Dreidels on the Brain

by Joel ben Izzy

  I carried the little table with the menorah and the candles to the front of the stage, my hands shaking. I pulled a match out of the book and tried to light it, but it didn’t catch, so I tried again, and again. I had just managed to light it when Mr. Newton said, “Ah, wonderful!” and pointed to the back of the auditorium. “There they are now!” The door had opened, and there stood Kenny, Howard, and my mom. I blew out the match. Where was my dad?

  “We’re so glad you’re here!” said Mr. Newton. “And just in the nick of time!” He cleared his throat, and I realized with horror that he was going to introduce them—and say my last name. I closed my eyes.

  “Boys and girls, please give a warm Bixby School welcome to Joel’s older brothers and his mother—and look, Joel! There’s your father! Excellent! The whole family is here. So now let’s have a big round of applause for—THE ENTIRE BUTTSKY FAMILY!”

  I had braced myself for the reaction that always comes when people hear my last name. But there was no laughter. I opened my eyes to see Kenny, Howard, and my mom inside the door, looking back. And there, behind them, standing in the doorway, was my dad, leaning on his aluminum walker with the glowing tennis balls, its bars now spiraled with red fluorescent tape. Everyone was staring at him in complete silence.

  From the back of the auditorium to the front isn’t very far—maybe one hundred feet—but it may as well have been a mile. My father hunched over his walker, pushed it forward a foot, maybe two—then pulled himself up to it. Then he rested, caught his breath, and did it again. With every step he took, the silence grew louder. Only once was it interrupted, by some sort of scuffle in the crowd, which I couldn’t see. But no one paid any attention to whatever it was, they just kept staring at my dad.

  When he finally reached the stage, I walked down the steps to help him up, one step at a time, holding him so he wouldn’t fall backward. We gathered behind the menorah. My dad leaned on his walker, trying to catch his breath.

  I struck the match, this time without a problem, and held it to the shammes. As we sang the blessings I lit two candles, then passed it to Kenny, who lit three more, and to Howard, for the final three. We sang “Maoz Tzur,” which we all knew by now. Then I walked up to the microphone.

  “I’m supposed to tell you why we light these candles. The story of Hanukkah.”

  My voice sounded very small. I looked at my family.

  “It was long ago, in Jerusalem, when the Jewish people weren’t free to be Jews. They were ruled over by the Seleucids, who wouldn’t let them do Jewish things, like study the Torah and observe the holidays. They couldn’t just be themselves. The leader of the Seleucids was a general named Antiochus. He actually called himself Antiochus Epiphany, which means ‘the Brilliant One.’ He thought all the light shone on him, and that he knew everything about how people should live, and what everyone should believe. And he told the Jews that they had to worship the Greek gods.

  “But you can’t do that. Because no one owns the light. And you can’t stop people from being who they are, and believing what they believe. Especially Jews. Even if they’re different.” I looked at my family. “Even if we’re different.

  “But everyone was afraid of the Seleucids, because they had a huge army and rode on elephants. And no one was willing to do anything—except this one family, the Maccabees, who decided to fight for their freedom. They weren’t fighting for land or for money—they were just fighting for the right to be who they were. It was the first time in history that ever happened. There weren’t many of them, but they fought—and they won.

  “And do you know why? Well, in the story, they say it was a miracle. They say we won because God was on our side.”

  I could see Mrs. Gabbler in the wings, looking at me, worried. After the grief my family had given the school about mixing church and state, here I was, in front of the whole school, talking about God.

  “So, was it a miracle?” I thought about it. “I really don’t know. The Maccabees wrote a whole book about it—two of them, in fact. But, as Mr. Culpepper says, history is the story told by the winners. And throughout most of history, Jews sure haven’t been the winners, so I guess when we do win, we get to call it what we want.

  “But I’m still not sure. The Seleucids probably figured they had all kinds of gods on their side, like Zeus up there throwing lightning bolts, and Poseidon making earthquakes. It’s like that Bob Dylan song, ‘With God on Our Side.’ He’s Jewish too, by the way—his real name is Robert Zimmerman, and his family escaped to America from the same part of Lithuania as my mother’s parents.

