“What’s a Jew, Mama?”

“And I will separate you from the nations to be Mine”—Leviticus 20:26.

She didn’t really stand out in any way, but she was a Jew and that was all that mattered. A closer glimpse of her would reveal pretty green eyes filled with intelligence, a kind face under glossy brown hair swept neatly away from her face. But she was a Jew, and her classmates did not trouble themselves with looking for intelligence or kindness. If Katya Umansky was a Jew, then it was their privilege to tease and shame and hurt her.

In the playground during break time, the cruelty of her tormenters knew no boundsEvery day brought new torment. Katya sat at her desk in the classroom alone, isolated and shunned. In the playground during break time, the cruelty of her tormenters knew no bounds. She never cried, though. She didn’t cry when they chased her or threw stones at her or struck her with their backpacks. When the kids teased her and called her all sorts of cruel names, the pain tore at her heart, but she didn’t cry.

“What’s a Jew, Mama?” Katya asked one day. Instantly she sensed that she’d asked something big. Mama’s eyes opened wide, her body went rigid.

“It's not important, Katya,” Mama said in her most convincing tone of voice. Katya looked at her, perplexed.

“Am I a J . . .—that word, Mama?”

Mama bent down and cupped the little girl’s quivering chin inside her palms. “Little one, it doesn’t matter,” she said, looking into her eyes. “The most important thing is to be a good person.”

Katya nodded, her large, round eyes staring straight ahead. The question was still there, but she stashed it into a corner of her heart, along with other questions, along with her tears.

How she wished her dark hair She didn’t know what it meant to be a Jew, other than it being a source of embarrassment—much like having a bad disease would magically turn blonde. If only her eyes would be blue and her nose short, then at least . . . at least she’d be able to pretend that she wasn’t—that she didn’t have this . . . disability called Jewess. She had not the slightest inkling of what it meant to be a Jew, other than it being a source of embarrassment—much like having a bad disease. She’d heard jokes about Jews, of course, but that didn’t mean much to her; she didn’t connect with the heroes of those jokes—she didn’t feel Jewish.

As Katya grew older, so did her classmates. She learned to live with the pain, her classmates learned to conceal their hostility. Katya Umansky, after all, belonged to the Soviet intelligentsia, the elite of society who possessed knowledge and understanding of culture, history and reality. Katya would often join the intellectuals who gathered in her parents’ home and listen as they discussed important issues like the future, their faith in the USSR, newly published books, world news. Like a sponge she soaked it all up, but kept the questions to herself.

It was in college when the unbelievable occurred. Galya Alexandrova—pretty, popular Galya—befriended Katya. Tall and slender, with blonde hair and blue eyes, Katya felt so good standing next to her. Galya always wore fashionable clothing and expensive shoes, and her great taste was exceeded by her brains. Since Galya’s family was also of the Soviet intelligentsia, the two of them had a lot in common—they read the same books, watched the same movies and attended the same classical music concerts.

For the first time in her life Katya felt cool. For now, she could pretend that she belonged. She could allow herself to forget for a while the question of who she was. And except for the occasional glimpse in the mirror—which told her plainly that she looked so different than Galya—she felt the same as everybody else.

One evening, Katya was looking for a book in the living room when she overheard her parents talking with Grandmother at the kitchen table. They were talking in low tones, and Katya sensed the urgency in their voices.

“We’ll apply to change her passport.”

“The authorities will never agree.”

“It’s worth a try—it will make her life so much easier.”

“Forget it. You can’t change the fifth line. It won't work . . .”

“Sasha will take a bribe.”

The fifth line . . . Sasha will take a bribe . . . Katya stood still. The fifth line was a real source of stress to every Jew in Russia. It was the line where Yevrei, Jew, was filled in under ethnicity. Grandmother, it seemed, had decided that Katya’s nationality be changed on her passport to that of Russian.

