1939
A doorbell sounded in the distance, but Jeremiah’s brain was occupied with Roberta Steinbaum. He’d known her since third grade but had only recently noticed the way she tittered at his jokes and gave him playful glances that made his insides go wobbly. Deep in his daydream, it could have been a few beats or several minutes before he heard the shrieking. He took the steps two at a time in a panic, heart hammering, and found his mother crumpled on a chair in at their kitchen table, clutching a cable. Had something happened to Ruthie or Lenny or Papa? But he’d walked his beloved seven-year-old sister to a friend’s an hour ago, his brother was at a chess tournament, and his father should be safe at the store.
His mother in such a state, he’d never seen. She was moaning, her hands clamped over her face, fingers pulling at the edges of her hair. “Ma! What is it? Ma!”
Rikki Gerstler was the tougher of Jeremiah’s two parents, the backbone of the family, strong in spirit, who’d never allow anything bad to happen to her children. The one who’s hands and mind never rested, whether cooking or cleaning or crocheting at home or ringing up the register or advising his father on business issues at the liquor store. Thanks to her scrimping and saving, the family had weathered the Great Depression, never lacking for food or clothing. Jeremiah had seen his mother upset – angry at him, weepy when a friend died – but this unbridled crying was new, and a bit frightening.
Jeremiah slid into the seat across from her and repeated his question. Rikki shook her head to indicate she couldn’t speak and pushed the telegram across the table, permission to read. He froze, fearful of the contents, but then took a deep breath.
TATEH GONE STOP MASSIVE STROKE STOP FUN. TOM. 1PM MT CARMEL GLENDALE STOP DOVID.
His uncle’s words jumbled on the paper as tears pooled in his eyes. Tateh gone? Impossible. Zeyde Anshel was the only grandparent Jeremiah had ever known. In a few weeks, he’d be taking the train from New York for Jeremiah’s bar mitzvah, tasked with bringing the herring from their favorite appetizing store in Queens. Every year, Zeyde Anshel sent Jeremiah a dollar on his birthday. And a few Sundays ago, when they’d visited him on Father’s Day, Zeyde Anshel had taken them to the World’s Fair in Flushing Meadows. His parents had known about the surprise ahead of time, but for Jeremiah, Lenny, and Ruthie, it was a spectacular day, one they’d remember their whole lives. Zeyde had hinted that he’d been saving up for greater gifts to come, perhaps tickets to a Yankees game.
His mother reached for Jeremiah’s hand. The ferocity of her grief cast away his childish thoughts of presents. They’d never again hear Zeyde regaling them with tales of his Galician shtetl, where he’d been a sought-after tailor, or hear how, as a young man, he’d bravely fought back when a couple of Poles tried to rough him up. After Grandma Beyla died, Zeyde had raised his four children alone. And though his customers had included important non-Jews – he’d sewn garments for the local bishop – after the horrors of the Great War and the pogroms, Zeyde Anshel moved the whole family to America. On the Jewish holidays, he rotated between his children: Jeremiah’s family in Bridgeport, Uncle Dave – Dovid to his mother – in Queens, and Leibish and Sorele in Baltimore.
From the kitchen window, a ray of sunshine illuminated a spot on the counter, which seemed inconsistent with the news. How could the sun be shining? Zeyde Anshel’s presence had seemed a fixed thing in the world, a constant for all of Jeremiah’s 12 years, 11 months, and one week. He was old enough to know that “constant” was a fallacy, but Jeremiah felt as if he’d been walloped over the head. A lump rose in his throat, the second time this week. A few days ago, on the Fourth of July, he’d felt a similar sadness listening to Lou Gehrig’s farewell speech, but that was a public sorrow, shared across America.
“Should I get Papa?” Jeremiah asked her gently. He didn’t often ride his bicycle as far as the store, but it seemed like an emergency.
Rikki stood and indicated Jeremiah should come around the table, enclosing him in a tight embrace. Her chest heaved and giant tears wet his hair. He didn’t know how to comfort her aside from allowing her to hold him.
