Berkowitz found a safety pin on the carpet. He opened it up,
tested the point's sharpness against his thumb. Satisfied, he
began to carve a pair of titties and a pot leaf into his desktop.
This brought a grin to my face, though I had yet to touch any titties
or smoke any weed. Berkowitz was the biggest badass in our Hebrew
school class. That wasn't exactly the same thing as really being
a badass, but it was something, so I sat with him in the back of the
classroom.
Eventually, Berkowitz grew bored with his graffiti. He shoved the pin into the lock of the old upright piano in the corner, and broke it off. It took him a couple twists before the metal gave.
"That'll teach them," he told me. "They'll try to open the piano to play it, and they won't be able to."
The choir would come back there to rehearse, and they wouldn't be able to. It was a crime. We were criminals. Murderers of soulful Jewish music. God would not hear the congregation's pleas.
All the same, they had brought it upon themselves by locking the piano in the first place. What were they protecting against? Were they afraid that anti-Semites would break in and play Baptist hymns?
I had no choice but to go along with Berkowitz. Better I should be a criminal than be a pussy like Jerome Auber, who sat in the front of the room, read Hebrew beautifully, and got beat up once a week at public school. I think that Berkowtiz took part in the beatings, sometimes.
I slapped Berkowitz five under my desk.
"Pesach is coming," Mrs. Saltzman, the rabbi's wife and our teacher, was saying. "Most of you are the youngest in your family, and will be called upon to read the four questions at Seder." It was true; practically everyone in the class was a youngest child. That's the way it is with Jews. You take a Jewish family with three sons, and at least two of them will be youngest children. And that older child will probably be a real bastard. "Let us practice, as a group and then individually, reading these four questions. Mah nish-ta-na ha-lai-lah ha-zeh you too Mr. Berkowitz mi-kol ha-lei-lot no ha-LEI-lot...."
Finally, we broke for recess.
In earlier years, there had been a nice field behind the synagogue where we could lounge on the grass or play touch football. The past summer, however, the temple board had paved it over for parking. Parking was one of the board's primary preoccupations.
The parking lot went right up to the outfield fence of the neighboring little league diamond. In the fall or winter, we could hop the fence and play there. It was spring now, which meant there was a practice or game there just about every afternoon.
Today it was a game. And today's game had a spectator, a doughy, unshaven man in blue jeans and a maroon polo shirt. He stood in the parking lot, next to a shiny black Kawasaki, and watched the serious playing of the uniformed Christian boys across the outfield. He spoke to us excitedly, but didn't take his eyes of the home team.
"How you doing fellows? What's going on? Oh, you're from the synagogue up there? Hebrew school? Let you out for a break, did they? I'm here to see my boy Billy play. Plays catcher. Billy Sullivan. Yeah, right there. You guys know him?"
I did know him, vaguely. He was in my older sister's grade at public school. Auber said that he and Billy played together in that school's marching band. French horn. If this guy was Billy's father, why was he watching from back here in the parking lot? Didn't fathers sit in the stands? Our own fathers were downtown, working in their offices.
"Well, hey now, would you guys like to sit on my bike?" Billy had been benched. "See what the view is like from up on a motorcycle?"
Oh, you better believe we did. Berkowitz was the bravest. He stepped forward for the first turn.
No sooner had he mounted the bike than the Rabbi's wife swept down on us. Her long skirt blew in the wind. Her head bobbled in anger. Her deceptively frail looking arms plucked Berkowitz off the seat and dropped him to the pavement.
"But Mrs. Saltzman, he said-"
"Sheket!" she snapped. For once, Berkowitz had the good sense to shut up.
Saltzman turned her attentions to Billy's father, who threw his arms up in defense.
"No, it's ok, don't worry, it's cool. I told the boys they could try my bike out. I was watching them. I'm a father."
"It may be fine with you, sir, but it is not fine with me. And I am responsible for these children's safety. For insurance reasons alone, they cannot…. I'm sorry. Goodbye."
