Two Letters
Separated by 84 years, two petitions share a common thread.
I recently co-authored an open letter to Princeton University’s president about antisemitism on campus.
The second sentence reads: “Jews in the United States are experiencing a crisis of physical safety and societal belonging.” Our message resonates with 1,750 signatories who are concerned about physical harassment on campus and calls for intifada “from Princeton to Gaza.”
Upon the letter’s publication, an alumnus from the class of 1981 shared with me another petition. This one was written by a Jew in Vienna, published on the 23rd of August, 1939. “It’s very strange that we have it,” the alumnus wrote to me. “This letter must have been in my family’s possession for 80+ years, but I saw it for the first time yesterday.”
I summarize the type-written letter here, but it presents more powerfully in full (pictured below). Addressed to a David Goldstein in Washington, D.C., it begins:
Dear Sir,
…
The second sentence reads: I and my wife, as native Austrian but jews… were forced to leave this country.
…
I was promised to get a permission to enter Bolivia. I didn't get it. Like a hunted beast I tried to get a ticket for Shanghai…but since a few days it is forbidden to enter China.
…
I permit me to beg you to reach me a hand and help me…enter America.
…
I can say, already to-day, I shall never be a burden for somebody. But to-day helpless alone on this world without friends that can help, I trust in you as a man of heart and understanding of my situation.
…
If you will do something for me, I aspire you have not done it for an unworthy, and I request you to allow me to be thankful.
…
He signed in black ink: Otto Salzer.
Sparse documentation about Salzer makes it difficult to tell whether he survived the war.
As a proud American Jew, I am conflicted about how to interpret his tragic narrative.
On one hand, Otto’s letter is inspiring because he refuses to characterize his plight as a sob story. He insists that he has much to offer and that he should not be helped by virtue of his victimhood. Through hard work, he will prove he is not “an unworthy.” This is the head-down, soldier-on immigrant story I grew up on, especially as told about my Holocaust-surviving grandfather.
Yet, Salzer also tells a dark story about the state of Jewish identity in August of 1939 – 17 months after the Nuremberg Laws were imposed onto Austria. Salzer’s Judaism is not a point of pride. He is native Austrian “but” also Jewish. He asks for help as a Jew in need, but he insists that his work ethic will prove he is not “an unworthy.” I need help because I am a Jew. Save me because I can work.
It is ignorant to equate our open letter in 2023 with Salzer’s desperate request in 1939. Yet, it is reckless to pretend like they are entirely different. We should be shocked – if not outraged – that there are any similarities at all between the two. Why have Jews remained outsiders in their beloved institutions?
The State of Israel has solved many of the Jewish people’s problems. Consider that the deadliest day for Jews since the Holocaust – October 7, 2023 – was not as deadly as a single day of the Holocaust when measured on an average daily basis. Today, the Jewish Otto Salzers of the world have where to flee. With exceptions, they will be safe. Without exception, they will be welcomed.
Yet, outside of Israel, Jews are exposed. Not only are we made physically vulnerable, but our identity is also broadcast for all to behold. Jews are a nation of outsiders. Our college degrees and professional stature tell us we belong. But before long, we are forcibly reminded of our default status.
To be sure, our national independence helps us mask and forget that cold truth. But our existential solution – Israel – cannot hide our existential condition.
Salzer’s letter is the haunting story of a stateless nation. In the words of the alumnus who discovered the letter in his family’s possession: “It’s a sobering reminder of why all the current effort is necessary.”
Excellent piece