Books of Michael Amram : Books-fReado

Books of Michael Amram : Books-fReado

The Height of Chutzpeh

Synopsis of The Orthodoxy of Arrogance

 

               Mordichai  (Moritz) Lebenschizt was raised by Orthodox Jewish parents.  After his parents are killed when he is eleven, he settles in Schaan, Liectenstein.  There he learns to suppress his Jewish tendencies, among other things. The year is 1928 and Mordichai sees a crazy Jew hating man rising out of the ashes of WWI.  He loses his name and becomes Moritz, a more Christian sounding name. He never has a bar mitzvah and never grows pe'ot like his father.  Moritz has a hard rebellious bend. He is brash, arrogant, pompous, with a knack for charming people.

 

In 1935 he meets Hannah Krankenstein in the Haage during a protest against the National Socialist Party.  Hannah was also orphaned but became reclusive, introverted and reticent.  Moritz found her to be charmed by him.  She hung on his word and fed his enormous ego. By 1939 they had settled in the town of Dachau, Germany. There they curtailed their Judaism and flew under the Nazi radar.  They would escape through a tunnel to a beer hall in Munich when the Gestapo came calling.  By 1944 they were tired of playing the game.

 

               Hannah and Moritz make their way a night through Munich. They follow the Rhine south along the Austrian border to Switzerland. They board a train destined for La Harve, France. In a small apartment in Le Harve they wait out the war. Moritz has built a small sailboat. In the fall of 1945 they make their way with their boat to a beach at Calais. At the narrowest point, the cross the English Channel to Dover.  After spending a few weeks in South Hampton they get on an ocean liner to New York as “displaced persons.”

 


 

               In 1960 Yeshiva is born to the Lebenschitzs.  She is raised as an Orthodox Jew by her mother.  Her father is very liberal with tradition and Jewish law. This confuses Yeshiva who is always trying to win her father’s affection.  She is not a handsome woman and is told as much by Moritz. She is tormented at Hebrew school and slandered in Yiddish behind her back.  She rebels and holds off her bat mitzvah until age eighteen.

 

 

 

               The conflict between father and daughter is omnipresent.  There is a lack of communication between the two which Moritz justifies by his being an orphan..  In the end Mordichai is forced to confront his lack of affection towards Yeshiva.  His wife has grown, greatly due to his encouragement, from the mousy woman he knew in Germany.  Now she aligns with Yeshiva  to take a step back from his life of arrogance.

 

               The Orthodoxy of Arrogance  juxtaposes events in history with a subsequent familial conflict.  It borders on the least likely outcomes of historical events.  They are often endured by arrogant and self-indulgent attitudes.   The Orthodoxy of Arrogance is the story of sheer will and the belief in oneself.  http://www.amazon.com/The-Orthodoxy-Arrogance-Revised-Edition/dp/1490715371/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1382886362&sr=8-1&keywords=mb+moshe

When cruising was special

Grenada

                Fire licks at everted ankles.  The pink bottoms of Negro feet creep fourth as the dancers’ spines bend.  Steel drums ring with metallic pulses as the breezes muss my hair.  Their backs are nearly at a right angle, inches from a soiled stone floor.  The coals roast their feet and I swear I can see smoking feet and smell burning flesh.  A precision patter draws under the limbo pole one by one.  In rounds they go, dancers, limbs flashed in reds, blues, yellows and orange.   Higher, brighter flames illuminate Grenada’s sky as a crowd thrives on this spectacle.  The stars connect the path.  Orion the hunter shows the way as eyes fixate on constellations.  My eyes drift from shows to space and back again.

                A bamboo limbo pole rests starkly in the crotch of two branches lashed together.  Each round it is lowered and now levels 4 inches from the hot, stone ground.  Their faces grimace in mockery.  Pain is an ignored effect.  Open flames brush at bare skin and beads of sweat collect in puddles under the pole.  The crowd is mesmerized a slowly applauds each dancer who clears the pole.  Shiny, large breasted black women and men who walk like skeletons command the tourists’ cameras.  They click often and flashes catch the dancers as they try to blend in the night.

January 31, 1970-19:00

The Costume Ball

          A faint jingling seeps through elevator walls.  My sister and I are dressed as penguins as we descend to the main dinning room.  My mother wears a green flannel shirt with corresponding jeans of a deeper emerald that pierce the eyes.  A 5-gallon hat completes her attempt to emulate Mr. Greenjeans, the co-hort of Captain Kangaroo. The captain did not pilot our ship but hosts our favorite children’s show.  The doors open and I see bells bobbing as the tentacles of a jester’s hat command the room.  He stands guard over a large steamer trunk.  Its contents is never revealed  and act only as a prop to divert attention from his big feet.  Bells adorn his points, all points, head to toe.  He paces to jingle among costumed cruisers with obvious frustration and abandons the mysterious trunk in the middle of the room.  The jester works the room like a politician shaking hands of the likes of Cleopatra, some clowns, a fairy or two, Mickey Mouse and the scarecrow who needed a brain. 

