Antisemitismus

Alissa Rubinstein wuchs in Los Angeles auf und lebt seit 2012 in Berlin. Als freie Autorin, Übersetzerin und Redakteurin schreibt sie Theaterstücke, Film- und Literaturkritiken. In ihrer Arbeit setzt sich Alissa vorwiegend mit historischen Themen auseinander, beschäftigt sich mit kollektiver Erinnerung und Identität

TEXT Alissa Rubinstein
FOTOGRAFIE A-Z Redaktion

A few days before flying back to Berlin from Los Angeles, I went to the bank with my mom to deposit a tax refund check. It was a very California bank. Light brown everything, large windows, bright. The bank teller was an older lady with splotchy dyed hair. She didn’t laugh at my “haha what do I do with a check” joke.

Mom said to her, “When we come to get euros this is who we’re going to visit! In Berlin!”

“Oh! And do you like it there in Berlin?” asked the bank teller.

“She’s married,” said Mom.

“Mom.”

“To a Spaniard.”

“Mom, stop.”

“He’s very nice, his English is very good.”

“And how long have you been there?” the bank teller asked.

“Seven years.”

“Seven years! Big number. That’s how long Jacob worked in order to marry Rachel. And what did he get for his dedication? Leah. Veil comes off, and it’s not the dish you ordered. Germans treating you well? Any problems?”

“Nope, everything fine.”

“Can they tell you’re Jewish?”

Oh no.

“No. I look really Jewish in the US, but in Germany I just look like a white girl. They don’t know unless they see my last name.”

“No, they know, believe me.”

“No, they don’t.”

“Yes, they do.”

Get the check deposited. Smile. Don’t start a fight.

“And how do you like Berlin?”

“It’s nice. Gray.”

I always say it’s gray, just like in Berlin I always say LA is too expensive. It’s easier.

“We didn’t like Berlin,” said the bank teller.

“Oh?”

This is not a good sign.

“No,” she said, more forcefully. “I heard over and over, go to Berlin, it’s so nice now, so much to do and see. But it was just so ugly. I think I’ve had enough of Germany. I’m all Germaned out.”

Here it comes. I can almost say it along with her.

“And anyway, they’re all still anti-Semitic.”

“Well... no. No, not exactly.” Mom was pulling on my arm. She wanted to leave.

“Don’t defend them. I know. It doesn’t go away. They’re born with it.”

“I...”

“I’ve lived longer than you, I know what I’m talking about. They’re a vicious and hateful people, and they’ll never change. Anyway. Have a nice flight! Come back again soon and visit your mother, she misses you.”

...

The psychiatrist in Neukölln who described her trip to Israel when I just wanted to refill my prescription. “I was so worried that everyone would hate me because I’m German, but they were so nice!” I had to listen politely, because this was obviously a big deal for her.

...

The Hausärztin in Pankow who wanted to know if any of my family members had died in Auschwitz. I had to launch into the short version of my dad’s parents’ stories. I’m so sick of performing for curious Germans. I’m not here to make you feel better or assuage your guilt. “Oooh, I’m getting chills!” She said that. The doctor. She was very nice. But why are we talking about Auschwitz at my check up? What makes people feel like just because they’ve noticed my last name, they have to say something?

...

Whenever I get rejected from a WG or a job or an apartment, I wonder why. Like. I wonder why. But that’s just me being paranoid.

...

My dad emails me all of the New York Times’ coverage of rising anti-Semitism in Europe. As if to say: See. It’s still there. It never went away. Told you so.

...

I cannot speak Hebrew. I am not Israeli. For better and for worse, I’m American. I’m American because my paternal grandparents escaped Germany and Austria, had my dad in Israel, and then immigrated to Los Angeles. I’m American because both sets of maternal great-grandparents escaped the pogroms of Eastern Europe for New York in the early 20^th century.

That’s all you get, though. You don’t get the rest of the story. I’m sick of telling it.

...

Waiting rooms. Bane of my existence. All the heads looking up when my last name is called. This time it’s Kreuzberg.

“Das ist ein sehr schöner Name.”

Mhm. But I have to pretend that this is new, and that it is a compliment, and so I have to smile and say thank you.

“Das ist ein jüdischer Name.”

Yup. You caught me. Can I see the doctor now?

I don’t say that, though, normally I just do more smiling, I answer further questions about my family history, and then I get to see the doctor.

...

“Das ist ein sehr schöner Name.”

Mhm. Here it comes. Kreuzberg again. The gynecologist.

“Hört sich ein bisschen magisch an. Wie aus einem Märchenland.”

That’s not new, but it’s more rare. I can never tell if these people are just afraid to say the J-word. Maybe they actually do just think it’s a pretty name. Or maybe they think Jews only exist in history books, as victims.

...

I don’t want to write this. I think that’s why it’s been so hard to write. It’s not for me. It’s for Germans who are feeling icky about their history, or about the AfD, or about the shooting in Halle, or about bearded dudes wearing kippot getting beaten up in the street, from Friedenau to Kreuzberg to Pankow.

I used to read all sorts of upsetting first person young adult fiction about the Holocaust. I still remember isolated lines. There’s one about someone’s little sister having her back broken across the knee of an SS officer in a concentration camp and then being thrown to the side like a piece of trash.

It’s not a nice story. None of these are nice stories. This is why my grandmother doesn’t like to talk about her past. “It’s not a nice story.”

She’s right. It’s not.

...

The OK Cupid date in Schöneberg who went on about how anti-Semitic Germans are over bagels and tea. He was a German Jew. We had only spoken English, but when he asked why I didn’t want to see him again, I said “Es passt einfach nicht.” Sometimes things are just easier in German.

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