Joshua: A Brooklyn Tale (8 page)

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 was 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.

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.