Zeyde’s Big Day — Max Robins

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.

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.

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.

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? ” 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.

“You know your Shema, Ezra—” “Yes, yes Zeyde, I’ve practiced it a thousand times.”

“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…”

The words—millennia old and among the most important in the Jewish faith—slipped out of Ezra’s parched mouth only to be caught by the congregation repeating them back. It was true that he had practiced them a thousand times. Practice made perfect, but it didn’t make meaning.

The foreign glyphs and characters were muscle memory, retained by rote, not understanding. Ezra had flunked out of Hebrew school three times before his parents acquiesced to Zeyde Nathan’s wishes and procured private lessons for the thirteen-year-old.

As he shot a daring glance at the split assembly solemnly bisected by sex, he felt as if he, too, was lost in the crowd of faces. As his projected self sat small and unnoticed on the century-old, donor inscribed bench before the bimah, one Ezra observed as the other Ezra moved from the weathered podium to the Aron Hakodesh and began unravelling the prized Torah with the help of Rabbi Schneier. He watched himself begin reciting the Torah portion that Rabbi and Zeyde had conspired to assign him. The syllables elegantly flowed out of his mouth, replete with the inexplicable inflections and tonal modulations that his tutor engrained in him. By the end of his lessons, he had become fluent in the Hebrew alefbet and could deliver his Haftorah as an oratory masterpiece. But he didn’t understand a single word.

When Ezra had at last regained his bearings and his consciousness returned to the bimah, he had unthinkingly progressed towards the final stage of the ceremony: the Hakafot. Already having rehearsed the maneuver with Rabbi Schneier and the cantor, Ezra hoisted the heavy scrolls to his shoulder and paraded them around the congregation, enabling the devout attendees to kiss or touch the Torah. A deeply emotional ritual, his Zeyde’s guests were almost brought to tears. Meanwhile, Ezra could only think of the impending backache he’d experience the next day. Following his return of the Torah to its ornate arc, Zeyde swept the newly minted bar mitzvah into a congratulatory crowd of strangers in the adjacent ballroom. While they applauded Ezra for his skillful execution, it seemed to be the 78-year-old who was truly receiving and enjoying the praise. Eventually, the young man broke free and escaped back to the study’s washroom.

Once again, Ezra stared, bewildered, into the mirror. He’d been hopeful there would be some change— some new revelation in his appearance that emerged following the previous procession. But, alas, there was nothing. Not even another freckle. He thought of his grandfather, likely hobnobbing and socializing with the guests. Zeyde Nathan became a bar mitzvah 65 years earlier before a crowd consisting of his mother, two sisters, and a rabbi. No guests. No reception. Perhaps then, too, there was no revelation.

Ezra studied the reflection and it studied him back. It was all still there—the bulky glasses, the rust colored hair. The boyish qualities he had always known seemed unphased. The face staring back at him in the mirror was familiar. He saw nothing new.