by Deen, Shulem
Chapter Thirteen
It was the day of my son’s bris. The tables across the south section of the shul were covered in white tablecloths and laid out with small challah rolls and perfectly sliced portions of gefilte fish swimming in sweet sauce. Off to the side, the caterer was preparing servings of roast chicken, potato kugel, glazed carrots, and the most delectable rolls of apple strudel. My sister and her husband and their three children were here from Borough Park. My brothers, with their wives and children, were assembled nearby, as were Gitty’s parents and siblings, along with an assortment of aunts, uncles, cousins, and some family friends. My mother stood in a nearby doorway, in her arms my infant son, swathed in layers of white ruffles and lace under the gold-embroidered inscription: Elijah, angel of the covenant, behold, yours has come before you.
The rebbe had just finished the morning prayers, and now there would be a five-minute break, after which the bris would commence. The rebbe would serve as sandek: he would hold the child in his lap as the circumcision was performed, recite the necessary prayers, and announce my new son’s name.
My mother smiled at me from afar. Gitty, per custom, was at home, a coterie of women keeping her company until our newborn would be returned to her, duly admitted to the covenant. After the ceremony, the men would remain in shul for the celebratory feast, presided over by the rebbe, while the women would join Gitty for a separate celebration in the dining room of her parents’ home.
Zisha Schnitzler, fundraiser-slash-panhandler for the yeshiva, approached me. “Reb Shulem, how about a donation, in honor of your celebration?”
I withdrew a five-dollar bill from my wallet. Zisha looked at the bill, and pulled back, as if in horror.
“Five—for a bris?” He shook his head resolutely. “No one gives less than fifty-four—three times chai.” He held up his palms, in a gesture of apology. “Tell you what. Give me thirty-six and I’ll give you a blessing, my best wishes for a prosperous future, and to take great pride in your newborn son. And you know,” Zisha shook his head and spread his arms wide, as if it were all so tedious to repeat, but some people were just impossible, “you know my blessings are effective.”
Just as I was contemplating a counteroffer—a half blessing for eighteen, maybe?—the shul doors opened wide, and dozens of men and teenage boys burst through the doors. Behind them soon came scores more, streaming through each of the three large entrances, until there were several hundred men coming toward the front of the shul. The sudden presence and the attendant cacophony of so many men were disorienting, and it took me a moment to realize that they had come not to celebrate my son’s circumcision.
I had nearly forgotten. This day was not only the day of my son’s bris. It was also the anniversary of the death of one of the rebbe’s many illustrious ancestors, a rather obscure sage who lived during the nineteenth century in the town of Skvyra, Ukraine. As custom dictated, the rebbe would be handing out cake and wine after prayers. The crowd, the entire student bodies of both the yeshiva and the kollel, were here for the cake. My own family celebration, elaborate with culinary delights as it would be, was subordinate to the greater, more significant event: commemorating the death of the old sage Reb Hershele of Skvyra.
I had never liked the fact that private family celebrations were public events. I did not enjoy being at the center of a crowd, especially when well-wishers were, as often as not, people I barely knew. The running around beforehand, arranging the space and the caterer and notifying the rebbe and the gabbai and the shul caretaker and all the other people who had to be notified, turned it from a celebration into a burdensome obligation.
“Why can’t we just celebrate at home, as a family?” I asked Gitty once. “You, me, our parents, our siblings, a few cousins. Who needs more?”
Gitty scowled. “Why can’t you do what everyone does and stop being so contrarian?”
In truth, our past celebrations hadn’t been so bad. Our three eldest were girls, and so the ceremonies were limited to three events each: receiving an apple from the rebbe’s hand at the Friday night tisch; being called for a reading of the Torah on Shabbos morning, followed by a rather unceremonious baby-naming by the gabbai; and then the kiddush—a celebration with wine and pastries in a corner of the shul following Shabbos morning prayers. Three modest ceremonies to mark the birth of a female child, and no further celebrations until the girl was engaged to be married. It wasn’t too much to handle.