  “So I don’t know if winning the war was the miracle. But here’s what I do know. After the Maccabees won, they needed to make the temple sacred again. That’s what Hanukkah means—‘rededication.’ But to do that they needed to light the menorah with special oil, which the Seleucids had destroyed. All they could find was one little jar, enough to burn for a few hours. But they lit it . . .”

  I paused, picturing that moment. Everyone was waiting to hear what I would say next. Not a sound came from the audience or the choir behind me. I moved closer to the microphone, like Mister Mystery had taught me, and said, in a low voice: “That tiny flame burned, and kept on burning, all through the night. And the next. And the next. For eight nights and days, growing brighter.

  “And that was a miracle. Not just the oil—but that we have something inside that keeps us going, no matter how dark it gets. Something to hold on to—something that glows in the dark.”

  I looked at my dad, who was nodding with a big smile. “Because we’re doing the best we can,” I said. “All of us. We may wish things were different, but . . .” But what? I thought of all that had happened over the past eight days—and all that had not happened, and would never happen, no matter how hard I wished.

  “. . . but miracles aren’t the same as wishes. It’s like that old poem my grandmother taught me, which goes ‘If wishes were fishes . . .’” What came next? I had no idea where I was going with this. I could feel myself turning red. “Hold on. Oh yeah, ‘If wishes were fishes, and ifs and ands were pots and pans . . .’” Then what? My heart was racing. I tried, once more, for a running start. “‘If wishes were fishes and ifs and ands were pots and pans, and if . . . if . . .’”

  If what?

  I stared in panic. Everyone was staring back at me. It all came crashing down.

  Then I heard my dad.

  “If!” he said. I looked at him. So did everyone else. He pushed his walker forward, and said, again, slowly and deliberately, “IF!”

  He nodded his head and started to hum.

  “If?!” I said back to him.

  “IF!” he shouted.

  I felt my hands tingling, getting light, lifting up, floating in front of my face. When they reached high above my head, I snapped my fingers, stomped my foot, and together, my dad and I shouted, “IF . . . I . . . WERE . . . A . . . RICH . . . MAN!”

  There was no turning back. I stomped my foot again, so hard the candles shook, and sang, “If I were a rich man . . . yidel-deedle-didel-yidel-didel-deedle-didel-dum!”

  For just an instant, I realized what a ridiculous thing I was doing. But the flame had been lit—and I couldn’t have blown it out if I’d wanted to. And I didn’t want to. I wanted to sing—and dance.

  “All day long I’d biddy-biddy-bum, if I were a wealthy man!” Mrs. Balthazar must have known the song, because she began playing it on the piano, while I sang and danced all over the stage.

  My dad had pushed his walker forward and was leaning on it, stamping with his good leg as I sang. Mrs. Gabbler was staring at us, her librarian glasses about to fall off, and Mr. Newton just stood there with his jaw open. Now my mother was clapping along, smiling. It wasn’t pretend smiling, but real smiling. And beside her stood Kenny, snapping his fingers and raising his arms above his head. Even Howard looked happy.

  Then, fr
om behind the choir, came Mr. Culpepper—dressed as Santa, dancing like Tevye, yabble-deeble-dabbling along with us, but louder, with his baritone voice. That set the whole place off, with everyone in the audience raising their hands, clapping and singing.

  The next thing I knew, the whole auditorium was dancing the Tevye. Mr. Newton pulled out his handkerchief and started dancing with Mrs. Gabbler. I couldn’t believe it—she had some moves!

  Just when I thought it couldn’t get any crazier, there was a commotion from the choir, and I heard Amy’s voice call out: “Everyone—now! Encore!” At her words, the soprano half of the choir called out “Up with Freedom!” and the altos answered “Down with the Dress Code!” That got everyone’s attention as the choir went back and forth: “Up with Freedom!” “Down with the Dress Code!”

  Soon the audience joined in the chant. I heard a fluttering above me, and looked up to see two huge cloth banners unfurling from the rafters on either side of the stage. The one near me read OUR CLOTHING, OUR SELVES! and the other said ABOLISH BIXBY’S DRESS CODE!

  Then, all at once, the choir took off their robes!

