Best of all, math doesn’t depend on God’s mood. It’s not like God wakes up and says “I’m tired of twenty-three and thirty-eight adding together to make sixty-one. Today, just to mess with Joel and his family, I’m going to mix it up, make twenty-three and thirty-eight add up to seventy-one. Let’s see how they deal with it.”
Nope. Math is straightforward, and so is math dice. Mr. DeGuerre divides us into teams, and we take turns answering questions. Before each round he rolls the dice; the higher the number, the harder the question. When we get to a question that no one can answer, Mr. DeGuerre always says, “Any more guesses? Or shall we ask the Computer Who Wears Tennis Shoes?” That’s his nickname for me. It’s from a movie a couple years back about this guy who had a super-fast brain. As nicknames go, it’s not bad—and a lot better than my last name. But Mr. DeGuerre is the only one who uses it, so it doesn’t help much. When I answer the question, my team gets the points, which is exactly the opposite of what happens in basketball. And that’s why I love math dice. Usually.
But today, as he stood there shaking the dice in the cup, my mind wandered to this poster I once saw of Albert Einstein—who was, of course, Jewish. He was also really funny-looking, with hair sticking up all over the place like he didn’t care. But somehow it all worked for him. Maybe that’s because he was a super-genius. In the poster, though, he looked even crazier than usual, staring right at the camera, sticking out his tongue. Printed at the bottom was something he’d said: “God does not play dice with the universe.”
I liked that idea as soon as I saw the poster. I thought it meant that there was an order to things, that they don’t just happen randomly. If Albert Einstein said that, and he was so smart, it must be true.
Now, though, as Mr. DeGuerre rolled the dice and asked math questions, I thought about my dad in the hospital and began to wonder: What if that’s not what Einstein meant? What if he meant that God is actually playing some other game?
I had already tried playing dreidel with God—that didn’t work. Maybe checkers? Or One, Two—Bango? Scrabble? Or Parcheesi, which isn’t that fun to play, but is fun to say.
But those are just board games. What if God is going for bigger stakes? Maybe basketball? Toss the universe in, sometimes you make it, sometimes it hits the rim and bounces out—and sometimes it’s an air ball, and we go flying through space forever. Or how about mumblety-peg? Kenny showed me that game. You play it with a pocketknife that you throw down, trying to get the point to stick in the ground. If you’re crazy, like Kenny’s friend Danny Jarlsberg, you throw it at your bare foot, trying to get as close as you can to your toes without hitting them. Once Danny got right between his big toe and his second toe—thwack!
I know that sounds like a crazy game for God to play with the universe, but if you look around, you’ve got to wonder.
I suspect this is one of those truths you learn when you grow up. Because Howard is three years older than me, I get a preview of everything that’s coming up. It’s not like a preview on TV, where they say “Will Batman and Robin escape from the Joker’s Spinning Wheel of Death? Tune in next week—same Bat-time! Same Bat-channel!” With Howard, everything he learns becomes a secret that he won’t tell Kenny or me. But unlike TV, where you have to wait until next week, we can usually trick Howard into telling us right then.
That’s how I found out what happens after you become a bar mitzvah and are ready to learn about certain forbidden topics. I used to think that sounded really cool, until one day a couple years ago, just after Howard’s bar mitzvah. Kenny and I were working on making armpit farts, and Howard walked in, all grumpy. He’s always grumpy, but this was worse than usual. We ignored him and went on making armpit farts and laughing until Howard couldn’t take it anymore.
“I don’t think you’d be laughing if you knew what the Nazis did to the Jews,” he said.
We stopped the armpit farting.
“What?” I asked.
“When?” said Kenny.
“During The War.”
“What did they do?” I asked.
“I can’t tell you about it,” said Howard. “You’re too young. But if you knew, I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t be laughing.”
And he stood there, silent. But Kenny and I had figured out that the way to get Howard to tell us a secret is to pretend we already know.
