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Thoughts on Pattern and Form

June 7th, 2011

From an article I published 13 years ago in ETC: A Review of General Semantics, Vol. 54, No.4, Winter 1997-98

A FANTASY IN FIVE PARTS

Thoughts on Pattern and Form

Giraffe and Snake are moving through trees and grass at the side of a large lake.  The sun is setting and an orange-pink sky is reflected in the still water.  Giraffe gazes out from the shore for a moment and then walks towards a tree with high branches full of dark green leaves.  A zebra stands silently nearby.  Snake rapidly slithers in the grass.  Unseen, a flea crawls up the leg of the zebra and an eagle circles high above.  Mother Nature, the creator of this tranquil scene, quickly considers her options as she sees the paths of Giraffe and Snake about to cross.  Suddenly there are voices:

1. Snake: HEY! HEY! Watch where you’re walking Mr. G! You just about stepped on me. And considering the possible outcome of that, I really wish you would be more careful.

2. Giraffe: Well, it’s pretty hard to see way down there in the grass you know.  Isn’t it your job to watch where you slither?  It’s too bad you don’t have some legs so folks could make you out a bit better.

3. Snake: I get along quite well just as I am, thank you.  In fact, I feel much more comfortable on the ground where I can see where I’m going, unlike some other folks who have their heads up in the tops of trees. And I do notice you have a hardtime getting a drink. Isn’t that so?

4. Giraffe:  I think, Mr. S, if you were colored a bit differently, maybe you’d bebetter off. I mean that pattern on your skin looks just like the grass you slither through.

5. Snake: My skin is just the way I like it.  Speaking of patterns Mr. G, look at your own hide. Now there’s a strange pattern if I ever saw one.  You’re almost as garish as Mr. Z over there.

6. Giraffe: [Softly]  Please, you’re being very impolite. He’ll hear you.

7. Zebra: Did someone over there call me garish?  Who said that?

8.  Snake: I didn’t mean to be rude.  Mr G. and I were just talking about patterns andI just wanted to point out that all three of us have them.  The pattern on my skinhelps me when I’m hunting for mice.  How does your pattern help you Mr. G?

9.Giraffe: I’m not quite sure. Certainly not like yours helps you.  Maybe mice can’tsee you, but you certainly take a chance of getting squashed now and then because you blend in so well with the grass.  And you, Mr. Z?  I can’t imagine how your pattern helps you much, unless you’re escaping with a band of convicts (both Giraffe and Snake snicker.)

10. Zebra:  My, my, you fellows are most unpleasant today.  I’ve really never thought much about my stripes.  All of us zebras have them.  I think we’d all be rather suspicious of a zebra that didn’t.  We might not want her in the herd.  My father’s stripes are almost identical to mine.

11. Snake: I feel the same way about my own grassy pattern Mr. Z.  My family allhave the same kind.  I’d say it was how we were designed, so to speak, just like Mr. Z and his kin were designed with stripes. So a pattern might be a design.

12. Giraffe: A design?  That’s it?

13. Zebra: Are you sure about that Mr. S? It sounds reasonable, but how do you know for sure?

14. Snake: My ancestors used to hang out in the tree of knowledge you know.  You might have heard a rumor about that Garden of Eden thing?  The apple story?

15. I do recall that, yes.  The rumor is you lost your legs because of that apple.  Butcan we get back to the word “pattern”?  Is it really just a design?

16. Zebra: I think there’s more to it than that.

17. Perhaps you’re right.  If it were just a design I suppose we wouldn’t need theword “pattern.”

18. Giraffe: Of course, because there are patterns that we wouldn’t really call designs.

19. Zebra: There are?  Give me an example.

20. Snake: Look at the tree Mr. G was munching on a moment ago.  The branches all angle out in the same way, and the lengths of each of them get smaller and smaller as they go up and out.  And all the trees are like that.  They branch over and over again in the same way. That’s a pattern isn’t it?  A pattern of branching.

21. Giraffe: I see.

22. Zebra: Well if you’re going to call that a pattern then so is the track Mr. S made in the mud near the shore. It’s kind of a squiggle.

23. Snake: It’s interesting that you should say that Mr. Z, because yesterday an eagle told me how the river looked just like I do, and like the tracks I make in the mud.  The similarity struck her suddenly while she was flying quite high above.  So my path and the river’s path are similar.  They both have a squiggle pattern. But it’s hard to see the river that way, unless you’re an eagle.

