by Andrew Kane
A moment later a second man entered, and the entire congregation stood up. The man was short, no taller than five six, with a slightly hunched back, but he walked with great deliberateness. His marks of distinction included a hat that was taller and wider brimmed than the fedoras of his followers, and a pure silk caftan. Most outstanding were his eyes—soft, glimmering blue, almost childlike—and his long, full, radiant white beard. Beneath the beard, a pale, wrinkled face with an austere expression.
The Rebbe sauntered toward his seat beside the ark as everyone remained standing in silence. The heavy-set man with the red beard closed the door through which they had entered and followed his leader. The Rebbe seemed to be ignoring the honored reception, his eyes focused instead on the ark. Just before taking his seat, he stopped for an instant, turned and stared into the crowd. Then, as he sat, his assistant—still standing—pounded his hand on a lectern. A loud thump resounded through the room and the congregation broke into prayer.
Paul was amazed by the aura of the Rebbe’s presence. He saw Rabbi Weissman was already lost in prayer, so he opened his own book, and started struggling through the Hebrew. He was better in Hebrew than most of his peers back in Hewlett Harbor, but still not good enough to follow at this pace.
After the service, everybody offered one another salutations for the Sabbath. Rabbi Weissman shook Paul’s hand and patted him on the shoulder. Paul smiled and uttered his first, “Good Shabbos.”
Walking home, they were joined by two other men, close friends and neighbors of Rabbi Weissman. The three men spoke in Yiddish, and while Paul couldn’t understand a word, he could tell from the tone that whatever they were discussing was a serious matter. He knew it wasn’t about him, for Rabbi Weissman wasn’t capable of such rudeness.
One of the rabbi’s friends suddenly broke into English. “I don’t care what they think, let them go to hell,” he burst out angrily.
“Reb Moishe,” the rabbi stated calmly—Reb being a euphemism of respect. “Please, my friend, there is no need to be so angry on the Sabbath. The Rebbe has assured us that he will soon speak out against this fanaticism.”
“It cannot be soon enough,” the second man asserted with slightly less ire than his cohort. “These zealots have invaded our community, they are teaching our children in the yeshivas, and they are spying on us like the Gestapo.”
“Enough!” exclaimed Rabbi Weissman.
Paul was stunned, for he had never imagined the rabbi could speak so harshly.
“I’m sorry, Reb Itzhik,” the second man said to Rabbi Weissman. “I should not have said that,” referring to the term Gestapo. “I’m very sorry.”
Paul wondered what these men were talking about in the first place? Who were the fanatics? Why were they such a threat?
“It is okay,” Rabbi Weissman said to his friend as he regained his composure and affectionately took the man by the arm. “As for those fanatics, the Rebbe vill deal vith them; he vill teach them the true way of God and the Torah, I am certain.”
“I hope you are right, Reb Itzhik,” the man named Moishe said.
“Yes, from the mouth of Reb Itzhik to the ears of The Creator,” the second man affirmed.
By this time they were standing outside Rabbi Weissman’s building. The three men smiled at each other and said good night. The man named Moishe turned to Paul, extended his hand, and said, “Gut Shabbos.” The other man did the same, and then the two of them continued down the block.
As they walked away, Paul heard them mumbling, and wondered if Rabbi Weissman’s words had made any impact. He looked at the rabbi’s face, and saw that the rabbi also had his own doubts.
Paul and the rabbi entered the building and walked up the six flights of stairs, elevators being forbidden on the Sabbath according to Orthodox law. The rabbi needed to stop once to catch his breath, but it didn’t seem to bother him. He was content with any and all sacrifices for his beliefs.
The rabbi was still panting when they entered the apartment, but it seemed to subside the instant Rachel greeted him with a hug, kiss, and a hearty “good Shabbos.” Afterward, she turned to Paul and politely added, “Good Shabbos Pinchas.”
Hearing her speak his name did something to Paul. He looked at her with a nervous smile and replied, “Good Shabbos, Rachel.”
The rabbi disappeared into the kitchen where Hannah was preparing to serve the meal. Rachel turned away from Paul and sashayed into the kitchen herself. Paul followed.
