Jewish Ostracism in Germany

“In Russia, I was discriminated for being a Jew. In Germany, the Jewish community does not let me become a member because my mother was not Jewish,” Diana K., a Ukrainian immigrant to Berlin told European Jewish Press [1].

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Over the last 15 years more than 200,000 Jews have immigrated to Germany from the former Soviet Union (CIS).

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Recent statistics compiled on behalf of the German government show that 205,905 Jews came from the CIS to Germany between 1991 and 2005. The largest influx of arrived between 1995 and 2004, when an estimated 10,000 Jews per year entered Germany as permanent residents.

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Many of the Jews were driven out of the CIS after an upsurge in anti-Semitism. When the Berlin Wall fell in 1989, Soviet Jews feared an increase in anti-Semitic violence. And indeed, anti-Semitic violence and hate propaganda surged when newly-founded right-wing parties and nationalist groups took advantage of the political freedoms that resulted with the demise of communist party hegemony. In the early 90s, most Jews left with the pretext that the newly founded Russian Federation was becoming increasingly dangerous for Jews and other minorities.

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Until January 2005, Jews from the former Soviet Union could enter Germany as contingency refugees. This status allowed Jews to be able to get around Germany’s ever-increasing immigration restrictions. The contingency-refugee law, passed on January 9 1991, did not limit the number of Jews that could enter Germany. It was also an open-ended law – meaning that there were no time restrictions forcing Jews to make the decision of whether or not to emigrate or when.

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The German government has recognised that a great many immigrants from the former Soviet Union have been seeking to establish residency in Germany for the sole purpose of bettering their economic standing or in order not to lose their chance at being allowed to receive automatic residency.

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Nonetheless, the government has exercised restraint over the past 15 years. Knowing that it had a historical debt to pay to the Jews of Europe, it sought to right a historical wrong by supporting the re-population of former Jewish centres throughout Germany through its Jewish immigration policy. However, the government has come under increasing pressure to revamp its failed integration policies.

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But even the cash strapped Jewish communities want to see more involvement in their congregations by the new immigrants, should they seek to live in Germany – and have thus found a consensus with immigration policy makers. “If the immigrants do not want actively participate in Jewish life here, then what on earth are they coming here for… they might as well stay home” one disgruntled Berlin community member told EJP.

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The member lamented that at least half of all CIS Jews have not registered with a local congregation. In fact, of the 220,000 Jews living in Germany today, only 120,000 are officially registered with any congregation associated with the Central Council of Jews in Germany.

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“Many of the Russians are not members because many of them are not Jewish in the first place,” one Dresden Jewish community leader told EJP [2,3].

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She was referring to Jewish law which prescribes that a Jew is a person born of a Jewish mother. German immigration policy, however, has also let the offspring of Jewish fathers into Germany as contingency-refugees.

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“Anyone descended from a Jew, whether from a Jewish mother or, only, a Jewish father was considered ethnically Jewish in the former Soviet Union. Anyone there that was branded ‘Jewish’ was open game to all forms of discrimination. Therefore, the German government did not distinguish between a people whose mother or only whose father was Jewish,” an interior ministry source said.

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This policy has, however, also created a social problem among the contingency-refugees within Germany’s established Jewish community structures.

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Many of these so-called not-Jewish-Jews are not considered Jewish by their local congregations, even though they have shown an interest in becoming a member of a congregation.

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“In Russia, I was discriminated for being a Jew. In Germany, the Jewish community does not let me become a member because my mother was not Jewish,” Diana K., a Ukrainian immigrant to Berlin told EJP.

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“If being Jewish is a heritage, then it must also come from the father,” Diana said.

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Nuremberg Race Laws [4]

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The Jewish communities have offered to convert these immigrants. However, many contingency-refugees, such as Diana, told EJP that they do not think it is right for them to have to convert to something that they feel that they already are.
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Like in Israel, many Russians who have immigrated here are neither Jewish from either their mother or father’s side. Some are the spouses of Jews. However, many have used falsified documents claiming to be Jews for the sole purpose of obtaining easy visa for a western country.

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Since last year, the Jewish roots of new immigrants are being more severely scrutinised at German consulates throughout the CIS.

