Poetica Magazine

I like to see the reaction I get when I tell people that I am an Irish Catholic Jew. I don’t espouse either faith so it’s more for shock value than anything. I consider myself spiritually eclectic but that’s another story.

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Bloodlines don’t lie though. Bessie Kahn, my maternal grandmother, was born April 3, 1899 in New York City. Her Jewish immigrant parents were poverty-stricken and unwed, so when she was about two months old they deposited her in a white cradle that sat in the foyer of the New York Foundling Home. The cradle had been placed there by the Sisters of Charity of St. Vincent de Paul for mothers to anonymously leave their babies. Though it must have been a difficult decision for her parents, undoubtedly they hoped that the orphanage would open the door to a better life for their daughter. Because the foundling home was run by Catholic priests and nuns, they wasted no time in baptizing this Jewish baby and bringing her into the fold.

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When Bessie was just over two years old, she and 13 other children from the orphanage boarded a train bound for the Midwest to meet their adoptive families. They were part of The Orphan Train movement, which was so named because of the nearly 200,000 orphaned, abandoned and homeless children who were delivered by train to their new families between 1854 and 1929. Bessie got off the train in Frankenstein Missouri; she was adopted and brought up by the Gentges family. Her 61-year-old adoptive mother renamed her Rose and raised her as a devout Catholic.

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I can’t help but believe that my grandmother always felt a sense of abandonment, so perhaps that was why her union with my Irish grandfather produced 10 children, 39 grandchildren, 74 great-grandchildren and who knows how many great-great-grandchildren. Every one of the children and grandchildren was raised in the Catholic faith, which was largely due to Grandma’s influence. She was the most devoted Catholic I’ve ever known; her faith was steadfast and profound. I am sure of this...had she been raised Jewish, Grandma would have approached Judaism with the same passion and conviction that she had for Catholicism. That’s just the kind of person she was.

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So here I sit as I often have over the years, wondering what it would be like to live and breathe Jewish tradition. Questions run through my mind: What traditions could I have experienced? Which could I learn about and practice now without subscribing to the faith? Am I entitled to do this? Is there a nice Jewish family who would ‘adopt’ me and teach me their ways? Even though I’m technically considered Jewish, there’s a part of me that feels no sense of belonging. It’s like having a membership to a club but not being able to walk in the front door. Or owning something but not being able to use it. Or receiving a license to practice medicine but not being allowed to practice it. It’s a part of me that I don’t know how to express. There’s a certain irony in knowing that while I don’t have a close connection to the culture, there is enough Jewish blood running through my veins for me to have been sent to Auschwitz.

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It’s not like I was raised without tradition. There was plenty of that in my growing up household, much of which revolved around food, holidays and gatherings. We always joked about having been dealt double the guilt as a result of our Catholic/Jewish roots. I feel though like I’ve missed out on embracing the Jewish part of my heritage. I’m not angry about it...just a bit regretful I suppose. So instead of having a grandma who made me matzah ball soup, my grandma filled my bowl to the rim with her hearty turkey and rice soup. And instead of baking challah she lavished upon me the world’s best cinnamon rolls. No doubt Bessie would have gotten the same satisfaction and contentment Rose did as she watched me savor every spoonful, every bite.