As they entered they caught the rabbi and Hannah embracing. Rachel smiled, but seemed a bit embarrassed. A similar look came upon the rabbi’s face; he had momentarily forgotten that his student was in his house.
“Come Papa, I believe it’s time to say Kiddush,” Rachel interjected, referring to the traditional prayer over the wine.
“Yes, it is getting late, ve should get started,” the rabbi responded.
They gathered around the table, the rabbi at one head, Hannah at the other, and Paul across from Rachel.
The rabbi took the overflowing cup in his hand, rose to his feet, and began reciting the blessing. Paul recognized the words from his Bar Mitzvah lessons. In two weeks he would recite the same prayer in Temple, on Friday night before the entire congregation. He felt less nervous about that than he did from the young lady sitting across the table.
The rabbi’s eyes were closed as he sang. His body swayed back and forth. Paul had listened to the rabbi’s recitation of this prayer many times—he even had a recording of it to help him learn it—but he had never heard it said with such fervor as now. He watched Rachel and Hannah as they hummed softly to the rabbi’s melody. On the table, the candles stood aglow and two large challas lay beneath a colorful embroidered cloth that depicted a design of the city of Jerusalem.
This was the traditional Shabbos table Paul had learned about, had seen in pictures, but had never actually experienced. He wanted to absorb everything; the warmth, the love, the flickering flames, and Rachel’s resplendent eyes.
During the meal, conversation was interspersed with the singing of Sabbath melodies. Paul was unaccustomed to singing at the dinner table, unfamiliar with the songs, and his voice wasn’t very good. Not wanting to appear inept in front of Rachel, he hummed along, softly at first, until the spirit seemed to grab him, and he found himself singing as loud as the rabbi.
The menu consisted of gefilte fish, salad, chicken soup, roasted veal, kugel, and rice mixed with peas and carrots. It was a job getting it all down. The rabbi and Hannah talked some about family matters; Rachel discussed her studies at school and confessed that one of the rabbis had caught her best friend, Esther Mandlebaum, passing her a note. Paul was surprised that she wasn’t afraid to tell this to her parents, and was even more astonished at their laughter about it. It seemed they were confident that the passing of a note wouldn’t turn their daughter into a delinquent.
The rabbi turned to Paul and said, “I informed the Rebbe that ve vere having you here for Shabbos, and that your Bar Mitzvah is in two veeks. He says that he vould like that you be called to the Torah in the synagogue tomorrow morning, yes?”
“But I can’t really be called to the Torah until I am actually Bar Mitzvah’d, isn’t that what you taught me?”
“Yes, you are correct. But, the truth is that your Bar Mitzvah passed some time ago, it vas the day you turned thirteen. Remember vhen ve calculated your Hebrew birthday as being the eleventh of the month of Av. Vell, that vas your Bar Mitzvah. It is a strange thing, a Bar Mitzvah, vone does not really have to do anything, it just happens automatically. Vhether you celebrate or not, you are still Bar Mitzvah’d on that day.”
Paul’s anxiety was apparent.
“Nothing to vorry, Pinchas,” the rabbi continued. “All you have to do is say the same blessings over the Torah reading that you already know. It is, how they say here in America, a piece of cake, yes?”
Rachel and Hannah chuckled.
Paul was concerned, but knew he had to do it. He couldn’t cow
er in front of Rachel.
The matter was settled without further discussion. A few more melodies, a delicious mocha layer cake for dessert, the concluding benedictions, and the meal was over. Before Paul knew it, he was lying in bed, tossing and turning, dreading the day that awaited.
The next morning, Paul and the rabbi arrived at the synagogue an hour before the services began. It was the rabbi’s custom to come early on Sabbath morning in order to study a while before beginning his prayers. There were several men gathered around a large table headed by an elderly rabbi ruminating over a page of Talmud. The elder played with his long silver beard and rocked back and forth as he spoke. Some of the men had their own books, some shared, and some simply listened. Paul and Rabbi Weissman sat close to the teacher.
On route to the synagogue, Rabbi Weissman had explained to Paul that the Lubavitcher community had many different tiers of leadership. Beneath the Rebbe were other rabbis, the “elders” of the community, each with their own students and devotees, some with slightly varying interpretations of the Rebbe’s teachings.
