Lion’s Tooth

December 17th, 2025

I went with my grandson, Asher, on Saturday to get him a birthday present. He turned five recently. One of my friends, Ken, gave Asher a gift card for a local bookstore called Lion’s Tooth. I had never been in there before. The place is tucked into an old house on Kinnickinnic Avenue in the Bay View neighborhood of Milwaukee. Asher and I found parking on the street and hurried into the store to get out of the arctic temperatures and wind.

Once in the shop, I marveled at how small the place was. The entire store is about twice the size of my living room and just as cluttered. I talked with the lady running the store while Asher searched for something to buy. Ken had thought that Asher could get himself a book. That isn’t what happened. Asher managed to find a selection of wooden pull back toys that caught his fancy. There were three fruits on wheels that he decided to purchase: a watermelon, a banana, and an avocado. Once we bought those, Asher wanted to go home to play with them. I would have stayed to explore the Lion’s Tooth, but Asher was in a hurry to try out his new vehicles.

Yesterday I returned to the bookstore. I had time on my hands, and I wanted to check the place out again. The shop was empty except for a young man sitting behind the counter. It’s actually a counter/bar. They sell beer in the store. I pulled up a stool and sat down to talk with guy. He sold me a beverage.

One might ask, “Why do they have a bar?”

My immediate answer is, “Why not?” Years ago, I was in a bookstore with my wife in Seattle that served beer and wine. My thinking is that once a customer has had a beer, he or she might decide to spend a bit more money in the store than they would have if they were stone cold sober. In any case, it makes the experience more congenial.

It should also be noted that this particular store is in Wisconsin, a state where drinking is considered to be a hobby. Many of the indie coffee shops in town double as taverns. It is not hard to get a drink in our part of the world.

I sat with Moritz and talked for a while. I wanted to know more about the store because it seems unique, even among other independent bookstores. Moritz and I had a wide-ranging conversation about all sorts of things: German history (his dad is from Germany and so is my wife), Kafka, Joseph Campbell, C.G Jung, Hunter S. Thompson, punk music, graphic novels, etc. I love those kinds of discussions. I enjoy freewheeling talks that only occasional touch on the business as hand, which in this case was his store.

As the website for the Lion’s Tooth indicates, the store got an award for being the best comic bookstore in town. The proprietors mention, “We had no hope of ever getting a Best of Milwaukee plaque because we don’t really fit any of the categories.” This is true. They don’t. Not at all. That is what makes the shop attractive to me.

This tiny shop does not make a lot of money. I don’t think that they actually want to make a huge profit. They just want to provide a unique experience to a small subculture of people. Their target market is primarily the population that likes to read books. As time goes on, that demographic diminishes. Within this group is a subset of people who want to something weird. As far as I can tell, that is the store’s customer base. A person who walks into Lion’s Tooth is looking for a comic, or book, or graphic novel that makes them want to say, “What the fuck is this about?” Fortunately, the shelves are filled with exactly that sort of product.

I asked Moritz what kind of books they sell. His answer was,

“We sell what we like.”

That is a refreshing comment. Moritz told me how he loves to open the boxes of new shipments because he is excited about reading the comics or books himself. The books and zines they offer are obscure titles created by obscure authors and artists, many of them local. It is doubtful that a customer will find some of these publications anywhere else. The subject matter ranges wildly: LGBTQ stories, social justice commentary, books on racism, reports on the war in Gaza. As an example, while I was there, a customer came in to pick up a book he had ordered about Joe Hill, the labor organizer with the IWW. A person browsing the stacks takes a small risk when purchasing a book or a zine. The material might be absolutely brilliant or total dreck, or both. Buy the ticket and take the ride, like Hunter S. Thompson used to say.

They have several book clubs at the store: comix, music, nonfiction, and wine. If I wasn’t busy with my grandson, I would try out one of those clubs. They also have an artist in residency program. Moritz was involved with that. The store is active with the local community.

