By high school, I had pretty much jettisoned the emotional baggage of being a son of Holocaust survivors. I was into the L.A. Dodgers, the Beatles, and cruising with friends along Sunset Strip on weekends. After my bar mitzvah, I had little connection with my Jewishness, and our family didn’t belong to a synagogue.
On the High Holidays, my father, who was still angry at God for being absent during the Holocaust, took to me which ever random synagogue would admit us without tickets. I’ll never forget the time on the second day of Rosh HaShanah, when we went to a Reform synagogue on... Read More