Aaron Kreuter's Rubble Children: Seven and a Half Stories​

Reviewed by Mona ​Angéline

(University of Alberta Press, 2024)

​Rubble Children is a clever collection of seven and a half interwoven stories on the historical trauma inserting itself into the day-to-day life of Jewish youth in Canada.
 
These artfully overlapping stories are all different, each with its own set of characters, and yet they all converge on the same cultural focal point, the present-day Kol B'Seder community in Toronto. On a more fundamental level, the stories attempt to differentiate Anti-Zionism from antisemitism by overlaying everyday life with complex questions, by mapping cynicism onto appreciation. Throughout the book, the diasporic state of Jewish people around the world, and especially in Canada, is woven into the narrative.
 
With the first story, “Mourning Rituals,” we’re elegantly led into the main theme of the book. The schism between the often younger liberal community members and the conservative, sometimes right-wing, ideas of the older generations, becomes particularly evident during a shiva-prompted gathering of extended family. Throughout the story, parallels appear to the different leanings between Jewish people in Canada and those living in Israel, causing us to hold our breath when rare moments of reexamination appear between the disconcerting undertones of the conflict.

​‘We thought we were so much better than everyone else, so different, so long suffering. Perhaps we were, somewhere, back there. But then we got a state, and guess what? We’re just as violent, just as corruptible, just as power-hungry as everybody else.’ ‘It’s amazing how deeply we’ve been lied to.’

​This central conflict is continued in “Temples,” where a young teenage girl learns about a more liberal viewpoint in her first foray into independence. We root for her as she experiences the typical hubbub of puberty at an overnight “camp” at Kol B’Seder, awakened by her discovery of a world much larger than the confines erected by historical trauma. In a moment that's recounted with sweetness and star-gazing wonder, she marvels at the realization of the size of the world, of being so overwhelmingly small in the face of it all. Of an Indigenous world before today's Canada, paralleling a world that existed before the state of Israel. 

Was it possible that a whole other world was here before all this? Before us? I’d never thought of it like that before, but it suddenly seemed more than possible, seemed likely, close enough to touch.

​Reading the book, I felt a certain resignation from the characters, a sense that there's no hope for change, that the historically trauma-induced mindset has come to an immovable standstill. And yet, we get a sense of urgency, an impression that the present-day situation in Israel represents a ticking time bomb. With the benefit of the distance that's inherent to the Jewish community in diasporic places like Canada, it appears easier to acknowledge that the state of Israel has not reached an equilibrium. And yet, the characters in Kreuter's stories resist this realization for fear of being labeled antisemitic, even though they exist at the heart of the Kol B’Seder community.
 
This is also the subject of “The Krasners,” where we learn about a family who has attained wealth and revered community standing after surviving the Holocaust in Europe. This story really brings across how the Holocaust, understandably, resulted in an unshakable love for the country of Israel for many members of the older generations. In the story, we hold our breath as youth tries to chip away at this imperturbable status quo by stealing some of the accumulated wealth of the Krasners, but in the end, even dismantling this hard-earned treasure doesn’t bring relief in the quest for change.

David took his time before speaking. ‘So what you’re saying, Menachem,’ he said finally, ‘is that if, god forbid, our little project of western democracy cracks apart, and fascists—or only-god-knows-what-worse—come into power, and start targeting Jews again, you wouldn’t accept Israel’s protection, be first in line to board one of their planes?’

​Today's youth in the book seem to be conflicted. The Holocaust-triggered worship of the state of Israel also led to a certain righteousness about its existence and the diaspora of the Palestinians that resulted, even if it meant that Israelis inflicted a similar trauma on their landsmen as the one they themselves experienced decades past.
 
Some of today's youth grapple with this unflappable reverence, and it appears that they don't necessarily experience the same sort of absolute love for the country given its violent past and present.
 
“The Streets of Thornhill” directly relays this present-day conflict when a Palestinian speaker is invited to speak at Kol B'Seder.

‘As we’ve seen,’ Jasbir said from behind her podium, ‘Jewish history has had any number of black holes trying to consume it entirely. We live in a time when not one, but two black holes exist. The Holocaust and Israel are these two black holes, bending Jewish space-time into their gaping mouths. The question is: which will win? And which will be better for the Palestinians, whose plight depends on the unethical, unhistorical use of the latter and the existence of the former?’

This is followed up by “Rubble Children,” among my favorite stories. A girls-only Holocaust study group goes to great lengths to process the trauma carried over to them from previous generations by studying its history in meticulous detail—one feels for them as they attempt to get a sense of control over the trauma. In the end, the group makes an eye-opening discovery that shakes it to its very core: that there are many more stories of suppression in the world beyond their own, even in the present.