After what felt like several long minutes his mother released him, regaining her composure. She wiped her eyes and ran her hands over his cheeks, drying the wetness, and sent him to fetch his father.
***
It was grossly unfair that Lenny was allowed to attend Zeyde’s funeral and Jeremiah was not. Funerals were not for children, their father said; Jeremiah and Ruthie would be remanded to the care of a neighbor. Jeremiah argued that in three weeks he’d be an adult in the eyes of their religion, but his parents could not be swayed. Abe’s most trusted assistant would mind the store for a few days, the longest he’d ever been absent.
In the morning, Abe, Rikki and Lenny dressed in their best, dark clothing. When it was time to go, his mother scooped Ruthie into her arms with a quivery smile, assuring Ruthie that she’d be fine. Her voice seemed unnaturally bright. She hugged Jeremiah, holding on for an extra beat. Kissing his head, she whispered one word: “Behave!”
Jeremiah stiffened. A few years ago, the sting would have brought tears to his eyes, but he was older and tougher now.
Intuiting her error, Rikki stooped to his eye level and softened her tone. “Listen. Papa will come home tonight, and tomorrow he’ll bring you to the shiva. But right now, I need your help with Ruthie. She’s never been away from me for a night, and you’re such a good big brother.” She forced a smile. “The best thing you can do in Zeyde Anshel’s honor is to help your sister and not give Mrs. Shields any trouble. I know you can.”
Jeremiah sucked in his cheeks and nodded, appeased; if Ruthie had to pick one of her brothers to stay by her side, Jeremiah was certain it would be him.
At the neighbor’s, he and Ruthie played games and admired Mrs. Shields’ display of Coca-Cola collectibles, especially a pocketknife that she let him hold. To keep his sister entertained, Jeremiah surprised himself by suggesting a crafts project. After lunch, Mrs. Shields got out her sewing kit and spare fabric, and together they made new rag dolls for Ruthie. He imagined Zeyde Anshel smiling in admiration at his grandchildren learning a few basic stitches.
Later, Mrs. Shields, who’d been a teacher, brought him a workbook: American History: From the Days of the Early Explorers to Now. “You don’t have to do the exercises,” she said, “but you might like to read this.” He had no plans to do schoolwork during summer vacation, but he paged through the items on the cotton gin and the wives of Jamestown, Daniel Boone and the War of 1812, the Battle of Antietam.
Long before his father picked them up that night, Ruthie had fallen asleep, cradling her four new dolls. She’d named one of the boy dolls Albert, after Zeyde Anshel, and another one Jerry, without any prodding from Jeremiah.
Abe’s suit was rumpled from the long day, his eyes bloodshot. Mrs. Shields reported that the children had been perfectly well-behaved. She seemed to have taken a shine to Jeremiah. “He’s a smart boy, this one,” Mrs. Shields said, “and he’s got a good heart. He’s going to make you very proud someday.”
His father placed his hands on Jeremiah’s shoulders. “A better son, I couldn’t ask.” Praise usually reserved for Lenny. Jeremiah hoped Zeyde Anshel wouldn’t mind, but it had turned into a pretty good day.
***
Zeyde Anshel’s apartment in Queens was crammed with aunts and uncles and cousins and family friends. Jeremiah wandered between the small front room and the two bedrooms in the back, one where Zeyde Anshel slept and the other with a pullout couch and scattered knickknacks: photo albums, a worn siddur, yellowed copies of the Forverts, spools of thread and old tape measures, discards from his job at Segal’s Expert Tailors.
Jeremiah’s mother sat in a low chair in the front room, a pile of pictures on a small table next to her. There was one photograph Jeremiah had never seen before: his mother as a girl, buttressed by her siblings, all smiling, in holiday clothing, Zeyde Anshel stood behind them, one hand on Aunt Sorele’s shoulder on the left and the other on Uncle Leibish’s shoulder on the right.
His mother saw him staring at the picture and motioned for her children to come closer. “This was a terrible time,” she said, sighing. Aunt Sorele nodded in agreement. She closed her eyes and seemed exhausted.