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As a result of the tightening up of the contingency-refugee laws, which also makes it mandatory for new arrivals to become active members of a Jewish synagogue congregations, fewer Jewish immigrants have been coming into Germany.

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Last year, less than 6,000 Jews entered Germany from CIS countries. So far this year, fewer than 400 Jews have immigrated to Germany. Non-Jewish spouses and children will still be let into Germany, as long as the Jewish partner fulfils the new requirements.

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Perhaps due to Germany’s historical responsibility towards Jews, government analysts have avoided scrutinising the integration processes of the contingency-refugees. Thus, official statistics about the integration of Jews is not available.

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One source told EJP that most offspring of CIS-Jewish immigrants have learned German and, unlike immigrants from most other non-EU countries, an above average number of them have gone on to further their education. However, many of their parents cannot speak German properly and have been collecting some form of state aid. Also, many have been unwilling to identify with Germany at all. In fact, many have shown open disdain for their host country as a result of its Nazi past.

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At a leadership conference of Germany’s Jewish Student Union, last year, the question of whether the Union should better integrate itself with other student organisations was rejected. Most of the student leaders underlined the fact that Jews were still not being accepted by other groups as full-fledged citizens and thus they did not feel that any alliance with other student or civic organisations would further their cause.

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Because of their claim that Germany is severely riddled in latent anti-Semitism, about half of the student leaders even claimed that they were still in Germany only because of their parents and that Germany was nothing more than a way-station for them on their final road to Israel or countries with a less tainted past.

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"Such an attitude is not indicative of whether a person is integrated or not,” the interior ministry source said. “If the immigrants learn the language, have a job and have a clean police record, then they are considered integrated,” he said. “Since about half of these young people’s parents have no solid working knowledge of German and because a large number of these hold no long-term job, then we can assume that the integration process has failed here too.”

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In order to combat language and social deficits among its migrant population, the government has intensified its offer of German and integration courses – free of charge. Such courses are now mandatory for recipients of welfare benefits. For many Jews from the CIS, these courses have been made available at Jewish community centres throughout Germany.

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However, as one critic put it, “how do you expect these Russian speaking Jews to properly learn German or to integrate with other cultures in Germany if their courses are held among themselves… this is indicative of why integration has been failing”.

Who is a Jew in Germany ? The Wankum Question

What if the head of Hamburg’s Jewish community wasn’t actually Jewish?, Tablet [1]

On March 6th 1997, 2.574.000 Jews live in Europe, they were 10.048.400 in 1930; 62.000 Jews live in Germany, they were 564.400 in 1930; 2.900 Jews live in Hamburg, they were 20.800 in 1930 (from Jews In Hamburg - Permanent Exhibition at the Museum of Hamburg History [2])

For years, Andreas Christoph Wankum was the Hamburg, Germany, Jewish community’s favorite son. A self-made millionaire who made his fortune in real estate, he signed fat checks to Keren Hayesod, the influential pro-Israel charity. When Communism collapsed in Hungary, he was instrumental in helping many of that country’s Jews make aliya. He funded scores of Jewish philanthropies in Israel and Germany alike, including a Birthright-type initiative that sent local Jewish students on their first visit to the Jewish state.

There was only one problem: he may not have been Jewish, and the rabbi who appointed him to the presidency of the Hamburg branch of Keren Hayesod, the global equivalent of the United Jewish Communities, may not even been a real rabbi. As if being a Jew in Germany wasn’t complicated enough, this case of identity wars is threatening to tear apart Hamburg’s Jewish community, which is one of Germany’s most resurgent and influential. And, like so many things in Germany, this affair is all about adhering to the rules.

Born in 1955, Wankum first discovered his Jewish roots when he was 13. Observing that his neighbors, the Wolfs, shut down their dry-cleaning business every Saturday, he asked his mother about this odd business practice. The Wolfs, she said, were Jewish, and so were the Wankums, even though they’d concealed it during the war for obvious reasons.

Enamored with his new identity, Wankum reached out to Hamburg’s Jewish community, and even received documents from its leaders that helped him avoid military service. But his Jewish provenance remained questionable, and he never joined the community as a full-fledged member.

