B.u.g. Big Ugly Guy (9781101593523)

by Yolen, Jane; Stemple, Adam

  And maybe not.

  Sammy hadn’t thought about it much, but he’d really expected his bar mitzvah teacher to be a wrinkled old rabbinical scholar with a long white beard and eyes squinty from long hours poring over the Torah, the scrolls of the Old Testament. A sort of peaceful walking Bible.

  Chaim Handleman was nothing like that. He appeared to be in his midthirties, thin but not gaunt, with dark hair that looked like it had just grown out of an army crew cut. Sammy suddenly remembered that all Israelis served in the army when they turned eighteen, which would explain the haircut but nothing else.

  “Shalom aleichem,” Chaim said to Sammy’s dad who answered, “Aleichem shalom.” Then he turned to Sammy, “And shalom to you as well, Samson.” He had a soft accent, as if his vowels were produced just a little bit farther back in the throat than other people’s.

  “Um . . . shalom.

  Instead of being peaceful, Rabbi Chaim emanated an energy that was making Sammy tired just looking at him. He tapped his feet and nodded his head and stopped waving his arms around just long enough to shake hands.

  “Seems there’s someone extra here,” Chaim said, pointing with one hand at Skink and the other at their surrounds. “Are you Jewish, converting, or just plain curious?” He didn’t wait for an answer, but went on talking, now with a hand over his heart as he nodded enthusiastically at Skink. “You’re welcome no matter which. What’s your name?”

  “Skinner John Williams, sir. But please call me Skink. And just, like, plain curious. My parents lived in Israel for a while.”

  Chaim stopped moving about and put a finger on the side of his nose, as if considering what Skink had just said. His stillness was as complete as his energy had been moments before. Then slowly, Chaim leaned forward and said to both boys, as if they were the two most important people in the world, “Curiosity is the beginning of knowledge. Without curiosity, we are not only lower than the angels, but lower than the animals. Lower than the whale—in Hebrew—livyatan. Lower than a dog. In Hebrew kelev. Even lower than a slug.”

  Both Sammy and Skink had mouthed livyatan and kelev after Chaim, and Sammy added, “What’s slug in Hebrew?”

  “Good, good, you are curious, too,” Chaim said. He was moving about again. Pushing two chairs close together for the two boys, gesturing for them to sit. Then he signaled with another wave of his arm that Mr. Greenburg should sit farther away.

  “You go there, Mr. Greenburg, where the rest of the chairs are gathered together in a kind of minyan.”

  “Does minyan mean slug?” Skink asked.

  Rabbi Chaim doubled over in laughter. There was a round skullcap clipped to his sparse hair, blue with gold squiggles on it.

  “I know that one,” Sammy said. “My grandfather always was part of a minyan, which means part of a group of men who pray a lot.”

  “Ten men or women actually,” Chaim said, now serious again. Then he added: “Shablul.”

  Sammy worried that maybe his Hebrew teacher was seriously deranged and looked at him strangely.

  Chaim caught the look and laughed. “It means slug in Hebrew.” His right forefinger moved about, slug-like. Grinning he added, “So you already have three important words in Hebrew. Livyatan. Kalev. Shablul.”

  “And minyan,” Skink said. “Ten Jews.”

  “Ten people praying,” Sammy added.

  The rabbi smiled. “But mere words are not enough.” He leaned toward the boys.

  Without meaning to, the boys leaned in as well.

  “First we must learn the alphabet. Alef. Bet.”

  Skink laughed. “We know the alphabet.”

  “Not the Hebrew alphabet, Master Skink,” Chaim walked over to the blackboard, saying over his shoulder, “The Hebrew alphabet is often called the alefbet, because of its first two letters.”

  “But alphabet’s an English word,” said Skink.