Paul recalled the conversation between the rabbi and his neighbors the night before, as well as the disdainful looks some of the Hasidim had given him. It occurred to him that among these people, slight differences in interpretation could be rather serious.
At the conclusion of the study session, Rabbi Weissman introduced Paul to the teacher. The man, Rav Yehudah Feldblum, spoke only Yiddish, but his smile communicated enough. Rav was a special term of respect, reserved for rabbis of the highest order. “He said he is privileged to meet the honored Bar Mitzvah boy,” Rabbi Weissman translated.
“But how does he know?” Paul asked.
“Ah, just about everyone in the community knows; news travels very quickly around these parts,” the rabbi responded.
Paul was bewildered.
Rabbi Weissman pointed out that the other men around the table were also students of Rav Feldblum, and that Rav Feldblum was an elder of the community, and a special advisor to the Rebbe. Paul noticed that this group of men seemed quite accepting of his presence.
The synagogue filled quickly. Similar chattering as the night before and, again, the ceremonious entrance of the Rebbe. About an hour into the service, the Torah scroll was taken from the ark. The man who led the prayers marched it around the synagogue and then placed it on a large bima, table, in the center of the room. Another man undressed the scroll and sang out the Rebbe’s name, bestowing on the Grand Rabbi the honor of the first blessing for the reading of the Torah. Everyone in the room rose to their feet the moment the Rebbe’s name resounded.
A path was cleared for the Rebbe to walk through, as he made his way from the front of the room. He moved slowly among his followers, who were awed by his mere proximity. He approached the podium, climbed the two steps, draped his tallis over his head, and stood before the Torah scroll. Silence permeated the room.
The Rebbe began to recite the words of the blessing in a low, measured tone. The congregation responded loudly with their traditional refrains. The Rebbe completed the blessing, and the reader proceeded to chant the initial section from the Sabbath Torah portion. Everyone in the room followed along in their own texts. Paul knew that his turn at the podium was not far off. Rabbi Weissman had told him that he was to be the third person called. “A very high honor,” the rabbi had said.
Upstairs, in the women’s section, the main attraction was neither the Rebbe’s blessing nor the reading from the scroll, but the large shopping bag that Hannah and Rachel Weissman had smuggled into the synagogue. Quickly, Rachel and her mother reached into the bag, pulled out several smaller bags filled with candy, and doled them out among the women. The plan was set into motion. As soon as the Bar Mitzvah boy, now known to them as Pinchas, finished his blessing, the bags of candy would descend upon him from the balcony. Such was the traditional way to celebrate a Bar Mitzvah, the throwing of the candy symbolizing the wish for a life of sweetness.
Most of the women were excited, but not all. The dissenters were the wives and daughters of those men who had shunned Paul the night before. These were members of a right wing faction opposed to Rav Feldblum and his students, objecting to any Lubavitcher scholar teaching in a Reform temple, and to Rav Feldblum’s belief in reaching out to other Jews. They wanted their community to remain pure, free from outside, “poisonous” influences.
Their leader was another elder, Rav Nachum Schachter, a man reputed to be a great legal scholar, perhaps the keenest Talmudic mind in the community. He was the head of the Bet Din, the Rabbinical Court where all communal and personal conflicts were adjudicated. Hasidim never took one another to secular court, but the calendar in the Rabbinical Court was backlogged at least two years. This position made Rav Schachter a force among the Lubavitchers. His judgments were often harsh, his hand was far reaching, and many of his followers were more loyal to him than even to the Rebbe.
Rabbi Weissman’s hand came around Paul’s shoulder as the man on the podium sang out his Hebrew name, along with the title “Habachur HaBar Mitzvah,” the Bar Mitzvah boy. Perplexed, Paul turned to Rabbi Weissman, who smiled and whispered, “Today is the day of your Bar Mitzvah, Pinchas. Go! Make me proud!”
Paul moved hesitantly toward the podium. He wanted to back out, say forget it, pack his bags and catch the next train back to Hewlett Harbor, but he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t disappoint the rabbi, and he wasn’t going to recoil in front of Rachel. It was his first taste of what “love” can make men do, a fitting lesson on the day he was to become “a man.”