We were dragged in from recess a full five minutes early. What a gyp. Billy's dad was left standing alone in the parking lot. The girls –– who had been gossiping on the synagogue steps and had done nothing to earn their share in the punishment ญญญญญ–– glared at us as we marched back to the classroom. They were taking after Mrs. Saltzman already. Some of those girls were very lovely, but they were all already a little bit horrible, and none of them had anything on Maura Diaz, who was half Irish and half Peruvian and wore black eye shadow. After recess was Current Jewish Events discussion. Israel. Who cares what they do in Israel? In America we have motorcycles.
Another fifty minutes passed and we were set free. The automobiles of parents were lining up out front.
"Mr. Geleb? Could you stay back for a minute, please?" Damn. Saltzman had me in her clutches.
"I would, Mrs. Saltzman, but Berkowitz's mom is waiting…"
"I'm sure Mrs. Berkowitz will not mind waiting five minutes." It wasn't true. Berkowitz would tell his mom that I had another ride home, that my mom got out of work early this week and could pick me up after all. But it didn't matter. I was trapped. The classroom had blue and yellow hard plastic chairs. I chose blue.
"You and Berkowitz spent a good deal of the afternoon goofing off, Mr. Geleb."
"So why don't you make Berkowitz stay after?"
"You let Berkowitz worry about Berkowitz. Besides, you are different from him. I expect more from you. You have a good Jewish soul, Phillip. If you applied yourself you could become… a light unto your people. You could become a great rabbi someday, Phillip, if you applied yourself. As it is now...."
"I don't think I want to be a rabbi."
"Fine. Who wants to be a rabbi these days? Though it's good enough for Rabbi Saltzman. Do you think you're better than him?"
"No, Mrs. Saltzman."
"Fine. But in any case, you want to be a success, don't you?"
"I guess so."
"Throughout the ages, our people have been disproportionately successful. And I think this has to do with the study of Hebrew, with Bar Mitzvah preparation. Our men learn at a young age that they have to apply themselves. That there are no shortcuts. You do want to be a success, don't you?"
"A success?"
"Yes, a success. Like your father, and other men of our congregation. Do you know that thirty years ago, there were no Jews at all in this neighborhood?"
"OK."
"That's OK with you?"
"No. Yes. I mean, I believe you that there were no Jews here."
"Mr. Geleb." She shook her head. "Mr. Geleb, in less than a year you will become a Bar Mitzvah. You will be a man, and you will have to make your own choices. It is only you –– and your poor parents –– who will suffer the consequences."
I got outside just in time to see the last of the long line of cars pull out of the parking lot. I watched the occidental caravan longingly as it trekked out into suburbia. It looked like I would be walking. It was a long way home. I'd have to take some shortcuts.
Rather than backtracking to the corner, where there was a traffic light, I cut across Westchester Pike right where I came to it. I chose my moment and dove into the traffic. Cars shot past me. An SUV hurtled toward me, and stopped short. It could not hit me. Its scolding horn sounded just like Mrs. Saltzman. I could not be hit. Warm exhaust poured over my body.
Later, a gang of teenagers blocked my way on the sidewalk. They lounged on their tiny, mean BMX bikes, and dared me to go around them. I wouldn't. I pushed right through them. They looked in my eyes and had the good sense not to try me.
I cut through people's yards.
I cut through one lawn where three old Italian men were playing bocce ball. I stumbled on a red ball, but regained my balance before I hit the ground. The old men were angry, and shouted, and shook their fists, but they didn't know enough of their mother tongue to curse me properly.
As for me, Torah Hebrew filled my mouth, whether I liked it or not.
Plastic virgins turned to flesh as I walked past them. Eager owls hunted, though the sun was not yet down. New flowers glistened with pesticide. Asphalt turned into a fountain of waters. Things grew but did not come together. I was one such thing.
I cut through another neighbor's yard, hopped the back fence, and came in to my own family's house through the kitchen door. I was startled to find my father sitting at the kitchen table. It was unheard of to see him home from work this early. I never quite knew how to behave when he was in the house.
He was sipping bourbon from a heavy bottomed whiskey glass with a freight train engraved around the base. His tie was not loosened. He had recently been promoted to Vice President in charge of environmental management at the Railroad. The made him the first Jewish Vice President the Railroad had ever had. This was something.
