JUDISCHE AUFSCHNITT

My father, alav ha-ahalom, was a masterful photographer. He took miserable snapshots, but was an expert at various types of technical photography, among them photographing coins for various publications. This is more difficult than it seems, because it requires impeccable attention to detail and avoidance of shadow and glare.

Once in my childhood years, dad was contacted by a couple, Klaus and Gerda, to document their entire collection of skiing medallions. A few days later, they arrived at our home dragging two huge valises full of their fortune. Entering, they spied our mezuzah and furtively rolled their eyes, as though they were walking into a haunted house.

My mother pulled my dad aside and whispered to him, “I think they’re Nazis.” Of course, she said that about anyone who had a German accent and upon seeing a mezuzah did not cry out, “Landsmann!” My father curtly growled at her to be quiet.

Klaus and Gerda obviously considered their medallions so dear that they would not leave them with my father. Instead, they lurked over his shoulder all day as one-by-one he took precise pictures of each coin.

Dinnertime was quickly approaching. Nazis or not, my mother was an extremely hospitable woman. She filled the table with platters of corned beef, salami, pastrami, bologna, rye bread and rolls, potato salad and coleslaw, and beckoned Klaus and Gerda to dinner. They ate heartily, but Klaus whispered to Gerda just loud enough for us to hear, “Judische aufschnitt,” assuming that stupid Americans did not understand their language. My father, who was entirely fluent in German, snapped back at them, “What you think, that we would serve you schmutzig Schweinfleisch?

Klaus and Gerda remained conspicuously silent until my father completed photographing their prized collection of skiing medallions. They paid dad in cash, loaded up their valises and were on their way, not kissing the mezuzah as they left.

As soon as the door swung shut, my mother grabbed dad by the arm. “Well, now do you think they’re Nazis?”

“No, darling,” he said in his most loving, patronizing voice, “I just think that they didn’t like your potato salad!”