A Hider

My parents were Holocaust people: Jews who fought and lived through the Nazi, antisemitic, xenophobic horrors. Consequently, perhaps genetically, I have always kept one ear to the ground, listening for the sound of marching boots and peering into the distance for the shadows of smoke. That’s how I am built. Perhaps too aware, too nervous, too fearful of history repetition. My fear primarily centers on injustice, that category that includes crimes of antisemitism, fascism, racism, homophobia, etc. There are so many.

I have been fearful all my life. Not just for myself, but for the identifiable others: the Jews, Muslims, trans and POC who look the part, everyone who walks around with their yarmulkes or hijabs or hoodies or heels and makeup in full view of those who hate them and would do them harm. I have always worried for them—for the bearded Hasidic man out and about on the streets or on the subway, with his tzitzit hanging down, wearing his long woolen coat and hat in the summertime. It’s kind of silly, but I would try to sit near him on the subway or stand next to him on the platform. For support. Just in case. Maybe he’ll need help (as though I can help him). To comfort or ease him with a few Yiddish words.

“Hey, brider, ikh bin do. Kenst mit mir redn.” 

(“Hey, brother, I’m here. You can talk to me.”)

He and others live their lives openly and stand up to a world where so many people want to erase them simply because of their beliefs. Somehow they are not afraid. Or if they are afraid, they carry on publicly anyway.

I have been a hider. Always. I never wear a Jewish star. I changed my name to something Italian-sounding rather than the Jewish name my father carried for all of his days. I can “pass” and have done so for a lot of my life.

Then, October 7, 2023. What did that change for me?

It made everything worse. Heightened. My existential anxiety was not neurosis; it was reality. No need to imagine danger. It was real. I wanted to stand up and say, “I am here, you haters. May you bring upon yourselves that which you wish for us.” But, of course, I would whisper this softly only to myself.

I also whispered to my brothers and sisters in the streets and subways: “No, not a yarmulke today, brother! No, not today. Someone will hurt you, someone will hit you, spit at you. Please, brother, think about a Yankees or Mets baseball cap.”

But I don’t say it. I have been mostly silent. This does not make me proud of myself. This past April, I had to go to France. Whenever I fly I wear a particular fleece sweatshirt. One of my favorite things. It’s warm and wooly and comforts me like a blanket. I took it down from the closet before I left for the airport. Then I realized that it had Yiddish writing on it. It says “der letzte valtz” in Yiddish letters, which means “the last waltz.” 

It’s from a klezmer music festival. Yiddish and Hebrew words are written with the same alphabet, so it all looks the same.

Especially to a hater. Also, I was going to bring along the book I was reading, Bad Rabbi by Eddie Portnoy. But I got nervous. Those items could identify me. Harm might come. I would be seen and known on the plane as “one of them.” And so I brought neither the sweatshirt nor the book along. Hiding in full view.

I am sorry to be so afraid, especially since I am so far from the line of fire. However, the targets do keep moving, and what is “safe”?

I am in dialogue with people I don’t agree with and do not run from that. The theater community that I belong to was mostly silent about the rapes and murders on that Shabbat in October. There were some of us who tried to unite and connect with those on the other side, not very successfully, and as the war persisted, dialogue became nonexistent and hope for connection was lost. From what was supposed to be an empathetic community of artists, there was little comfort.

But I am my parents’ daughter. My father was the only person from his transport to Auschwitz who returned to Stuttgart alive. Survival is nine-tenths of the law. Even though I seem like a chicken, I will find my way to courage. I have become more articulate. And more visible. I seek to speak and engage nowadays, for whatever good that can do.

What also gives me hope is that Germany, that nation that committed so many crimes against the Jewish people and others a mere eighty years ago, is now an ally, a country that has tried to make amends.

May we have courage to stand up for who we are as humans and not bow to those who are hard-hearted and unjust. 

Eleanor Reissa is a Tony Award–nominated theater director, a Broadway and television actor, an international singer, and author of The Letters Project: A Daughter’s Journey.

Excerpted from On Being Jewish Now: Reflections from Authors and Advocates. Copyright © 2024 by Zibby Media LLC.