Just a Hat, page 7
It would be Joseph’s first year to fast completely on Yom Kippur. With a bellyful of bar mitzvah and Shabbat food, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. If he bungled the singing of the Torah and haftara, he’d also have a bellyful of embarrassment to digest for much longer. He couldn’t shame Baba like that in front of their family and the whole synagogue. How could Joseph go through the rest of his life knowing he’d fouled up his very first responsibility as a Jewish man? No pressure there.
The part of his bar mitzvah he most looked forward to was seeing Shahla. Well, that and the presents. Joseph wasn’t sure why he had so much affection for a girl cousin. Maybe it was because Maman was so fond of her. Shahla was flying in from California, and they wouldn’t have to rely on their usual game of guessing what the other was thinking.
Their other game was to record everything they’d ever done together that was a first, like eating Persian tahdig with chopsticks. Surely no one had ever thought of that before. Maybe there would be some firsts at his bar mitzvah. Having a Persian bar mitzvah was probably a first for the Dallas synagogue.
After Baba and Maman, Shahla was the one Joseph wanted to see him execute his bar mitzvah perfectly. He wanted to impress her with something more than pranks, to show her he wasn’t a kid anymore and he didn’t just hover around Baba during prayers.
They picked up Shahla Thursday afternoon at the airport. While Baba put her little suitcase in the trunk, Maman and Joseph embraced her and kissed her cheeks. Like Joseph’s, hers were rosy and her skin tone was richly caramel. They all three started speaking in Farsi at once. As usual, it was Shahla who fell silent first. “You can talk in the car,” Baba said reprovingly, but he also stopped and kissed Shahla’s cheeks with affection.
Shahla handed Joseph a box wrapped in shiny blue paper with a big white bow. She’d carried it so it wouldn’t be crushed in her baggage. “You already know what’s in it,” she said. “I put Mateo and Roberto’s in there, too, but you can pick which one you want.” Joseph hugged her and kissed her cheeks again.
They drove to the reception hall at the synagogue where Joseph’s bar mitzvah party would be held. Baba had flown in the caterer from Beverly Hills the day before. Maman assembled all the ingredients, and the caterer cooked Persian dishes in the synagogue kitchen all day. Rabbi Rothstein argued until Baba gave him a copy of the caterer’s kosher certification. That was Baba. Quiet, but stubborn. And prepared. There was no way he’d serve European Jewish dishes like gefilte fish to the family. Maman shuddered at the mere mention of it.
That night, Joseph and Shahla worked together hanging glittery blue paper stars, Torah scrolls, and crowns from the ceiling. Vonda’s eyes glittered blue in Joseph’s thoughts, and he wished that she could come to his bar mitzvah.
“Did you have to miss school to come?” Joseph asked Shahla.
“Yeah,” said Shahla, who retwisted a paper clip to make it flat before she hung a star. “It’s okay, though. I can catch up pretty easy.”
Joseph wondered if that were true. He’d been skipped a grade, but she’d nearly been kept back in kindergarten. She’d hardly heard any English before she started school, but Baba had made sure he spoke to Joseph in English as much as possible. Shahla was smart, though. Once she caught on to how to do something, she eventually ended up doing it better than him.
“Where’s the rest of the family staying?” asked Shahla.
“A hotel within walking distance of the synagogue,” said Joseph. “Although some of them drive on Shabbat. Maman says that some of them only go to synagogue on holidays.”
“Oh,” said Shahla.
Joseph asked, “Say, do you ever get to read the letters from our relatives in Iran?”
The silence told him she didn’t. She finally asked, “What letters?”
“I don’t know,” said Joseph. “Sometimes we get letters.”
“Oh.”
A long silence followed. Joseph could have kicked himself for bringing it up. She was out of the loop. He always knew more about their Los Angeles relatives than she did even though she lived there.
“Was your Torah portion hard to learn?” she asked. She changed the subject to save him the embarrassment, but Joseph still wished he hadn’t brought it up.
