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Why Did I Insist We See a Holocaust Movie on a Date Again????

Why Did I Insist We See a Holocaust Movie on a Date Again????

In retrospect, the Holocaust documentary for Date #2 maybe wasn’t such a good idea.

I mean, I’m becoming a caricature of myself.

“Yes, Yes, Abby. We know your favorite movie is Partisans of Vilna. And that when you lived in the apartment on Winnemac with R, you used to put your wee tv (that was hooked up to a VCR) on a chair and pull your chair right up to the screen so that you could really see Abba Kovner up close and personal.”

“And also so that you could sing along with the Yiddish partisan songs, even though you don’t speak Yiddish.”

Which is another way of saying, You’re old, kid!

And also: Remember when R was a guest on that news show and you watched her on that same mini-tv and it was Hanukah so they let kids call in with questions and one stinker of a kid called in and asked why, if Jesus was Jewish, do Jews not celebrate Christmas?

And R just stood there, looking very cute, and hemming and hawing and saying, “That’s an excellent question!” and you were yelling at the screen, “That kid is a plant! He is totally an undercover agent for Jews for Jesus!”

And you – by which I mean, me – also felt that the tv station did not have R’s back and you wanted to call and complain….

Which is another way of saying, I have always been suspicious.

And sometimes a bit stubborn.

Which leads me back to my date. I mean, did I really need to drag this poor Israeli guy whose ancestors came from Yemen, for goodness sakes, to sit through a documentary chronicling the destruction of my Eastern European ancestors? To sit in that cold theater full of angry old Jews and see poor, skeletal Jews have to sing and dance for the Nazis?

Which is another way of saying, is it appropriate to hold hands while watching our people digging ditches in which to bury their starved, murdered brethren?

Not that we did hold hands. I was so depressed and unsettled by the movie, I just wanted to go home.

Which reminds me of when I saw Breaking the Waves a million years ago, during that same time period when I lived on Winnemac with R. The movie was so depressing and the Chicago weather so cold that when it ended, S and I got in the car and did not exchange one word until she dropped me off and I said, “See you tomorrow,” and she said, “Yeah,” and, well, me thinks my date and I felt the same way after this little Holocaust fiasco.

Maybe next time I should suggest a comedy.

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