The Man with the Necklace

by Rena Godfrey, Canadian Jewish News

One grey February day, as my daughter and I sipped on some frothy hot chocolate at a local coffee shop, a ruggedly handsome man, Bruno Roder, sat beside us and we started to chat. After a half hour of shmoozing, we got up to leave and I noticed that he was wearing a Star of David around his neck.

I looked at him quizzically, searching for any recognizable sign of Jewishness, which, of course, only a Jew can do. I tried to camouflage my startled look by blabbering on about his necklace. This pleased Roder, as he had only recently found out that he was Jewish.

As a writer and as a Jew, I was intrigued. “How did Roder feel about this discovery? What would he do with this newfound knowledge?” We exchanged e-mails hopeful to connect in the near future, but two years passed until Roder would share his story with me.

Shortly after Roder turned 50, he experienced a personal awakening of epic proportion. His mother, Blanche Roder, who was gravely ill at the time, finally unveiled the family secret to her son, one that she fiercely guarded for most of her life. Initially, Roder’s reaction was one of complete disbelief, but when he searched his sister’s eyes for clarification, he soon realized that he was the only one in the family who wasn’t aware of this startling fact.

And his mother’s words continued to flow, “I’m Jewish, my mother was Jewish and our Jewish roots go back generations.” Perhaps these words finally spoken were a relief for Blanche or rather still, a heavy burden. But for Roder, the words were welcome and sweet, offering explanation of the forever unanswered questions and the absence of aunts, uncles and cousins.

“It was as if all the pieces that didn’t fit in my life had suddenly come together. I feel like I missed out on a lot, ” Roder explains.

Born in Mantes-la-Jolie, France, in 1959, to Tibor Roder and Blanche Kantorowicz, Roder, his older sister Diana, and their parents made their way to Canada in 1965. The Roder family identified as Roman Catholics, but aside from having a Christmas tree, they did not adhere to any religious practices.

Blanche lived in Paris with her mother, Anna, during World War II. At the age of eight, Blanche was sent to live on a farm in the French countryside until the age of 16. This was a horrific time for Blanche, as the farmer beat her and she suffered greatly from being separated from her mother.

Roder heard his mother talk about this difficult time, but now realizes that his grandmother’s decision to send his mother away was most likely intended to save her life, as she was Jewish.

Roder’s maternal grandparents and great-grandparents were Polish Jews. His grandmother, Anna, was a lieutenant for the French Resistance, who slept with Nazis in exchange for information. After the war, Anna joined her daughter and son-in-law in Canada, but never spoke of her past.

Roder remembers growing up in Mississauga, Ont., with only non-Jewish friends, and joining in on the antisemitic banter in the schoolyard. He had not knowingly met a Jew in his life, yet he was surrounded by them at home.

I couldn’t help but reflect on my own life and my connection to Judaism. Whether I loved every second of Hebrew school or not, or was more interested in the boys at synagogue than the rabbi’s sermon, living a Jewish life, although not an observant one, provided comfort and a strong sense of belonging.

With both of Roder’s parents now deceased – Roder’s father was also Jewish – and little known of any of his surviving cousins, he is left with bits and pieces, trying to reconstruct his history. Roder is only now beginning to understand the fear and horrors that his parents must have witnessed and endured in antisemitic Europe, and the need to protect their children from any potential threat.

“I know very little about Judaism, but I want to know more,” says Roder. I also wanted him to know more. I quickly assembled the quintessential Judaism kit for Roder, enclosing a copy of Hana’s Suitcase by Karen Levine – simple but poignant – and Night by Elie Wiesel, the first book I read about the atrocities of the Holocaust. I even threw in a braided challah for Roder’s very first Sabbath. I was on a roll, and my mission was to help this grown man discover the joys of Judaism whether he wanted to or not.

As luck would have it, a few weeks after I reconnected with Roder, I was introduced to Rabbi Levi Gansburg from Chabad York Mills, while he was donning an electric orange Hawaiian shirt at a Purim party.

I cornered the rabbi and told him about Roder, determined that this newly minted Jew learn about being a Jew straight from the source. With a tinkle in his eye, Rabbi Gansburg handed me his business card. A few weeks later, the three of us met.

Getting business out of the way, Rabbi Gansburg first inquired about Roder’s lineage, making sure that he was in fact certifiably “kosher” and born to a fully Jewish mother. “Whew,” he passed the test, and I sighed with relief.

“If you’re Jewish, you have a Jewish soul. Even if you never do anything about it, there’s a spark,” Rabbi Gansburg lovingly explained. Roder smiled, watching Rabbi Gansburg talk about the beauty of Judaism.

Although there was no “aha” moment that I could see, Roder seemed at ease in this new setting. I, on the other hand, was surprisingly overwhelmed with emotion, and tried my best to conceal the tears pooling in my eyes. Rabbi Gansburg, beaming with joy, lovingly helped Roder perform the Jewish tradition of laying tfillin, an important symbol of being Jewish. I swiftly pulled out my BlackBerry to photograph this moment, a testament to the present and the living.