by Andrew Kane
“Of course you vill,” the rabbi responded, knowing full well that Alfred usually couldn’t care less about his wife’s opinions. “And please apologize to her for me, I’m so sorry to have avakened her. I vill hold on for a few minutes vhile you talk to her, yes?”
Not exactly what Alfred had planned. “To tell you the truth, she’s only half awake right now. It would be best if I discuss it with her later when she’s more coherent.” The rabbi knew Alfred was lying, that most men lie when they begin a sentence with “to tell you the truth.”
“That vill be fine. Better yet, I vill call her myself, later. There’s no reason vhy you should apologize for me. The Talmud teaches us that each person must seek his own forgiveness, there are no intermediaries, yes?”
Alfred was speechless. The rabbi was outsmarting him once again.
“Anyvay, I vill call you back again tomorrow morning, a little later of course. Maybe after the morning prayers, around five minutes to eight, yes?” The rabbi knew that Alfred left at eight. He also figured that stating an exact time would prevent Alfred from avoiding the call. It was an appointment, and missing it would be an insult.
The two men ended their conversation as cordially as it had begun. Alfred hung up and stared into space for a few seconds. Evelyn tried to get him to tell her what was going on, but he was lost in thought, wondering what the rabbi was after.
CHAPTER 7
“Hey, Peanut, wait up!” Celeste called. Joshua was surprised to see her. He was already twenty minutes late for school, and she was always in school on time.
School had started less than a month ago. Loretta usually left around six, and had entrusted the Eisenmans, the elderly Jewish couple next door, to get Joshua out of the house. They were doing their best.
He stopped and waited for Celeste to catch up. “What are you doing here?” he asked.
“Same as you.”
“But you’re supposed to be in school by now.”
“So are you,” she said, leaning her body into his.
Close enough to be slow dancing, or other things, Joshua thought as he felt an erection. She pushed her hip into his; it seemed she knew exactly what she was doing. He grabbed her and pulled her into an alleyway. He wedged her between himself and the wall, and kissed her hard, and long. She wrapped her arms around him and held him tightly.
“Let’s not go to school today,” she suggested as soon as they broke for air.
“So that’s why you’re here. You wanna play hooky.”
“Not just play hooky, but play it with you.”
“You planned this?”
She smiled.
“And I bet you got some other games in mind, too,” he said as she brought her lips back to his.
This time, a short kiss. It was too dangerous for them to stand there for long, even in the alley. Joshua’s apartment was empty, but they couldn’t go back to the building because her father might catch them. She grabbed his hand and pulled him across the street, toward the park.
They found a grassy spot, hidden within the trees. Joshua was about to sit when he noticed her reach into her bag for a sheet she just happened to have with her. “You sure did plan this,” he said, as she spread the sheet on the ground.
“We’re gonna have a picnic, a lo—ng picnic,” she said as she sat down and pulled him close to her.
A few passionate kisses eventually lead to her easing his hand up her shirt, and letting him play with her breasts. The next thing he realized, her hand was in his pants.
“Wow,” she said, “they sure ain’t calling you Peanut because of this.”
They both chuckled as he started returning the favor, and suddenly, Celeste became gun shy.
She froze up and looked at him. “I think we should just kiss.”
“Yeah, sure. Fine,” he said, concealing his disappointment. In truth, he was really okay with it. He knew that sooner or later things would happen. Many things, in fact, each with its own novelty and excitement, until eventually he would become a full-fledged man. He took it for granted that all this was destined to happen with Celeste. Hell, he believed that everything of importance for the rest of his life was going to happen with Celeste.