“But you’re all smiling,” Jeremiah said.
“Yes, but you see who isn’t in the picture? My mother. This was a month or two after she died. Our first Rosh Hashana without her. I was eight.”
Ruthie, about to turn eight, perked up.
“Can you imagine what it was like, darlings? One day – poof! No Mama! I was so young,” she said. Sorele, 15, at the time, had helped raise her younger siblings. “And now with Tateh gone, we’re orphans.”
It sounded strange to think of any adult as an orphan, much less his mother and Aunt Sorele, who was already a grandmother. None of Jeremiah’s cousins were close to his age. Two of his Baltimore cousins were already married, whereas Uncle Dave’s children were younger, a 4-year-old, a 2-year-old, and now a baby; they’d made a brief appearance at Zeyde’s apartment before his aunt whisked them away.
***
“So…do I still have to meet Mr. Mandell tomorrow?” Jeremiah was sitting with his father and siblings on the train back to Bridgeport, and no one had mentioned the bar mitzvah since the news of Zeyde Anshel. Jeremiah half hoped to get out of the weekly lesson with the Hebrew teacher. “I mean, is it cancelled, my bar mitzvah?”
“Pshaw! What kind of a question is that? Of course you’ll become a bar mitzvah!”
A relief, for the most part. Jeremiah was looking forward to the attention, to the handshakes and pats on the back from the members of the shul, though a tiny part of him wanted to refuse to go through with it without Zeyde Anshel. He felt good about his haftorah, and though he needed to write his speech, he was confident he could get a few laughs, especially out of his Hebrew school buddies and Roberta Steinbaum. He daydreamed of Roberta kissing him passionately, so impressed with his performance on the bima. His stomach went jumpy at the thought, a better bar mitzvah “gift,” he couldn’t imagine. His more cynical side wondered if the whole thing was stupid – how could turning 13 and being called up to the Torah magically turn him into an adult?
“A few plans will change, you understand,” his father said. His Baltimore relatives would not be able to make the long, expensive trip to Bridgeport so soon after they’d come for the funeral. No herring from the appetizing store in Queens. And unlike Lenny’s bar mitzvah, when his mother and aunts had made fancy cakes and rugelach, Jeremiah would have a simple kiddush: kichel and a bottle of schnapps.
Jeremiah made a face; he’d figured about the herring, but dry, store-bought kichel was hardly better than eating cardboard sprinkled with sugar.
His father read the disappointment in his eyes. “Nu, maybe Mama will change her mind, but right now all that baking will feel too celebratory while she’s in mourning.” And then Abe acknowledged what Jeremiah had been feeling since Zeyde Anshel died, the unfairness of the timing, so close to the bar mitzvah. “But that’s life, the happy and sad together. And it will be good for Mama to focus on a simcha.”
***
During the lesson, Jeremiah and Mr. Mandell argued about his speech. It was just Jeremiah’s luck that his bar mitzvah was the Shabbos right after Tisha B’av, the worst day in Jewish history, when calamities large and small had befallen his people. The message of his haftorah was one of consolation and comfort. “It’ll be a comfort to me when it’s over,” Jeremiah said.
“Me too,” said Mr. Mandell, cracking a smile. Occasionally the Hebrew teacher surprised Jeremiah with his wit. Mr. Mandell was a strict disciplinarian who’d frequently called Rikki and Abe into his office to discuss Jeremiah’s behavior over the years. But between the punishments and the bar mitzvah lessons – many, many extra hours together – they’d developed something of a rapport.
Mr. Mandell launched into a history lesson on the destruction of the First and Second Temples, the expulsions of Jews from various European countries, and other terrible things that had happened on Tisha B’Av. Part of being a Jew meant that they were a people maligned, the scapegoat for all the world’s problems.
But Jeremiah didn’t want to talk about any of that. This was America, he insisted, the land of the free! There’d never been a better time or place for the Jews!