“Oh, yeah,” said Kenny, “I heard all about the Nazis. They killed a lot of Jews.”
“Yes,” said Howard. “But how did they kill us?”
“With machine guns?” I asked.
“Yes, but that’s not all. It was much worse than that.”
“I know,” said Kenny. “There were showers.”
“Showers?” I asked. “What?” That made no sense to me, as I had just switched from taking baths to showers, which I liked.
“That’s right,” said Howard. “Showers. With poison gas. And when you’re older, you’ll learn all about it in Hebrew school. Then you won’t be laughing.”
There was one of those awkward pauses, the kind that seem to fill my entire life, and then Kenny said, “So it was showers, right?”
Howard nodded. “All the Jews were rounded up and they had to stand in a long line. They were hungry and dirty and the guards pointed machine guns at them and shot them if they stepped out of the line. But the guards said, ‘It’s okay. After this, you’ll get a nice, warm shower!’ When everyone went into the shower room, the Nazis locked the doors. But instead of water coming out, there was poison gas!”
“Hey!” I said. “That’s what Grandma’s always saying! So it’s true!”
“No,” Howard said. “Grandma wasn’t in Nazi Germany. She was in Poland, years before, where they had pogroms. That’s another way they killed the Jews, dragging them through the streets by their beards. But they didn’t have poison gas.”
Now I was all confused. And upset. I didn’t want to hear any more about the Nazis killing the Jews. But now Howard was on a roll, and there was no stopping him.
“But I wasn’t talking about the pogroms,” Howard continued. “I was talking about the Holocaust, and you interrupted me. We saw a movie today. It’s one the Nazis made. They actually filmed what they were doing to the Jews! They were going to make a museum about how there used to be Jewish people before they became extinct!
“And in the film you can see all the things they took from the Jews. There was this huge pile of eyeglasses and another big pile of teeth they pulled out because they wanted the gold fillings. The people who were still alive looked like skeletons. There were also dead bodies—and some of them were our relatives!”
“Which ones?” I asked. “Who?”
Howard shook his head. “You don’t know them. I don’t either. And we never will. Because they’re dead.”
That was too horrible to think about.
“But, like I say,” said Howard, “you’re too young to know about all this. I shouldn’t have even told you, but I had to, because you and Kenny were laughing all the time.”
It was hard to know what to say to that. I felt like I should apologize, but I wasn’t sure why or to whom.
“It’s okay,” he said to me. “You didn’t know. Because you haven’t become a bar mitzvah yet. So you don’t have to worry about it. You can go on being a happy kid.” And to Kenny, he said, “And your bar mitzvah isn’t for another year, so don’t worry.”
Howard left, and Kenny and I stood staring at each other, not knowing what to do. Somehow, it didn’t seem right to go back to armpit farting, given what the Nazis had done to the Jews.
Until then, I had been looking forward to my bar mitzvah, even though it meant meeting with Cantor Grubnitz. I thought that it would all build up to a party where I’d get checks—and tons of gifts!
But Howard had tipped his cards, something a good magician never does. Now I understood. Your bar mitzvah was the en
d of your childhood. I could picture the scene with Cantor Grubnitz standing in front of us bar mitzvah kids. “I hope you all enjoyed being children,” he would say, “because that’s over. And now it’s time to tell you about the horror and suffering of the Jewish people.”
Then he would turn off the lights and play the film. And I would watch relatives I had never known—and would never meet—standing in line to take showers of poison gas, thinking, Wow, childhood was awful! And that was the good part?
So maybe it’s not dice or board games or basketball that God plays with the universe. Maybe it’s bowling—and we’re the pins. God steps up to the line, rolls the ball down the lane, and then . . .
“So, we’ve finally stumped the computer?”
Everyone was staring at me, waiting.
“Well, well,” said Mr. DeGuerre. “This is a first.”
On the chalkboard was a long equation filled with fractions and symbols and x’s and y’s. I could have figured it out. But, really, I thought, Who cares?
“The computer isn’t even going to hazard a guess? What does it all add up to?”
