in first person
In 1964 in Germany, I was a medical officer in the U.S. Air Force stationed in France. All military personnel were entitled to a “religious retreat,” so my wife and I went to Berchtesgarden in the Bavarian Alps for Passover.
The seder was in a beautiful old hotel that had been used for “R&R” by officers of Hermann Goering’s Luftwaffe, the air force that supported Hitler’s Blitzkrieg across Europe. The hotel was in the shadow of Hitler’s Eagle’s Nest — and now the U.S. military was using it using it for the same “rest and rehabilitation.”
The Jewish chaplin conducted the seder for about 50 military Jews. The dishes were of beautiful porcelain with fluted edges. I examined the bottom of the soup bowl. It was from Limoge in France and had a swastika imprinted on it.
In 1987, I was employed by the U.S. Agency for International Development, and I was a consultant to the Egyptian Ministry of Health. Our tax money was building and equipping 18 maternal child health clinics throughout the sprawling metropolis of Cairo.
I had become acquainted with a Mossad agent; we both were living at the Marriott Hotel. So he invited me to attend a seder at the Israeli embassy. The security there was mostly the location itself: the entire top floor of a high-rise.
Outside of the building was a squadron of uniformed Egyptian soldiers with automatic weapons. The elevator contained two soldiers and at the embassy entrance there were several plain-clothed security guards checking IDs against the guest list.
As there were no rabbis left in Egypt, a young Israeli rabbi was flown in for the seder.
In 1988, I was in Jerusalem for an Israeli Medical Society meeting. My cousin, Joseph, the son of Holocaust survivors, was the organizer.
The society met at the Hilton hotel, and since it was Passover, a seder was prepared in the large dining room. Two busloads of elderly German Christian tourists attended the seder, which was in Hebrew. There was a German tour guide doing some translation, and I could not help but stare at some of the older German men, thinking of them as possible Waffen-SS veterans.
I asked my cousin: What will we say at the end when we are supposed to recite “Next year may we all be in Jerusalem”?
He quickly responded: “Next year in Miami Beach.”
Dr. Bruce Steir, 78, is a retired physician living in San Francisco. He is the author of the 2008 book “Jailhouse Journal of an OB/GYN.”
“Not home for the holiday” stories recount memorable Jewish holiday experiences away from home. If you’ve got one, please send it to [email protected] or mail it to j., 225 Bush St., Suite 1480, S.F., CA 94104.