Katya turned from the bookcase and headed “We’ll apply to change her passport. It will make her life so much easier.” to her room. She needed to think about that. Would the change in her passport indeed transform her into a Russian? And why would Grandmother want that? Grandmother spoke Yiddish! And she spoke Russian with a heavy Jewish accent. To Katya, Grandmother was as Jewish as anyone could get. She fasted on Yom Kippur and ate those special crackers—she called them matzahs—on Passover. Why would Grandmother, of all people, want her to change her nationality?

Grandmother Pesya had a very hard childhood. Her father, Avraham Milshtein, was the son of a rabbi from a small shtetl in Poland. When the Poles revolted against the Czar in 1863, and the Jews were caught in the crossfire between the two warring countries—both equally certain that the Jews were supporting their enemy—the Milshteins were exiled to Siberia. Pesya grew up in the Achinsk district of the frozen hinterland, in grinding poverty. Weak from hunger, they nevertheless clung to their religion.

Pesya went to work at a printing house to help feed the family. She was sixteen years old, and the enlightenment movement was strong. Pesya loved books, especially those books that described the good communist life in glowing terms. During quiet moments she fantasized about the utopia of communism and how it would end all their troubles. The idea of revolution took hold in her mind. Turning her back on her family and her heritage, she ran away from home to join the Communist Party.

In the winter of 1934, Pesya was in the wrong place at the wrong time when she participated in the 17th Congress of the Communist Party, an event that led to fatal results. During the congress, in a secret ballot, over a hundred delegates crossed out Stalin’s name—a clandestine revolt against the Soviet dictator. Stalin couldn’t accept this slight to his pride, and within three years most of the delegates who’d attended the “Congress of the Condemned”—which it was subsequently nicknamed—were arrested, sent to labor camps or executed.

Pesya was tipped For three years, mother and daughter lived in hiding, dashing from city to city off and ran away from home, gripping the hand of her six-year-old daughter. They traveled from Stalingrad to Moscow, taking longwinded routes that took several days. Pesya had nothing but a small satchel and the clothes on her back, and her daughter was still wearing the shorts and sandals of a sunny park day; those were the clothes she’d been wearing that day when Pesya had rushed to her in the sandbox and said, “Let’s go.”

For three years, mother and daughter lived in hiding, spending one or two weeks in one city before dashing along to another city. Living in this manner kept her from having a job; without a job, her life was further complicated, as she had no food coupon and risked arrest, for it was illegal in Russia to be unemployed. But with all her sufferings, Pesya was caught in the end and deported to Siberia.

Having survived all this, Katya understood why Grandmother wanted to change her granddaughter’s identity in her passport—she wanted to protect her from the hardships she had suffered. Still, Katya felt a longing of some sort, a spiritual calling; she was looking for G‑d. So when Galya suggested that they go visit a monastery, Katya liked the idea. If she wasn’t Jewish, as Grandmother seemed to imply, she would try out Russian religion.

The air was clear and crisp on that autumn day when the two friends traveled to Zagorsk, a town filled with churches, monasteries and theological seminaries. The sun cast a glossy sheen on Katya’s waist-long hair. Dressed in her white leather minidress, the one she’d sewn herself with some help from Mama, and wearing her knee boots on high heels, Katya felt ready for the adventure. Galya had chosen a black leather miniskirt and black leather boots for the occasion. Walking beside Galya filled Katya with pride. But as they neared their destination, Katya, who’d never before been inside a church, grew tense. “What do I have to do there?” she asked her friend.

“Don’t worry so much,” her friend laughed. “Just follow me and do as I do.”

Katya didn’t take her eyes off Galya, Katya watched as the priest placed his hands on Galya’s forehead and blessed her careful to mimic her every gesture. And then Galya stepped up to the priest. “Father, please bless me,” she said. Her eyes were lowered, her head was bowed. Katya watched as the priest placed his hands on Galya’s forehead and blessed her. It was Katya’s turn now. But she was suddenly overcome with a strange feeling of disgust. She didn’t understand why. Wordlessly, she approached the priest, lowered her eyes, but she didn’t . . . couldn’t bow. She felt faint.