Mr. Mandell frowned. “Place, yes. But don’t forget there are Jews in other parts of the world, where things are very bad right now.” He reminded Jeremiah of the Night of Broken Glass the previous November. The Jews in Europe faced danger and discrimination every day. “I know you read the newspapers for the baseball scores,” he said, “but you could read the front section once in a while.”
Jeremiah opened his mouth to make a joke – if he ran the newspapers, the baseball scores would be the front page! – but the Hebrew teacher was right. The letters from his father’s two sisters still in Europe had become increasingly worrisome, and though Abe didn’t talk about it around his children, Jeremiah had overheard enough. The family’s attempts to get papers for his aunts hadn’t succeeded yet. Was recognizing the tension between Mr. Mandell’s suggestion and Jeremiah’s reluctance to speak about these things a sign, perhaps, of some newfound maturity?
In the end, they came to an agreement. Jeremiah would focus his speech on the 10 Commandments, which appeared in the week’s Torah portion. Let the rabbi talk about the doom and gloom of Jewish history!
***
On the Saturday of the bar mitzvah, the Gerstlers left for shul in their best clothes. His mother had returned a few days after Zeyde’s shiva, throwing herself into cleaning the house. She baked a few cakes, but it was hard to tell how she was feeling inside.
Chanting the haftorah from the bimah, Jeremiah felt strangely calm and confident. His voice rang out with such surety that it was as if he was channeling the prophet Isaiah himself. “O herald of joy to Zion; Raise your voice with power. Raise it, have no fear…” Dozens of shining faces in the congregation seemed to concur; hearing a newly-minted Jewish “man” sing the Hebrew words seemed to bring comfort for all the sad things.
The hours with Mr. Mandell had paid off, and as the Hebrew words and notes flew out of his mouth, Jeremiah acknowledged his debt to the man.
When he finished, the congregation murmured “mazal tov”s and the rabbi, cantor, and Mr. Mandell came to shake his hand. “‘S’koach,” they said, commending him. In the front row, his parents beamed; behind them, Uncle Dave and his father’s brother, Uncle Martin, sat with their families. He detected a twinge of sadness when Uncle Dave patted his mother on the shoulder. But mostly, she was smiling. His classmates were there too, including Roberta, though he couldn’t spot her in the sea of faces.
Jeremiah was allowed to sit on a chair on the bima for the rabbi’s sermon, but he was too hyped up to pay attention. He caught words and phrases about the First or Second Temple and the decrees exiling Jews from England, France, and Spain in the Middle Ages. Something about nahamu nahamu, Isaiah’s words of consolation. Something about the worries in Europe even now. Something about the resilience of the Jewish people, who know how to survive both personal and national tragedy. “Out of the flames of tragedy and loss,” the rabbi said, “come the sparks of redemption and change.”
Did his bar mitzvah mean Jeremiah was now a changed person? He wasn’t sure.
Jeremiah was up next. “I am here to remember all the Jews who came before me,” he started, an opening line that had a nice ring to it. “The sedra tells us that it’s important to follow the 10 Commandments. There is one God, and we shall not bow down before any other. We shouldn’t steal. Or murder. Or covet thy neighbor’s wife.” He looked into the crowd for his neighbors, the Grossmans. “Don’t worry Mr. Grossman, I won’t.” He paused for laughter. Mr. Mandell was seated on the bima behind him, but Jeremiah could imagine the color draining from his face; this quip was not in the speech they’d rehearsed.
“And a very important commandment – honoring your father and mother. Like my mother did for Zeyde Anshel, whom we all wish was with us today, especially me.” Jeremiah’s voice was in danger of cracking. Instead, he recovered with another off-the-cuff quip. “And I’ll try to follow in your example, Ma. Like – do you think I love this suit and tie? I don’t! Sorry, Ma!” He paused for laughter. “But I promised you I would wear it, so this is how I’m honoring you today.” Worry knotted Rikki’s forehead over what else he might say, but also detected a faint smile behind the hand covering her mouth.
