, but I called to ask if I could get in to see it that afternoon — I was irrationally certain someone would buy it any second — and Britt Machado, the owner, told me she could let me in.
Machado had listed the piece online as “Epreuve d’essai,” but, she told me, she’d learned that is simply a French term for a test print, part of the process of engraving. She didn’t know too much else about it; she had purchased it at an auction in either upstate New York or Connecticut. I bought it and quickly discovered that, while Krol is relatively obscure in the U.S. — though MoMA has one engraving of a mandril monkey — in France, he’s a well-known member of the School of Paris, artists who made the capital an art center in the 20th century.
Born in 1919, Krol grew up in a Hasidic family in Poland. But when he was 12, his father, a noted Talmudist, had a spiritual crisis and became a devoted atheist, completely upending their lives. Krol moved to France at 19 to study to become a civil engineer, as his mother pushed him to do, but ended up joining the French foreign legion in 1939 — as a way to avoid Poland’s draft — and landing in Avignon.
He began to take painting classes, but World War II was coming and Krol was tipped off about the impending danger for Jews as France was occupied by the Nazis. He assumed a false identity and took a job in a factory.
The main biography of Krol that I could find, a French website written by his son, Andre, gives little detail about how Krol survived the Holocaust, or how he felt; after noting Krol took a false identity, it jumps to his first exhibition, in Paris in 1946, and then to the 1950s, when his career took off.
But his artwork gives hints of how the Holocaust affected him. In 1953, Krol made an engraving in memory of his parents and his brother, who had perished in concentration camps. A book of engravings and poems, La Fiancée du septième jour (The Seventh-day Bride), includes a poem that longingly captures the rhythms of the Jewish rituals Krol performed in his childhood. He writes of walking in the footsteps of his ancestors, of Yom Kippur prostrations and the feeling of the leather straps of the tefillin. But in the next poem, fire has consumed the village.
“The knees that carried me, wandering, are charred, and the ash of their flesh is scattered across the flowery fields of Europe,” Krol writes, in French. “May we meet again.”
Much of his work grappled with biblical themes. A Haggadah that intimately depicts a Jewish family crouched on the ground, searching for the final crumb of bread before the holiday begins, and a series of ceramic works shows Hasidic men reading Torah. From 1967 to 1971 he worked on a series of 187 engravings depicting the entire Torah, one per chapter, producing starkly textured, minimalist images of Adam and Eve intertwined, Sarah with a pregnant Hagar.
He seems to have been trying to understand his father’s shift from Hasidic scholar to atheist intellectual, a time he references obliquely, writing only that “I owed it to my childhood” to return to the stories of the Bible. Or perhaps he was trying to connect with the family he had lost.
Through my research, I’ve discovered that the print I now own became a work titled “Les Filles de Loth,” or “Lot’s daughters.” (It was a test for printing his engravings with multiple colors; the final product, which adds a striking rust-colored sun, is held at the Paris Museum of Modern Art.)
It depicts one of the most uncomfortable moments in Genesis, an incestuous scene in which Lot’s daughters — believing humanity to be destroyed after God smites the city of Sodom — get their father drunk and have sex with him in order to, they believe, ensure the continuation of the human race.
It is, I think, a testament to the artist’s ongoing interrogation of his relationship with Judaism, and with morality at large, as it grapples with one of humanity’s strongest taboos — incest — juxtaposed against the threat of extermination. What is right and wrong in the face of something so horrifying?
“During his final years, whenever he was asked why he had embarked on a career as an artist, he explained that it was to counter the malevolence of the Nazis, who had sought to eradicate the Jewish people and every trace of their existence,” writes Krol’s son, the only mention of the Holocaust’s impact on his father. “Of his immediate family — his parents and brother — who had all perished in the camps, he was the sole survivor; he wished to leave behind a lasting testament to their time on earth.”
