As a third-generation Jewish Texan, S. L. Wisenberg has always felt the ghost of Europe dogging her steps, making her feel uneasy in her body and in the world. She plays at hiding from the Nazis in her pink carpeted closet as a nearsighted and asthmatic eight-year-old, realizing that she would have been unlikely to survive. In her late twenties, she infiltrates sorority rush at her alma mater, curious about whether she'll get a bid now. Later in life, she makes her first and only trip to the mikvah while recovering from breast cancer surgery, prompting an exploration of misogyny, shame, and woman-fear in rabbinical tradition.
With wit, verve, blood, gore, and a solid dose of self-deprecation, Wisenberg, wanders across the expanse of continents and combs through history books and family records in her search for home and meaning. Her travels take her from Selma, Alabama, where her Lithuanian ancestors once settled, to Vienna, where she tours Freud's home and figures out what women really want. A visit to Auschwitz leaves no emotional mark.