Jerome, for the most part, pretended not to notice what was going on. It was hard for him, because his sister and Joshua were spending a lot of time together. Joshua felt bad that Jerome and he were drifting apart, but couldn’t help himself. Luckily, this year there were three new black kids in their class with whom Jerome had become friendly. One in particular, Roy Sharp, was replacing Joshua as Jerome’s best friend. Roy, a well behaved and extremely bright fellow, was clean cut, short and thin, bespectacled, and always dressed like a black “Poindexter.” His father was the Reverend Jameson Sharp, pastor of the local Baptist Church which had recently opened in a store-front on Empire Boulevard. Jerome had begun frequenting the church, and also the Sharps’ home. The more time Jerome spent with Roy and the reverend, the more he disapproved of Celeste and Joshua.
That night, at three a.m., in the small bedroom they shared in the back of the their basement apartment, Celeste and Jerome were soundly asleep. All was quiet, except for Jerome’s snoring.
Awake in another room, just a few feet away, lay a beast, a creature with inhuman lusts and cravings, sweating, obsessing, hating himself for what he was about to do. He looked at the woman fast asleep beside him. He despised her too, blaming her for not stopping him, for turning a blind eye all these years. For no matter how hard he tried to stop himself, he couldn’t.
The door to the children’s bedroom opened slowly, creaking hinges breaking the cadence of the snoring. Celeste’s eyes opened, but she lay still. The snoring suddenly stopped, but Jerome’s eyes remained closed. The children were both awake now, each pretending not to be, each knowing exactly what was going to happen.
The beast slipped into the room like a burglar, leaving the door slightly ajar. The faint light from the hall was just enough to help him navigate. Slowly, he moved toward Celeste’s bed.
He crawled in next to her, knowing she was awake, but all too willing to play along with her ruse. This way they could both pretend it never happened.
In the other bed, Jerome lay helpless, tears in his eyes, silently praying that God would make this stop. But it never stopped. And Jerome, like his mother, was afraid to do anything. He had come far with the white kids in the neighborhood, but this was something else.
In the morning, he too would hate himself, would turn away from his sister in shame for not having protected her. He dreamed of a time when he would be stronger, when he would be able to put an end to it. He dreamed and prayed, and that was all he did.
When the beast was done and gone, neither of the children spoke to one another. Jerome lay in the dark, while Celeste used her sheets to wipe the beast’s sweat from her body. She felt contaminated, defiled, wishing she could stop breathing. Anything to get rid of the nauseating, lingering smell.
Her mind took her to thoughts of Joshua and this terrible secret she kept from him. He believed her to be pure, and that was what she needed. She swore to herself that he would never discover the truth of how tainted she was.
What she had no way of knowing, however, was that fate had another plan.
CHAPTER 8
Paul Sims heard his Hebrew name, Pinchas ben Anshel, chanted as the Cantor called him to the Torah. The exalted moment had arrived as he rose from his seat next to the rabbi, walked to a large rostrum on which the Torah sat, and looked out at his audience.
It was a gothic chapel, with a cathedral ceiling, mahogany pews, crimson carpet, pipe-organ, and bright stained glass windows along the eastern and northern walls depicting scenes from the Bible. The ark, constructed of marble and brass, stood ten feet high and eight feet wide between two of the stained glass windows, and a massive silver menorah was affixed to the southern wall. And then there were the people, spruced and adorned to perfection, impeccably observant of the decorum.
In the
front row were his parents, sharing a rare moment of joy. They appeared nervous, but Paul was poised. Rabbi Weissman had prepared him well, and he knew it.
Next to Alfred and Evelyn sat Paul’s grandparents, Sheindle Simenovitz and Gladys and Sol Voratitsky. In the same row also sat his Aunt Brindle with her husband Martin, and his Great Aunt Rivka and Uncle Izzy. The other pews were filled with family and friends of his parents. There were some kids as well, a few cousins, and a handful from school whose parents were friendly with Alfred and Evelyn.
The only one in the room who Paul actually considered his friend was Loretta Eubanks—also the only black person—beaming in her long, flowing mauve dress and matching hat. The two other friends that Paul had in the world, Rabbi Isaac Weissman and Doctor Harold Goldman, were not in attendance.