Looking at my print, itself an unfinished experiment, I see Krol’s continued engagement with the question of what to do with Judaism, and his refusal to discard a piece of his identity, however turbulent his relationship with it. It is a symbol of an ongoing, lived quest to understand, like Judaism itself. It has, after all, already inspired me to chase down Krol’s life’s work, pore over his poems and dwell on each scene of the Torah that he engraved.
That feels like the perfect centerpiece for my new home. Even if my mother’s first response to seeing it was, “Wow, they’re really…naked.”
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Slovenia’s last Jewish institution endures through desecration and decay
On a Saturday morning last July, Robert Baruh Waltl watched two processions converge on central Ljubljana. From one direction, near the river, came a column of neo-Nazis chanting nationalist slogans chanting “Long live Slovenia.” From the other came pro-Palestinian marchers singing “from the river to the sea”.
The city, he notes drily, is very small. “You could see both demonstrations at the same time,” he told me over a video call from his office. “Far right from one side, far left from the other.”
In Slovenia, this is what the view looks like from the only Jewish institution in the country.
The Jewish Cultural Center Ljubljana, which Waltl has directed since its founding in 2013, is overextended by design and necessity. In the absence of a synagogue elsewhere, it functions as one. It is also a cultural center, a museum, and, increasingly, a one-man operation.
“If I’m not in Ljubljana,” Waltl says, “there is no one to even open the door.” For more than a decade, the center has run almost entirely on donations, German embassy micro-grants, and cross-subsidies from Waltl’s adjacent performance space, the Mini Theater. The Slovenian government has never provided stable funding. Applications to the Ministry of Culture go unanswered. “They tell us the Festival of Tolerance is the most important anti-racism event in Slovenia,” Waltl says, speaking of an open event organized by him and the community, “and we don’t receive a single euro for it.”
Waltl did not grow up Jewish. He was born near the Austrian border and moved to Ljubljana as a young man to study theater. Then came a letter from the local Jewish community: did he know that his grandmother had been Jewish? He didn’t. He began attending events, cautiously at first. A trip to Israel changed things. He started reading, learning Hebrew and collecting Judaica. Eventually, he underwent a formal conversion — a giyur — at a liberal congregation in Frankfurt. “I said, OK, now I’m so deep,” he recalls. “I will never feel truly Jewish if I don’t take this last step.”
The community he joined had only barely survived the 20th century. Before the Second World War, Slovenia’s largest Jewish population lived in the Prekmurje region in the northeast. Most were deported to Auschwitz after 1941; roughly 90% were killed. In Ljubljana itself, Jews had been expelled in 1515, and the postwar communist Yugoslav government did nothing to restore their memory: cemeteries and schools were destroyed or simply left to ruin. By the time Waltl arrived, the standard answer when Ljubljana tour guides were asked about Jewish history was blunt: no Jews after 1515. “They didn’t know anything about the Holocaust,” he says. “Nothing about anything.”
His response was methodical. He installed the first memorial plaque on the site of Ljubljana’s medieval synagogue. In 2014, at a gathering of young Jewish leaders in Berlin, he met Gunter Demnig, the German artist behind the Stolpersteine project, and brought the initiative home. Today, Ljubljana and surrounding cities have 68 stumbling stones and one large stone commemorating 150 Jewish refugees expelled from Croatia who sheltered in Ljubljana. He co-founded the Festival of Tolerance with Branko Lustig, the Auschwitz survivor and double Oscar-winning producer of Schindler’s List and Gladiator, born in Osijek, Croatia, who brought early credibility and international reach to the project before his death.
For years, the center also served as a functioning synagogue, anchored by a wave of Israeli tourism. After the Jewish congregation of Slovenia lost its premises in 2014 and moved into Waltl’s building, the arrangement found its footing through sheer numbers. According to Walt 50,000 to 60,000 Israeli tourists visited Slovenia each summer and many of these came to services organized by a Chabad rabbi from Trieste, Ariel Hadad. Then COVID hit. The tourists vanished. So did the rabbi. The pandemic forced a theological rethinking: Waltl discovered liberal Judaism through the Central Synagogue of New York’s online programming and began working with a rabbi from Luxembourg, who now visits several times a year alongside a rabbi from Vienna. When there is money to bring them, they come.