In 1999 when Wankum was offered the presidency of the local branch of Keren Hayesod, he found himself facing an unexpected hurdle. To accept the position, he was told, he needed to be an official member of the community. And to do that, he needed to prove, beyond any doubt, that he was indeed Jewish. He was helped in his quest by Rabbi Dov Levi Barzilai, Hamburg’s chief orthodox rabbi. In December of 1999, Barzilai heard four witnesses, including Wankum’s brother and his wife’s uncle, and then signed a paper declaring, officially, that Wankum was a Jew. Soon thereafter, Wankum accepted his new position.

Under Wankum’s leadership, Keren Hayesod experienced unparalleled success. But in late December 1999, following terrible liquidity problems with his company, Wankum declared bankruptcy, which, in Germany’s unremitting political and economic landscape, is a death sentence: Bankruptcy and debt are unacceptable, and forgiveness is never offered. To anyone, that is, but Wankum. Remembering his charitable past, his fellow community members kept him in their warm embrace, and, in 2003, bestowed on him the highest honor imaginable, the chairmanship of Hamburg’s Jewish community.

It was at that time that Wankum aroused the interest of Stefan Knauer, a veteran journalist for the venerated German weekly Der Spiegel. Nearing retirement, Knauer decided to abandon the hard-edged topics he’d been covering throughout his career and examine instead the state of religion in his local community. The Jewish community in particular struck him as insular, further igniting his curiosity. He was especially fascinated by its boisterous chairman, Wankum. Then, one day, he had an epiphany. “[Wankum] was just looking for rehabilitation,” Knauer said in a recent interview, “a place where no one can criticize him after his bankruptcy, and the Jewish community is the best shelter because any criticism about its chairman is immediately tagged as anti-Semitism and Nazism.”

Guided by his suspicions, Knauer started to ask around about Wankum and his religious affiliations. Wankum, on his end, kept referring the reporter to Rabbi Barzilai, and claimed that 2,000 years of Jewish history gave him the right not to talk to the media.

“We started to look in archives in villages around Hamburg where his family used to live,” Knauer said. “There were registration forms with religion identity and we found that Wankum’s mother was named Ruth Morgenstern and she was registered as Lutheran. But you can’t really know because many Jews hid their identity under the Third Reich. On the other hand, how do you explain that his middle name is Christoph?”

Knauer’s quest might have ended up nowhere if it weren’t for Ruben Herzberg. A local educator and a former beneficiary of Wankum’s funds, he was appointed the community’s chairman after Wankum’s term ended in 2007. Soon thereafter, he said, strange things began to happen. “When I was elected as chairman,” he said, “I found out that we basically don’t have any money to maintain ourselves and that we must find ways to cut our expenses. I might be naïve, but I was expecting our rabbi to care about the situation and take a pay cut.”

Rabbi Barzilai, however, would do no such thing, and an exasperated Herzberg began looking into the rabbi’s conduct. During one such investigation, he learned that several community members, Wankum among them, had no documents certifying his Jewishness. Alarmed, he asked the rabbi to provide proof that Wankum was indeed a Jew.

“After a while we understood that Rabbi Barzilai has no documents,” Herzberg said, “just four witnesses and that only one of them was Jewish himself.” In his defense, Rabbi Barzilai claimed he was not permitted to divulge the names of Wankum’s witnesses, but Herzberg asked around and learned that no such rabbinic edict existed. Suspicious, Herzberg decided to call the central rabbinate in the Israeli coastal town of Netanya, where Barzilai claimed to have gotten his rabbinic certification. They were shocked to learn it wasn’t kosher: the chief rabbi of Netanya wrote Herzberg back, saying that the people who appointed Barzilai had no authority to do so. (Barzilai’s credentials are currently being examined by a German rabbinical court. He refused to comment for this piece.)

At this point, Hamburg’s wars of the Jews escalated. “During our checkup,” Herzberg said, “we found that 20 people were missing documents in their files; 16 responded and brought us the papers, but four, including Wankum and his brother, never answered and were ousted from the community.”