  “Borrowed,” Chaim told him. “English is a language of brilliant borrowings. I love it. But Hebrew—Hebrew is both a holy tongue and a reborn tongue. It is an ancient language, used in the Torah, the Bible, for study, for the words of G-d. But when the land of Israel was founded, the people needed a newer language, with words for things like truck and tractor and airplane, for things like television and computer and nuclear physics. So Hebrew was reborn.” He picked up a large piece of poster board that had been leaning against the wall and brought it back to the boys, before turning it around. “But for you right now, it is important to understand that Hebrew uses a different alphabet than English. So before you can learn Hebrew, you must learn to read the Hebrew alphabet.”

  Sammy and Skink gawked at the poster board. The letters were simply a bunch of strange symbols that made no sense.

  “Also, note that Hebrew goes from right to left, rather than left to right as in English,” Chaim added. Again the pointing finger, this time underlining the entire top line.

  “Wow!” Skink said. “That’s strange.”

  “Strange? The Russians have Cyrillic letters, the Greek’s have Greek letters, Chinese and Japanese have their own letters.” Chaim’s voice was patient, as if he’d heard this before.

  “I meant reading right to left.”

  “Chinese gets read up and down,” Sammy pointed out.

  Chaim nodded. “So, not so strange after all.” He pointed to something that looked vaguely like a fat N crowding the right side of the top row. “Here is aleph the first letter of the Hebrew alphabet. And this. . . .” the pointing finger went to the last dark splodge to the left of the final line. It looked a bit like an unfinished building or a door. “This is taw and is the last letter.”

  “We have to learn that?” asked Sammy. “All that?”

  “You will learn that,” Chaim corrected. “After curiosity comes determination and hard work. Let us begin.”

  And they did.

  8.

  Samson Rules

  They struggled with the alphabet until the heavy black letters were indelible blots in Sammy’s brain. He thought he would dream of them any time he fell asleep.

  Before they were ready to leave, Chaim gave them each a piece of paper with the entire alphabet on it with the transliterated sound in English written underneath.

  “Remember, right to left,” he told them. “Practice together. It will be easier that way.”

  They took the papers. Sammy shoved his into his backpack. Skink folded his carefully three times, creasing each fold till it looked like a pleat on a soldier’s trousers.

  “And Sammy, your birthday is when?”

  Startled by the sudden change in direction, Sammy stuttered. “Uh . . . April tenth.”

  “Ah, yes, wait.” Chaim spun on his heel, went to a bookcase, almost danced in front of it, took down a book bound in red leather, came back. His fingers sprinted through the pages till he came to the one he wanted. “Ah, yes, I thought so.” The finger tapped against the page. “Your Torah portion will be about Samson. The mighty hero. He killed many enemies of Israel with a jawbone of an ass, but a woman found out the secret of his strength and . . .”

  “I know that story,” Sammy blurted out.

  Chaim became still again. That complete stillness. He looked carefully at Sammy and finally said, “Do you? I think you will find out more about it than you think. You will find out what makes a hero . . . and unmakes him.”

  “We could, like, use a hero,” mused Skink.

  “Meaning?”

  “Well,” Sammy jumped into the conversation, “there’s these bullies at school, and they jumped Skink and stuck my head in the toilet and . . .”

  “What!!!!” Sammy’s father was up on his feet. “You didn’t tell us about the toilet, Sammy. Why didn’t you tell us about that?”

  Sammy shrugged. “It was no big deal . . .”

  Rabbi Chaim made an odd noise deep in his throat
and interrupted. “Bullying is always a big deal,” he said. “For the bullies as well as those they prey upon. That’s why Reb Judah Loew, the chief rabbi of Prague, made a golem.” He spun away from them, went over to the bookcase, then came back with a small black book that he held up for them to see. It was definitely old, and looked to be made of leather, with gold lettering in a Germanic font.

  Possibly real gold, Sammy thought, because the letters seemed to glow with some kind of inner light. He read aloud: “‘The Golem, by Gustav Meyrink.’”

  “A golem,” Chaim continued, “made of clay, animated by the name of God, to stand as protector of the Jews when death threatened them all.”

  “A story, boys.” Mr. Greenburg said. “As someone who works with clay, I can’t begin tell you how hard it is to make something that big.”