                We smile and try to act as festive as two flightless birds could.  Each of us wear a full suit of moderate black and white.  Our heads are covered with hoods that squeeze our cheeks.  The captain enters to judge the contest.  Susan and I mug for pictures and try to bolster our chances of winning.

                “Well, what do I see here?  Two penguins? “

We nod vigorously and hope our inimitably is appreciated by the captain.

                “And from were do you hail?”

Minnesota we say in unison.

                “Burr, cold up there right now.”

Again we both affirm the captain’s rhetoric with a nod.  He walks up and down the line of contestants with the thoroughness of a naval inspection.  He stops at the jester whose hat has begun to sag and the signs of a jilted, despondent charlatan are evident.  It is obvious that the trunk contained props which he never needed to use.  We see him breathe a sigh of relief and he is rewarded the second prize.  He removes his hat and the captain places a medallion of the ship around his neck.

                 My mother  realizes the captain probably has no idea who she is since most of the crew is European and Mr. Greenjeans was not the star of the show.  We appreciate her effort though.

                “The Minnesota penguins, yes.  You know there are no penguins in this hemisphere.  We won’t quite make it down to your climate this cruise though.”

Statuesque tales

 and my grandmother kept an austere house.  Things had plastic coverings that crunched when one sat down.  A kid was allowed to be a kid.  According to grandma though nothing in life was 100%, least of all the austerity of her apartment.  My sister and I shared a fold-out couch that fronted the wall of my grandparent’s bedroom. Lighting was dim and the small television would fill the room at night with neon.  We would watch Ed Sullivan late into the night with the sound low.  Shadows bounced off thick wooded walls and I would wander into the kitchen for a midnight snack.

                The next day my mother walked us down to the subway.  The bristles of my freshly crew-cut head felt the hollow winds as we descended.  There was a smell of gummy, sweet, stale candy precluding the other odors of the world I would briefly know.  I liked it, and for a moment I paused on the stone steps and surveyed my new environment.

                “Michael, we have to keep moving.  We’re in New York.” 

My mother was not one to stop and smell roses, not that there were any in subterranean NYC.  So I increased my pace, skipping two or three steps until I was waiting for them at the bottom.  I was a fearless, adroit kid.  My sister was 2 years older and a bit more calculating.  She was the kind of kid who was destined to be in the advanced classes and on honor rolls.

                “Hurry, our subway is coming!”

A slim line of light pierced the graffiti of the tunnels and there was a thundering sound, rising sharply to a screeching crescendo as the subway came into sight.  The doors, also festooned with graffiti, quickly slid open and ejected a diverse mass of people into the dank, urine tinged air.  My mother dropped three tokens into a turn stile and we were scattered among the oncoming crowd.  She grabbed my hand and led me through the masses.  She now wore a look of complacency.  It told of her determination, her pride and her comfort level on her home field.  She grew up in the Bronx and was proud to show her children the sights.  Still not yet a total cliché, the Statue of Liberty was our unanimously decided destination (although I may have swayed the vote a little). We rode the subway to Battery Park in lower Manhattan. 

                “Battery Park,” sounded muffled over the PA system in our car.

                “Get ready kids.  The next stop is ours.”

We flanked our mother as she hung onto the plastic straps.  We clung to the poles on either side.  My sister stood there looking at the advertisements whether they were legitimate or not.  I, however, swung from my pole in curiosity of the other passengers.

                “How are you enjoying your ride?” or “Where are you going?” I’d ask.  Most often New Yorkers would give me a look that said “Get out of here kid, you annoy me.”  Or they might look at my mother with disgruntled overtones, quasi-politely conveying that they would like her to harness and perhaps muzzle her child  The doors suddenly opened and we charged into the sea of New Yorkers.

We exited though the turn stile and ascended to the street.  My eyes felt the warm sunlight graze them harshly.  They adjusted instantly and  I pretended I was a mole or a vampire coming into the light for the first time.

.

****

                “Three for Liberty Island.  One adult, two children.”

                “How old are the kids ma’am?”

                “5 and 7.”

The briny air smelled of seaweed and  felt cold and damp.  I listened to the seagulls and wished I had some food to offer them when they settled on things to rest.  Small and oddly mannered, they pandered to the influx of tourists  High and mighty in the clear ocean sky, the gulls circled with the malicious intent of vultures.  Yet, their grace and soft winged flight patterns made their presence inviting.

