American Literary Magazine
Zeyde’s Big Day Max Robins The face staring back at him in the mirror was familiar. It was the same one the young man had seen in every reflection for the past thirteen years. The bulky glasses and strong prescription, imperfect freckles, and disheveled rust colored hair perpetually in cowlick seemed unchanged.
Ezra mustered a nod, and the contented Rabbi marched out of the study’s stubby, secondary door and into the synagogue’s sanctuary. But before he could retreat back into the blissfully distracting decorations, Ezra’s focus was again commandeered by his keen, 78-year-old grandfather.
His Zeyde Nathan had told him time and time again that everything would change this morning—that becoming a bar mitzvah was more than just reading lines of Hebrew from a set of scrolls. It was about becoming a man—an adult—not just in the eyes of the Jewish community, but in the eyes of the world! Yet here he was, gazing into the same childish hazel eyes and seeing nothing new.
“You know your Shema, Ezra—” “Yes, yes Zeyde, I’ve practiced it a thousand times.”
Two sharp knocks came at the bathroom door. The shrill, distinctive voice of the young man’s Zeyde crept through the old oak door’s cracks and crevices, “Are you done in there bubala? It’s almost time! ” He quickly splashed a last cupping of water onto his nervous face and exited the study’s private washroom. Maybe his next reflection would be different. The study—a glorified library—was an immaculate yet insulating creation. Like the armored Kevlar lining a subterranean bunker, the walls were padded with books, relics, and Judaica. The centuries of artifacts and remnants of Jewish antiquity were a welcome distraction. Photos of a beaming Rabbi Schneier and fellow rabbinical leaders of the world shot intimidation at their beholder; etched and carved Kiddush cups commanded examination behind their glass-enclosed cabinets. Lost in fascination, Ezra almost forgot about the 300 men, women, boys, girls, family, and neighbors eagerly sitting inches outside the shelter-like study. Almost.
“And your Haftorah—you’re comfortable reciting the passage? ” “Yes, I’m ready. I know it like the back of my ha—” “And the Torah! You know your portion? Be careful with that yad, the silver flakes right onto that precious parchment if you’re too heavy handed…” “He’ll be fine, Daddy, he’s been practicing for months.” At last, the voice of reason, the young man’s mother. Suddenly the muffled voice of Rabbi Schneier had ceased and Zeyde was leading Ezra onto to the bimah. He always thought it’d be his proud grandfather and adoring parents following the young bar mitzvah on stage, not the other way around. Zeyde lingered by the lectern, waiting, while Ezra’s parents sat next to the extravagant ark housing the Torah behind—the gilded, adorned Aron Hakodesh. The young man approached the podium and his loitering grandfather, satisfied with the smiles and nods he had directed at his friends, family, coworkers, and neighbors, patted Ezra on his suit’s padded shoulder and returned to sit with his daughter. Ezra sang. “Sh’ma, Yisrael Adonai, Eloheinu Adonai Echad…”
Zeyde’s abrupt nudge zapped Ezra back to reality. “… I was saying,” continued a time-pressed Rabbi Schneier, “once I’m done speaking, you’ll walk onto the bimah with your Zeyde Nathan and your parents. You’ll lead us in the Shema, you understand? ”
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