The Time I Proudly Took Off My Kippah

Within the historical context of Eastern Europe, the question, “Excuse me, are you Jewish?” has not been asked with innocuous intent.

Yet, when I heard those very words targeted towards me last Thursday evening in Krakow, the city where I work with the Jewish Community Center in its mission to revitalize Jewish life in the area, they were cloaked not in suspicion, but in a quiet, reflective curiosity. The questioner was a non-religious Jew preparing for his visit to Auschwitz the following day.

Daniel*, a student beginning law school in New York, had been wrestling with his Jewish identity for a long time. Though he had spent his life on the periphery of Judaism, largely indifferent to its traditions and customs, he had always felt a connection to his Jewish roots, however indistinct. His upcoming visit to Auschwitz was his way of attempting to come to terms with his cultural and religious identity.

Daniel asked me if I was Jewish because he needed a kippah, the small skullcap he wanted to wear In Auschwitz as a sign of respect to those who perished and those who survived.

Understandably, it is difficult to find an extra kippah laying around in Poland.

I unhesitatingly handed him the only kippah available, the one resting on my head. This simple navy blue velvet piece had been a constant in my daily life for as long as I could remember. He held it gently, his eyes welling up with an emotion he did not voice, but that was easily discernible: a mix of gratitude, introspection, and solemn anticipation. While he was uncomfortable taking my kippah, I insisted that it would be well worth me walking temporarily uncovered knowing that he would wear it. (Just don’t tell my Rabbi, I said sardonically. Besides, I assured him I had an extra one somewhere in my apartment.)

He handed back my kippah, his eyes reflecting an ocean of newfound understanding and emotion.

We met again the day after his visit. Daniel was transformed. He looked the same, but the aura around him had altered significantly. He handed back my kippah, his eyes reflecting an ocean of newfound understanding and emotion.

He described his experience at Auschwitz, walking through the remnants of what had once been a living nightmare for the Jewish People less than 80 years ago. As he relayed his journey, his voice shook slightly when he spoke of standing before the ruins of one of the four gas chambers operated in Auschwitz-Birkenau.

He confessed how, by donning my kippah, he had felt a profound connection to our shared heritage. It had become more than a piece of cloth; it was a silent tribute to the millions who had perished simply because of their faith. It was an affirmation of his Jewish identity that he had struggled with for so long, my kippah had merely facilitated his silent and deeply personal reconciliation with his Jewish identity, and a profound understanding of the shared narrative that binds us together as a people.

Daniel was hopping on a flight and wasn’t able to join us for Shabbat dinner in Krakow. As I look back, perhaps Daniel’s question “Excuse me, are you Jewish?” wasn’t targeted at me at all. It was addressed to his soul yearning to affirm its own identity: Yes, I am Jewish.

*Name has been changed