Herzberg fired Rabbi Barzilai, an act he he’s claimed in previous interviews with the press was motivated by financial issues, with the community refusing to pay his pension. Some of his colleagues in the community were so livid about what they perceived to be Wankum’s deception that they suggested digging Wankum’s deceased mother from her grave in the Jewish cemetery and interring her elsewhere. Within months, former collaborators became the worst of enemies.

“I will tell you what Herzberg is according to the Jewish halacha,” Wankum fumed recently. “He is a total schmuck, a pathological liar of the worst kind. He just wants to clean the community from anyone who was there before and he uses methods that Nazis used in order to do it.”

Any attempt to question his sincerity, Wankum added, was malicious. “After all I did,” he said, “the claim that I used Judaism as shelter is a disgusting lie. I have a daughter who volunteered in a kibbutz and lives a traditional life in Israel. So what kind of other proof do I need?” Wankum also said that it was sheer jealousy that motivated his enemies and fueled the fallacious claims against him. “Our fight” he said, “is a fight for Jewish identity.”

Stefan Kramer, the General Secretary of the Central Council for Jews in Germany, agrees. “What Herzberg and his friends are doing is Chillul Hashem,” he said, using the Hebrew term for desecration of the holy. “For me there are more important things in Judaism than whether you mother is Jewish or not. If you support Jewish issues and if you educated a daughter and live in Israel it is much more Jewish to me than people who want to drag you mother out of her grave. Herzberg is Jewish by birth, but him running to the media, letting goyim in, shows me that he lacks Jewish brains. Jews can’t sit in a house of glass and throw rocks outside, definitely not in Germany.”

What does it mean to be Jewish in Berlin today?

A Mosaic of Experiences: Glimpses of Jewish Life in Berlin

Julia Wagner and Maggie Whelan, Humanity in Action [1]

Historical Development

The Jewish population of Berlin has been shaped by a set of distinct political and social events. Many of those Berlin Jews who survived the war went to Israel or the United States. Inge Borck survived the war as a young girl by going underground. In 1945, she returned to Berlin from the town where she was hidden for the last part of the war. She didn’t want to stay, she tells us, but a ticket to Israel was too expensive. Once she had money, she had an established life in Berlin.

Jews from Eastern Europe and Displaced Persons from concentration camps joined the few who stayed. Susanne Thaler, a local political figure and outspoken member of the Jewish community, was hidden in Amsterdam with her mother. She remembers her mother crying at the sight of the ruined city, when they returned to Berlin in 1947. But the family stayed.

The division of Berlin meant a division of the Jewish community as well with the majority living in the Western part of the city. These small groups of Jews in the East and the West formed the first ‘Jüdische Gemeinden’ (Jewish Congregations), the local branches of the Central Committee of Jews in Germany. They also united the different branches of Judaism into the ‘Einheitsgemeinden,’ the unified congregation. Even though many are originally from Eastern Europe, this group of Jews in Berlin are referred to as ‘German Jews,’ a term that is useful only in light of the large numbers of Jews who came to Berlin later from the former Soviet Union.

Although Soviet Jews had been coming to Berlin ever since the end of World War II, the fall of the Iron Curtain resulted in a huge wave of immigration that has more than doubled the Jewish population in Berlin. In 1989, there were 6,000 Jews registered with the ‘Jüdische Gemeinde.’ Judith Kessler, who works there, now [in 2002] estimates that there are close to 13,000 Jews registered, and Rabbi Joshua Spinner of the Lauder Foundation, an American organization, thinks there could be another 10,000 Jews in the city who are not officially registered.

The new immigrants have altered the landscape of Jewish life in Berlin, both in numbers and in what they bring. As Thaler notes, for the first time there are flowers in the Jewish cemetery. Reunification of Berlin also meant the reunification of the two Jüdische Gemeinden in Berlin, one in the East with 300 members, the other in the West with about 6,000 members.

Irene Runge, a member of the East Berlin congregation and now head of the board of the Jewish Cultural Center, sardonically describes the unification as a “hostile takeover.” The Western congregation was mostly interested in real estate in the old Jewish quarter, and the leadership of the Eastern branch went along with it in order to retain their positions. For Runge, this transition was not at all easy. The intellectual group that she led was not accepted or understood by the leaders of the newly unified ‘Jüdische Gemeinde’ and they became an independent organization.