Oct. 7 transformed the center’s situation entirely. On November 6, 2023, someone painted a large swastika equated with a Star of David on the center’s front door. The Jewish graveyard was desecrated during the Festival of Tolerance. When Waltl attempted to screen footage from the Hamas attack for the city’s diplomatic corps, hundreds of pro-Palestinian demonstrators gathered outside and tried to set the doors on fire. The screening was cancelled. There is no Israeli embassy in Slovenia, and no other address for the anger. “In their eyes, we represent Israel,” Waltl says. “We represent everything bad happening in the Middle East.”
Today the center carries a 60,000-euro mortgage taken out for emergency renovations after earthquakes damaged the 500-year-old building, leaving water leaking and unsustainable structural issues. Robert thought that he would receive some sort of financial help from the government to keep this, the only Jewish center in the country, running, but he was unpleasantly surprised to have received none. Since Oct. 7 the relationship with the government soured even more: the prime minister and the president used to show up for Holocaust Remembrance Day and Chanukah festivities, but stopped, says Waltl.
This month, Slovenia changed leadership again, with Israel ally Janez Janša returning as prime minister.
Some other signs of hope: The Rothschild Foundation recently awarded a grant for the country’s first permanent exhibition on Jewish history in Slovenia, set to open this September. The German Embassy contributed 3,000 euros. American tourists — a growing presence — help cover operating costs through summer donations. But the structural problem remains unchanged: roughly 150 Jews, one institution, and a government that adopted the expansive International Holocaust Remembrance Alliance definition of antisemitism, which encompasses anti-Israel actions, while declining to fund the sole organization actually sustaining the community.
“If I say I will stop doing this,” Waltl says, “there will be no Jewish life in Slovenia anymore.”
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Volatility, Hit Frequency, and RTP: Why the Number Casinos Advertise Is the Least Useful One
The return to player percentage looks clean as a casino data point. It gives players a neat number, usually around 94% to 97% for many online slots, and that number feels easy to compare. A 96.5% game appears better than a 95.2% game. The problem starts when players treat RTP as a forecast for their next 50 spins or one evening.
You may find the RTP listed on slot pages on a leading online casino in Ontario, but the number only tells part of the story. Two games can share the same RTP and create different sessions: one may return small wins often, while the other may drain a balance before one bonus round changes everything.
The RTP Trap
Return to player (RTP) measures the theoretical share of total wagers a game returns across a very large number of rounds. In plain terms, a 96% RTP slot returns about $96 for every $100 wagered in the long run. That does not mean one player who deposits $100 should expect $96 back.
The trap sits in the word “theoretical.” RTP comes from the game’s math model. It works across huge samples, not personal sessions. A player can finish far above that percentage, far below it, or with nothing left after a short run of poor results.
Is it useless then? No, RTP can still help. It gives a baseline cost of play. Lower-RTP games cost more on average than higher-RTP games. Still, once a game passes a reasonable threshold, the next question matters more: how does it distribute that return?
Hit Frequency: The Number That Shapes Session Feel
Hit frequency tells you how often a game produces a winning outcome. This often misleads players because any win can count. A spin that returns $0.10 on a $1 bet may still count as a hit, even though the player lost $0.90 in real terms.
A game can feel active because symbols connect often, sounds play, and the screen keeps celebrating small returns. The balance may still fall. In many modern slots, “win” does not always mean profit on the spin.
Hit frequency answers one practical question: how much silence can you tolerate? Some players dislike long dry spells. Others accept quieter sessions because they chase bonus rounds or larger payouts.
The educational site Get Gambling Facts gives a useful distinction: RTP concerns the percentage of money returned over time, while hit frequency concerns how often a machine stops on a winning combination.
Volatility: The Risk Label Players Need More Often
Volatility, also called variance, describes how unevenly a game pays. Low-volatility games tend to return smaller amounts more often. High-volatility games hold more value in rare events: bonus rounds, premium symbols, multipliers, or jackpots.