  And, underneath, every one of them was wearing pants!!!

  We all stared at them, dumbstruck. And then, the whole choir started dancing the Funky Chicken!

  I cheered, and so did everyone else—except Mrs. Gabbler, who looked like she was going to bust a gorgle. For a moment, she just stood there shaking. Then she got a funny look on her face and threw up her hands. And she started dancing the Funky Chicken!

  Suddenly it was absolute pandemonium, and in the middle of it all I saw Mr. Culpepper, who was doing a combination of the two dances—the Funky Tevye—reach into his Santa costume and pull out a handkerchief, which he waved around, singing even louder. He danced into the middle of the choir, where another hand reached up and grabbed the handkerchief—and out came Amy O’Shea. She wasn’t just wearing pants, but jeans that were covered with patches. Mr. Culpepper led her over to me, holding the handkerchief, and handed me one corner, with a little bow. The next thing I knew, I was face-to-face with Amy O’Shea.

  For a moment we just stood there, staring at each other. Then she smiled, snapped the fingers on her free hand, and stomped her foot. I did the same, and soon we were circling slowly around each other, holding the handkerchief. With my free hand, I was pointing and waving. I may have looked like a complete dork, but I no longer cared.

  “You are so weird!” said Amy.

  “What?” I said.

  “It’s your superpower, like King Midas. Except everything he touched turned to gold, and everything you touch turns to weird.”

  I stopped dancing. It felt like I’d been slapped in the face.

  “But that’s why I like you!”

  “Really?”

  “Wow,” she said. “You really are clueless, aren’t you?”

  “Well, I . . . um,” I stammered. “I really like your jeans. They’re cool! And the choir—everyone’s wearing pants!”

  “Yep,” she said. “We’re finally going to get rid of the dress code. You’re not the only one with a revolution. Or secrets.”

  Then I remembered something. “Wait a minute—on Friday, in class, with Mr. Culpepper’s tie. You thought he was going to tell your secret . . . and I thought . . .” I stood there, puzzling it out in my mind.

  “You know,” she said, “for a magician, you’re kind of slow. But,” she added with a smile, “you’re a good dancer.”

  I don’t know how long the two of us were up there, spinning slowly around. Maybe forever, like dreidels in a dream. Then she leaned in close to me. For a moment I thought she was going to kiss me! Instead, she whispered in my ear: “Happy Hanukkah.”

  That was my fourth Gimel.

  And that’s when my dad, who had pushed his walker all the way to the very front of the stage, raised his hands above his head in gnarled fists, shaking them in the air. He was singing so loudly, and with such passion, that everyone else stopped what they were doing and watched him as he sang, “If I were a weaaaaaaaaaal-thy maaaaaaaaan!”

  The place went crazy.

  We Jews think a lot, about pretty much everything. Even so, I’m not sure anyone has given much thought to the last day of Hanukkah.

  There’s been a lot of discussion—and, of course, argument—about the last night of Hanukkah. I read in the Jewish Encyclopedia that when the rabbis were figuring out how to celebrate the holiday, Rabbi Shemmai said we should kindle eight lights the first night, seven the second, six the third, and so on until, on the final night, there would be just one left. But another rabbi, Hillel—who always won their arguments—said we should start with one light on the first night, add a second the next night, and so on, because it’s about the growing of the light. So that’s what we do, building up to eight candles on the last night.

  But what about the last day, which comes after the last night? It’s usually forgotten. There’s no big celebration, just melted wax and pieces of foil from chocolate gelt, the smell of latkes long since fried and eaten, and maybe a few dreidels lying around. You know what happens when that day comes to an end?

  Nothing.

  You don’t gather around to light candles or sing blessings. The moment the sun sets on the last day, it goes from Hanukkah to Not-Hanukkah, which lasts for almost the whole year.

  So how do you celebrate the last day?

  That’s what I’m wondering as I sit here on the AstroTurf on my front porch. It has cooled down now—the heat wave has finally broken. The sky is streaked with colors, and several you might call orange. But there’s nothing quite like the color of the one I’ve been rolling back and forth between my hands as I replay the memories of this Hanukkah in my mind. Right now I’m thinking of Brian’s face as he came rushing up to me at the end of the assembly.