In short, Lion’s Tooth is the anti-Barnes and Noble. I find hard to imagine a place less corporate. I hope they stay open. I hope they stay strange.

Empty Seats

December 12th, 2025

I took Asher to Mass last Sunday morning. My wife was not feeling well, so she stayed home. Asher usually balks at going to church, but twice a month Miss Jenny offers “Liturgy of the Word for Children” during the service. Her program is a Bible lesson for the little kids about the scripture readings that are being proclaimed during the Mass. She apparently makes the session fun, because our grandson is eager to be with her and the other children. I like it because for a few minutes I can focus on the Mass as opposed to watching whatever mischief Asher is making.

When the priest called for the children to come forth and meet up with Miss Jenny, I noticed once again how few kids were in the church. The weather that morning was bad, so some families probably stayed home to avoid the snow-covered roads. But still, there were only a handful of children at the Mass. Of those in attendance only six kids went to Jenny’s program. Six kids. That’s pathetic, and it’s a bit scary.

Keep in mind that the vast majority of the people going to the one and only Sunday service at our parish is old. I am a mere stripling compared to some of the other parishioners. There are very few families at Mass even on nice days. I make a habit of counting the number of children when we go to church. Generally, there are maybe a dozen. That’s it.

The scary part is that this small group of children represents the future of our church. The upshot is that there really isn’t a future there. In ten years, most of the people in the pews will be dead. There is not a new generation coming up to replace them. There will be a lot of empty seats. Even now, our parish is in the process of combining operations with three other parishes. That is partly due to a lack of priests, but also due to a vanishing flock. It’s just a matter of time before the whole congregation folds up and the doors of the church are permanently locked.

Our parish is not unique. Most churches lack young people in their ranks. I am not entirely sure why that is. It is clear to me that the Catholic Church in our country does not meet the spiritual needs of the new generations. My wife and I did everything we could to raise our three children to be Catholics. Maybe in some sense they are, but none of them go to Mass. Our kids are good people, but they can find nothing of value in the sanctuary. It makes me sad, truly sad.

I take comfort in the fact that the Church has survived and often thrived during the last two thousand years. The history of the Church is one of cycles: vitality, decay, and then renewal. I just finished reading a science fiction novel about a time in the future when the Church is moribund but suddenly discovers a new way of fulfilling its mission. There are growth and strength in the Church elsewhere in the world. Sub-Saharan Africa and parts of Asia come to mind. For instance, our pastor is from India. In America and Europe, the faith is faltering. That does not mean it’s dying. Or if it is dying, that just means there will be a rebirth, something new and unexpected.

There will be a resurrection. There always is.

Screen Time

December 10th, 2025

There is a meeting this afternoon for caregivers of kindergarteners at our grandson’s school. The topic is “Media and the Effect on Child Development”. My wife and I have thought a lot about the subject. We try to limit Asher’s screen time. It is a struggle to do so. He loves to watch YouTube videos, and he would watch them all day if we let him. We don’t. He gets no time online during the school week, and only a couple hours of it on the weekend. Sometimes, it is very tempting for us to allow the screen to act as a babysitter for Asher, especially if we are busy with other things. If Asher is not watching videos, then he is demanding our immediate attention. That can be exhausting.

The subject makes me remember our vain efforts to keep our own children away from the TV a generation ago. In some ways it was the same fight. Back then, Karin and I simply refused to even own a television. We were absolute Luddites about it. People offered to give us a set, and we wouldn’t take it. Needless to say, out three kids nagged us incessantly about not having a television in the house. We held fast, but they slowly wore us down.

I can recall one evening when I was lying in bed reading a book. Our eldest son, Hans, had his bedroom next to mine. That night, as I was reading, I heard strange voices emanating from Hans’ room. I chose to investigate. His door was closed. I went inside anyway.

