The Necklace

I pulled the twisted gold chain out of the inlaid wood jewelry box and watched as the intricate charm that has dangled from it for at least 70 years spun around. I don’t know how long my grandmother had the necklace before she gave it to me. I took possession of it when I was about ten years old and it looked like it had already been sitting in her own jewelry box for years. The charm is as unusual now as it was then, even for a piece of Judaica. It is less than an inch tall but is a full-scale replica of an Aron HaKodesh, the Holy Ark, in 14-carat gold. Its tiny lacy hinged doors open to reveal an even tinier, dangling Torah. You can almost hear the melody of the barchu, the blessing before the reading of the Torah, whenever you open it.

In the years immediately after my grandmother gave me the necklace, I wore it every day, proud to show off this emblem of my faith and, more importantly to, my heritage. I received compliments from my Jewish friends who recognized the religious symbol but had never seen one so tiny. When asked about it by non-Jews, I explained its significance and smiled when they said, “That’s so cool!”

Even at a young age, I knew that my ability to wear my Jewishness around my neck had been hard fought. My grandparents never talked about the hardships they faced in Russia, Ukraine, and Poland but I knew that they had left those countries because they were no longer welcome. My charm, along with the Stars of David, chais, and Hebrew nameplates that hung from the necks of my friends, family, and neighbors in my largely Jewish neighborhood, signaled that we felt safe enough to declare our Jewishness.

I stopped wearing the necklace sometime in my twenties, replacing it with more secular, fashionable jewelry, including the large statement necklaces made popular in the early part of this century. Perhaps I stopped wearing it because I no longer felt that I needed to proclaim myself as a Jew. Despite my decidedly non-Jewish last name, most people who meet me know early on that I am a Jew from New York. It is a large part of who I am culturally. I didn’t have to shout it out from the rooftops or wear it as a symbol around my neck.

The one thing I never considered is that identifying myself as a Jew – whether with jewelry or by any other means – might put me at harm. At least not here in the United States. And certainly not in New York. It’s not that I was immune to antisemitism. Yes, the white supremacists that walked down the streets of Charlottesville screaming, “Jews will not replace us,” frightened me. But I thought that Jews had enough friends in the world to keep that kind of hate at bay.

Occasionally, I’d see the necklace lying on the velvet lining of my jewelry box and wonder if I’d ever wear it again. I’ve thought about giving it to one of the little girls that I think of as my nieces. Would they ever want to wear it? With the price of gold relatively high, I also considered selling it along with other long-forgotten pieces. Who couldn’t use a little extra cash?

But now my world doesn’t feel the same anymore. About a month after the October 7 attack on Israel, the daughter of one of my best friends and her husband celebrated the birth of their son with a brit milah. As the baby boy’s mother told everyone who attended, bringing a new Jewish child into the world feels more important than ever. So did wearing my Jewishness if not on my sleeve, then certainly around my neck.

“Aren’t you afraid to wear a Jewish star in public?” a friend asked when I told her of my intention to start wearing the ark again. “What if that invites trouble from someone who is antisemitic or a Gaza supporter?”

“Then I will fight back,” I told my friend. “I will not let anyone think I am anything but proud to be a Jew.” I wasn’t sure then — and am not now — what fighting back would mean but hopefully, I won’t be tested enough to find out.

Many other Jews in the United States felt the same way this past Hanukkah as they contemplated whether it was safe to place a menorah in their windows or to hold public menorah lighting ceremonies. I didn’t worry that having a menorah glowing in my window would endanger meI -- I live in a high rise on the Upper West Side of Manhattan -- but I worried about what would happen at the public candlelightings across the city. I felt more at ease when I read about non-Jews across the country who agreed to put menorahs in their own windows through Project Menorah. Still, I didn’t stop holding my breath until the eighth night of Hanukkah passed without incident.

The protests may have died down at universities – if only out of university presidents’ fear of ending up like the University of Pennsylvania’s Liz McGill – and I don’t see as many Instagram videos of people tearing down hostage posters. But as support for Israel inversely declines in response to the rising death toll in Gaza, I still feel the need to show my commitment to our Jewish homeland and my Jewishness.

I came home from the brit milah in October and pulled my jewelry box out. I untangled the gold chain from other long-forgotten necklaces and put it around my neck. The charm hangs in an awkward place; the chain is both too long and too short. It clashes with the cluster of tiny diamonds I wear on a white gold chain. But I have worn it for these past few months with pride, if not on my sleeve, then with a tiny gold ark on a chain around my neck.  

I found this version online and it has the same wonky doors!

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