But a boy child—ah, what good fortune! It was as if the celebrations never ended—and it was not a proper celebration until all and sundry had taken part.
It began with the shulem zucher on Friday night, when men gathered to eat fruits and boiled chickpeas and great quantities of roasted peanuts in their shells, which they would crack open and pile high on the table, on the chairs, on the floor, and drag fistfuls stuck to their shoes as they went back out into the night, tipsy on too many Heinekens.
The vach nacht followed, during which the father stayed up all night and studied Torah, while men—friends, strangers, all were welcome—sat around eating gefilte fish and kugel and drinking great quantities of Old Williamsburg whiskey and leaving even greater piles of peanut shells for the women to clean up after.
Then, of course, came the bris—morning prayers, the ceremony, the celebratory feast.
Three days after the bris was the shlishi lemilah, a feast to commemorate the day our forefather Abraham was healed from his circumcision wound. More gefilte fish and kugel. Maybe not as many peanuts.
If the infant boy was a firstborn, there was the pidyon haben three weeks later. Bedecked in gold jewels, sugar cubes, and garlic cloves, the infant was laid on a sterling-silver tray, as if he were a roasted fowl stuffed into a light-blue Snuggie with a matching pacifier, while the father and a kohen, a descendant of the priestly class, playacted an ancient negotiation ritual: the father offered the kohen five silver shekels in return for which the kohen would spare the child from a lifetime of priesthood. Afterward, more gefilte fish and kugel.
Further celebrations ensued: for the child’s first haircut (age two), first day in cheder (age three), first Bible lesson (age five). And at thirteen, of course, the bar mitzvah—which came with its own set of pre- and post-events.
All these events were held communally. Among Skverers, that meant the rebbe participated in at least some of them, and when he did, he took pride of place. Before and after a birth, the rebbe was to be notified. The rebbe was to be consulted before the child’s name was decided upon. And while the rebbe might skip out on the vach nacht or the shulem zucher, under no circumstances would he miss a bris. It was said that from the day the rebbe became rebbe, in March 1968, at the age of twenty-eight, he attended nearly every bris in the village, unless he was away on vacation, and even then, as often as not, the proud parents would travel with the infant and hold the ceremony at the rebbe’s vacation home in the Catskill Mountains.
Now, I found myself not only at the center of a public ceremony but a far greater one than what I had prepared for. In addition to family and friends, there was the usual assortment of those who came to the shul each morning looking for a free meal and a glass of schnapps, along with the entire yeshiva and kollel assemblies. They stood around, chatting, shouting, shoving, waiting for it all to begin.
“When’s the rebbe coming out?” I overheard two boys talking. They couldn’t have been older than fourteen.
“There’s a bris first,” the other said.
“Ugh,” said the first, as if he had somewhere to be and it was all throwing off his schedule.
Soon enough, the rebbe emerged and took his seat on the Throne of Elijah.
“Kvatter!” the gabbai cried. At the doorway in the corner, I watched as my mother handed the baby to my brother Mendy, who then brought the bundled package to the cleared space in front of the Holy Ark.
“Reb Chaim Goldstein!” the gabbai cried, and Mendy handed the baby to my father-in-law, who then handed it to his own father-in-la
w, who had traveled from Williamsburg for the occasion and who then handed the baby to a series of uncles and great-uncles and brothers-in-law and even some of the older cousins. The gabbai rattled off their names, giving each the honor of holding the infant for barely a second before it was dropped into the arms of another. Finally, the last of the male relatives had their turn, and the baby, still contentedly sucking his pacifier, was laid to rest on the rebbe’s knees.
I couldn’t watch. Off to the side, my prayer shawl pulled heavily over my head, I would let the professionals handle it. All I had to do was listen for my cue—my child’s scream—after which I would recite the circumcision blessing with great joy.
There was no scream.
“How could there be no scream?” I would later ask Gitty. “Are you sure they did it properly?” She would assure me that they did. “But he didn’t scream,” I would say. “He didn’t even cry. Maybe a whimper. Maybe.”