Hans was staring at his Gameboy (does anybody remember what a Gameboy was?). He had somehow converted it into a miniature TV. It had a makeshift antenna and a microscopic screen. I admired his initiative and ingenuity. However, I felt bad that he needed to watch his shows in such a furtive way. It was like I was a member of the Stasi who had suddenly discovered that his teenage son was secretly watching programs on the BBC during the Cold War days. I let him watch his show.

Eventually, we bought a television. I think it was as bribe to get our daughter to clean her room (she did it once). We tried to fight the good fight, but I am not sure our efforts had much effect.

I don’t watch anything on online anymore. I find it nearly impossible to function in a room where there is a television playing. My attention is irresistibly attracted to the glowing screen. Movies are the worst. After watching a video, especially with intense scenes, I suffer an emotional hangover. I used to like watching films, but now they always feel overwhelming to me. I avoid all types of motion pictures.

So, I read.

Cold

December 9th, 2025

I hate the cold. I really do. However, for reasons that even I can’t understand, I live in Wisconsin. Despite the effects of climate change, winter in this state can be brutal. Just an hour ago, I shoveled snow off the driveway. There is probably a good foot of snow on the ground from all the storms that rolled through here in the past two weeks. It’s not even the middle of December yet. We have already had a couple days/nights with temperatures in the teens or single digits (I am talking terms of the Fahrenheit scale). We have months to go before the first hint of spring. I grow weary.

I didn’t always have this aversion to snow and cold. Back in June of 1978, courtesy of the U.S Army, I spent a week on a glacier near Fairbanks, Alaska. Granted, I was there in June, but walking all day on top of a gargantuan ice cube is still kind of brisk. Overall, the experience was fun. It was an adventure of sorts. That week was the only time in my military career when I was required to wear sunglasses. The glare off the ice was intense. I managed to get sunburned under my nose and chin from the UV light reflected off the glacier. I remember distinctly how blue the ice was. When I looked down a deep crevasse, it was as if the ice below me was glowing an azure blue. It was cold up on the ice, but it was something worth doing.

Fast forward a few decades. I worked on the dock of a trucking company for almost twenty-eight years. The building had a roof and well over one hundred doors. The doors were for there for the trucks to back into. That means that these doors were usually open. That means that the ambient temperature on the dock was exactly the same as the temperature outside. In winter it was cold. I mostly worked a night shift, so it got really cold.

Working in the cold is at best miserable. It can also be harmful to a person’s health. Hypothermia and frostbite are not fun. A person learns to dress properly to function in a cold environment, but the truth is that sometimes you simply cannot stay warm. Eight to ten hours in below freezing temperatures sucks the energy out of person. After working my shift in the depths of winter, I often went home, ate supper, took a shower, and crashed in bed. When I woke up, I got dressed to do it all over again. That kind of job wears on a person. It leaves a mark.

Working in the cold is a young man’s game. Now that I am old and retired, I don’t want to go out in frigid weather unless I absolutely must. My body doesn’t tolerate the cold like it did forty or fifty years ago. When my little grandson wants to play in the snow, I go with him, but with great reluctance. I just can’t handle it like he does.

I read once that the Tibetans imagined hell to be a very cold place.

They might be right.

Spiral of Love and Light

December 3rd, 2025

The third floor of the Waldorf school building is a small auditorium. There is a stage on the east end of the hall, and the floor is a wide expanse of hardwood. The space at times doubles as a gymnasium of sorts, but it is primarily used for student plays and music recitals. On the north and south sides of the hall are tall windows. There room is usually filled with light during the daytime.

That was not the case yesterday. The inside of the auditorium was dim. That was partly due to the overcast skies, but it was also because the faculty had hung colored silks over the windows. Each covering had a different hue: red, green, blue. Some light seeped through the cloth, but the room was darkened, and that was on purpose.

Most of the floor was covered with evergreen boughs. Some were pine, but most were spruce. The boughs were laid out to form a large spiral. In the center of the spiral sat a small table bearing half of a hollowed-out geode. Inside of the rock was a candle. On the floor, along the edges of the spiral, were felted stars, seashells, gnomes and fairies. On the outer borders of the evergreen spiral was a circle of folding chairs.

