While Paris Burns, I Stitch

The Bar Mitzvah of our grandson is just a few months away, and I sit comfortably in my green velvet chair, my legs elevated on an ottoman, absorbed in my needlepoint.

I am reminded of Primo Levi, whose book The Periodic Table I have just finished reading. Levi, a chemist and Holocaust survivor, found refuge in his scientific work, immersing himself in experiments while the world around him descended into darkness. Eventually, history caught up with him, and he was deported to Auschwitz, which he miraculously survived.

Why do I mention this author?

Because here I sit, stitching away, one thread of light sky blue, another of edelweiss blue, with splashes of gold reminding me of Gustav Klimt, while outside my peaceful little world, thousands upon thousands of protesters are tearing at the fabric of one of Europe’s most magnificent cities.

Paris, the golden jewel of Europe!

It is not the entire city that is burning, but the scenes of unrest, vandalism, and destruction that make it seem as though the Paris I have always admired is under siege. Cars and street barricades have been set ablaze, while shops have been looted and vandalized. The historic buildings, elegant boulevards, and small businesses that give this city its character are overshadowed by images of anger and chaos.

I am European, born and bred in Vienna. Even though the United States of America has been my home for more than half a century, Europe will always remain part of me. Its history, architecture, culture, and beauty are deeply embedded in my soul.

And so I watch.

I watch the images of crowds surging through the streets, moving like a force that can no longer be contained, threatening historic buildings and monuments that have stood for centuries.

I see the Louvre, one of the world’s greatest treasures, and breathe a sigh of relief when I see that the crowds have been stopped from advancing.

But what disturbs me most are the ordinary people caught in the turmoil.

Women standing helplessly in front of their shops, honest business owners pleading with the crowds to spare their livelihoods. Their desperation is heartbreaking.

What has happened to the Europe I know and love?

How can such magnificent cities, which have survived wars, revolutions, and centuries of upheaval, once again become scenes of destruction?

And here I sit, with my needle and thread.

Perhaps, like Primo Levi in his laboratory, I am trying to preserve a little island of peace while the world beyond my window becomes increasingly difficult to comprehend.

When I finish expressing my sorrow on paper, I will return to my needlepoint.

One stitch of blue, another of gold.

In a few months, our grandson will celebrate his Bar Mitzvah. He will put on his tefillin, carefully removing them from the bag I have stitched with so much love.