My mind must’ve strayed to the wafting aromas of apple strudel, when the shouts came from all around: “Nu! Nu! De brucha! De brucha!” How on earth—? “Nu! Nu! The blessing!” Flustered, I fumbled for my prayer book. Recite with joy! said the little instruction above the recitation, and I looked at all the impatient men around me and mustered all the joy I could: Blessed are You, Lord … who has commanded us to bring him into the covenant of our father Abraham.
The circumcised infant was reswaddled in his blanket, and the rebbe stood from the chair and raised a silver goblet of wine: O Lord, God of our forefathers. Give life to this child … Akiva the son of Shulem! Let the father rejoice with the emission of his loins. Let his mother be gladdened with the fruit of her womb … As it is written: By your blood, you shall live.
The ceremony complete, Mendy carried Akiva back to my mother, who still stood in the little doorway in the corner. Men of all ages came to shake my hand, offer best wishes for raising my newborn son to be a pious Torah Jew. Some of the more eager uncles were already sitting at the prepared tables, breaking open challah rolls and helping themselves to cucumber salads and gefilte fish and dollops of shredded beets and horseradish. I folded my tallis, placed it inside the velvet pouch, and headed to the sink just outside the door to wash before the meal. Around me, some men called, “Mazel tov, Reb Shulem, mazel tov!” I smiled in return, wished them mertzeshem bei dir—your own celebrations, too, if God wills it. Maybe this wasn’t all so bad.
I filled a large stainless-steel washing cup with water. Just as I was about to pour the water over my right hand, I heard a commotion from inside the sanctuary. A moment later, a gaggle of young men burst through the door.
“Nu! Nu!” they shouted. “Shulem! The rebbe’s waiting!”
I had forgotten. It was not my day alone. I rushed back inside. The rebbe now sat at the head of a large arrangement of tables, before him a dozen or so enormous trays piled high with slices of honey cake. As the celebrant of a new birth, I was to be the first to receive one of the rebbe’s blessed pastries, and because I was not there, the crowd of men stood pressed tightly against one another and gazed in silence at the rebbe, who now sat motionless, casting a peevish pall over the room.
I hurried across to the front of the shul, pushing my way through the crowd up front in order to reach the rebbe, when I felt a violent shove from behind. I turned to see Yossi Fried, the gabbai Reb Shia’s grandson, behind me, his outstretched arm receding from my shoulder. “Making the rebbe wait!” he hissed.
A few moments later, the honey-brown slice of pastry in my hand, I stood feeling crushed as men around me pushed forward to receive their own portions. As I jostled my way through the crowd surging against me, I wondered to myself: Why, for heaven’s sakes, did I need the rebbe at my son’s bris?
“That’s your friendship with Chezky talking,” Gitty would say afterward. “I knew he’d be a bad influence.”
“Tell me,” Chezky had asked me a few days earlier. “What is so great about this man?”
This man. As if the rebbe was just some guy.
I didn’t like Chezky’s sneering. If some of our practices had begun to feel inconvenient to me, it was a failing on my part, I was sure. I liked the rebbe, for the most part, even if I was no longer as great a believer as I once was. Sometimes I even loved him. I remembered the days when I had idolized him, watched intently as he ate from the dishes placed in front of him at the Friday night tisch, or on Shabbos afternoon, always the exact same routine. For over three decades now, fifty-two weeks a year, the rebbe performed every single tisch according to script: nine spoonfuls of soup, three bites of onion kugel, seven forkfuls of chicken, two slices of sweet carrot. Each tisch lasted between one and three hours, sometimes longer. He never stood up in the middle for a break or to use the bathroom, never skipped out because of illness or fatigue. For years, I stood on those bleachers, listening to the tremors in the rebbe’s voice as he prayed and chanted and sang, exactly the same as the previous week, the previous month, the previous year. We were attuned to the subtlest deviations—a smile, a laugh, an unexpected gesture. On Passover, at the seder, when the rebbe reached the passage “until now, You have stood to our aid, and may You not abandon us with Your mercy forever,” those very same words, each and every year, catching in his throat, the same spell of hysterical weeping, except—that was just it, it was always the same. And still, we spoke about the smallest signs of spontaneity. “The rebbe wept this year more than last year,” one Hasid might say, and the other would agree. “But not as much as the year before.” Then they would compare the number of seconds. Last year, the rebbe wept for seven seconds, then after a pause, wept for thirteen seconds more. This year, he wept only once, but for a twenty-three-second stretch.