The kindergarteners were standing and sitting in the hallway with their caregivers. They were waiting for the beginning of the ritual of the winter spiral. There were the usual noise and confusion as the children and parents talked and mingled. Then the faculty members began leading the participants into the auditorium. A lone musician played a melody on a flute as everyone entered the room. Without being told to do so, every person fell silent, and each found a seat.

The teacher, Miss Sara, took an apple in her hand from a table contain dozens of them. The apple had a candle inserted into it. She entered the spiral walking slowly. At the center she carefully lit a match and ignited the wick of the candle in the geode. Then she took her candle and lit it from the flame in the rock. She silently walked part way out of the spiral, and then she placed her candle on the floor near the boughs. She came out of the spiral. We all sat there, and a single light struggled to illuminate the room. The musician plucked a song on his Persian oud. No one spoke.

Miss Sara picked up another apple that held a candle in it, and she handed it to the first child. The boy and his parents stood up. Miss Sara smiled and invited them to enter the spiral. They did. The boy seemed a bit self-conscious, and he marched to the center of the spiral. With the help of his parents, he lit his candle, walked several steps, and then placed the apple on the floor. They all walked out of the spiral. Now there were two lights in the room.

Sara gave candled apples to each child, and each child made the journey to the center. Some were confident. Some were nervous. Some enjoyed the attention. Some were shy. Each one lit his or her candle and left it on the path out of the spiral. The room gradually grew brighter. The musician switched to his Turkish lavta and strummed tunes in minor keys. The children were restless, but quiet.

At one point, Asher saw a girl carrying her apple. He smiled and whispered to me,

“Grandpa, that’s her.”

Her. A little girl in a dress with long blonde hair woven into intricate braids. The apple of Asher’s eyes.

I smiled back at him.

Asher walked up to the flame with Karin and me. He was slow and serious until he set his apple/candle on the floor. Then he hurried out of the spiral. He wanted his anonymity back.

One little girl was there without her parents. They both no doubt had to be at work. Miss Sara walked the spiral with the girl. Nobody made the journey alone.

By the end of the ritual, every child had taken the walk to the center of the spiral and had brought light back into a dark world. The room was still in shadow, but small candle flames made it more joyous, more hopeful.

The world was just a tiny bit brighter.

Five Years Old

December 2nd, 2025

I walked up the staircase to the kindergarten classroom. Martha was at the top of the stairs. She smiled at me and said,

“So, today is the big day! Asher was so excited coming in!”

I found our grandson, Asher, and my wife, Karin standing next to Asher’s school locker. Asher was changing into his indoor shoes, and Karin was exchanging a new set of Asher’s clothes for an older, now too small set that Asher kept in his locker in case he needed to change for some reason. Asher’s classmates were sitting or standing in the hallway waiting for Miss Sara to greet them and bring them into the classroom one by one. She does that with them every school day. It lets the child know that he or she is important to Miss Sara as an individual. Waldorf education puts on emphasis on rituals like that and today was no exception.

Miss Sara told Karin and me that she had set up chairs for us near to her seat. Asher was given a chair right next to Miss Sara today, and only for today. She invited the other children into the classroom, and they all sat in a circle with Miss Karina on a round carpet. Sara brought Asher into the room last of all.

He came in wearing a silk cape and a felted crown that was deep blue in color and studded with stars. She shepherded him up to the front of the room and had him sit next to her facing his classmates. She had a small table in front of her with a wooden platter that held five beeswax candles. She took a match and carefully lit each one. Asher sat in his chair and stared at his classmates.

Miss Sara told the class that today a special day, and she then slowly told them this story:

“Once upon a time, in a place both far away and close to us, there lived a heavenly child. This child worked in the House of the Sun and in the House of the Moon. He was happy in heaven, and he spent time with the angels.

One day, the clouds parted and the heavenly child saw below him a beautiful jewel in the dark sky. He said, ‘What is that? I want to go there!’