"So," he asked, as I crossed to the fridge to pour myself a glass of iced tea. "Where you coming in from?"
"Hebrew school. You send me there. Remember?"
"Yes." He took a sip of bourbon. "And what did you learn in Hebrew school, today, dear little boychick of mine?"
"I learned… I learned that I'd like to have a motorcycle someday."
"No. Don't be ridiculous. Motorcycles are stupid and dangerous. Worse than freight trains."
"Yeah, but I think it will be ok, because I also learned that I have the soul of a great rabbi, and that I can't be harmed by traffic."
"Don't be vainglorious, Phillip. Nobody likes a vainglorious Jew. It rubs them the wrong way."
"What does vainglorious mean?"
"You can't figure it out yourself?"
"No."
"Then go look it up." He gestured with his glass. "You know where the dictionary is."
I stomped down the hall to the living room. Upstairs in the study, we had a new Macintosh computer, with a built in dictionary and the Encarta '98 encyclopedia on CD ROM. But my father always insisted that I look up words in the physical dictionary, even though the dictionary on the Mac was quicker, and the only physical dictionary we had was the one he had inherited from his Uncle Solly.
Solly's dictionary ญ- which had been printed in Poughkeepsie, New York in 1937 - was heavy, and my arms were skinny. I had to brace the book against my left shoulder as I pulled it down from its high shelf. I placed it on the floor, and sat down in front of it. I grabbed hold of the indented "V" tab, and wrestled the volume open.
"Vainglorious. Adj. Inordinate pride in oneself or one's achievements." So that was all it meant. Vain and glory stuck together. There was no secret to that. I looked up "Jew."
"Noun. One of a scattered group of people who claim descent from the Hebrews of the Bible..."
I flipped aimlessly through the pages. The word 'glean' caught my eye. All I knew was that it sounded like 'gleam,' and had something to do with Torah.
"Glean. Verb. To gather slowly and laboriously, bit by bit."
From the kitchen I heard ice clink against glass, wood scrape against linoleum, newspaper crumple against itself. A heavy sigh. I laid my head down on the open dictionary. The page felt cool against my face.
Eventually, Berkowitz grew bored with his graffiti. He shoved the pin into the lock of the old upright piano in the corner, and broke it off. It took him a couple twists before the metal gave.
"That'll teach them," he told me. "They'll try to open the piano to play it, and they won't be able to."
The choir would come back there to rehearse, and they wouldn't be able to. It was a crime. We were criminals. Murderers of soulful Jewish music. God would not hear the congregation's pleas.
All the same, they had brought it upon themselves by locking the piano in the first place. What were they protecting against? Were they afraid that anti-Semites would break in and play Baptist hymns?
I had no choice but to go along with Berkowitz. Better I should be a criminal than be a pussy like Jerome Auber, who sat in the front of the room, read Hebrew beautifully, and got beat up once a week at public school. I think that Berkowtiz took part in the beatings, sometimes.
I slapped Berkowitz five under my desk.
"Pesach is coming," Mrs. Saltzman, the rabbi's wife and our teacher, was saying. "Most of you are the youngest in your family, and will be called upon to read the four questions at Seder." It was true; practically everyone in the class was a youngest child. That's the way it is with Jews. You take a Jewish family with three sons, and at least two of them will be youngest children. And that older child will probably be a real bastard. "Let us practice, as a group and then individually, reading these four questions. Mah nish-ta-na ha-lai-lah ha-zeh you too Mr. Berkowitz mi-kol ha-lei-lot no ha-LEI-lot...."
Finally, we broke for recess.
In earlier years, there had been a nice field behind the synagogue where we could lounge on the grass or play touch football. The past summer, however, the temple board had paved it over for parking. Parking was one of the board's primary preoccupations.
The parking lot went right up to the outfield fence of the neighboring little league diamond. In the fall or winter, we could hop the fence and play there. It was spring now, which meant there was a practice or game there just about every afternoon.