24. Giraffe: Now that you mention it, I think lots of flowing things make that kind of squiggle pattern – snakes, rivers, vines, etc.. But we haven’t really answered the question. Why do we call these things patterns?

25. Zebra: I think the key to it is repetition.  They all repeat over and over again – the branches, skin and hide markings, and squiggles.

26. Snake: That’s true. But if patterns are just repetitions of things, then what about repetitions which aren’t really things.  For example, that bird up there in the tree has been driving me crazy chirping those same five notes over and over again for the last hour.

27. Giraffe: Of course.  It’s a pattern of sound.

28. Zebra: Patterns of sound? Hmmm.

29. Snake: Of course.  I should have seen that.  You can even see the pattern in the notes the bird is singing.  [repetitive note score here]

30. Giraffe: I have to admit, it does seem you’re right.  The notes are in a pattern, just like the marks on my hide.  Repetition does seem to be the key. Even the rising and setting sun is a pattern. And there for night and day must be too.

31. Zebra: Actually, Mr G, that’s because the earth is rotating on its axis, but I suppose that’s a repetitious event as well, and also a pattern.

32. Snake: It seems that patterns are everywhere.  Any kind of sequence repeated two or three times, something we see or hear, or even a repeating movement like in a dance or my slithering, allows us to perceive a pattern.  And then that becomes a theme for us.  We like it because we find it familiar.  Why, it’s even happening while we talk to each other!  If you look at the order in which Mr. G and I were speaking before Mr. Z joined in the conversation you’ll see a pattern.  Let’s call it pattern A.  And let’s put our statement numbers in parentheses after each initial so we can see it more easily.

Pattern A

S(1)   G(2)    S(3)    G(4)    S(5)    G(6)

33.  Giraffe: Why good heavens, you’re right Mr. S.  I do see it!  We were alternatively talking, one after the other.  Of course when two folks are talking it’s kind of hard to imagine any other pattern.  But when Mr. Z joined in the pattern could have gotten more complex, depending on who decided to talk and when.  The pattern of conversation after Mr. Z joined in is very sociable, isn’t it?  We all politely take turns, one after another, to make a new pattern.  Let’s call it pattern B:

Pattern B

Z(7)  S(8)  G(9)  Z(10)  S(11)  G(12)  Z(13)  S(14)  G(15)

Z(16)  S(17)  G(18)  Z(19)  S(20)  G(21)  Z(22)  S(23)  G(24)

Z(25)  S(26)  G(27)  Z(28)  S(29)  G(30)  Z(31)  S(32)  G(33)

34. Zebra: Yes, I see it.  It’s a repeating sequence of “ZSG.”  And I also see that if pattern B is to continue, I’m the one who has to be speaking now in this contribution No. 34.

35. Snake: Good grief, you’re right.  Now it’s my turn in No. 35.  It seems we don’thave a choice anymore if we’re going to keep the pattern going.  We’re stuck in it.  How awful!  It’s like we don’t have free will anymore!

36. Giraffe: I think that’s what Mother Nature intended.  But why would she want tokeep it going?

37. Snake:  WAIT… I CAN say something now if I want.  And I do!  Even it if isMr. Z’s turn I’m jumping in and taking his place.

38. Giraffe: How could you Mr. S?!  It was Mr. Z’s turn.  You’ve destroyed the pattern.  Why in heaven’s name would you do that?  Mother nature will be furious.

39. Snake: Of course she won’t.  She’s the one who did it – to make another point I think.  Mr. Z didn’t have to speak.  And to prove it, I spoke instead.  And a patternis still continuing!  It’s how Mother Nature works!

40. Giraffe: No you’re quite wrong.  You’ve spoiled it.  You’ve destroyed the repeating “ZSG” sequence.

41. Snake: Not really.  In the long run I haven’t.  Don’t  you see it?

42. Giraffe: I see it!  I see it!  Because we are now just finishing up a second run of the pattern in the conversation before Mr. Z joined in.  I think we’re making a pattern of the A and B patterns “SG” and “ZSG.”  Or rather, Mother Nature is.The pattern of patterns is:

A B A

43. Zebra: Indeed we are Mr. G.  And I saw it just in the nick of time because nowthat you’re done speaking it’s my turn to get back in so we can continue the pattern of patterns.  We’re now just beginning the second “B” segment of the repeating sequence ABAB.