His angel replied, ‘That is the earth. You cannot go there yet.’

On another day, the clouds parted again, and the child saw the earth up close. He could see all the different colors and the trees and animals. He could see people. He saw a man and a woman, and he loved them. He said,

‘I want to go down there and be with that family!’

His angel told him, ‘Not yet. First you must work in the House of Dreams.’

So, the child worked in the House of Dreams, and he dreamt of the man and the woman. He also dreamt of grandparents who were full of love. In his dream he told them, ‘I want to be part of your family!’

Woman smiled at him, and the man nodded.

When the child left the House of Dreams, his angel said that he could go to the earth and join the family. The child walked across the rainbow bridge that stretched from heaven to earth. He hesitated for a moment. His angel told him,

‘Go across. I will be at your side.’ “

Miss Sara paused. Then she continued and told the children,

“On that day Asher was born. That was five years ago!”

She told Asher to cup his hands and close his eyes so that she could give him a gift. She dropped two small, highly polished stones into his palms. One was dark green and heart-shaped, and the other had bright, multicolored stripes.

She told him to blow out the candles on the wooden tray. It took him several tries, but he did so.

His classmates cheered.

Asher grinned.

I wept.

Shoveling

December 1st, 2025

The winter storm started early on Saturday morning. It snowed for twenty-four hours straight. It wasn’t a blizzard. There was very little wind, and only a light snow fell most of the time. However, it snowed continuously hour after hour.

I went outside three times on Saturday to shovel snow from the driveway. I didn’t really mind doing that. I needed the exercise and the fresh air. Our grandson, Asher, came out with me twice to “help”. He had on his snow pants and thick winter coat. His knit cap with the pompom was on his head. He wore the scarf and mittens that my wife had made for him. The mittens are felted and look like frogs. Asher pushed around his little shovel until his cheeks got rosy and his hands got cold. He usually spread snow on areas that I had already cleared off. Then he went inside. I went inside with him.

The heaviest snow came during Saturday night. When I woke the next morning there were probably six inches of fresh snow covering the ground. Once my wife was up and ready to watch over Asher, I went back out to clear the driveway one last time.

At this point, it should be mentioned that I have a snowblower. A reasonable person may ask, “Then why the hell don’t you use it?”

There are a couple reasons for that. First, I have a dislike for machines, especially noisy ones. I worked for decades around extremely loud equipment (e.g. helicopters and forklifts). The aftermath of a heavy snow creates a sort of pristine and peaceful outdoor environment. I prefer to keep it that way even if I need to move some of the white stuff in order to drive our car. A snowblower makes a hellacious racket. Yes, it makes the work easier and quicker, but at a cost. A snowblower is only good for rough work. A person still needs to use a shovel to clean up the remaining mess.

My snowblower is an older, used model that was given to me for free. It can be a fickle beast. It often takes several tries to get it started. I do not have the aptitude nor the patience to troubleshoot a problem with a snowblower when it is cold and wet outside. I just don’t want to screw with it. I know how to use a shovel, and it works every time. It is simply less frustrating to grab the shovel and go at the piles of snow.

The driveway is clear until the next storm rolls through. By that time, my shoulders and back will be less stiff, and I will be ready to grab the shovel again. The snowblower can rest right where it is.

Not Home for the Holidays

November 30th, 2025

“All the lonely people
Where do they all come from?
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong?” – from “Eleanor Rigby” by the Beatles

Three of us sat at the dining room table for Thanksgiving dinner: Karin, Asher, and me. Our holiday meal was simple. We had chicken, a green bean casserole, zucchini fries, and a yogurt dessert that Karin had dreamed up. I think Asher, our nearly five-year-old grandson, actually ate mac and cheese, but at least he ate with us. Karin and I have three children. None of them were able to be with us on Thanksgiving. Our tiny gathering in no way resembled the Normal Rockwell painting from The Saturday Evening Post in 1943. I suspect that almost no Thanksgiving dinners look like what Rockwell idealized.