“It was hard to learn the cantillation. I’m afraid I’ll forget the first note, and then I’ll go blank. I had to memorize the Preamble to the Constitution for civics class last year. Half the time when I look at the first word, I think ‘We the People of the United States . . .’”
Shahla looked down from her position on the ladder. “You never forget music,” she said. “I’m going to hit you with candy after you finish reading. Hard.”
If she tried, she’d do it. Shahla’s arm was as accurate as Joseph’s. He’d taught her to play basketball. He knew the consequences of missing a low pass from her. “Maybe I’d better put my football helmet on,” Joseph joked.
“You can’t wear it forever,” said Shahla. “I’ll get you eventually.”
Joseph couldn’t disagree with that. She’d fired the opening shot, so he really was off his game. He couldn’t let his nerves get the best of him. “I ate so much apples and honey last week for Rosh Hashanah that I’m still pissing apple juice,” said Joseph.
“Youssef!” said Shahla. “What if your maman heard you?”
“You seriously think she’d know what it meant in English?” asked Joseph.
“She may not know exactly, but if it comes out of your mouth, she could guess,” said Shahla.
Joseph grinned in triumph. Their time together was back to its usual start.
“Switch with me,” she said. “My arms are tired.” She climbed down from the ladder and Joseph climbed up.
“It’s shaky,” he said. “Hold it tighter.”
“I’m right here,” she said. “I won’t let you fall.”
16
THE CROWN
The next morning was organized chaos. The reception hall should have been under a tornado weather alert. Sound the sirens. Baba picked up the band and helped them set up in the reception hall. It was the biggest headache of the day. He had to drive to a local music store to buy more connectors and cables that didn’t make it from California to Dallas on the train. In between, Baba met with Rabbi Rothstein, who came in to make sure the synagogue sanctuary was in order. He hovered around the kosher caterer in the kitchen under the pretense of being helpful. Joseph was sure he was just being nosy.
Maman organized the meals, fussing over which meal should be heavier since everyone was preparing to fast for Yom Kippur. Joseph was sure it was better to load his belly with as much as it could hold, but Maman insisted he stay away from heavy foods. Shahla said it wasn’t bad if you stayed busy. She’d been fasting on Yom Kippur for a few years, but she didn’t eat that much to begin with. Baba assured Joseph that there were so many prayers on Yom Kippur that it would keep him occupied and his mind off his growling stomach. Joseph knew that wasn’t true. Baba’s stomach always growled on Yom Kippur, and you couldn’t be within ten feet of him without your mind being on it.
At lunchtime, Baba, Maman, Shahla, and Joseph went back to the apartment to shower and dress. There was nervous energy in the small apartment, and it swirled around Joseph. When Maman offered him a tuna sandwich with the little pickles he liked, he only nibbled half of it. For the first time, Shahla finished his lunch instead of him finishing hers. “That’s a first for us,” she said.
Joseph nodded.
“Nervous?” she asked casually, as if dread weren’t about to squeeze him into a little ball, which would be fine, so he could roll out of sight.
“Nah,” said Joseph.
“Liar,” said Shahla.
“Hey . . .” Joseph started to protest, but she grinned. She was trying to get his mind off the job ahead, which was to not embarrass his whole family.
Joseph shook his head. “I’m trying to practice the Torah portion in my head, but all I keep getting is ‘We the People of the United States . . .’ If I can’t get the words right, then I’ll never remember the starting note. And if I get the note, what if my voice cracks? When Morty Silver did it last month, he butchered it.”
“Yeah, but everyone cheered anyway, right? Come on,” said Shahla. “We’ll sing it together.” She started in the key he’d been practicing, “Vaidaber Adonai el Moshe . . .” Joseph joined in, and they sang through the whole reading.
Shahla always knew how to take the edge off. Maybe it would be okay.
