Maybe it's just my reporter training, but as I was reading, I kept thinking how her descriptions of India sounded almost too familiar, as if they had been lifted from other sources—movies she had seen, books she had read, stories she'd absorbed, scenes she had imagined. Germany struck me as much the same. But I just read along, increasingly appalled but not giving the truthfulness of the narrative too much thought. That is, until they arrived in Israel, where I live. That's where this supposed memoir started to unravel for me.
I strongly doubt that the Israel episode ever happened. First red flag: No one ever arrived in Tel Aviv in the summer and remarked upon the dry desert heat. They would say, "Wow, is it ever humid here!" Then the whole scenario of having fake Brazilian passports with a Brazilian name that MIGHT sound Jewish, and no one knowing a word of Portuguese other than the mother, the paterfamilias looking like he just emerged from the backwoods of North America, and all of this getting past Israeli security? Didn't happen. Because if I can swing a "gato" in Israel and hit someone who speaks Brazilian Portuguese and who could quickly demolish an absurd backstory on a moment's notice—trust me, so can Israeli security. Not to mention getting anything past the rabbis, who are even less inclined to believe unsubstantiated claims of being born and raised Jewish.
The anti-Semitic trope of her father believing that the Jews run the finances of the world was awful enough, especially when you consider that the author brings to bear all sorts of adult observations to her childhood, but, unsettling enough, not this one. Which brings me to another anti-Semitic trope and the biggest red flag of all.
I can tell you for a fact that no Israeli ever looked at a blonde, blue-eyed child and told her she "doesn't look Jewish." Israelis don't even think in those terms. I've heard this idiocy repeated countless times in the States by uninformed non-Jews, but never once in Israel, where I raised two children, one of whom was blond with green eyes. It just doesn't happen in a country where Jews ingathered from all over the world -- Ethiopia, Russia, Yemen, Germany, Egypt, Poland, Brazil, India, Morocco, Scotland and Iraq, to name just a few -- and their coloring, and that of their intermarrying descendants, ranges just as widely.
Placing the family smack in the center of the bridge tragedy at the 1997 Maccabiah Games seemed a little too convenient, too, especially when the information she recites reads as if she'd lifted it from the Wikipedia entry. Smaller red flags: Her claim that the age of Bat Mitzvah is 13, when even a pretend Jewish kid who went to a Jewish school would know it's 12. Then the brother goes off to study at a yeshiva in New York? It all beggars belief.
I'm halfway through the book, and I'll continue, just to see what happens. I should give this one-star, based on the fabrications, but that would mean it's unreadable, which it isn't. Instead, I'm approaching it as a highly embroidered memoir and awarding that extra star for imagination. After all, she said herself that one of the skills she learned growing up was to lie. And that I believe 100 percent.