Now came the serious part. “As I was saying, there’s a lot of good stuff in my sedra, but on the other hand, it would be kind of boring if everyone always did what they’re supposed to do. The Torah is supposed to be our guide, but what happens when our modern world clashes with what the Torah is telling us? What is a young person like me supposed to do when there’s a conflict between two values, say – listening to a baseball game versus observing the Sabbath? Or maybe there’s a very hungry kid, he’s practically starving, but he has to steal to get food? These are not uncommon dilemmas, and I know I’ll have to figure them out for myself.” People in the congregation nodded in appreciation that a 13-year-old boy could raise thoughtful questions. He thanked his parents, the rabbi, cantor, and Mr. Mandell, giving the Hebrew teacher a special nod of heartfelt gratitude. “I’m sure there’s no conflict with the commandment of honoring thy father and mother and the modern world, so you don’t have to worry, Ma and Papa.” One last titter out of the congregation. “Good Shabbos, everyone!”
***
At the kiddush, men from the shul shook Jeremiah’s hand and wished him mazel tov. “It’s the shochet, all grown up!” Two and a half years later, people still remembered his winning Purim costume of a ritual slaughterer, no doubt due to the live chicken he’d carried as part of his getup. Certainly, the sisterhood ladies hadn’t forgotten, because the following year animals of any kind were forbidden in the synagogue.
Jeremiah’s Hebrew school friends slapped his back and made jokey pronouncements on his performance. His mother pulled him into various groups of adults she wanted him to meet. He shook their hands and mumbled polite responses, wondering how to make an escape. He glanced around the room and locked eyes with Roberta. She waved, and a tiny thrill rippled through his body. He grinned back at her and excused himself from the well-wishers. He caught her eye again and cocked his head towards the door, a sign that she should follow him to the entrance of the kiddush room.
“What?” Roberta asked. She’d always been tall, but in the month since Hebrew school had ended for summer vacation she’d grown, and now towered above Jeremiah by three inches. Her hair was pinned back with a twist on one side, making her look older. But he could tell she was still the same fun-loving girl; he wasn’t going to let her sophistication intimidate him.
“No ‘mazel tov’?” He could tamp down the butterflies in his stomach with bravado and gentle teasing. He’d spent hours thinking about kissing her but little idea of how to make it happen.
“Yes, I mean, ‘mazel tov.’ I liked your speech. It was funny.” Her face reddened and she broke eye contact briefly.
Jeremiah shrugged like it was no big deal, but his grin told a different story.
“You should have seen the look on Mr. Mandell’s face when you made the crack about your neighbor.” She shook her head lightly in admiration and smiled, her freckles pure as sunshine.
At the mention of Mr. Mandell, a plan rushed into Jeremiah’s mind. The Hebrew teacher had asked Jeremiah to return the folder with the bar mitzvah materials to his office, temporarily entrusting him with the key. A furtive glance around the room found Mr. Mandell schmoozing, a cup of schnapps in his hand. There was no rush to return his office key.
If he waited any longer, the moment would be gone. “I want to show you something,” he said.
Roberta nodded, eager to support his antics.
“Wait a minute, and then follow me to the Hebrew school corridor.” Jeremiah exited the room and walk-jogged down the hallway. He glanced behind to see if she was following and nearly collided with a wall. Could she hear his heart pounding from half a corridor away?
He waited for her to catch up to him in front of Mr. Mandell’s office and then fished the key out of his pocket.
Roberta squealed, her eyes wide, amused. “How did you –?”
“Shhh!”
“We could get in a lot of trouble—”
“Only if we get caught! Come on! Anyway, he gave it to me!” As he fiddled with the key, she placed herself in front of him to stand guard, but within 30 seconds he’d opened the door and ushered her into the office, closing the blinds on the door window so they wouldn’t be spotted.
Roberta whirled around, examining the shelves with Hebrew books, teaching schedules, stacks of paper, the folder with Jeremiah’s speech on the desk where he’d placed it 20 minutes ago. Four hard chairs faced the desk, two for adults and two smaller ones for students. How many times had he sat in this room being reprimanded or more recently to review his haftorah? He felt a surge of elation that he’d finished with it all.
“What did you want to show me?” Roberta asked.