“A perfect strike,” I said.
Tough as it was to stay focused in math class, I had no problem staying wide-awake at Hebrew school.
For one thing, my heart was pounding because I was—yet again—late. It’s not like anything important or interesting ever happens in Hebrew school, but the problem is Cantor Grubnitz, who stands out in front of the temple, smoking and looking at his watch until it’s exactly 4:15. Then he snubs out his cigarette, goes into class, and closes the door, screaming at anyone who comes in even a minute later.
And you know why I was late? You got it: the bus. On Thursdays there’s no carpool, so I have to run from school to catch the bus a couple blocks down in front of the 7-Eleven store. If I run fast enough, I can get there in plenty of time—the number 257 is supposed to come at 3:42. Supposed to. Usually, though, it doesn’t. Sometimes it comes much later.
Today, I got there right on time and the bus arrived just a minute later, which was perfect. There was no traffic, and hardly anyone got on or off, so we even went through some green lights. Then, about a half mile from the temple, the driver pulled over to the side of the road and waited.
I thought another passenger was coming, but I didn’t see anyone.
The light turned from green to red and back again. And again. And again.
“Why are we stopped?” I finally asked.
“We have to. I’m running ahead of schedule.”
“What?” I said. “But you came to my stop right on time.”
“Nope,” said the driver, shaking his head. “I got there early. There was another 257 that was supposed to come but didn’t.”
“Why not?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. All I know is that my orders are to wait here until we catch up to the schedule.” He looked at his watch. “Shouldn’t be long—just another ten minutes.”
Great. That would get me there just after 4:15. The temple was about ten blocks down the road, and I figured that if I ran, I might just make it. But my foot was still sore from this morning, so I ended up jog-limping all the way to the temple. When I got there I pulled out my watch: 4:18—three minutes late. Just then I heard the honk of a horn and looked up to see the stupid bus zipping past, the driver waving at me. My whole Quasimodo run had been pointless.
I peeked through the window of the classroom, where I could see that Cantor Grubnitz had already begun. He had written the four Hebrew letters of the dreidel on the board, and when he turned around to write more, I saw my chance. Opening the door quietly, I snuck into an empty desk. Just as I did, he turned back.
“So, you see,” he said, “an Israeli dreidel has one letter that is different.” He pointed to the board, where he had written another four letters below. “The dreidels you play with have Nun, Gimel, Hey, and Shin, for Nes Gadol Haya Sham—Hebrew for ‘A Great Miracle Happened There.’ The lower four letters are what you would find on a dreidel in Israel: Nun, Gimel, Hey, and the letter Pey instead of Shin, for Nes Gadol Haya Po—‘A Great Miracle Happened Here.’
“ ‘Here’ means Jerusalem, which is where the Kchkanukkah story took place. But maybe you’re wondering what kind of miracles happen here, where we live? For example, maybe you’re thinking—like I am—that it would be a miracle if once, just once, Joel got to class on time.” Everyone turned back to look at me and laugh. Cantor Grubnitz picked up a pen and opened his roll book to mark me tardy. But then he stopped, put down the pen, and smiled.
“No. I’ve changed my mind. Today, Joel, I am not going to mark you tardy. And you know why? Because Hannuukkaahh is a joyous time, a time to celebrate. You can think of this, Joel, as my gift to you.” He paused, waiting for me to say something, but I just stared at him.
“What’s the matter, Joel? You don’t look very happy.” His smile turned to a frown. “You should be happy. And yet, you’re not. Maybe you want a bigger gift? Is that it? That’s the problem with you kids. You’re all greedy. When I was young, we were happy to get a few pennies, maybe a handful of almonds and raisins. Then we would sing and dance and celebrate a great miracle—the victory of the Maccabees! The rededication of the temple! We have a God who works miracles! And we get to study them! So you should be happy.”
I could see his gorgle starting to swell.
“You kids nowadays think it’s all about the presents you get, like race cars and transistor radios.”