Thanksgiving is a strange beast. It is officially a secular event with all the trappings of a religious holiday. It commemorates the first Thanksgiving in 1621 when Pilgrim colonists in Massachusetts shared a feast with members of the Wampanoag tribe. The original gathering has a symbolic and mythical status. The current holiday is supposed to be an occasion for people to share food with others and express gratitude for what they have. It is also an opportunity to overeat, binge-watch TV, and then buy unnecessary consumer goods the following day. Thanksgiving is a day full of contradictions. As such, it is profoundly American.

Karin and I said a Christian prayer before we ate our meal with Asher. Then we recited a Japanese Buddhist verse that we learned from our friends, Senji and Gilberto, long ago. We chanted “Na Mu Myo Ho Ren Ge Kyo” three times, and then we joined hands with Asher and said, “Froelich heisst beim Abendessen: Guten Appatit!” (a German phrase that Karin learned as a child that roughly translates to: “Happy means at dinner ‘have a good appetite'”.

Years ago, before Asher entered our lives, I used to go with a small group of people from the American Legion to visit patients in the psych ward at the local VA hospital. We went there every Tuesday evening for a couple hours to spend time with the vets. Around the holidays, especially Thanksgiving and Christmas, the ward was packed full of patients. Holidays that emphasized being with family and friends were particularly painful for veterans who had no loved ones. The loneliness that these vets could somehow keep in check during most of the year overwhelmed them, and they wound up in a hospital ward loaded up with strangers who felt equally forgotten. I’m glad that I had the chance to spend a few hours with these men and women. We shared our common humanity for a little while, and I learned things from them.

Our culture and our technology encourage us to remain isolated. We need to be physically together at least once in a while. I give thanks for Asher and Karin for being in my life every day. I look forward to being with others too.

Crash

November 25th, 2025

“Can we go to the playground?”

Asher asked me that in the car after I picked him up from school. I was tired, but I told him, “Yeah, sure. Which one?”

“Kayla’s Place.”

Asher likes going to Kayla’s Place. It’s a nice playground and he is finally big enough to navigate the monkey bars on his own.

I drove on to the freeway exit to make a right turn. There was a white car in front of me. The driver made a move to turn right into the street. After they did that, I pulled up and glanced left to look for oncoming traffic. I saw none, so I accelerated, turned right, and …

Boom!

The driver of the white car had gone forward maybe ten or fifteen feet and then stopped to check traffic again. I didn’t realize that until I hit the rear of the vehicle.

Asher understandably freaked out.

“Grandpa! Did we hit something?! You got to get out and check if the car is okay!”

I put on the four-way flashers and pulled over to the side of the road. The car ahead of me did the same. I got out.

I was rattled. I hadn’t been in accident in years. The lady from the other car came out too. None of us were hurt. She asked me,

Do you have insurance?”

“Yeah.”

She was in a hurry. She needed to make some deliveries. The woman took pictures of my car and her own. I only have an ancient flip phone, so I didn’t even try to take photos. She had a dent in the back of her car. She looked at my ride and said,

“My car ain’t looking as bad as yours. You got fluid leaking all over the place.”

She was right. There was blue liquid pissing out of the bottom of the right front of my car. That worried me. I figured that it was window washer fluid, but I wasn’t sure.

We exchanged information. I got her license plate number, and her name and phone number. She got all that from me and my insurance information. I never got hers. Maybe she doesn’t have any. It doesn’t matter much. I was at fault regardless.

I got back into my RAV4 with Asher. The lady drove away. I tried to slow down my breathing and calm myself.

Asher asked me from the back seat,

“So, are you still taking me to Kayla’s Place?”

I sighed.

“Yeah.”