Hermann Simon, another member of the Eastern congregation and now director of the ‘Centrum Judaicum’ of Berlin, faced a different challenge as the two congregations combined. His objective was to continue a project started in 1986 to renovate the New Synagogue and create the ‘Centrum Judaicum.’ With a lot of “luck and effort,” the unified congregation approved the project.

Topography

The historical development of the Berlin Jewish community cannot be understood without looking at the city itself. Jewish life has helped shape Berlin and its unique history. It is between the neighborhoods of Mitte and Charlottenburg, between Oranienburger Straße and Joachimsthaler Straße, two areas separated by 30 minutes on public transportation, that you encounter the Jewish population and infrastructure of Berlin. But the traditional Jewish districts and its former identity have now become unrecognizable. The streets around the Bayrischer Platz in Schöneberg, that before the Second World War had a population that was over 60 percent Jewish, have lost all of its former inhabitants. The same is true for many other parts of the city.

On Oranienburger Straße, in the shadow of the domes of the New Synagogue, we find the headquarters of the ‘Jüdische Gemeinde,’ the ‘Centrum Judaicum,’ an exhibition hall dealing with historical and cultural issues linked to Judaism, and the ‘Jüdischer Kulturverein’ (Jewish Cultural Center). This historical site, which is now also the new cultural and political center of the city, is “where the music plays,” says Hermann Simon. “You could get the impression that you’re in a Jewish neighborhood when it’s really just a façade,” says Judith Kessler, who has been involved with the ‘Jüdische Gemeinde’ in Berlin for more than twelve years and now manages the organization’s newsletter. Today, “more than 92 percent of the local Jewish population has their homes in the Western part of Berlin”.

In Charlottenburg and Wilmersdorf are most of the institutions, such as the Jewish kindergarten, the elementary school, the community center with its library and the youth club. Here, people meet for a peppermint iced tea at Salomon’s bagel shop right next to the Jewish bookshop.

Central to Jewish life in Berlin are the six synagogues located all over the city. The synagogues range from conservative to liberal with the one on Oranienburger Straße perceived as the most progressive. We are told by Kessler, that the general tendency is to practice a very traditional form of Judaism.

Our interviewees use the Jewish infrastructure of Berlin in various ways. Judith Kirschke, a young student who recently moved to Berlin, only occasionally attends services at the synagogue in Oranienburger Straße. She likes the music and the fact that it’s egalitarian. Her friend, Inna, who emigrated from Russia, is very observant. She organizes the religious activities at the Jewish Cultural Center and is in close contact with the Lauder Foundation. She prefers these groups, because they offer more practical advice and personal contact than the Jüdische Gemeinde.

Igor Chalmiev emigrated from the Soviet Union in 1992 and is now in charge of the integration programs of the Jewish Cultural Center. He tells us about his childhood in Azerbaijan, where his grandparents lived in a small town near Baku. The German Wehrmacht never marched that far, so he experienced a rich and visible Jewish street life. His grandparents spoke their own Jewish language. With this in mind, he says, in Berlin “there’s no Jewish life; there are only Jewish places and a few Jews.”

Dani Neubauer who is very active in the Jewish youth center and currently has an internship at the American Jewish Committee, says “it’s hard to lead a Jewish life in Germany,” and he was disappointed in not finding an elaborate Jewish infrastructure in Berlin. He has also had a lot of trouble getting kosher food. “It’s sad that with such a large Jewish population there is only one kosher restaurant.” He also questions the fact that there are 30 to 40 percent non-Jews attending the Jewish high school. But Sabine Voltmer, the school’s social worker, says that they didn’t have enough Jewish students and decided to open the school for other students. While she worries about the non-Jewish teachers’ lack of Jewish knowledge, she still thinks highly of the ‘Jüdisches Gymnasium.’ “The parents feel safer sending their children to a Jewish school, and a positive aspect is that they learn a lot about the Jewish religion,” she says.

Immigration and Integration

Most Jews in Berlin immigrated or were the children of immigrants. After the ‘German Jews’ were established a second wave of immigrants came in the 1970s. Several members of this group now sit on the congregation’s board and hold other important positions in the community. While their integration may have taken some time, they were a relatively small group and they are now indistinguishable from the rest of the Jewish population.