                 I was about to see the symbol of a better life for thousands that had arrived on these shores and I was amused by menacing birds.  When you are young the bigger things in life are sometimes shadowed by smaller things of no real importance.

****

                 Earlier that year my grandparents had taken the three of us on a Caribbean cruise.  We had visited Grenada, Haiti, Curacao and Martinique.  One night after my grandpa thought I was safely in bed in my stateroom I wandered into his. 

                 They waited alone on the small sink.  A faux smile taunted me like a vagrant clown.  Their mechanical pink gums frothed at the hinges as my grampa’s dentures marinated  in a shallow aqua-green dish of liquid.  Yellow-white plastic molars amazed me and I thought the rest of our cruise could now only pale by comparison.  They were rife with masticated food of our recent dinner.  He had eaten the beef Wellington along with a side of broccoli.  The soft crust that surrounded the beef now lined the inlay of the gums.  An ominous greenish-black vegetative hue had imbedded itself between the teeth.  Morsels of withered meat tried to hide below the gum-line.  Whatever they had masticated for him, he had made them his own and they had the personal smell of my grandpa.  This smell segued sublimely into the stale, meticulously pungent, old- people smell my grandparents had managed to recreate from their Bronx apartment.            

                “Wow, what are those?”

                “Michael, these are my teeth,” he quickly answered unnervingly.

                “What happened to the real teeth in your mouth?”

                “See, if you don’t take care of your real teeth, someday you might need these.”

 I decided I’d call  them “toy teeth” and immediately set about announcing this fascination to the entire ship.  When I went back to nursery school we were all asked to tell about our winter break. 

                “Michael, did  you see anything exciting on your break?”

                “Yes, my grandpa’s toy teeth,” I quickly replied.

****

                We boarded the ferry in one communal push and  I ran straight to the coin-operated looking glass.  I felt tall and commanding as I clung to my post and my feet precariously toed the thin metal step.  Practice is necessary to view things of great importance correctly and I peered through the glass blind and imagined what I could see.  I imagined how I would see the statue and how I should feel seeing it  The other passengers had taken seats where they could.

                “Michael, sit down,” my mother called. 

                “I want to look through here though.”

                “There’s nothing to see right now.”

I shrugged and joined them on the crowded bench.  In moments

Pressure

Turnstiles led us into caged alignments as we filed into the dome. Those on crutches moved to the head of lines while the wheelchair-bound were ushered in by smiling, plain-clothed workers. There was no security and if any hostility had broached the sidewalk curb of the dome it was graciously and willingly checked at the door. Singers highlighted by Amy Grant sang songs laden with the same message; that there is hope in the world. It was a soft sell. It was a simple platform that assumed none of the grandeur that an 1850’s tent revival may have deserved. After Graham had spoken for an hour, throngs of people seeking salvation were led onto the field. They walked in three lines, twenty abreast, from sections of the dome. Then I noticed the same thing was happening on our side. Three lines, in perfect formation, were born from the sections in which I sat. I stood awestruck as those in wheelchairs wheeled themselves slowly, arduously negotiating the Astroturf of the Metrodome. Graham’s arms reached out to figuratively touch each and every member who sought His salvation by accepting the word. He reached out to every student or blue-collar worker who found that their life was going nowhere fast and had surrendered it to Jesus like I had facilely done many months before.

I did not go down on that field and I was not expected to go. Some Christians, whether they are born once or twice, are more sincere than others. Some genuinely do not have an ulterior motive in befriending you. After a suitable and convincing sojourn of truth the pilgrims filed peacefully back to their sections in the same manner as they had come. Nothing had changed and the magic that I had really been hoping to see never happened. There was some more singing; real, uplifting gospel, revival type singing with the crowd clapping as their standing ovations morphed into dancing. I was smiling and dancing with them all.

____

As the pressure of the dome blew us out the doors opposite the turnstiles through which we’d passed I looked back to see if I had missed any magic. Then I saw those on crutches and in wheelchairs being blow out; the latter spinning to a stop on the sidewalk in front of the Dome. They were the same; nothing magically faded like when Forest Gump ran and he gradually lost his braces through Hollywood special effects. The smiles were brighter though and those pilgrims were filled with hope, positivity and a constructive attitude about their disability. That was magic to me.