He ascended the steps of the podium and approached the Torah scroll. The man who had called his name reached into a blue velvet bag and removed a large white prayer shawl with black stripes and white fringes. Rabbi Weissman had taught Paul about the significance of the tallis, prayer shawl, though in his temple they weren’t worn. The man helped him drape the shawl over his shoulders. It was large and engulfed his entire body, the fringes reaching the floor.
The man reading from the scroll took the silver pointer, pointed to a word in the scroll, and instructed Paul to take one of the corners of the prayer shawl, touch it to the word, and then kiss it. After doing this, Paul began reciting the short blessing before the Torah reading. Despite his nervousness, the Hebrew was familiar and flowed easily. He was even able to concentrate on the meaning of the words, Blessed be God . . . Who has chosen us from among the other nations, and has given us His Torah. Thanks to the rabbi, it was one of the prayers he understood.
Paul concluded his blessing, and the reader began. He tried to follow the pointer as it passed from word to word upon the ancient Torah scroll. He had studied Torah script with Rabbi Weissman, and recognized all the letters. Figuring out the correct pronunciation of words, and their accompanying melody, however, was another matter. That task required vowels and notes, neither of which appeared in the scroll itself. He knew he was going to read from the scroll in his own temple in two weeks. He had spent months memorizing the pronunciation and melody for each word. None of his peers had bothered learning this; instead, they recited only the Haftorah, which could be read directly from a book containing notes and vowels. But Rabbi Weissman insisted that Paul do it the hard way. “A true scholar breaks his teeth and suffers to gain knowledge,” the rabbi had remarked.
The reader finished, and again instructed Paul to take a corner of the prayer shawl, touch it to the last word read, and kiss it. Paul recited the concluding blessing, “Blessed be God . . . who has given us His Torah of truth, and implanted within us eternal life.” As he completed the blessing, he noticed the other men on the podium lifting their prayer shawls above their heads and holding them up like canopies. He had no idea what they were doing, and wondered if he was supposed to do the same. He looked to the man who had been instructing him, but the man offered only a smile. Suddenly, a shower of candy began to fall from the balcony. as the congregation broke into joyous singing and clapping.
Siman Tov Umazel Tov, a traditi
onal song wishing luck and prosperity.
The young children raced to the podium to collect the candy as Paul felt his hand grabbed by the man next to him, pulling him into a circular dance around the Torah scroll. He followed, and began singing along.
Another circle quickly formed at the foot of the podium, then another around that, and still another around the last. Most of the men’s section had broken into dance, save for the followers of Rav Schachter, while the women above leaned over the railing, watched and sang along. All, except the wives and children of the followers of Rav Schachter.
Gradually the gaiety subsided, decorum was restored, and the next honoree was called to the Torah. Paul removed the prayer shawl and returned it to the man who had given it to him. The man placed it back in the blue velvet bag, and as Paul descended the podium to return to his seat, the man reached out, stopped him, and handed him the velvet bag with the prayer shawl inside. Paul hesitated, not understanding the gesture. “It is a gift for you from your revered teacher,” the man said as he placed the bag in Paul’s hand.
Paul took the bag, and returned to his seat, where Rabbi Weissman tearfully embraced him and kissed him on the forehead. Paul stiffened, as he was unaccustomed to such displays of affection. The rabbi looked him in the eye, and said, “Mazel tov, my son, mazel tov!”
My son, Paul thought, if only.
Here he was, two weeks later, reciting the same blessing over the Torah, feeling almost naked without his tallis and yarmulke. He had hidden the tallis in the bottom of his junk drawer, the only drawer he knew his mother didn’t regularly inspect. How kind she was, he often mused, to allow him this morsel of privacy.
He noticed his father looking around, observing the reactions of the others in the room. He knew that Alfred would only be impressed if the guests were impressed.
His Torah reading was flawless, and his conclusion of the final blessing was met with silence. No candy flew through the air, no singing or dancing. He returned to his seat between the rabbi and the president of the congregation, each of whom extended their hands and politely wished him Mazel Tov.