The Russian immigrants of the early 1990s now make up the majority of Jews in this city. They are referred to as the ‘Russian Jews,’ or just ‘the Russians.’ Runge of the Jewish Cultural Center tells us how excited the members were at the prospect of a new group of Jews coming to Berlin, but her enthusiasm soon dimmed because they “weren’t what I expected.” She had been hoping for new members for the Jewish Cultural Center and a new life for the Jewish community, but she describes the Russian immigrants as “demanding” and wanting only what they could get for free from the Cultural Center.

Kessler says huge numbers of Russian Jews come daily to the congregation, but they come for social welfare, not to participate in Jewish life. She says that with the Russian, the congregation has changed from a “small family” to a “supermarket.” And Voltmer wonders why, after so many years of receiving from the congregation, the immigrants aren’t really giving anything back.

The descriptions seem slightly exaggerated when one actually meets some of these ‘Russians.’ Jana Wolotschij, who emigrated from the Ukraine in 1990 at the age of ten, is now a university student. She recounts leaving everything behind including a nation that discriminated against her parents based on their religion and would not allow her community to have a synagogue. She talks of the terrible refugee housing that her family left as soon as they could afford an apartment of their own. She also describes what she calls a “vicious cycle” in which the immigrants do not speak German so they can’t find jobs, and then they forget the German that they’ve learned, because they are not in touch with the German speaking population. If they find work at all, the Russian immigrants find work in Russian businesses.

As for the ‘Jüdische Gemeinde,’ Jana doesn’t seem impressed with what it has to offer. She sees the organization as using the high numbers of Russian Jews to gain more lobbying power. The immigrants are mostly secular, poor and if anything reform or liberal Jews. However, the majority of activities sponsored by the congregation are orthodox. Thus, the ‘Russians’ see themselves as paying dues to an organization that supports a religious practice in which they, themselves, do not believe.

The religious disparity between the new Russian immigrants and the older Jewish population in Berlin receives a lot of attention. “The Russians don’t have a clue about religion,” says Neubauer. However, as Rabbi Spinner points out, the ‘Russians’ lack of religious knowledge is perfectly understandable in light of the situation in the former Soviet Union. He predicts that the Russian immigrant population will someday resemble any religious population, where some choose to be more observant than others.

The key word is ‘integration’. Everyone has an opinion on how best to integrate the ‘Russians’ into the Jewish framework of Berlin. In the early 1990s, Voltmer proposed programs that could help integrate the Russian immigrants that were never put into practice.

Rabbi Spinner criticizes the Jewish congregation for their approach to the Russian immigrants. He speaks of “building bridges” between the two communities, but the special classes for immigrants on integration merely separate the two communities further. The old Jewish population should be trying to find ways to bring together ‘Russian’ and ‘German’ Jews. He is also generally astounded by the types of comments made by Jewish leadership about ‘the Russians’. Many of their “attitudes are just disgusting.”

Spinner projects that the Russians will soon take the lead in the organization of the Jewish community and that they may turn a blind eye to the problems of the old ‘German’ Jews who have been treating them so poorly. “They’re gonna get it on the head, and I can’t wait,” quips Spinner, “I just hope my tenure here lasts long enough to see that happen.”

For all the negative discussion associated with the Russian Jewish population in Berlin, there is some optimism. Jana refers to the younger generation, as getting a “new opportunity,” while Chalmiev is a living example of the possibility of positive integration and success after immigrating at the age of thirty-seven. For those who would like to see ‘the Russians’ come to synagogue more often, Rabbi Andreas Nachama, former President of the Berlin ‘Jüdische Gemeinde,’ points out the reality of immigration: people must deal with the new place, the new language, economic issues. “Religion is not the first thing.” Still, this new population is making its presence known in different ways and it’s certainly adding a new dimension to Jewish life in Berlin.