Today it was a game. And today's game had a spectator, a doughy, unshaven man in blue jeans and a maroon polo shirt. He stood in the parking lot, next to a shiny black Kawasaki, and watched the serious playing of the uniformed Christian boys across the outfield. He spoke to us excitedly, but didn't take his eyes of the home team.
"How you doing fellows? What's going on? Oh, you're from the synagogue up there? Hebrew school? Let you out for a break, did they? I'm here to see my boy Billy play. Plays catcher. Billy Sullivan. Yeah, right there. You guys know him?"
I did know him, vaguely. He was in my older sister's grade at public school. Auber said that he and Billy played together in that school's marching band. French horn. If this guy was Billy's father, why was he watching from back here in the parking lot? Didn't fathers sit in the stands? Our own fathers were downtown, working in their offices.
"Well, hey now, would you guys like to sit on my bike?" Billy had been benched. "See what the view is like from up on a motorcycle?"
Oh, you better believe we did. Berkowitz was the bravest. He stepped forward for the first turn.
No sooner had he mounted the bike than the Rabbi's wife swept down on us. Her long skirt blew in the wind. Her head bobbled in anger. Her deceptively frail looking arms plucked Berkowitz off the seat and dropped him to the pavement.
"But Mrs. Saltzman, he said-"
"Sheket!" she snapped. For once, Berkowitz had the good sense to shut up.
Saltzman turned her attentions to Billy's father, who threw his arms up in defense.
"No, it's ok, don't worry, it's cool. I told the boys they could try my bike out. I was watching them. I'm a father."
"It may be fine with you, sir, but it is not fine with me. And I am responsible for these children's safety. For insurance reasons alone, they cannot…. I'm sorry. Goodbye."
We were dragged in from recess a full five minutes early. What a gyp. Billy's dad was left standing alone in the parking lot. The girls –– who had been gossiping on the synagogue steps and had done nothing to earn their share in the punishment ญญญญญ–– glared at us as we marched back to the classroom. They were taking after Mrs. Saltzman already. Some of those girls were very lovely, but they were all already a little bit horrible, and none of them had anything on Maura Diaz, who was half Irish and half Peruvian and wore black eye shadow. After recess was Current Jewish Events discussion. Israel. Who cares what they do in Israel? In America we have motorcycles.
Another fifty minutes passed and we were set free. The automobiles of parents were lining up out front.
"Mr. Geleb? Could you stay back for a minute, please?" Damn. Saltzman had me in her clutches.
"I would, Mrs. Saltzman, but Berkowitz's mom is waiting…"
"I'm sure Mrs. Berkowitz will not mind waiting five minutes." It wasn't true. Berkowitz would tell his mom that I had another ride home, that my mom got out of work early this week and could pick me up after all. But it didn't matter. I was trapped. The classroom had blue and yellow hard plastic chairs. I chose blue.
"You and Berkowitz spent a good deal of the afternoon goofing off, Mr. Geleb."
"So why don't you make Berkowitz stay after?"
"You let Berkowitz worry about Berkowitz. Besides, you are different from him. I expect more from you. You have a good Jewish soul, Phillip. If you applied yourself you could become… a light unto your people. You could become a great rabbi someday, Phillip, if you applied yourself. As it is now...."
"I don't think I want to be a rabbi."
"Fine. Who wants to be a rabbi these days? Though it's good enough for Rabbi Saltzman. Do you think you're better than him?"
"No, Mrs. Saltzman."
"Fine. But in any case, you want to be a success, don't you?"
"I guess so."
"Throughout the ages, our people have been disproportionately successful. And I think this has to do with the study of Hebrew, with Bar Mitzvah preparation. Our men learn at a young age that they have to apply themselves. That there are no shortcuts. You do want to be a success, don't you?"
"A success?"
"Yes, a success. Like your father, and other men of our congregation. Do you know that thirty years ago, there were no Jews at all in this neighborhood?"
"OK."
"That's OK with you?"
"No. Yes. I mean, I believe you that there were no Jews here."
