I have been thinking a lot about the reasons why I even decided to take a class on Holocaust literature/Holocaust history. I remember asking myself the first weeks of classes if I really wanted to go through with being some sort of an experiment class. I'm not sure if anybody else will ever read this outside of this Loyola Marymount University (LMU)/California State University, Northridge (CSUN) class. But, just in case, you should know that this is a technologically innovative class and, although our two universities are far from each other (even more if there's traffic on the infamous 405 freeway), we are connected through live video interaction; we have class together following something that's somewhat like Skype taken to the next level. Blogging is part of the class' attempt to make of this a 21st Century instruction. At first, I wasn't too excited by the innovation because it took us a while to understand the technology. We're the first to have even done this at LMU, Dr. Levitsky says. After three months of this class, though, I've learned to really enjoy all the technology I've learned to use, especially since I call myself technologically inept.
I preface my reflection with the previous commentary because it is both important and insignificant. It's important because it shows that I was bogged down by relatively trivial things when I should have really been appreciating the fact that I was learning about a topic in which I have been interested since I first read Elie Wiesel's Night sophomore year of high school. It's insignificant when compared with the experience I lived alongside my CSUN partners, Sara and Chris, when we sat down to converse with Bob Geminder, a Holocaust survivor.
At Bob's home in Palos Verdes, California where peacocks (yes, peacocks) roam the streets freely, I knew the frustrations I had experienced with technology would be, really, quite worth it. The drive was steep: my poor little Corolla had a hard time negotiating with the Palos Verdes slopes. I remember trying to park on an uphill curb and feeling very scared because I put my car in reverse and it kept moving forward when I let go of the brake. I met Sara and Chris and we went to knock on Bob's door. We were met by Bob, his wife, Judy, and their dog, Charlie, a very hairy, dark black Bearded Collie that wouldn't stop sniffing us. Sara really liked him. We introduced ourselves. It was a little bit strange at first. Mostly because it felt like we were trying to make something that was an assignment, something that is usually supposed to be very business-like as comfortable as possible. The more we talked, the easier it got. It helped that Bob and Judy's daughther brought us some cheese and spinach fingerfood (I don't know what they were called but they were so good I ate more than one). We had a few questions for Bob about his pre-war life, his experiences during the war and his post-war undertakings. Eventually, we abandoned the script and let the conversation develop organically. It was hard to believe this was actually happening.
I'm not sure what I was expecting exactly. Maybe somebody like the characters from Elijah Visible or Enemies, a Love Story or Eli, the Fanatic. Bob was a normal man, one I would have never readily identified as a Holocaust survivor if I were to see him walking down the street. He reminded me very much of my grandfather: a man with stories that could go on for days, a man with a lifetime to tell. However, even if there was fingerfood on the table and kindness in their home, we were still strangers. Of course, he did not tell us everything. He told us enough.
