A watermelon is a capacious fruit
The calendar says it’s time to celebrate the birthday of trees. Here in frigid Boston, tree limbs sag with two inches of snow. It’s a jarring contrast. But then Tu B’shvat has always been an incongruous holiday for me.
Long ago, in my Hebrew School days, Tu’Bshvat was an occasion for a special assembly. We trudged downstairs to the social hall, to be greeted by Cantor Gregor Shelkan. A former opera singer in Europe, the cantor was a commanding presence. Back when I was a toddler, peering up at the cantor in his white robe and poofy hat on Yom Kippur, I mistook him for God.
Cantor Shelkan strived valiantly to lead us in Tu B’shvat tunes. We responded with the enthusiasm of mannequins. He retained his dignity by politely ignoring our rudeness.
The closing number was a spirited Israeli folk song about watermelon. With his shoulders thrown back and arms outstretched, the cantor bellowed, “AH-VA-TEE-ACH!”
What a strange song! Israel must be one wacky place if people there sing love songs to fruit. Why, I wondered, did the cantor sing this tune with extraordinary passion?
His intensity remained a mystery to me for many years until I stumbled on “Woman with a Camera: Liselotte Grschebina,” a slim volume in a Tel Aviv bookstore. Born in Germany in 1908, Grschebina fled to Israel in 1934 with her husband. As a professional photographer, she was a master of understatement.
As I flipped through the book, a homespun image caught my eye. It was a slice of watermelon on a plate, sitting beside a whole melon. The slice was blurry, but the words stamped on the side of the whole melon were sharp: “Avateach Ivri.”
Suddenly, Cantor Shelkan’s intensity made sense. For refugees like Shelkan and Grschebina, an Israeli-grown watermelon was much more than a sticky treat. It was the fruition of tremendous toil and sacrifice, and a magnificent show of defiance in the face of attempted genocide. For Shelkan, a survivor of four concentration camps and a death march, a watermelon was a miracle, just as life was a miracle, and Israel was a miracle. (This stunning 1954 episode of the popular TV show, “This Is Your Life” delves into Shelkan’s story.)
In recent times, I’ve felt besieged by different watermelon images. They appear on placards held aloft by angry students and “peace activists” shouting “from the river to the sea.” It’s painful to watch protestors who want to stamp out Israel appropriate the watermelon.
Cantor Shelkan’s AV-AH-TEE-ACH feels sacred. I don’t want to share it. The rapper Kosha dillz strikes a deep chord with me: “If you want the land, give us the watermelon back.”
I know I can’t fairly lay claim to the watermelon. A single icon can rightfully be used by varied groups with varied messages. (Indeed, some Jewish Israeli protestors in Rabin Square carry signs sporting watermelons.) I remind myself that a watermelon is a capacious fruit.
I remember how, at the end of the watermelon song, Cantor Shelkan’s voice quivered. I can still see him pull out his pocket square and wipe his moist eyes. As a kid, I felt awkward in the face of his tears. But now I understand, and I want to honor his pain and his exultation. I want to honor the silly, oversized fruit that once made God cry.