Until one day, I began to wonder. Where, exactly, lay the rebbe’s greatness? Was he a scholar? Was he a saint? Had he ever shown anyone any exceptional kindness? How would one even know it, considering that he was barely accessible to his followers, his acts so meticulously scripted, his public utterances limited to carefully prepared thoughts of little consequence, private audiences always brief and perfunctory, five-minute consultations after a five-hour wait?
I thought about the rebbes of other sects—so many of them, of late, consumed with squabbles. Many of the major sects were being split into factions. The once-mighty Satmars were splitting into the Aronites and the Zalmenites. In Vizhnitz, Mendel and Srultche had battled over their father’s throne, even though he wasn’t to die for another twelve years. In Bobov, there would soon be the Forty-Fivers and the Forty-Eighters, each gearing up to grab the greatest portion of the great Bobov empire after the death of their very beloved old rebbe, Reb Shloime. The squabbles were often coated in veneers of piety, but the differences were rarely matters of principle or ideology. They were about power and control. And real estate. Millions of dollars in properties and institutions and the great communal wealth amassed by each sect.
“Are any of these rebbes examples for their followers?” I fumed to Gitty.
But Gitty had little interest in the politics of Hasidic courts. “I don’t know anything about them, and I don’t care to.” Our rebbe, she insisted, was not to be questioned. “I was taught to have faith in the righteous,” she said.
But what did it mean to have faith in the righteous? Was it to have faith in their very righteousness? There was something maddeningly circular about that—how did one know if they were righteous enough to have faith in? By faith?
“Next bris,” I said to Gitty, “is without the rebbe.” I’d had enough.
One Saturday night, several weeks later, Gitty and I were in the kitchen together. She was dumping leftover chulent in the trash, while I was sorting through the day’s mail. It was past midnight. The kids were long tucked into bed, and I, too, had begun to yawn.
“I think I’m going to bed,” I said, my eyes tearing up as they did when I felt sleepy.
“What was that?” Gitty asked, cocking her head.
“I said, I think I’m going to bed.”
>
Gitty held up an index finger. “No—listen. What was that?”
“What was what?”
All we heard was the hum of the refrigerator.
“I thought I heard something.”
“It’s in your head.” I stood up and stretched.
“Wait! Listen!”
This time I heard it, too. A shout. Then came crashing sounds, like breaking glass, then more shouting. Then the sound of boots pounding the pavement. The pounding came nearer, until it was right beneath our window, and then quickly faded away.
We rushed to the window, but saw nothing, and so I stepped out the kitchen door to the side porch. Across the alleyway, one of the blinds in a neighbor’s window was spread apart, a face peering out. A moment later, the blind fell back, and everything was as before. Across the road, insects swarmed a streetlamp. A yellow-and-red tricycle lay forgotten at the side of the road. A curbside trash can stood with its cover balanced precariously over an oversize load of white trash bags. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Gitty joined me on the porch. “See anything?”
“No. Must’ve been a few bored bucherim doing something harmless.” Yeshiva students were often up late on Saturday nights, after napping for hours during the day.
Gitty and I went to bed. In the morning, when I awoke, Gitty was not in her bed, but I could hear her voice from the kitchen. “Meshiguim! Chayess!” she cried. “Morons! Animals!”
I headed to the kitchen, where Tziri and Freidy sat at the yellow Little Tikes table in the corner, empty bowls in front of them, waiting quietly for someone to pour their cereal and milk. Gitty sat at the kitchen table, the phone to her ear and an incredulous look on her face. I could hear through the receiver the excited voice of one of her sisters—from the faint pitch, I could tell it was Bashie, the family’s most reliable source of village gossip.