44. Snake: Precisely Mr. G.  Whew!  This is very tricky business.  Let’s hope we

don’t lose the reader.  And we’ll have to remember to repeat the “A” sequence after a while to continue the pattern of patterns.  And it’ll have to be exactly at the correct time too.  We’re going to have to start counting our contributions very carefully.

45. Giraffe: Wait just a minute here.  I think we’re talking ourselves into a jam.  We can repeat the pattern of patterns A and B over and over again, but how do we know there isn’t an even bigger pattern which will kick in sometime in the future?

46. Zebra: That’s right Mr. S.  You might slither away for a bit, and then there would be a different pattern in the conversation between me and Mr. G which might look like this: GZGZGZ, etc.  And we could call that “GZ” repeating sequence X.  Then you might slither back and start talking with us again so that the pattern of patterns might become a new and bigger one like the following:

ABAG X ABAB X ABAB X ABAB X

47. Snake:  Of course, of course.  You’re right.  We could be just at the beginning ofof a very big and even more complicated pattern which we don’t know about yet.  It’s similar to being too close to Mr. Z to see all of him clearly.  For example, if I were a flea crawling through one of his white stripes, I wouldn’t see his pattern at all.  All I’d see is a jungle of white hair growing from his hide.  The pattern on his whole body wouldn’t be apparent yet.  I wouldn’t see it until I had walked for a long time through regions of white hairs and dark hairs.  And even then I might miss it, just like we don’t see the squiggle patterns of the river when we’re too close to it.  The patterns that appear around us depend on how we’re able to see things.

48. Giraffe:  That’s true.  If you were a very small and old flea going very slowly, orup a single stripe, you wouldn’t even know Mr. Z was a striped animal at all.

49. Zebra:  All right, all right.  Enough about fleas.  You’re making me itch!  I thinkI’m bug free, you know.  Though to be honest, I guess I can’t be sure.

50. Snake: I was just making a point Mr. Z.  Don’t be offended.  We needed anan example like the flea to illustrate our thoughts.  The flea provides a different viewpoint, just like the eagle has a different viewpoint.  Being inside the hairs on your hide, is like being in the middle of this conversation we’re having.  It’s hardto see the big conversational picture, like it’s hard for the flea to see your stripes.

51. Giraffe:  All this is fine, but it still seems to me that wherever you are in relationto perceiving any pattern, there will always be others if you back off further, go down deeper, or wait longer.

52. Zebra:  Yes, that’s true Mr. G.  It certainly seems complicated, doesn’t it?

53.  Snake:  Unfortunately it’s even more complicated.  What new patterns we’ll see see can never be predicted with absolute certainty either because they eitherhaven’t happened yet or we haven’t figured out ways of seeing them.  For example, maybe we’re just at the beginning of a very long conversation that will go on all night.  Who knows who will leave first, or whether someone else might come along and join in?  We’ll never get the really big picture.

54. Giraffe: Of course.  We can’t look forward into time, just like we can’t lookdeeper into the world like the flea or downward upon the world like the eagle.The flea sees patters we can’t – - patterns buried inside patterns.  We can’t see them because we can’t or don’t wish to look closely enough.  That’s true even for this conversation as well.

55. Zebra: Now you’ve really lost me Mr. G.  The patterns on your hide and in this conversation are quite obvious, aside from the possibility of a more complex pattern developing.

56. Snake:  Not so Mr. Z.  I think I see what Mr. G means.  Let’s return to the hypothetical flea waling over your hide through one of your stripes.

57. Giraffe:  Thanks Mr. S.  You see Mr. Z., the white hairs in your hide grow out ina very regular way.  The flea sees this regularity better than we.

58. Zebra:  I thin I understand now.  The hairs are all just about the same distance from each other.  The flea sees them in a very distinct pattern!

59. Snake:  It doesn’t stop there either.  If you were a germ on a hair and had eyes tosee, all sorts of new patterns would emerge.

60. Giraffe: It probably doesn’t stop there either.  If I were a virus sitting on a germ,there would be a whole new world to see.