  “The Chinese did, Mr. Greenburg,” Skink said. “You know, the terra-cotta army? We’ve been studying that in art class.”

  Sammy barely heard them. Not knowing why, he’d reached out for the book, but Chaim pulled it back protectively.

  “Sounds like a good story,” Sammy said, somewhat breathlessly. The golden letters still glowed.

  “It is a good story, Samson,” Chaim told him. “But like all good stories, the ending will surprise you.” He returned the book to its place on the shelf.

  Sammy memorized where Chaim put the golem book. A thought had formed in his head the moment the rabbi had first mentioned the golem. No, even earlier—when the letters on the book’s cover had begun to glow. No matter how he tried to ignore it, the thought kept popping up: What if it’s true?

  Chaim turned back to them, hands empty once more. “That is enough about the golem. His story is best unsaid and unread. I apologize for bringing it up.” He made a funny sound, like a short, sharp laugh of a single syllable. “Hah! And so why, Chaim, did you mention it at all?” he addressed himself. “Because . . .” he answered his own question, “because we were talking about bullies.” Glancing at his watch, he added, “In fact, that’s enough until our next meeting.”

  “Which is . . .?” Mr. Greenburg asked.

  “Thursday,” Chaim said. “Sammy has a lot of work to do if he is to be ready for his bar mitzvah by the spring.”

  And with that Chaim began whisking them out of the classroom, out of the temple, shooing them on with waving arms and clucking tongue as if they were a flock of recalcitrant chickens.

  Recalcitrant, thought Sammy. A good word. He started listing synonyms for recalcitrant in his head as if they could keep the other thought—the golem thought—out of it. Ornery. Uncontrollable. Defiant. Rebellious.

  But it was no use.

  I need that book! The glowing gold letters called to him. Turning, he ran back to the small classroom.

  I need that book!

  Past the bimah, past long benches with their book rests, almost to the door, it was all Sammy could think about.

  I need that book!

  “Left my homework behind!” he exclaimed, stopping at the door. It was even true. His backpack with his homework—both for school and now for Hebrew class as well—was sitting beneath his chair in Chaim’s classroom.

  Chaim stopped and assumed his finger-on-the-side-of-the-nose stance.

  “Well, go grab it,” Sammy’s father said. “We haven’t got all day.” He turned to the rabbi, shrugged. “If his head weren’t tied to his neck, he’d lose it on a daily basis.”

  “Boys that age . . .” Chaim began, and both men chuckled.

  Almost before his father was done speaking, Sammy was into the classroom. Ignoring his backpack, he ran straight to the bookshelf. He didn’t need to search; he knew right where the book was.

  Even if I hadn’t seen Chaim put it away, I’m sure I could have found it on my own.

  He touched the book’s spine. It felt warm, almost pulsing under his fingers, as if alive.

  I need this book!

  He stuffed the book into his backpack between his science homework and his snack box. He knew if he stopped to think, he’d realize how wrong it was to take the book without asking. I’m just borrowing it after all.

  The thought of returning the book was even worse than the shame of taking it, and so Sammy decided not to think about it at all, and with that he walked as calmly as he could back to where his father, his friend, and the rabbi waited.

  Rabbi Chaim still stood with his finger to his nose, seemingly deep in thought. Sammy didn’t dare look him in the eye. Face burning, heart pumping, Sammy knew if he wasn’t careful, he would blurt out a confession.

  And then he’d take my book back.

  But Chaim only said, “See you next week, boys.”

  Sammy mumbled something in return, and then they were safe in the car with Skink in front this time and Sammy in back, squeezing his backpack to his chest like a drowning man with a life preserver.

  After a few silent miles, Sammy’s father said, “Well, Rabbi Chaim is certainly a character.”

  “I like him,” Skink said.

  “Me, too,” Sammy’s father said. “How about you, Sammy?”

  “Hrmm?” Sammy wasn’t really paying attention. He’d managed to slip the book out of his backpack and, protected from view by his science folder, had started reading: And he shall not eat, nor drink, nor accept any pay, but he will protect you from harm and do your work and your bidding. Sammy thought, It doesn’t sound like a story, it sounds like a manual.