The cantor opened the scroll, and pointed to the spot where Paul was to begin. Normally, in Reform temples, Bar Mitzvah candidates didn’t read directly from the Torah scroll itself. Instead, they read a portion from the Haftorah, supplementary readings usually recited after the reading of the Torah, and gave a short speech. But Paul wanted to do it all, just as he had been trained.
Among the lessons Rabbi Weissman had taught him, the most precious was a sense of being “special.” Though such a feeling was indeed alien to him, he had come to believe, as the rabbi insisted, that God’s hand was at work in his life. The rabbi saw God’s hand in everything.
Paul began the blessings, his voice resonating throughout the large sanctuary. The words came forth mechanically, but his mind was elsewhere, contrasting his surroundings with the modest, unadorned sanctuary in which he had found himself two weeks earlier. He recalled the hordes of Hasidic men, all in dark suits and fedoras, crowded into a single room with wooden folding chairs and linoleum floors, and the women in their long dresses, hats, and kerchiefs, crammed upstairs in the balcony. Those who had arrived early enough had gotten seats, but most stood. And the praying was noisy, spirited, everyone swaying back and forth, pouring out their souls.
The entire weekend at Rabbi Weissman’s home had been a surprise. First, the shock that Rabbi Weissman had managed to convince his parents to let him go; second, the rabbi’s daughter, Rachel, a year younger than he, and the most exquisite creature he’d ever seen.
Rabbi Weissman had often spoken of Rachel, but never of her physical beauty.
“My brilliant Rucheleh never ceases to remind me that in the book of Genesis it is the vomen who are in charge, from Eve all the vay through to her own name-sake, Rachel,”
“My Rucheleh prepared these jelly donuts for Hanukah, for me to give to my favorite students. Here are some, they are almost as sveet as she.”
Such adjectives had led Paul to expect a homely, bookish sort.
He had felt uneasy when he first arrived at the Weissmans’ small two bedroom apartment. Alfred had dropped him off outside the building, without accompanying him up, using the excuse of having to get to a business meeting.
Rebbetzin Weissman, the rabbi’s wife, had met Paul with a welcoming smile. She was younger than he’d imagined—a small woman, thin with a light complexion and dark brunette bangs protruding from under a kerchief, or tichel. She took his bag, and led him to Rachel’s room. Rachel had given up her bed for the weekend to sleep on the fold-out couch in the living room. He was told that this was routine in the Weissman home whenever there was a guest.
“I hope you’re not uncomfortable about staying in a girl’s room, it’s the best we can do,” the Rebbetzin said. He noticed immediately that she—unlike her husband—had no accent.
“Oh, not at all!” Polite, though not completely truthful.
“Isaac, I mean the rabbi, will be back in a few minutes. He and Rachel just went out to do some last minute shopping. Can I offer you anything, a cold drink, maybe?”
“No thank you,” he responded shyly.
“Okay. Well, I’ll leave you to unpack. There’s an empty drawer in the dresser, top left, and some room in the closet. The shower is in the hall bathroom, there’s soap and shampoo already there. Candle-lighting isn’t for another hour and a half so you have plenty of time. Just make yourself at home. And, by the way, my name is Hannah.”
Paul unpacked, showered, and dressed for his first Shabbos. He wore a light blue suit, white short sleeved shirt with a starched collar, and a Navy tie. Blue, in any shade, was his mother’s favorite color, not his.
After he dressed, he didn’t know what to do. He heard voices in the kitchen—the rabbi’s, Hannah’s, and another he assumed belonged to Rachel. His anxiety grew. Hannah had been much prettier than he’d imagined, so now he was curious to see Rachel. He breathed deeply, and went to join them.
“Ah, Pinchas,” the rabbi exclaimed as Paul appeared at the kitchen entrance. “Come, join us, ve vere just about to get you.” The rabbi put his arm around Paul. “You haven’t met my precious Rucheleh, whom I have told you so much about,” the rabbi said. “Rucheleh, this is Paul, rather Pinchas, whom I have told you so much about.”