61. Zebra: But you’ve lost the analogy to the pattern of our conversation. It’s obvious you can’t look inside a conversation to find another pattern.

62. Snake: Don’t be so sure Mr. Z.  Just look back at our contributions since you said “Now you’ve really lost me Mr. G.”

63. Giraffe:  I see it!  I see it!  The contributions are getting smaller and smaller.  Mr.Z’s contribution in statement 55 was exactly 29 words long.

Statement No.  55  56  57  58  59  60  61  62  63

Words in Statement   29  28  27  26  25  24  23  22  21

64. Zebra: And then Mr. S spoke and said only 28 words about the flea walking over me in statement No. 56.

65. Snake:  The inside pattern, since Mr. Z said he was lost, is that each additional contribution shrinks by one word.

66. Giraffe:  The one I am speaking now must be 18.  I’ll bet that the reader can seeit now.

67. Zebra: Of course.  In fact, she’s confirming it by counting the words to check out that it’s so.

68. Snake: But can Mother Nature pull this off?  I mean with fewer and fewer wordsto use ….

69. Giraffe:  That’s why I had to interrupt you Mr. S.  She’s finding it harder and harder.

70. Zebra: She could just not worry about it and make the pattern of patterns bigger.

71. Snake: As a writer she knows she’d lose the reader if she tried it.

72. Giraffe: Yes, I think she’s pushed this about as far as she can.

73. Snake: She’ll never make it.  There aren’t enough words for a conversation.

74. Giraffe: We could stop at the end of this A segment.

75. Snake: I think that’s why Mr. Z is so silent.

76. Giraffe: Indeed!  Of course! Why thank you Mr. Z.

77. Snake: He’s smiling silently. Zebra’s a wise fellow.

78. Giraffe: So long now.  See you tomorrow.

The three nod silently to each other in the darkening twilight.  Giraffe again looks up out over the water and then up, to catch a glimpse of the circling eagle.  Zebra joins his herd now gathering among the trees, swishing his tail at fleas he imagines are crawling up his back.  Snake slithers silently away through the grass in direction directly opposite to that of Giraffe.  The only sounds are the repeating five not melody of a wire-tailed swallow and the splash of a fish breaking the surface of the lake.  Rings of water radiate out from the splash in the dim light.

 

 

 

 

A poem I liked a lot in 1978 (and still do.)

July 20th, 2010

Life Cycle of Common Man

by Howard Nemerov

Roughly figured, this man of moderate habits,
This average consumer of the middle class,
Consumed in the course of his average life span
Just under half a million cigarettes,
Four thousand fifths of gin and about
A quarter as much vermouth; he drank
Maybe a hundred thousand cups of coffee,
And counting his parents’ share it cost
Something like half a million dollars
To put him through life. How many beasts
Died to provide him with meat, belt and shoes
Cannot be certainly said.
But anyhow,
It is in this way that a man travels through time,
Leaving behind him a lengthening trail
Of empty bottles and bones, of broken shoes,
Frayed collars and worn out or outgrown
Diapers and dinnerjackets, silk ties and slickers.

Given the energy and security thus achieved,
He did . . . ? What? The usual things, of course,
The eating, dreaming, drinking and begetting,
And he worked for the money which was to pay
For the eating, et cetera, which were necessary
If he were to go on working for the money, et cetera,
But chiefly he talked. As the bottles and bones
Accumulated behind him, the words proceeded
Steadily from the front of his face as he
Advanced into the silence and made it verbal.
Who can tally the tale of his words? A lifetime
Would barely suffice for their repetition;
If you merely printed all his commas the result
Would be a very large volume, and the number of times
He said “thank you” or “very little sugar, please,”
Would stagger the imagination. There were also
Witticisms, platitudes, and statements beginning
“It seems to me” or “As I always say.”
Consider the courage in all that, and behold the man
Walking into deep silence, with the ectoplastic
Cartoon’s balloon of speech proceeding
Steadily out of the front of his face, the words
Borne along on the breath which is his spirit
Telling the numberless tale of his untold Word
Which makes the world his apple, and forces him to eat.

A Work in Progress by Tony Magistrale

June 22nd, 2010

Tony sent this to me today. He is currently visiting and teaching in Germany. It is a work in progress.