I heard Sidney Applebaum whisper “Yes!” Since the beginning of the year the class has been playing Transistor Radio Bingo, based on guessing how many times Cantor Grubnitz will say the words transistor radio on any given day. Everybody puts in five cents, and the one who guesses the total wins it all. I usually like it, and once I even won, but today I couldn’t have cared less.
“Or even worse than transistor radios, one student came to my office wanting me to pray for gold!” The class laughed, but no one seemed to know it was me. “Can you imagine? Praying for gold! So enough of your greed and selfishness!” he said, now looking right at me. “Be happy! It’s a mitzvah!”
I had no problem not being happy for Cantor Grubnitz. He can cry in his soup, for all I care. My mom, though, is another story. This evening when I got home from Hebrew school she was as miserable as I’ve ever seen her. I could tell because of how cheerful she was acting.
“What’s cookin,’ good-lookin’?” she said when I got home. That’s what she always says to me. Just from her tone, I could tell my dad hadn’t woken up, and there was no point in my asking her. “How was Hebrew school?”
“It was fine,” I lied. “We celebrated Kchchanukkah.”
“That’s nice,” she said, taking a carrot loaf out of the oven. That’s a special recipe of hers, made with carrots and rice and eggs. It tastes better than it sounds.
“Oh, look!” I said. “You made carrot loaf! Great!”
What’s even weirder than my mom pretending to be happy is that I do the exact same thing. The happier she acts, the happier I act, and it just keeps going like that, until my face hurts from smiling. I can’t help myself.
Kenny, on the other hand, wears his heart on his sleeve, and as we ate dinner, there was no question how worried he was.
“Can’t the doctors do something to wake him?” he asked. “Like make a loud noise? Or shake him?”
“Well, they’ve tried. And they’re doing the best they can,” said my mother. “Hopefully he’ll wake up tomorrow.”
“But what if he doesn’t?” said Howard. “What if he dies?”
There was a long pause, and my mom looked like Howard had punched her in the gut.
“Well, we just have to hope for the best.”
“And pray,” said Howard. “Maybe Dad’s asleep because we haven’t prayed enough.” He looked at Kenny and me. “I know I’ve pra
yed a lot. Maybe you two haven’t prayed enough.”
“I’ve prayed more than you,” said Kenny.
My mom looked like she was about to collapse. “I know!” I said. “Let’s light the menorah. Then we can all pray.”
I found six pretty good candles, and chose the longest, a yellow one, for the shammes. My mom lit it, and the three of us took turns lighting the others. Howard read his special prayer for healing. Then, just before we started faking our way through “Maoz Tzur,” Kenny discovered something on the box of candles.
“Hey, look!” he said. “The words to ‘Maoz Tzur’ are right here on the box! In English and Hebrew!”
He was right. Not only were they in English and Hebrew, but they were in Hebrish, which is Hebrew words spelled with English letters. I had never thought about the words before. Even though the song’s about a rock, it’s supposed to be about God, who always comes through, especially when things are looking bad.
Yeah, right.
“This gives me an idea,” said my mom. She brought the box of candles to the den—my room—and we followed her to the corner, where we have this really old upright piano she used to play when we were kids.
“See, it even has notes!” She put the box on the music holder, opened the piano, and began to play. It took her a couple tries to get the right notes, and the piano was way out of tune. Some of the keys buzzed when she hit them, and a few didn’t make any sound at all. None of us have very good voices, and we’re embarrassed if we have to sing in public, so we usually mouth the words, even when we’re not singing about Jesus. Now, though, Kenny and Howard sang out loud with my mom. I didn’t feel like singing at all—especially about rocks. My foot still hurt, and the first time through I just kind of mumbled. But then something kicked in—I don’t know what—and when the Hebrew came around, I sang out loud, as my mom somehow figured out ways to avoid the keys that didn’t work. The third time through, we all sang as loudly as we could, so even God could hear us.
Dreidels on the Brain Page 14