Religious Identity

The question of identity and notably religious identity is certainly not an easy one. Some of our interviewees had an answer at hand. “I am modern orthodox,” says Dani Neubauer, “I am traditional conservative,” Vivian G. tells us. She has been living in Berlin for the past six years, but she has not found a synagogue or an institution where she can feel “at home”. Only her closest friends know the prominent role religion plays in her life. She didn’t feel welcome in the Jewish student movement and other organizations so she now avoids going to the social gatherings they offer. Yet, she is very interested in the organizations’ political events.

For Judith Kirschke who, like Dani and Vivian, is in her early twenties, the social gatherings are the most important aspect. Her Hungarian mother waited until she was 17 to tell her about her “Jewish roots”. From then on her interest in Jewish religion and culture grew. Though she’s not observant she feels part of a larger community of Jews. She goes to synagogue because she feels she can relax and experience a positive group feeling there.

Jana, the Ukrainian immigrant, feels Jewish without practicing on an organized level. Her mother, who never had the opportunity to practice her religion in the Soviet Union, feels that it’s “too late”. Without knowing the prayers and the songs she wouldn’t feel comfortable in synagogue.

Simon, unlike other Jews of the post-war GDR generation who had to find their own way to Judaism, was born in the Jewish hospital and was thus immediately a member of the ‘Gemeinde.’ For him, the “real decision was to stick with it”. His parents raised him in a traditional Jewish way, “we knew who we were,” he proudly says. In East Berlin, they could live their religion openly. This was not the case for Jews living outside the capital.

Runge also grew up in the GDR. Her communist parents immigrated to New York during the Third Reich, and she was born and spent her early years in the United States. They left the U.S. during the McCarthy era and settled in East Germany (GDR), turned away from religion and raised their daughter secularly. She later discovered Judaism, which led to her involvement in the Jüdischer Kulturverein.

Voltmer who was not born Jewish, but with four different nationalities in her family, felt “rootless.” During her ‘student marriage’ to a Russian Jew she thought about converting but wasn’t supported by her husband. It was only after their divorce that she saw a rabbi and talked to him about her wish to convert. She began taking classes and a year later was admitted to the religious community. For many years now she has been professionally involved in the ‘Gemeinde.’ Her three daughters have Israeli names. “Why hide?” she asks. All of her daughters are enrolled in Jewish schools. She says going to a Jewish school strengthens the student’s Jewish identity and “enlarges the common ground” of the young generation no matter what their background may be.

Is it true then that the ‘Gemeinde’ was a more religious community before the immigrants came? Judith Kessler laughs and says that in her opinion the image of the congregation as a very religious group has always been a “myth.” In a survey she conducted, the majority of the 400 people who answered the questionnaire said they’d see themselves as belonging to the reform movement or even as non-religious or atheistic. For them the main tasks of the community are political representation, organizing cultural events, and providing Jewish education.
The Russian immigrants in particular aren’t interested in the religious aspects. “They register and are never seen again. These people are living their Jewishness in a different way,” said Kessler.

Fear and Uneasiness

In Germany in recent months there have been political and cultural debates over anti-Semitic statements made by public figures. The crisis in the Middle East has further fueled the debate. As a result, the Jewish community is once again in the spotlight. Many of the interviewees expressed a feeling of insecurity. Kessler now feels uncomfortable in her country and questions whether everything before was just a ‘show’ to cover latent anti-Semitism. “The only thing you can do is wear the Jewish star under your clothes,” says Kessler. Others reacted to the fact that Germans did not speak up in outrage. Adam Sacks, an American Jew living in Berlin for the last two years, speaks of the ‘Gemeinde’ as a “litmus test” for morality and asks why no one else stood up for the Jews. Rabbi Nachama gave a speech on anti-Semitism two years ago in which he used the exact same text that his predecessor used in a speech in 1980, and the words still applied. He chuckles now at the bitter irony of the situation.

Vivian G. recently had the unsettling experience of being confronted with anti-Semitic stereotypes in her own circle of friends. While they may have been “positive” stereotypes, she was still shocked by their implication.

Hermann Simon says that now for the first time it is politically correct to be an “outspoken anti-Semite.” Even as he shows us a solidarity ad from non-Jewish individuals in the “Süddeutsche Zeitung,” a leading newspaper, he called on German Jews to get involved, not only as Jews, but also as German citizens.