LANDSBERG AM LECH
For Klaus Post

Tourists smile for pleasant family
photographs.  They saunter into town
through cobblestoned centralplatz–
a neat row of curved pastel-colored houses
and shops, red brick medieval gate.
These facades are like tubs of ice cream:
raspberry next to vanilla next to pistachio,
and the ice cream here
is some of the best in Bavaria.

It’s all lovely.
Even as I wander these quiet streets
in search of someone willing to talk
about the shadows that still hang over
this place.  How could an entire town,
so friendly and well-behaved,
turn so sharply to the right
that it fell off
into a deep-river current of hate?

Buried in mass graves under a lime-green forest
four hundred yards outside the town gate,
the anonymous thousands that died
building Hitler’s last prayer secret weapon,
jet engine Messerschmidts, machines
that eventually shared the same fate
as those that were forced to fabricate;
Allied bombs rained down
before a single plane got off the ground.

All things human are shadow stained
and, like the father in “Hansel and Gretel,”
we often make the same mistake
believing the forest is there
to hide and abide our darkest bidding.
History casts long shadows
from the woods outside this town;
groves of pine grow sturdy and strong
their roots nestled in among the bones of those
who knew only suffering and then were gone.

And photographs of slave labor camps
underground are, I suspect, exceedingly rare
in Bavarian towns with reputations to protect
for quaint little ice cream shops.

Still, what must happen late at night
when crisp alpine winds
exhale deeply through wooded pines
and shadows rise from the forest floor
to reach out, like gloved fingers in moonlight,
towards this pretty little town
on the edge of the river Lech.

Mother’s Day: A New Poem by Friend Tony Magistrale

May 26th, 2009

MOTHER’S DAY ON CHURCH STREET

images.jpg

He wears a suit and tie on Sunday
when the rest of us are happily clad
in shorts and tee shirts.  His black
mustache is neat and trim,
although his hair, long and thick
is streaked with silver.  He walks
close to his wife, occasionally slips
his right hand into that soft spot under
her elbow.  His wife is a lovely woman,
chestnut-colored hair pulled back
off her face into a tight pony tail.
His arms and hands move delicately,
like he’s conducting an allegro movement for strings,
as he saunters alongside her
and the sleeping child she pushes
in a small blue stroller.  From beneath oversized
sunglasses the wife turns to look at him
raises her eyebrows in mock surprise or
bestows a smile of bemused tolerance.  She has
heard her husband’s current complaint before-
how she overcooked last night’s pasta,
or the outrageous cost of everything.
They walk slowly together down Church Street
and into the lazy afternoon light.

A part of me
wants to follow this couple home, recognizes them
from a photograph of myself
taken years ago.  And that part of me
wants to remind these strangers
to pay attention to this moment-to
appreciate the dying light embracing them.
The light will return
another day, but never quite
like this, never again when they are both
this young, their child
this content
listening to the rise and fall
of her parents’ sonorous voices,
drifting into a gauzy sleep
on a late afternoon in late spring,
the sound of the stroller wheels
more soothing than a lullaby.


Fact or Fiction!

May 4th, 2009

Sitting on my desk in dim orange light this late May afternoon are Aron Cohen’s naturalization papers that he obtained in 1884, with dates, signatures, addresses and other information, as well as a passport application he made in 1913 indicating the name of the ship, Thuringia, on which he emigrated from Hamburg to New York in 1871.  There is also a pile of census records for the Cohen family, as well as many newspaper articles about Aron and advertisements he placed for his tobacco business in the 1880’s. In a separate pile, I’ve got a folder containing death notices for Aron, his wife Hannah, and his mother Flora, containing additional biographical information, as well another folder with genealogical records, passenger manifests, photographs, personal memorabilia, business ledgers, and correspondence.

How much of a life can be recreated from this pile of words and images?  In creating a narrative, is it important how much is historically accurate and how much is made up?  Could one rearrange facts and chronology, just a bit, for clarity?  When I write, my attention is focused on connecting every line to the next, not letting missing bits and pieces of history or small irrelevancies impede or clutter narrative flow. Does it matter that Aron Cohen’s addresses in various documents are inconsistent, or that my great, great grandfather Simon Cohen was married twice?  I’m going to judiciously alter things just a bit, without sacrificing the historical record.  I won’t defer to every single “fact,” or to missing fragments, which would put potholes in the road.