  “Joel!” he said. “That was wicked cool! Now everyone wants to be Jewish!”

  “Yeah, right,” I said, remembering something. “Hey Brian—when my family was walking up to the stage, what was that noise in the audience?”

  “Oh, that was nothing, really. . . .”

  “But I heard something. Did you see it?”

  “Well, yeah,” he said. “But it’s not important.”

  “What was it?” I wanted to know.

  “It was Arnold Pomeroy.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He said, ‘Hey, look! Joel’s dad’s a gimp!’” Then Brian smiled, a little sheepishly. “So I decked him. Like Judah—the Maccabee.”

  When I told my dad later how glad I was that he had come to the assembly, he looked surprised, then smiled. “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”

  That look is something I’ll remember, even when I’m grown up. But I’m not going to tell anyone about it. Or anything else about these past eight days. Not now. I’m going to wait.

  I don’t know how long. That old man on the bus held on to his story for a really long time, since The War ended, over twenty-five years ago! That’s twice as long as I’ve been alive. If I wait that long, it will practically be the year 2000—the next millennium! I wonder what the world will be like. I hope the Vietnam War will be over. Maybe all wars will be over. Maybe Los Angeles will figure out some way to get rid of its smog—and its traffic. I’m pretty sure they’ll have flying cars by then.

  However long it takes, I’ll wait until the time is right. And then I’ll tell my story to some kid I’ve never met, sitting on a bus, all confused about life, with dreidels on the brain. Maybe they’ll have had a week filled with chopped liver, stuck between two older brothers in the backseat of their parents’ flying car—looking through a little hole in the floor at the earth below—wondering whether to believe in magic, or miracles, or anything at all.

  I won’t be able to answer their questions, of course. So I’ll ask another: “Would you like to hear about the Hanukk
ah of 1971, when I was twelve—and prayed for snow, but was given an orange?”

  Acknowledgments

  As a child, I learned not to expect presents, for Hanukkah or anything else. Now, as an adult, I am blessed by the gifts I’ve received, including the many that have come in the course of writing this book. They have taken the form of wisdom, insight, ideas, support, and editing.

  My longtime friend and fellow author Jeff Lee, who has helped me in so many ways for so long, came through once again in Dreidels on the Brain, working with me to sift through a tangled mass of verbiage so I could figure out what I was doing. Likewise, Pete Neuwirth was the first friend to read a sample chapter. He saw something in it that I did not, and gave me encouragement and support that stuck with me through multiple drafts. Much later, I shared the book with my good buddy Jordan Winer, aka Great Zamboni, who read several drafts, each time offering insights that helped shape conflicts and form characters. Others have also offered suggestions, edits, memories, and support as I have written this book, including Jerry Sontag, Lee Dickholtz, Valerie Lapin Ganley, Rob Saper, Zahava Sherez, Jay Golden, Barry Brinkley, Maggid Jhos Singer, and my in-laws, Hezi and Ruth F. Rutenberg. I thank you all.

  I’ve had some excellent professional help as well. Great thanks to Laurie Fox, who gave sage advice regarding the book contract. And I’m indebted to Rand Pallock, who escorted me as I traveled back to the dark and murky realms of my childhood. It’s been said, “The mind is a dangerous place—don’t go there alone.” I am lucky to have had Rand on this journey.

  A book has to be written somewhere, and much of this one was written—and rewritten—in cafés. Two in particular, here in Berkeley, provided writing refuge and multiple macchiati. My thanks to Nefeli Caffé—Efcharistó!—and Abe’s Café—¡Gracias!

  This is my second book, and a great deal has changed in my life over the thirteen years since publication of the first one, a memoir—The Beggar King and the Secret of Happiness. By far the most amazing transformations I’ve seen are in our two children, Elijah and Michaela (Izzy), who were five and two years old in the book. Not only have they grown up to be mensches, but also insightful literary critics. Each read a draft of Dreidels on the Brain, then said, “I really like it, but . . .” and went on to point out character problems they were uniquely qualified to notice. Those comments resulted in months of rewriting—and a far better book. I am so proud of them—and grateful for their input.