Innocence Ends Early If You Are Jewish : Desecrations: When the children ask ‘Why?’ to irrational acts, a colossal burden falls on the adults.

The shock comes later on, when the rational mind has had time to fathom the irrational nature of the crime. The rage, however, is instantaneous. One wants to even the score. But that soon dissipates, as the logical truism of “two wrongs” kicks in.

On Aug. 22, Temple Emanu-El in Del Cerro was desecrated. Swastikas and epithets were smeared on its helpless walls just a month before tonight’s start of the Jewish New Year, Rosh Hashanah. The cowardly vandals targeted the newly renovated classrooms of the religious school, the children’s special sanctuary.

It’s tragic, but this is nothing new to most adult members of the greater Jewish community. We have all heard of these incidents before. Many of us have even experienced them, or at least have known those who suffered through similar misfortunes. But it’s the children to whom the question of “Why?” becomes so compelling. And it is on the parents’ bruised shoulders that an answer must be borne.

But what is there to say? What do you tell a child who has just had her or his first bitter taste of anti-Semitism? How do you explain blind and demented hatred? How does a mother or father look into a youngster’s questioning eyes and resolve for them the confusing and crushing inevitability of what has just occurred? How do you soften the blow of a clock of innocence that has run out?

It is a clock that runs out for every Jewish child. It’s just a matter of time. One cannot go through life without experiencing anti-Semitism. For some it comes a bit earlier, for others, later. It may take the form of being called a “dirty Jew” in a schoolyard, an expression, really meaningless to the child who used it, picked up from a malignant adult. That was my son’s wake-up call. That’s when his clock of innocence ran out. I remember my sense of helplessness when he asked me “Why?”

Or it may take the form of a family being refused service in an Upstate New York roadside diner in the early ‘50s, and the shame and fear in the father’s eyes as he is forced to usher his wife and two young children down the center aisle, past rows of tables filled with people glaring at them in anger, anger the children do not understand. That was my father, mother, infant sister and me on that hot July day when we stopped off to get something cold to drink. When we finally got back to our car and pulled out of the parking lot, I peered out the rear window and could still see patrons seated at their window tables, staring at us with venom in their eyes.

Soon the diner faded into the distance, and what remained was an oppressive silence. No one spoke for the rest of our journey, for I knew, even though I was only 4 years old at the time, that there could be no rational explanation, and that pressing my father would only add to his discomfort and shame. That was my wake-up call. That was when my clock of innocence ran out.

Or it may take the form of raging fires and smoke, of crashing glass and doors being broken down and screaming innocents being dragged into the streets on a dark night in Germany in the 1930s. Kristalnacht . My mother’s cousin was one of those innocents, a bright and happy child, I’m told by my mother, confirmed by a faded, yellowing picture of him she keeps in an old photograph album. That was his wake-up call, this young boy who would die years later at Auschwitz. That’s when his clock of innocence ran out.

If I could speak to the children of Temple Emanu-El, I would tell them about the time I was in the Hebrew school of my own temple. I was 10 years old. It was early January, and, even though it was only 4:30 in the afternoon, it was dark outside, the cold New York City night falling so quickly that time of the year. There were perhaps 20 of us listening to our rabbi, our teacher. He was talking about the holiday season that had just come and gone, Christmas and Hanukkah, and how exciting a time it was for people of all faiths, how there was a sense of togetherness in the city.

That was the exact word he used: togetherness. I remember it vividly. Suddenly there was a loud crash as a rock came through the window. From outside we could hear teen-agers shouting “Dirty kikes!” There were more rocks and more breaking glass, and then it was over.

I remember the silence. No one had screamed, even when shards of glass were raining down on the floor. We were too stunned. It was all so sudden.

The police were called. They took statements. Then the rabbi sent for our parents because he was afraid to send us home unescorted. The following day, workmen boarded up the windows of our wounded synagogue with plywood and the school was closed. As a final affront, someone painted swastikas and epithets on the plywood the following night.

When classes eventually did resume several days later and the rabbi tried to explain what could motivate such behavior, his words somehow just faded against the terrible inevitability of that evening’s frightful events. It wasn’t his fault. He was an eloquent man and a caring and able teacher. The problem was that, even at the tender age of 10, we came to feel that there were certain things in life we just had to accept, as unacceptable as they appeared to be.

Although they say a Jewish child reaches adulthood at 13, when she or he is bat- or bar mitzvahed, I believe for many youngsters it comes much earlier. I know I became an adult that cold night, as did most of my classmates.

But if I could speak just a bit more to the children of Temple Emanu-El, I would say that we were wrong back then, that one need not accept the unacceptable. Historically, there has been a world of brave and compassionate people who have sought to change things, and they have had a significant impact. There are the renowned teachers, religious leaders and statesmen who devoted their lives to brotherhood. We have all heard about them. We have all read their stories. Emulate them.

But, aside from these notable heroes, you must come to realize deep in your young and hope-filled hearts that for every one of these cowardly racists who attacked your synagogue, your sanctuary, your school, your religion, there are thousands--no, perhaps hundreds of thousands--of brave and compassionate people who would condemn them.

I would say to the children of Temple Emanu-El that it will be in your generation when maybe, just maybe, the words dirty kike , or dirty Guinea, mick, spick, chink, dyke, faggot, gook, wetback, Polack will never be heard again. May this new year be the year that the clocks of innocence never stop ticking.