Violins of Hope

November 21st, 2025

There is an exhibit currently on display at the Jewish Museum Milwaukee called “Violins of Hope”. The primary focus of the exhibit is on Jewish music and how it flourished prior to the Nazi era, and then how it survived the Holocaust and was revived after WWII. An array of violins from the war years are set up in the museum, and each instrument has its own story. There is also an emphasis on how Jewish music was influenced by the peoples among whom Jews lived. For instance, there is one display that compares Smetana’s “Vltava/the Moldau” with “Hatikvah “, the Israeli national anthem. Both are apparently derived from a Czech folk song. I believe that the event is meant to uplifting and inspiring. However, it is more than that, much more than that.

Now for a disclaimer. I am not a Jew. I need to make that clear up front before I write any more about the show. I have close friends who are Jewish, and I have a strong interest and affinity for Judaism. However, I necessarily look at things as an outsider. I do not claim to understand how the exhibit might affect my Jewish acquaintances. They view the display through a different lens than the one I use. Each person who goes to this event brings along a specific set of experiences, and what they see and hear will have a unique impact. I can only describe what I thought and felt when I walked through the exhibit.

On the surface, the exhibit tells the story of Moshe Weinstein, a Jew who fled Poland in 1938 to go to Tel Aviv in what was then the British protectorate of Palestine. Moshe was a violinist and a luthier (a maker and restorer of violins). Over many years, Moshe and his family have gathered and restored an enormous number of violins that had been played by Jewish musicians. Some of the musicians died in concentration camps. Some migrated to Palestine after the war and sold their violins to Moshe because they could not stand to play on an instrument made by the Germans. The violins came to Moshe from all over the world. Now, a number of the instruments are at the Jewish museum for all to see.

A friend of ours who is a docent at the museum offered to give us free tour of the new exhibit. Karin and I, along with two other friends, went on the tour. Karin was initially hesitant about going to the museum. Karin is from Germany. Her father fought in WWII on the German side. He was a member of the Luftwaffe. He survived the war but was severely wounded. Karin told me about her feelings when I suggested that we see the display. Our little grandson, Asher, overheard our conversation. Asher asked his Oma why she wasn’t sure about going to see the show.

Asher said, “Why don’t you want to go?”

Karin replied, “I might feel sad.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m a German, and a long time ago the Germans did bad things to the Jews.”

“What kind of bad things?”

“Really bad things.”

How do you explain the Holocaust to a boy is not quite five years old? How do explain it to anybody?

Karin walked through the exhibit carrying her own family history with her. I am not sure what she felt. In the end, she found the visit to be worthwhile.

The exhibit tries to explain what happened during the Shoah, and it was for me overwhelming. In the portion of the exhibit concerning Moshe Weinstein, there is a written comment that 90% of the Jews living in Poland before the war died at the hands of the Nazis. There were over three million Jews in Poland in 1930. The number of people murdered is incomprehensible. There was no way for me to wrap my head around it. There still isn’t.

One of the themes in the show is “resistance and resilience”. That conjures up a number of questions. How does a person resist overwhelming, life-threatening oppression? Resilience implies survival. What is necessary for a person to survive? Jewish musicians in Auschwitz played for the SS officers, and got slightly more favorable living conditions than their fellow prisoners. Was it right for the musicians to do that? I don’t know. I can’t know.

I have friends who are Palestinian or are sympathetic to the Palestinian cause. How would they react to the show? Would they even set foot into the museum? There are things in the exhibit that would clearly trigger somebody who finds the existence of Israel to be abhorrent. The national anthem of Israel is played at the exhibit. There is a quote on a wall from Theodor Herzl, the founder of Zionism. There is an emphasis on the migration of Jews to Palestine, without any mention of the displacement of the local inhabitants. My friends would probably dismiss the presentation as propaganda, and from their perspective they would be right. All history is propaganda to some extent, but that doesn’t mean that it is a lie.

Who should go to the exhibit? Anybody who is willing to open their mind and their heart should go. Parts of the show are inspiring. Parts are intensely disturbing. Every display has emotional dynamite hidden within it.

Nobody leaves that museum unchanged.