“Four policemen, frowning and looking at their watches, stood on the front steps of the hotel. One of the officers held two pairs of handcuffs, and another had two heavy chains slung over his shoulder.” We are reading aloud in a small circle in my classroom. My students are all ears and everyone in the room at the computers is listening too. Is this a news story of a notorious criminal about to be arrested, a murder mystery, a Patterson novel? Far from it, we are reading a biography of Ehrich Weiss, known today as The Amazing Harry Houdini. We read about Ehrich’s early exploits charging the neighbors to watch him tightrope, tricks he learned working for a locksmith, and how he hustled selling flowers on the streets of New York. We learn that his immigrant father, once a respected rabbi in Hungary, loses his job because of his heavy accent. I ask my students if they know what a rabbi is? One answers, “A teacher.” That’s right, I say, a leader and teacher of Judaism.” I tell my students that it’s a good thing Houdini’s family came to America in the late 19th Century. If not, I say, Houdini might never have escaped anything. I feel that way about my family, I say, as I show them a tiny dot on a map of Russia; they got out long before the rise of Hitler. “Are you Jewish?” Ronald asks. “Yes,” I say. “You rich?” he murmurs. I just smile and roll my eyes, like “I wish.”
I often forget how street-smart my students are and at the same time most have never left the neighborhoods where they grew up. I may be one of the first Jews they’ve ever met, or at least the first who’s ever talked to them about being Jewish.
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