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I. TWO BUTCHERS

Throughout all generations, every male shall be circumcised when he is eight days old… This shall be my covenant in your flesh, an eternal covenant.

Genesis 17:1-14

HITLER BECAME CHANCELLOR OF GERMANY on January 30, 1933. I was born September 19 of that year. I was born in a Catholic infants shelter. My birth certificate has the signature of a nun. Not just any run-of-the-mill nun. The illegible signature shows a clear title underneath: Mother Superior.

Why would a Jewish baby have his birth certificate certified by a nun? Because the Nazis, led by Adolf Hitler, had already closed Jewish hospitals and had prohibited Jews from using public hospitals. Juden Verboten. Jews Forbidden.

A few Catholic orders were prepared to stand up to Hitler. My Mother Superior allowed Mutti to use her facilities and encouraged her nurses to serve Jews. Surely they had taken a risk on my behalf.

Eight days later, as prescribed by Jewish law, I was circumcised. Two butchers attended my circumcision.

My family had scheduled the entire day as a celebration of this special event. Ashkenazi Jews call it a bris. Sephardic Jews call it a brit or more formally a brit milah, a ritual circumcision. Either way it’s a big deal and a party was planned in our fourth-floor apartment.

Nowadays circumcisions are commonplace and they’re usually performed in hospitals shortly after birth. However, for many Jews a special ceremony is involved and certainly, when I was a tad in Hannover, Germany, a bris involved relatives, dinner, drinking—a major celebration. After all, one is celebrating the birth of a male child.

Mutti with baby

My parents told and retold the story of my circumcision a hundred times. The relatives arrived for the party. Uncle Max came from Hamburg. Aunt Beda, whose hugs I adored during my adolescence because of her substantial bosom, came from Berlin with her husband, Uncle Ernst. My widowed grandmothers, of course. My mother’s sister Karola and her husband Kurt, who never had children of their own and doted on me, drove all the way from Kassel. Friends from the synagogue were there. And then entered our local kosher butcher, Herr Mandelbaum.

Theological regulations “circumscribe” the ritual for circumcisions. A professional is hired. In Hebrew he’s called a mohel, in Yiddish a moyl. Although the butcher Mandelbaum was not a rabbi, he had the special training of a moyl. He knew the ritual, the prayers, the cutting technique and he had a sharp knife.

Moyl Mandelbaum, a small, heavily bearded man in his mid-forties, began by blessing the wine. Almost all Jewish ceremonies begin by sanctifying wine. It’s a marvel that we’re sober most of the time. Papa placed a few drops on my lips, presumably as an anesthetic. I was expected to join in blessing the wine. I gurgled my best imitation of a Hebrew prayer. When the moyl became serious I let out a bellow.

I’ve been asked by friends to provide more details about the event. Unfortunately, three factors interfere with my memory. First, expert as old Mandelbaum was, the pain was excruciating. Second, in some Jungian flashback, I was reliving Everyman’s fear of losing his manhood. And third, I was drunk.

I’ve been told that Mandelbaum washed his hands in a special bowl and said the blessing for washing the hands. Jews have a blessing for everything. After more prayers and blessings, he cut.

Papa paid Herr Mandelbaum who then returned to his kosher butcher shop.

Next the dinner. Mutti was ushering the guests to a fine buffet when we heard music. A marching band. Uncle Max, the family tease, announced that there was to be a parade in honor of my manhood. Several guests believed Uncle Max could pull off such a trick. Imagine, celebrating a Jewish babe in Nazi Germany with a parade.

As the music became louder, everyone rushed to the windows. Our apartment had a small balcony and Papa carried me outside to see my first parade. We could see men, women and children gathering on the sidewalks.

There were soldiers in khaki uniforms and shining leather boots. There were drums and clarinets and all the wonderful brass instruments one expects in a marching band. And between platoons of more soldiers we could see a long black open car. The man standing near the back of the car had dark hair and a mustache. Just as he drew even with our balcony he saluted with an outstretched arm at a 45-degree angle. At that sign the spectators raised their arms and, with one voice, shouted, “Heil Hitler.” The platoons of German military might echoed in unison, “Heil Hitler.” Mutti pulled us inside. Adolph Hitler was not a welcome guest at my bris. He was, however, the second butcher to attend.

Is there a blessing for two butchers at a bris?