As I stepped into a cab in Harbin, in northeast China, last spring, the driver stared at my curly hair and, after asking me my country of origin, inquired in Mandarin, “Are you Jewish?”
“Yes,” I answered.
“Good,” he said, giving me a thumbs-up and a grin. “You’re very clever, very good at business.”
By that point in my semester abroad, I’d already heard similar comments, from professors, restaurant owners and streets merchants. I kicked into gear.
“Have you ever met a Jew before?” I asked the driver.
“Of course,” he replied. “Ma-ke-si.”
“Who?”
“Ma-ke-si.”
Oh, I realized. Marx.
Harbin, the major city of Heilonjian Province, has seen Jews before, particularly since it is only 313 miles from the Russian city of Vladivostok. After the Russian revolution, White Russians fled into the city in such numbers that in the 1920s it had the largest Jewish population in the Orient, with over 25,000 Jews. Most of the foreigners left after the Communists took control, and almost all had gone by 1951. Fifty-four years later, I spent three-and-a-half months studying Mandarin and wandering around a city with nine million people but no Starbucks — not yet, anyway.
When the topic of religion came up, as it often did, I would use the colloquial Mandarin for Jewish, “Youtairen,” which literally means, “Still the greatest people.” Many would say an earnest “Wow,” and compliment me on my supposed business acumen and sharp mind. Quite different from the normal stares and murmurs of “Laowai!” (“Old foreigner!”) that follow non-Chinese in China.
Though it had nothing to do with me, I must say it was flattering to be among people who saw Judaism as a magical appendage that helps us establish corporations and solve puzzles. But where did this idea originate?
I turned to my Chinese dictionary. “Judaism:” I read, “A religion popular among Jews.” A 2003 China Daily article quotes Fu Youdou, a retired doctor who treated many Jewish patients in the 1940s. “The Jews were very clever and good at business,” he had said.
I went to the bookstore. The attendant pointed me to the section on “Foreign History,” and to an orange book written entirely in Chinese. The cover of The Wit and Wisdom of the Jews, published in 2002 by Harbin Press, shows a blank-faced Jewish man struggling on a seesaw against the world, which outweighs him. The cover text claims that wisdom and humor are the two gifts the Jewish ethnicity has given to the world. Chapters include, “Wisdom on Money,” “Wisdom for Leading Life,” and “The Humor of Human Existence.” The last chapter offers anecdotes of Albert Einstein, Heinrich Heine, and Henry Kissinger, as well as of the allegedly Jewish personalities Pablo Picasso and Nelson Rockefeller.
Eager to get to the origin of the stereotypes, I found myself tracking down a rabbi in Shanghai the next summer. Like in the US and everywhere else, the surest place to find a rabbi in China was at the local Chabad House.
“It’s funny,” Rabbi Shalom Greenberg he began, stroking his beard and leaning back in his chair. “One day in the 19th century, when missionaries came to proselytize in China, they called the Chinese into a corner and whispered in their ears: \xe2\x80\x98Watch out for the Jews! They’re very clever and very good at business.’ The Chinese mulled over this piece of information, then said to themselves, \xe2\x80\x98Wow. Very clever, and very good at business. We should be friends with these people!’ And there, my friend, is an answer to your question.”
I smiled at the Rabbi and shook his hand.
Most of the people I talked to during my time abroad — perhaps including Rabbi Greenberg, were working with little information about and exposure to real-life Jews. Despite the inaccuracies, though, I always enjoyed the conversations.
Who needs nuance? I would muse. The world might not be more colorful in black and white, but if you’re Jewish in Harbin, it may be more flattering.