The synagogue was nearly full. Rabbi Rothstein gave a little welcome speech for the special occasion. He then called up Joseph and Baba. When Baba handed Joseph his new tallit, a prayer shawl, it was with the pride of a thousand shining jewels in his hand. It was folded, tightly square from its packaging. Joseph took it, shook it open, and whispered the blessing. He made the accordion folds like he’d practiced with Baba’s. Smile when you’re angry. Smile when you’re terrified. It’s all under control. The fabric felt heavy on his shoulders. Maybe it was because Baba and the rabbi always added the burden of three thousand years of Jewish tradition in their bar mitzvah lessons.
Next came the black leather straps of the tefillin, one for his arm and one for his head. Rabbi Rothstein put on Joseph’s hand-tefillin, leaving the end loose. Baba helped him put on his head-tefillin while Joseph made the blessing. The rabbi finished the loop of the hand-tefillin, and he squeezed Joseph’s hand gently when he felt it shaking. Joseph felt both ridiculous and proud.
Rabbi Rothstein took out the Torah scroll and passed it to Baba, then Baba to Joseph. And then came the silver crown. Carefully, reverently, Rabbi Rothstein fit the silver crown over the top of the scroll. Joseph carried the scroll around the men’s section so they could touch the fringes of their tallits to it. This was something Joseph really couldn’t mess up unless he threw the scroll down and ran in the other direction. He smiled as if he knew exactly what he was doing. Roberto would be impressed; that is, if he hadn’t seen Joseph’s hands shaking.
When he passed by the women’s section, Joseph paused a little longer near Maman and Shahla so they could touch their prayer books to the scroll. Maman cried and smiled at the same time. Shahla rubbed Maman’s back, sharing her joy. With Maman’s help, Shahla’s long, curly black hair had been wound up into a very grown-up chignon that left her slender neck exposed. Joseph would have to keep an eye on Roberto. A pretty girl a shade darker than Shahla was standing next to her and Maman. Joseph wondered who she was. There weren’t many brown Jews in Texas.
During this royal march around the synagogue, Joseph noticed two of his Israeli uncles and a cousin. They had stationed themselves at the exit doors of the sanctuary. That was weird, but Joseph couldn’t afford to be distracted by it. They’d served in the Israeli army, and they were gung ho on security way more than Americans.
Joseph carried the scroll back to the bimah, a high, wooden bench where the rabbi would unroll the scroll so he could read it. Joseph wondered if little Morty Silver had to stand on his tiptoes during his reading. That might account for why he sounded like a drunken parrot.
This was the part that could go so badly wrong. So many steps, words, notes . . . We the People of the United States . . . The rabbi removed the silver crown, removed the embroidered velvet Torah cover, and unrolled the scroll on the bimah. He slid a silver pointer down the Hebrew letters flowing like an inky black river across the pale parchment. When Rabbi Rothstein found the place, he nodded to Joseph and handed him the pointer so he could keep his place as he read. Again, Joseph’s hand was shaking. Baba moved close beside him, his warmth and clove scent penetrating the fabric of both their tallits.
Steps. Steps. Everything had to go in steps. We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union . . . Joseph set down the pointer, closed the scroll, and tried to remember the blessing. Ten tunes and blessings swam through his mind. Miraculously, the right tune with the right words tread water long enough for him to snatch them out and deliver them safely. After he chanted the blessing, Baba smiled. His voice hadn’t cracked. One tiny terror down. Several big ones to go. Joseph reopened the scroll and found his place with the silver pointer. This was it.
17
RAIN HAT
Joseph’s hand shook so badly that he covered the first word with the pointer. He closed his eyes and put himself back into the apartment so he could hear Shahla’s voice. Would those notes come out of his mouth, or some wrecked Polly-want-a-cracker?
Vaidaber Adonai el Moshe veh-etzem ha-yom hazeh le-emor.
Yes! He’d hit it clearly. The first verse was out. Then the second one, a difficult one because of the brokenness that preceded the sadness of the next one. He did it. Now the hard one, “And die on this mountain you are climbing . . .” The notes went from the difficult low ones and climbed to the high ones, challenging his voice. His hand shook so much that the silver pointer moved in a zigzag under the words instead of a line.