Here is where RTP becomes less useful on its own:
- A 96% low-volatility slot may give modest returns and longer play from the same balance.
- A 96% high-volatility slot may burn through funds quickly unless the player hits a strong feature.
- A progressive jackpot game may look exciting, but it often places more value on rare top prizes.
The same RTP can hide very different risk profiles. Players who ignore volatility often blame the casino or the game when the session follows its math design.
Why the Same RTP Can Feel So Different
Picture two slots with 96% RTP. Slot A pays small wins on many spins, has a modest top prize, and rarely creates dramatic balance swings. Slot B pays less often but offers a large max win and volatile bonus rounds. The advertised return matches, but the experience does not.
Slot A may suit a player who wants a slower bankroll drop and more regular feedback. Slot B suits someone who accepts sharper losses in exchange for a shot at a heavier payout.
A Better Way to Read a Slot Page
Most slot pages give players more clues than they notice. The trick is to read the details together rather than chase the highest percentage.
Start with RTP. If two games look similar, the higher number has better long-term value. Then check volatility. If the game uses terms such as high, very high, or extreme variance, lower your bet size or expect shorter sessions. Next, look at the paytable. A huge max win usually means the game saves a lot of its value for rare outcomes.
A sensible pre-play check looks like this:
- RTP: What is the average long-term return?
- Volatility: How rough can the session become?
- Hit frequency: How often will the game show any wins?
- Paytable: Where does most value sit?
To Conclude
Casinos advertise RTP because it looks objective, tidy, and easy to rank. Players should read it, but they should not give it more authority than it deserves. For long sessions, volatility may matter more than a small RTP difference. For comfort, hit frequency may explain the feel better than the payback rate.
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Lahmeyer, pastor who says Antichrist will be Jewish, heads to Oklahoma GOP runoff
(JTA) — Jackson Lahmeyer, a pastor who supports Israel and believes the Antichrist will be Jewish, is headed to a runoff in his district’s Oklahoma congressional primary.
The Donald Trump-backed Lahmeyer will face off against Mark Tedford, a member of the state House of Representatives from Tulsa, in the August runoff to decide who will be the Republican candidate for Congress in Oklahoma’s 1st Congressional District.
The runoff will pit candidates with two very different approaches to politics, and Israel, against each other at a time when the Republican Party is divided on multiple lines. Lahmeyer is part of Trump’s MAGA movement, while Tedford is a more traditional conservative. Both men promote a hard line on immigration, but Lahmeyer’s rhetoric has been peppered with incendiary claims about efforts by Muslims to establish “sharia law” in the United States.
While both competitors are also evangelical Christians with training in ministry, Lahmeyer works as a pastor and preaches an end-times theology that includes an Antichrist with Jewish heritage. Lahmeyer is also a vocal supporter of Israel, in keeping with his Christian Nationalist outlook, while Tedford has made few if any public comments about Israel or the war in Gaza.
The two candidates pulled far ahead of the pack in Tuesday’s crowded primary, which attracted 11 candidates to fill an open seat. Tedford received 32.1% of the votes, and Lahmeyer drew 25.9%, according to the Oklahoma State Election Board.
Lahmeyer had been seen as a favorite, but his star fell in the days before the election amid revelations that he had been unfaithful to his wife. (He said the episode, which he confirmed, was a private matter and in the past, and Trump reaffirmed his endorsement following the revelation.)
Few if any of the nine candidates who did not make the runoff are part of the MAGA movement, suggesting that Tedford could see more of their supporters turn to him in November.
“We need everyone who came out today to keep fighting until we succeed,” Lahmeyer said in a statement to local media. “Let’s send a Trump-endorsed warrior to fight for Oklahoma values in Congress.”
The district is solidly red, virtually assuring the primary winner of victory in November. The Democratic candidate, John Croisant, is a Tulsa school board member who has not spoken publicly about Israel or Gaza, issues that are occupying some Democrats.
This article originally appeared on JTA.org.
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