Pollak's Arm by Hans von Trotha

Author:Hans von Trotha
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781954404014
Publisher: New Vessel Press
Published: 2021-09-15T00:00:00+00:00

COLLECTING has always been synonymous with life to me, whether collecting for myself or others. Even during those hideous years in Vienna, I would at least keep an eye out for drawings. There are three things I primarily collected—Goethe, Prague, and Judaism. To my mind, Goethe is culture, Prague is home, and Judaism is my destiny.

His collections must be extensive, says K. I don’t know where they’re currently housed, beyond what’s in the apartment.

The most valuable piece in my collection of Hebraica, Pollak continued, is a Haggadah from fourteenth-century Mantua. It is a beautiful object, imposing in aspect but with filigree detailing. I sometimes traveled with it, in order to show experts and learn more about it, but I must admit that I did so in part out of a sense of pride. It’s my Haggadah, you see. I took it to Geneva. It’s locked in a safe there. It’s protected. When the time comes and I’m no longer here and peace has been restored, the Haggadah will go to the Jewish community in Rome. Did you know that the Jewish community here is one of the oldest in the world? I take comfort in knowing that the Haggadah will return to this place once such passage is possible again. Not only because of its value and singular beauty, but because the Haggadah itself is so important in times like these. Its name is derived from the Hebrew word for storytelling. A guide for storytelling—that’s what a Haggadah is. The stories we tell are all that remain in the end, you know. Stories, and art. It’s how life goes on. It’s what we leave to those who come after. On the eve of Passover, following the order set forth in the Haggadah, Jews tell stories of the Israelites’ enslavement in Egypt; they tell and retell stories of their enslavement and liberation, but particularly that of liberation.

I went to the synagogue here in Rome once; first to the ghetto, then to the synagogue. An older blond woman approached and embroiled me in conversation. She said it used to be there were fewer rights, but more religion. Now the inverse was true. It used to be the gates to the ghetto were locked every night, and every murder was blamed on the Jews. Zero rights. Now, though, Jews were public officials, even state ministers, but had lost their religion. That was what the blond Jewish woman said. The doors to the synagogue had opened in the meantime, and I entered. Sitting against the wall was an older man in Oriental garb with a flowing white beard. I was instinctively drawn to him and sat down at his side. We began to talk. He was the rabbi from Livorno. He spoke broken Italian and knew only a handful of words in German. His vernacular was Spanish, as is the case for so many Italian Jews. His name was Ben Halna. He had intelligent eyes and a fine profile. It took me a long

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