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March 5, 1999/17 Adar 5759, Vol. 51, No. 23
'You people,' our people
Playwright explores life in two different worlds
MARTY LATZ
Special to Jewish News
You hate yourself," Dr. Harry Hyman told Phillip Gellburg. And you are embarrassed by your Jewishness and afraid. So what have you done? You have dealt with your fear by "trying to disappear into the goyim."
Assimilation. Anti-Semitism. Discrimination. And the context underlying it: 1938 Brooklyn and Germany's Kristallnacht, the overt beginnings of the Holocaust known as the "night of broken glass." The Arizona Jewish Theatre Company addressed each in its moving production of Arthur Miller's award-winning play "Broken Glass."
"Broken Glass" revolves - on the surface - around the sudden paralysis that takes hold of Sylvia Gellburg shortly after she reads about Kristallnacht, that infamous night in Germany when the Nazis destroyed Jewish stores, homes and synagogues, murdering scores of Jews and arresting thousands of others.
Hyman is a Jewish physician who is treating Gellburg for "hysterical paralysis." Similar to shell shock, when soldiers in war become blind temporarily due to psychoneurotic onslaught, the paralysis appeared to be a reaction to Sylvia Gellburg's very real fear of the Nazis.
But on a deeper level, the play - written in 1994 - addressed issues that affected Jews in the 1930s and 1940s and continue to affect Jews today. The play explored the essence of Jews' relationships and interactions with non-Jews. It is an issue that will never go away. Nor should it.
Sometimes, it leads to a tension I feel when I walk into a room crowded with strangers. Most, by odds, are non-Jewish. Some, by odds, may dislike Jews. It's their perceived attitude - and my reaction to it - that engenders this discomfort. In the play, Phillip Gellburg's non-Jewish boss called us "you people."
Contrast this with my feeling when I walk into a room crowded largely with Jews. It's a different feeling. I presume a basic acceptance of my Judaism and a lack of anti-Semitism. Sometimes there may be tension, but it is unrelated to my Jewish identity.
These two subconscious reactions reflect the inherent tension in surviving and thriving in two different, but coexisting, worlds - Jewish and non-Jewish.
Phillip Gellburg, like many Jews in pre-World War II Germany, pursued the assimilation route. He was very sensitive to all things Jewish - and continually distinguished himself from them. "Gellburg" was not "Goldberg," he reminded us.
The result? A self-hating Jew who inflicted his fear, embarrassment and insecurity on others, mostly upon the woman he loved.
But the other extreme is dangerous, too. Shutting off the non-Jewish world can mean denying the existence of an increasingly interdependent world and shunning a society that might then more easily discriminate against us and others.
There's no easy answer. But I do know this. We must each find our own balance. Some draw the line between Jewish social life and non-Jewish professional life. Others reject this distinction, most gravitate in one direction or the other.
Regardless of one's "choice," however, a distinction between these worlds exists. Many of Germany's Jews consciously forsook their heritage. Phillip Gellburg unconsciously hated his. These attitudes led to disaster.
We have a responsibility to protect our heritage and our identity. But we must also find a way to relate to the larger community. In this way, we help ensure our survival. We owe it to our ancestors, to ourselves and to future generations.
Marty Latz is a Valley attorney and negotiation consultant. Send comments to mlatz@negot.com.
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