The priest lifted his face and fixed her with a wrathful gaze. “What are you doing here?” he shouted in rage. He pushed his cap back from his forehead, “Get lost, you Jewish bastard,” he yelled. “Get away from my sight.”

Being addressed in such uncivil tones by a priest startled her. She didn’t know how to react, or whether to laugh or cry. All at once the questions of the little girl within her resurfaced, along with a vague wisp of an answer.

“Thank you, G‑d,” she whispered. “This guy showed me who I am.”

Now that Katya knew she was Jewish, she became suffused with the desire to find out what that meant. There had to be more to her Judaism than all the hate and pain she knew about. The questions tugged at her. What’s a Jew? What does it mean?

Help came quickly, in an interesting way. A group of Jewish college students asked her to write a screenplay about the Russian underground Jewish movement. Katya welcomed the opportunity. This would give her a chance to learn and understand more about her roots in an indirect way.

Her research led her to the Marina Roshcha synagogue in Moscow. With a spring in her step and confidence in her bearing, she entered the synagogue.

“Hi,” she said to a man with a brown beard. “I’m writing an article about the Jewish underground—”

“It’s candle-lighting time now,” the man said quietly. “Do you know how to light candles and make a blessing?”

Katya’s eyes opened wide. Candle-lighting? She shook her head, “No. But I probably could.”

“Okay,” he said. There was kindness in his voice. “Repeat after me.”

Katya lit the candles, and suddenly tears filled her eyes and spilled over her face. She couldn’t fathom where the tears where coming from. Up until now she had considered herself a really strong girl. Why was she so overcome with sobs? What was happening to her?

Through a haze of tears, she saw the man with the beard pressing a translated prayerbook into her hand.

Katya felt awed. These are the most beautiful faces I’ve ever seen in my life. A fresh wave of tears cascaded down her face. But she couldn’t comprehend the reason for the tears.

Take hold of yourself, she commanded herself as, somewhat in a daze, she opened her prayerbook. But then, a mesh of thoughts began forming cobwebs inside her brain with a swiftness she didn’t recognize. What happened to me? I, Katya Umansky, world-educated, modern Moscow girl, crying? Me? I’m holding a prayerbook and standing by the wall? What am I doing here? This is crazy.

But the other part of her cheered her on: This is exactly what you want to do.

Suddenly the prayers came to an end. Someone approached her, invited her to his home. And her feet seemed to take on a life of their own, obediently following her host. Weaving through some dark, scary streets, they soon arrived. A young woman, her hair covered in a kerchief, opened the door. “Good Shabbos. Welcome. Come in. My name is Genya,” she said, smiling all the while.

Katya felt a rush of love surging into her heart and expanding her soul. This is the best woman in the world, she thought.

Genya led her to a table decked with candles, wine and challahs spread over a white tablecloth. Katya sat through the meal but couldn’t understand why her heart was trembling, why the tears were just beneath the surface. When Genya rose to clear the table, Katya stood up to leave. “Okay guys,” she said. “Thank you for everything. I need to go.”

“Where to?”

“Home. I’ll call a cab. Can I use your phone?”

“No, no,” said Genya. “Stay, we don’t drive on Shabbat.”

“What do you mean we don’t drive on Shabbat? Let me call a cab.”

Genya explained that there are thirty-nine “melachot,” activities that are forbidden on Shabbat. Katya looked at her. Yes. I am a Jew, she thought, I will do as I am taught. Wordlessly she returned to her seat.

Suddenly, from deep inside her, a new feeling arose and permeated her being: a feeling of gratitude to her classmates, to the Russian authorities, to the priest from Zagorsk. Thank you, thank you, she felt like crying out. For keeping me away, from not allowing me to be part of you, thank you. I too am a part; I too belong—to my people, to my nation.