“Oh!” Jeremiah was at a loss for words. “Uh…this, I guess. That I have the key.”
She giggled. “You make me laugh, Jeremiah Gerstler. You’re not planning on doing anything in here, are you?”
“What’s to do in here?” he asked, but then, emboldened, he added, “That depends…on you.”
“On me?” she asked. “I’m no good at pranks!”
“No, not a prank, don’t worry. Mr. Mandell and I have a bond now. I almost like him.” He took a breath. “And the last thing I want to do is get you in trouble.”
She raised her eyebrows, waiting to hear his idea.
Jeremiah moved nearer. He didn’t know where this courage was coming from, perhaps this was some bar mitzvah or adult magic at work. Be brave, be brave, be brave, his grandfather had always told him, the message a good one, though he didn’t want to think about Zeyde Anshel right now. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Could I…” he stammered. “I was wondering if I could give you a…” The word “kiss” refused to come out of his mouth. He swallowed and was about to try again when she took a step towards him to close the gap.
Roberta traced her fingers down his cheek, and then tilted her lips into his. They were soft and warm, tasting faintly of sugar. A flood of heat radiated from his groin and through his entire body. Almost immediately, they broke apart. Her face was flushed, and Jeremiah could not stop blinking. Holy smokes! Kissing was everything it was cracked up to be. They leaned in again, this time for longer. The kiss lingered on his lips when it was over.
Eventually, he stammered out one word: “Wow.” And then: “You’re so pretty.”
“Thanks,” she whispered, her face was crimson. “You couldn’t say the word ‘kiss,'” she teased.
Now it was his turn to blush, a wide, goofy grin on his face. “But you knew what I meant.” He was about to angle in again, but the outside world intruded. Footsteps galloping down the hallway. Little kids, from the sound of it. He waited for them to pass. “Maybe we better get out of here.”
She nodded. “I can’t believe we just did that,” she said, a bit breathless. “And in here!” There was a mischievous gleam in her eye.
How swell that Roberta could appreciate his dramatic irony.
“Maybe we can do it again someday.” There was a summer fair coming up in Beardsley Park. With his bar mitzvah money, he could buy tickets and they could ride the merry-go-round or Ferris Wheel, holding hands when no one was looking.
He stepped out of the office first to make sure the hallway was empty, and then ushered Roberta out. She waited as he locked the door.
“You go first,” she said, and he hurried down the hallway, back to where his family and his guests waited. His mind was doing cartwheels and he felt like running up to Mr. Mandell and the rabbi and shouting, “Sometimes good things do happen to the Jewish people, at least to this Jewish person!” But for once, he kept his big trap shut.
Back in the kiddush room, his mother was seated on one of the folding chairs, dabbing her eyes with a tissue. His father stood behind, a protective and comforting hand on her shoulder. She glanced up, and spotting Jeremiah, mouthed “sorry.” He understood that her sorrow was over Zeyde Anshel missing his special day. Was it right to feel deliriously happy when his family was still in mourning?
It dawned on Jeremiah that two things could be true at once. The family could be sad about Zeyde Anshel andgather for a simcha. Though he was now officially an adult in the eyes of his religion and he’d just done a very grown-up thing, part of him could remain boyish. He could kiss Roberta Steinbaum and pal around with his friends. He might continue to pull pranks but not at the expense of Mr. Mandell. He could be a loving older brother to Ruthie and a pain-in-the-neck younger one to Lenny. The adults could be worried about the developments in Europe while occasionally pining for the old country. He could believe in Am Yisrael Chai and in the American ideals of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. These weren’t contradictions, but signs of life’s complexities, as the rabbi had said, resilience and hope amidst tragedy, pain and joy intertwined.
________
Julie Zuckerman is the author of The Book of Jeremiah (Press 53, 2019) and the host of the monthly Literary Modiin author series. Her fiction and non-fiction have appeared in dozens of literary journals, including CRAFT, Atlas & Alice, Jewish Fiction, Salt Hill, and Sixfold, among others. A native of Connecticut, she lives in Israel with her husband and four children.