Joseph sang. He grabbed each word, catching the tide of the words, rolling through them more rapidly until he gained the speed of a real song, like Baba. The wind of confidence drove him more surely through the story about the end of Moses’s life.
About midway through, Joseph gained so much confidence that he sang as if he were in LaLa’s parlor, strong and soulful. It was actually fun. Well, almost. More like a roller coaster ride with all the fear of plunging into the unexpected drop of a mental lapse. He could feel the smiles directed at him, his baba’s pride, and Joseph’s dread turned to a kind of giddiness. When he finished, Joseph closed the scroll for the blessing. Candy flew at him from everywhere. The Persian women ululated, and everyone cheered.
Afterward, all the men sang “Siman Tov Mazal Tov” and enveloped him in a joyous circle dance. Rabbi Rothstein alternately shook his head and nodded, his funny way of showing approval. Baba pressed his hands onto Joseph’s head and blessed him before he helped him remove the tefillin and place them in their soft velvet storage bag.
Rabbi Rothstein addressed the synagogue: “It’s customary for the bar mitzvah to deliver a speech. His speech is a thought from his Torah portion, which the young man will explain applies in some way to his own life. So now, I present to you Youssef Nissan, son of Kamran and Miriam Nissan, who will encourage us with a few words from his reading.”
Joseph took a folded piece of notebook paper from his inside suit pocket. Now that the worst was over, he wasn’t afraid. He began, “Welcome to my family from Israel and California and my friends from synagogue and from Hazel. First, I’d like to thank my baba and Rabbi Rothstein for their help preparing me for my bar mitzvah. That had to be more painful for them than it was for me.”
They both nodded in agreement, and Joseph heard some snickers from the audience.
“And thanks to Maman for all her hard work preparing the food, the invitations, and decorations . . . and for listening to me sing my portion like a million times.”
The ladies in the women’s section nodded at Maman knowingly, and she smiled.
“I’ll try to keep this short because I know that you’re all looking forward to the upcoming fast for Yom Kippur, and you need lots of time to think about how hungry you’ll be.”
Everyone laughed.
Joseph continued. “My Torah portion is Ha’azinu, or ‘Give ear.’ That sounds like Shakespeare to me when you say it in English, but then again, when you read it in Hebrew, it sounds like Yoda talking. My English teacher would have a fit.”
Just about everybody laughed at that except the rabbi and Baba.
“But I think the big thing is that we need to listen to words. They’re important. Moses taught the Israelites a song before he died. When I thought of it that way, it made sense to ‘Give ear.’ People are learning a song. After all, some musicians ‘play by ear.’” Joseph glanced at Baba, but he didn’t frown, and Joseph went on.
“When I don’t listen to Baba, he gives me a gooshmali, a pull on my ear. People who don’t like to plan or read music sometimes ‘play it by ear.’ I’m betting some of my Israeli relatives don’t understand exactly what I mean by some of those words.”
The Israelis murmured agreement.
“Words can make things easy to understand, or they can make them hard. If you’ve ever tried translating for someone, you know that.”
Many more heads nodded in agreement.
“Moses solved the problem of how to help the Israelites understand his final words by teaching them a song.”
Baba shifted and frowned a little. Oy veh.
Joseph returned his eyes to his notes. “So what do we need to do to hear Moses’s song, or any song? According to Moses, the answer is rain. He said, ‘Give ear, O heavens, and I will speak; and hear, O earth, the words of my mouth. My doctrine shall drop as the rain, my speech shall distill as the dew, as the small rain upon the tender herb, and as the showers upon the grass.’
“So, the way to hear good words is to soak them up. Rain doesn’t do any good unless the grass soaks it up and turns green. That means we need to say good words and soak up good words. Let words change us and make us better people. When Moses died, it says in Hebrew that his moisture had not decreased. I think that means that he was still able to hear from God and from other people. He wasn’t a stubborn guy, you know? He listened to people. He said good words and he received good words.”