　

Fine Line Writing

MB Moshe's Writing Services:

I humbly offer my services as a writer of historically-based fiction, general fiction, and creative nonfiction.  Based on my resume (See side column), I feel qualified to bring a positive touch to your writing.  Fees are negotiable.  However .12 per word is a ball park guide.  I offer:

• proofreading

• copy editing

• ghostwriting

• guest blog writing

I use the Chicago Manual style for editing.  I sincerely hope I can share my passion and commitment to the written word with you.

Reviews

(Amazon Customer Review)

A CAPTIVATING TALE

 May 2, 2013

 

"Moritz, the central character of the book has survived Nazi Germany and a daring escape to freedom through his arrogance, cunning, deceitfulness and determination. He is not a loveable character but one has to admire his resourcefulness pitted against a hostile environment. M.B. Moshe weaves the story of Moritz, his wife and daughter through the events of war torn Europe and postwar America. His colorful, detailed descriptions of the characters make them come alive in this intriguing, captivating tale."    ---Frances W

 

 

 

 

(Barnes & Noble Customer Review)

 

Anonymous

Posted February 12, 2013

                                                               

"It was a touching story. A light, compelling and informative read."

 

 

 

 

"....One often wishes that, instead of flitting over this rich land like a butterfly, we could rest a while and absorb more of the story.

As for spoiled Yeshiva, she gets to dance to Abba at her bat mitzvah, finds herself a "good" man, and then decides to leave him and live instead with a woman. And life goes on. In fact, that is what comes through most clear. Evil, unfortunate, and unexpected things occur, yet life goes on. So enjoy the party. The story is sprinkled heavily with Hebrew, German, and Yiddish, and the glossary at the back is useful for translation."   --- The US Review of Books


(Amazon Customer Review)
An Exciting and Beautifully Written Book May 27, 2013


"The Orthodoxy of Arrogance" is the riveting tale of a Jewish couple who flee Dachau in Nazi Germany in 1944, and follow a difficult path to safety in America. Yet it begins with the story of their daughter, who, a generation later, is trying to find her identity in the aftermath of these dramatic events which overshadow her life. The character of her father is first revealed through her eyes. He is a man who, to use the words in the dedication, is "too arrogant to learn from history, but self-confident enough to rise above it."

Though I have read many stories of the Second World War, they usually focused on the heroic actions of the Allies, leaving the reality faced by those inside Nazi Germany in shadow. This book lifts the curtain on Jewish life inside the Third Reich.

Who could have imagined, for example, that during one of the famous Nazi rallies at Propyläen, one of Der Führer's buildings, a group of Jews nearby were focused on levitating it? Witnesses claimed to have seen the structure begin to vibrate, then rise a meter, revealing the fires of hell lashing out beneath! Such unexpected bravado fills the pages of this wonderful book, while developing the theme of the power of arrogance. It even reveals a new use for marijuana.

Against the background of the exciting and dangerous events which take place, the characters are presented with unusual delicacy and a richness of imagery that is rare to find. The powerful personality of the main character, Moritz, and its effects on his daughter make up the central theme--though one is tempted at first to judge the arrogant father harshly, it soon becomes clear that had he not been possessed of such an indomitable nature, it is unlikely that he would have been able to rescue himself and his wife in the first place. So, as well as a thrilling historical drama, the book is also a remarkable psychological study spanning two generations. The handling of the daughter's character is one of the most sensitive I have ever found.

The Orthodoxy of Arrogance is so well written, and with such lush detail, that it drew me deeply into its often startling reality. If you love well told and unusual human stories, this one is a must read!"


     ---  Ila France Porcher, author of "My Sunset Rendezvous : Crisis in Tahiti"


A WELL-WRITTEN AND ENGROSSING STORY, November 13, 2013

By 

Ellen L.

This review is from: The Orthodoxy of Arrogance (Paperback)

As editor of a Jewish newspaper, now sadly out of business, and currently a freelance editor at EditingByEllen@gmail.com, I have read many books about the Holocaust (and spoken with a number of Holocaust survivors). Most of these books, whether true or fiction, tell a story of survival during this most horrendous of times. A few tell the story of surviving the survival, no easy accomplishment when so much has been lost. M.B. Moshe's "The Orthodoxy of Arrogance" is a rarity in presenting both stories.

Although not always easy to grasp or like, the main characters -- Moritz, his wife, Hannah, and his daughter, Yeshiva -- are always fascinating. Although it is Moritz and Hannah who personally experienced the Nazi horror, the author, himself the son of a Holocaust refugee, as he notes in the introduction, realizes that Yeshiva too is a survivor and her life will always be impacted by the experiences of her parents and their ability to survive when so many others perished. None of them has an easy life, but each has learned to cope with what life has to offer.

Despite its overarching topic, "The Orthodoxy of Arrogance" is hopeful rather than depressing. And it is unforgettable