And anyway, are historical “facts” really immutable? Aron Cohen, on his passport application says he lives in San Francisco, but his death certificate says he lived only in Santa Cruz!  I’m not suggesting what I may write is more fiction than reality. It isn’t.  But I plan on going beyond Aron Cohen and Max Strauss and their families. I’m more interested in their choices and reactions to events, or more generally, about human behavior. I want to go beyond the particular and raise questions about who they were, and who we are as human beings, and how we react to the reoccurring and transcendent themes of our lives: loss, fear, doubt, anger, accomplishment, and sometimes acceptance.

Latest Version – Earthworm Jim and the Rest of the Intro -

March 30th, 2009

The world is blanketed by foregone deaths,
small beads of ego, bright with appetite,
whose pin-sized prick of light winked out,
bequeathing Earth a jagged coral shelf
unseen beneath the black unheeding waves.

From John Updike’s Hospital,
(Mass General, November 23-27, 2008)

Introduction

Turlock – Earthworm Jim, Dr. Ong,  the Crazy Shoemaker, My Ancestors and Me

Details of the past are lost.  Cut fingers, broken promises, a good night’s sleep, a gathering of friends, a journey – all disappear in the long stream of continuing life.  The outlines may remain awhile – a postcard or photo, a sales receipt, a ship’s passenger manifest, a newspaper article, a death notice, but personal experience vanishes.  Trying to resurrect it is an impossible task, but the effort can illuminate the present. In 1880, the outlines of our own family story all momentarily pass through Turlock, a small town in the central valley of California, equidistant from Yosemite, San Francisco and the Pacific coast town of Santa Cruz. It’s an unlikely place for convergence.

In fictional accounts of the town, author Doug TenNapel casts Turlock as the focal point for crazy characters in his creative novels and video games. They include a starring role for Earthworm Jim, a normal earthworm digging holes and fleeing Turlock birds, who is transformed into a super hero, battling evil. There is also Dr. Michael Ong, a paranormal scientist and former seminarian, who heads up a mysterious laboratory in Turlock, staffed by local residents who are working with aliens, mutants, Russian transporter technology and a werepig. Some of the real residents of early Turlock, including the crazy shoemaker who burned down my great grandfathers store, would fit nicely in TenNapel’s stories.  The real story of early Turlock evolves from a sequence of random events and purposeful choices.  A terrible fire in 1883 which burned much of the town, a young woman leaving UC Berkeley after the 1906 earthquake to become a teacher in Turlock, and a painful, early death in 1918, provide an early trajectory for my life and the lives of my children and grandchildren.

Exploring Traces, Making Connections

The earliest traces of our past are in Europe, a thousand years ago. Jewish migration to Rogasen, Poland started in the 11th century, a result of persecution of Jews by Crusaders in Germany. Other periods of Jewish migration followed anti-Semitic outbursts in Germany in the 12th through 15th centuries.   During this time Poland was a haven for Jews, as they were granted powers of self-government unheard of elsewhere. My own origins can be traced back to the early 1800’s, with Simon and Flora Cohen in Rogasen, Poland, and with Louis and Hannah Strauss in Bavaria, Germany. In the early years of their marriages, the public was astonished as ice was created for the first time by refrigeration on a hot summer day, Darwin set sail on the H.M.S. Beagle, photography was invented, the planet Neptune was discovered, and the American Civil began. In Rogasen, except for the invention of photography, these events went unnoticed.

Simon and Flora Cohen had have five sons – Philip, Louis, Nathan, William and Aron. In the mid 1800’s all left Rogasen and never returned. Louis and Helena Strauss left their families as well, and didn’t look back. They also had two sons and two daughters. The sons and daughters of Simon and Flora, and of Louis and Helena married and had children, who also married and had children – and so on – until later generations lost track of one another and forgot their origins. They were busy living their lives. Few will ever wonder about their ancestors, or about Rogasen and Bavaria in the early 19th century.