  “Sammy!”

  “Erg . . . what? Yeah, Chaim’s great.” And he went back to reading.

  Skink and Sammy’s father kept chatting, quickly leaving the subject of Chaim and moving on to pottery and school and how they thought the Bears were doing this season.

  Sammy kept reading, but wasn’t able to finish the book before they got home. And with Skink staying till just before dinner, he wasn’t going to be able to get back to the book any time soon. Besides, his father had other plans for the two of them.

  “You’ve got homework, Samson.” And when his father said Samson there was never any point arguing. “I’m sure Skink has some, too. Why don’t you both go into the basement and work on it together? Your mother will give a shout when his father gets here to take him home. I’ve got some stuff to do, too. The clay never sleeps.” It was something he said often.

  Down in the basement, Skink snagged Sammy’s just-barely-bigger-than-a-toy keyboard off the music area bookshelf and began plunking away.

  “That doesn’t look like homework, Skink,” Sammy said, channeling his father’s voice, though smiling.

  Skink smiled back over the keyboard. “I did mine already. In detention.” The melody he was playing turned suddenly martial and he boomed out, in a fairly good approximation of the major’s tones, “No one gets leave when there’s potatoes to be peeled!”

  Sighing, Sammy plopped into the folding chair. “I’d rather peel potatoes than do algebra. But I finished in detention, too. I’ve got a better idea anyway.”

  Skink raised an eyebrow at him.

  “A way to get back at James Lee.”

  Skink stopped playing and shook his head. “Just ignore them, Sammy.” He plinked a few random notes. “They’ll move on to softer targets soon.”

  “That just paints a big bull’s-eye on some smaller kid,” Sammy said. “But I’ve got an idea that will take care of the problem permanently, and without us having to raise a finger.” He chuckled. “’Cause believe me, I definitely don’t want to fight them again.”

  “All right. What’s your plan, Word Man?”

  “We’ll make a golem!”

  Skink snorted. “Sure. Like that’ll work. Frankenstein lives.”

  “I’m sure.” Sammy shot up out of his chair. “We’ve got all the clay and pottery tools we need in my dad’s workshop.” He reached the stairs and spun around. Then he marched back t
oward Skink. “I’ve thrown a pot or two with my dad, and he’s got plenty of pottery books lying around if we get stuck.” He reached Skink and stopped. “C’mon . . .”

  Skink shook his head and went back to playing the keyboard.

  Sammy frowned and pulled the book out of his pack and opened it to a page number he’d memorized.

  Skink gasped when he saw the book. “Did you steal that from Rabbi Chaim?”

  “Borrowed it,” he lied. “Here’s the best part—the spell!”

  Skink sighed and squinted at the page, scanning down to where Sammy’s finger pointed at some dark splodges. “Yeah, except it’s in, like, Hebrew!”

  Sammy grinned. “And we’ll be reading that soon enough. Besides, there’s a complete translation in the back.” He pointed to the front of the book because, of course, in Hebrew things went back to front, as he’d just learned.

  Skink said hesitantly, “You’re, like, insane. Maybe that’s why we’re friends.”

  “Mad? You call me mad?” Sammy cackled in his best mad-scientist voice. Throwing the golem book aside, he raised clenched fists over his head. “I may be mad, but I’ll bring this clay to LIFE!!!”

  Shaking his head, Skink turned back to the keyboard and twisted the martial melody he’d been playing earlier into a Klezmer scale. Then he sang:

  “To life, to life

  I’ll bring the clay to life.

  Frankenstein, he made a monster

  and made a monster’s wife.

  He robbed the local graveyard,

  which caused some local . . .”

  “STRIFE!” Sammy shouted.

  “Good word, Word Man!”

  Sammy grinned at the compliment. “Good Words ’R’ Us! Rhymes, too.”

  Skink nodded. “Yeah, I—like—noticed. And he began to sing again.

  “He robbed the local graveyard,

  which caused some local strife.

  Then villagers attacked him with pitchforks . . .”