We were so preoccupied with delving into our own people’s open wound that we never, not for a second, considered that we could turn our flashlights out towards the world, to our own backyards.

​“Holidays, Holy Days, Wholly Dazed” returns to a present-day motif and takes us through a succession of Jewish holidays as young Matt is in the full throngs of puberty. Matt’s desire for a girl named Shoshana borders on obsession. We are pained to see him numb his emotional turmoil with extensive recreational drug use, and the same numbing seems to overshadow the meaning found in the holidays. His daze reaches a breaking point when a book appears, recounting a diasporic culture that forgets its history. The parallels to the ways Matt is numb to his own heritage provoke an awakening in Matt’s mind that has a far-reaching impact.

Afterwards, smoking a bong in the bathroom, Matt replayed it in simplified form. Bong hit. Uncle 1: The economy! The economy! The economy! Bong hit. Uncle 2: Our security! Our security! Our security! Bong hit. Aunt 1 (married to Uncle 1 but obviously in love with Uncle 2): The Arabs! The Arabs! The Arabs! Bong hit. Why was it—Matt couldn’t help thinking with spluttering anger—that he seemed to be the only one saying, quietly, maybe too quietly, but saying it, saying it nonetheless: Human life! Human life! Human life! He poured the brown bong water into the toilet.

​“Tel Aviv - Toronto Red Eye: A Dialogue” is a correspondence between author and editor of an accepted piece of writing. Over the course of the story, the editor tries to interfere with the content to align the text more with “political correctness”. We feel for the author, who grapples with this indoctrination that resembles ancient trauma far too well.

‘There are things that a Jewish writer should not write about. You know this, Stephanie. You should know this. We gave you the benefit of the doubt, but it seems that the antisemitic tendencies we located in the story are more than just a writerly flourish.’

​“A Handful of Days, a Handful of Worlds” is probably my favorite—the 7 ½ stories within story 7 ½ of Kreuter’s book consist of a dystopian satire. A Jewish occupation of Iceland turns the country into “Jewsland”. The tale is spun to great fictional lengths, and yet, we feel a tangible burden as each new layer is imposed upon the vanishing country.

The Icelanders are terrorists, controlled by shady European antisemites to destroy the first truly Jewish nation in two thousand years. They’re axe-wielding murderers, every last one of them.
 
 —No, seriously, this institutional fear of fiction that challenges the Jewish mainstream is exactly why such fiction needs to be written.

​As someone who grew up in a Holocaust perpetrator country, I've grappled with the generational trauma from this slice of history myself and can relate, from a different angle, to the ways that the haunting past introduces itself into day-to-day life. Just like the characters in the story about the Holocaust study group, I've dissected its history in minute detail to make sense of its indescribable nature. I often wonder how this “works”—for how many years do historical trauma survivors have “permission” to act out of impulse, out of a reaction to the torment? I think the author is trying to pose this question in his book as well. We can take a guess at his personal answer, but he does an excellent job at making the reader think about the question, and that's really what a good book is all about.

To think, an entire country built by people like him, for people like him. Yes, the soldiers with their machine guns can be disconcerting, but they are his soldiers, their guns are protecting him, their cold iron hearts are cold and iron for him and for his family. Norman looked at his father, whose face was red with anger, his usually perfect English slipping into Yiddishisms. Norman wasn’t too worried; Chaim could hold his own—how could Miriam even think of challenging his experiences? Chaim had literally been through hell and survived to tell the tale.

​Thank you to River Street Writes and the University of Alberta Press for the Advance Reader’s Copy. I learned so much, and it was such an interesting read. Note that I read an early copy—the quotes included are subject to change in the final text.

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Mona Angéline is an unapologetically vulnerable writer, reader, book reviewer, artist, athlete, and scientist. She honors the creatively unconventional, the authentically "other". She shares her emotions because the world tends to hide theirs. She is a new writer, but her work was recently accepted in Flash Fiction Magazine, Grand Dame Literary, Down in the Dirt Magazine, The Viridian Door, The Machine, Whisky Blot Magazine, and The Academy of Mind and Heart. She's a regular guest editor for scientific journals. She lives bicoastally in Santa Cruz, California, and in New York and savors life despite, or maybe because of, her significant struggles with chronic illness and mild disability. Learn about her musings at creativerunnings.com. Follow her on Instagram under @creativerunnings and on Twitter at @creativerunning.