Then, generations later in the 21st century some of us will read about the fictional Dr. Ong and wonder about the real Turlock. The internet and the world wide web will be invented and our children will play Earthworm Jim on their Game Boy. Google and Facebook will appear, and a few descendants will find each other, as well as traces of our ancestors, as we wander and visit with each other on the web. These traces are often in scanned documents and photos stored on servers in pdf, jpg, and tiff files, as well as in other digital places. Some traces remain unscanned. We find them in boxes in the back of our closets. We begin to ask questions of each other, converse by email and facebook, and wonder about our ancestors lives and the connections to our own.  Two emerge as central in the story I wish to tell:   Max, the youngest son of Louis and Helena Strauss and Aron, the youngest son of Simon and Flora Cohen.

Max Strauss                        Aron Cohen
About 1866                          About 1862

max-alone-in-sf.jpgaron-alone.jpg

Departure

It’s hard to imagine our children leaving us, never to return. Why did Simon and Flora’s sons leave Rogasen? Why did Louis and Helena leave Bavaria? It can’t have been an easy decision, abandoning everything familiar. We can ask this not only about the Cohens and the Strausses, but about millions of others who left Germany, Poland, and Russia in the 1800’s. There are a few clues which tell us why, and it’s best we don’t forget them.

In 1871, at age 17, Aron set sail from Hamburg on the Thuringia, eventually arriving in San Francisco that year.  His wife to be, Hannah Caro, would come a few years later as would Louis and Helena Strauss.

In 1878, not far from the homes they left, Adolph Stoecker, a German preacher and politician, founded the Socialist Worker’s Party. This was the beginning of the political anti-Jewish movement in Germany, and the very early beginnings of the Third Reich. Ten years later pogroms swept through southern Russia for four years, propelling mass Jewish emigration: about 2 million Russian Jews emigrated in the period from 1880-1920. In 1882 while Louis Strauss was building his first store in Turlock and Aron was starting his cigar factory in San Francisco and store  in Santa Cruz,  the first International Anti-Jewish Congress convened at Dresden, Germany. In May of 1882 a series of “temporary laws” created by Czar Alexander III of Russia resulted in a systematic policy of discrimination, with the object of removing Jews from economic and public positions, to “cause one-third of the Jews to emigrate, one-third to accept baptism and one-third to starve.” And there would have been an ominous shadow over Aron’s children’s possible future had he stayed in Prussia: A short distance south of Rogasen is the town of Auschwitz.

A Toast and A Hand Grenade

What did the young Cohens and Strausses know and feel about their futures in Prussia and Germany? We can’t know. They left behind the outlines: ledgers, photos, and traces of their lives and connections to the Jewish community. But none show inner motives. Perhaps in Rogasen they felt as another young man at that time, Walther Rathenau felt, that “in the the youth of every German Jew there is a painful moment, which he will remember as long as he lives when he realizes fully for the first time that he has been born into the world as a second-class citizen, and that no virtue and no merit can free him from this situation.”

So Aron and Louis left. Walther stayed. He made every effort to assimilate, to overcome the problems that were developing in Germany as he lived his life. He became a successful businessman, writer, politician and statesman, eventually becoming the Foreign Minister of the German Weimar Republic. This was a very visible position in a country where, for his community, it was dangerous to be visible.

In the early 1920’s graffiti started appearing on walls around Berlin: “God damn Walther Rathenau: The dirty, stinking Jewish pig.” A few months later, on the afternoon of June 24th, 1922, at 261 Otis street in Santa Cruz, California, Aron was hosting a dinner reunion for his three daughters at home. His wife Hannah and several of their friends were attending. Aron was about to begin a toast to the group. At just that moment, six thousand five hundred miles to the east, three young, nationalist Germans pulled up along side Walther Rathenau’s car as he drove to work. They emptied their guns into him. As he lay dying, they tossed in a grenade. The inside of the car turned red with Walther’s blood. Albert Einstein was stunned. Heeding his friends’ warnings of widespread anti-semitism, he canceled all his lectures; Not too many years later, he left Germany. A few hundred miles away in Prague, Franz Kafka noted ” It is incredible that Walther lived as long as he did; already two months ago we heard rumors of his murder.”  The writing on the wall really was the writing on the wall.

What Aron and his descendants escaped when he boarded the Thuringia in 1871 I cannot know. Had he stayed, had Louis and Hannah Strauss stayed, I’m guessing I wouldn’t be here to write this story, and in any case, there would be no descendants to read it.  But they did leave and came to the coast of California, traveling back and forth between San Francisco, Santa Cruz and Turlock as they lived their lives, and created many new ones.