"Mr. Geleb." She shook her head. "Mr. Geleb, in less than a year you will become a Bar Mitzvah. You will be a man, and you will have to make your own choices. It is only you –– and your poor parents –– who will suffer the consequences."
I got outside just in time to see the last of the long line of cars pull out of the parking lot. I watched the occidental caravan longingly as it trekked out into suburbia. It looked like I would be walking. It was a long way home. I'd have to take some shortcuts.
Rather than backtracking to the corner, where there was a traffic light, I cut across Westchester Pike right where I came to it. I chose my moment and dove into the traffic. Cars shot past me. An SUV hurtled toward me, and stopped short. It could not hit me. Its scolding horn sounded just like Mrs. Saltzman. I could not be hit. Warm exhaust poured over my body.
Later, a gang of teenagers blocked my way on the sidewalk. They lounged on their tiny, mean BMX bikes, and dared me to go around them. I wouldn't. I pushed right through them. They looked in my eyes and had the good sense not to try me.
I cut through people's yards.
I cut through one lawn where three old Italian men were playing bocce ball. I stumbled on a red ball, but regained my balance before I hit the ground. The old men were angry, and shouted, and shook their fists, but they didn't know enough of their mother tongue to curse me properly.
As for me, Torah Hebrew filled my mouth, whether I liked it or not.
Plastic virgins turned to flesh as I walked past them. Eager owls hunted, though the sun was not yet down. New flowers glistened with pesticide. Asphalt turned into a fountain of waters. Things grew but did not come together. I was one such thing.
I cut through another neighbor's yard, hopped the back fence, and came in to my own family's house through the kitchen door. I was startled to find my father sitting at the kitchen table. It was unheard of to see him home from work this early. I never quite knew how to behave when he was in the house.
He was sipping bourbon from a heavy bottomed whiskey glass with a freight train engraved around the base. His tie was not loosened. He had recently been promoted to Vice President in charge of environmental management at the Railroad. The made him the first Jewish Vice President the Railroad had ever had. This was something.
"So," he asked, as I crossed to the fridge to pour myself a glass of iced tea. "Where you coming in from?"
"Hebrew school. You send me there. Remember?"
"Yes." He took a sip of bourbon. "And what did you learn in Hebrew school, today, dear little boychick of mine?"
"I learned… I learned that I'd like to have a motorcycle someday."
"No. Don't be ridiculous. Motorcycles are stupid and dangerous. Worse than freight trains."
"Yeah, but I think it will be ok, because I also learned that I have the soul of a great rabbi, and that I can't be harmed by traffic."
"Don't be vainglorious, Phillip. Nobody likes a vainglorious Jew. It rubs them the wrong way."
"What does vainglorious mean?"
"You can't figure it out yourself?"
"No."
"Then go look it up." He gestured with his glass. "You know where the dictionary is."
I stomped down the hall to the living room. Upstairs in the study, we had a new Macintosh computer, with a built in dictionary and the Encarta '98 encyclopedia on CD ROM. But my father always insisted that I look up words in the physical dictionary, even though the dictionary on the Mac was quicker, and the only physical dictionary we had was the one he had inherited from his Uncle Solly.
Solly's dictionary ญ- which had been printed in Poughkeepsie, New York in 1937 - was heavy, and my arms were skinny. I had to brace the book against my left shoulder as I pulled it down from its high shelf. I placed it on the floor, and sat down in front of it. I grabbed hold of the indented "V" tab, and wrestled the volume open.
"Vainglorious. Adj. Inordinate pride in oneself or one's achievements." So that was all it meant. Vain and glory stuck together. There was no secret to that. I looked up "Jew."
"Noun. One of a scattered group of people who claim descent from the Hebrews of the Bible..."
I flipped aimlessly through the pages. The word 'glean' caught my eye. All I knew was that it sounded like 'gleam,' and had something to do with Torah.
"Glean. Verb. To gather slowly and laboriously, bit by bit."
From the kitchen I heard ice clink against glass, wood scrape against linoleum, newspaper crumple against itself. A heavy sigh. I laid my head down on the open dictionary. The page felt cool against my face.
ฉ Ben Nadler All Rights Reserved