Rachel was an emerald eyed, strawberry blond goddess – elegant facial features, flawless skin, and a figure that seemed slightly more mature than her years from what Paul could tell beneath her modest Orthodox attire. She smiled and said, “Hello.” Paul did the same, trying to still the tremor in his voice. The rabbi’s hand appeared in front of him, holding a yarmulke for him to place on his head.
They all went into the dining room, where the table was adorned with fine china, and two silver candlesticks in the middle. Hannah Weissman drew her husband and daughter near as she struck the match. The wicks came aglow, and Hannah waved her hands over the flames in three circular motions with her eyes closed, while reciting the blessing under her breath. Rachel and the rabbi stared at the burning candles until Hannah completed the blessing and opened her eyes to behold the light. The Weissmans wished each other gut Shabbos with kisses all around. Paul wondered what it must feel like to be loved like that.
Paul and the rabbi left for the synagogue, and the women remained at home. They walked down Montgomery Street to Kingston Avenue, and north on Kingston toward Eastern Parkway. Paul was amazed at what he saw on Kingston: a grocery store, a hat store, a drug store, a pizza place, a clothing store, all with Jewish signs, all closed for the Sabbath. He also saw droves of Hasidim heading to the synagogue, some seeming to take notice of him as well. He felt out of place being hatless and in a light colored suit. Most of the Hasidim walked briskly, passing him and the rabbi on their way.
“Why are they in such a hurry?” Paul asked.
“It is a mitzvah to pray. It is also a mitzvah to hurry oneself to do a mitzvah,” the rabbi responded.
“So why aren’t we walking fast too?”
“It is also a mitzvah to take it easy on the Sabbath,” the rabbi answered with a smile.
“I don’t understand?”
“Vell, there are sometimes disagreements about which mitzvahs are more important than others. I, and my tired legs, believe it is more important to take it easy.”
“I see.”
Paul wondered why some of the men scooting by seemed to look at him disapprovingly. He was certain the rabbi noticed too.
The synagogue was on the south side of Eastern Parkway, off Kingston Avenue, in the basement of a well maintained, red brick Tudor with a three pointed white cement crown rising above the roof of the facade. It was set back about fifty feet from the sidewalk, and its grounds were enclosed by a waist high wrought-iron fence. The entrance was marked by a white stone arch surrounding an immense mahogany door with two small windows and a large brass handle. Above the arch, a sign read World Lubavitcher Headquarters. A line gathered outside as the men shuffled through the aperture and down the stairs into the basement.
Once they were in the synagogue, Paul followed the rabbi through the mob to two empty seats along the eastern wall. It was strange, Paul thought, that these two seats should remain empty with such a crowd. He hadn’t known at the time that this w
as the most coveted section of the synagogue, specially reserved for the scholars of the community, one of whom was Rabbi Weissman. The rabbi took his usual seat, and gestured for Paul to take the one next to it. Paul looked around, still sensing eyes upon him.
The room was large, but still too small for the crowd. It was also noisy, people greeting one another, catching up, chatting about the latest political gossip, or deliberating minutiae of Jewish law. Paul looked around and found it curious the way the Hasidim talked to each other, the volume, the hand motions and dramatic body language that accompanied their words. Everything was imbued with intensity, whether the latest baseball scores—which he was surprised to hear being discussed a few rows behind—or the recent fluctuations of gold prices that two men were commiserating over just a few feet away.
Suddenly, silence fell upon the room as all heads turned toward a door in the northeastern corner. The door opened. A tall, heavy-set, red bearded man donning a black fedora and caftan appeared, then stepped to the side, holding the door, as he looked out at the audience and waited. Paul turned to Rabbi Weissman with a curious expression. “That’s Rabbi Shoenfeld, the Rebbe’s special assistant,” Rabbi Weissman whispered. The Rebbe, Paul had known, was The Grand Rabbi of all the Lubavitchers. He was regarded as a king, and as with all royalty, the position was usually maintained within one family, passed down from generation to generation.
