Highland Park, New Jersey is very far from Cleveland, Ohio. On the map it's about 450 miles, but emotionally, it's much farther than that. That's how Gershon Goodman felt when he walked into the Nachmanides School on the first day of third grade. He missed his friends. He missed his home. He even missed the Cleveland Indians, though they were having a particularly bad season.

The kids in his class seemed nice enough, but everyone was pretty much ignoring him. His teacher, Mrs. Schwartzbaum, introduced him (thank G-d she didn't make him stand up at his desk) and had him explain how his family had moved to New Jersey so that his father could start a new job at Rutgers University in New Brunswick. Everyone seemed interested, but at recess, Gershon sat alone and watched the boys play football. At home, he would have been the quarterback, but now he wasn't even on the bench. It was going to be a long year.

After lunchtime, the principal of the school, Rabbi Rosenbaum, asked to see him. Gershon wondered how he could already be in trouble on the first day of school. But actually, Rabbi R. called him in to greet him, and to tell him how he used to live in Cleveland, too. He pulled out a signed picture of Omar Vizquel from the Indians, which was pretty cool.

When Gershon returned to class, something was different. It felt like everyone wanted to sit next to him. Boys--and even girls-- in the class were including him in conversations. Girls! That was really weird.

Mrs. Schwartzbaum was talking about Julius Caesar and the Roman Senate. Gershon tried to pay attention to her, but every time his eyes wandered and he looked around the classroom, someone was staring at him. And smiling.

At afternoon recess, he was chosen to play football. He wasn't the quarterback--yet-- but he did catch a few passes. Everyone seemed very encouraging any time he came near the ball. Almost too encouraging.

Before the bell rang, a group of boys came over to chat.

A boy named Mikey invited him for a playdate.

A boy named Eric invited him to ride bikes.

Yonatan wanted him to come over too. Suddenly he was very much in demand.

"Gershon, come to my house. I have really cool Lego," Mikey said.

"That's nothing, I have a Hot Wheels set that will blow your mind." Eric countered.

"I have Bionicles," Yonatan said with confidence, as if that put the matter to rest.

Gershon looked down at his sneakers, fidgeting with his hands, as the stakes grew higher.

"I have cable TV," Mikey said.

"I have all six Star Wars movies and Lord of the Rings," Yonatan said. "And can you say Harry Potter?"

"My Dad just put in Surround Sound," Yonatan said.

Gershon smiled politely. He had no idea what Surround Sound was, but it certainly seemed to impress his new New Jersey friends.

Gershon wasn't sure what all this new attention meant, but if his father had been there at that moment, he would probably have said, "Gersh, I have a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore." (Where was Kansas, anyway?)

"Can I get back to you?" Gershon asked the crowd. "I have to ask my Mom."

"No problemo," Eric said. "It's an open invitation."

"Likewise," Mikey said. "Anytime."

The bell rang, and Gershon returned to class with the others.

When the school day ended, Gershon met his mother in front of the school in the carpool lane.

"How was your first day?" she asked as he climbed in the car.

"I'm really not sure," Gershon said.

"What do you mean?"

"The first half was pretty bad, and the second half was just weird."

And then he proceeded to tell his mother how his classmates had changed as the day went on.

"Isn't that good?" Mrs. Goodman asked. "you have a lot of potential friends."

"I guess," Gershon said. "I just want to know what the heck is going on."

"I'll see if I can figure it out when we get home." Gershon's mom said.

She emailed Gila Schwartzbaum soon after they got home, telling her some of the details of Gershon's day, and the teacher called her back a few minutes later.

"Hi, Mrs. Goodman, how can I help you?"

"Gershon is a bit confused. First he felt left out, then after lunch he felt overwhelmed by the attention he was getting. He's kind of wondering what's going on, and truth be told, so am I."

"I guess that's my fault," Gila Schwartzbaum explained. "I noticed Gershon was feeling left out in the morning, so after lunch I sent him to meet Rabbi Rosenbaum and gave the class a pep talk."

"That must have been quite a talk."

"Actually, it was a dvar Torah about this week's parsha, Behar. I read to them about the laws regarding a ger vetoshav, a stranger among us. I explained how in the Torah, the law of ve-ahavta le reyacha kamocha, to love your neighbor as yourself, is written only once, but the laws regarding kindness and respect for a stranger are mentioned 36 times. So clearly it's very important to be kind and welcoming to strangers"

"Wow, that's very powerful."

"Yeah, I know. But I guess I came on a little too strong with the kids. I'll have them tone it down a bit tomorrow, so Gershon isn't freaked out."

"Sounds good."

"And Mrs. Goodman?"

"Please, call me Shira."

"Ok, Shira. I'm Gila. If you ever need a helping hand, or a shoulder to lean on, give me a call. I know it's hard to move to a new place, and I would be happy to help any way I can."

"That all depends," Shira Goodman said.

"On what?"

"On whether you have Surround Sound or not."

                       

 

 

 

 

 

 

Vayikra: 19: 9,10

When you reap the harvest of your land, you shall not complete your reaping to the corner of your field, and the gleanings of your harvest you shall not take.

You shall not pick the underdeveloped twigs of your vineyard; and the fallen fruit of your vineyard you shall not gather; for the poor and the proselyte shall you leave --I am Hashem your G-d.

 

Nicole Halberstam wanted to strangle her husband. Not literally, of course. She loved Ron deeply; he was her soulmate. But if he came home without his overcoat one more time, she was going to wring his neck.

She didn't understand how he could lose his jacket so many times. Was there a thief in the courthouse? Had he taken leave of his senses?

And it wasn't like Ron wasn't an organized person. He was the lead prosecutor for the Bergen County Office of Criminal Justice. A former Editor of Columbia Law Review. An experienced clerk to one of the most respected judges in the U.S 3rd District Appelate Court.

He was no slouch.

Yet four times this winter he returned from the courthouse in Hackensack completely oblivious to the fact that he was in his shirtsleeves in twenty degree weather. Just last week he walked in without the long parka she had picked out for him from the L.L. Bean catalogue.

"Hi, Honey, I'm home."

"Hey, Bubbe, how was your day?"

But before he even bent down to kiss her cheek, she could see the frost in his hair.

"Where's your coat?"

"Huh?"

"The parka. Where is it?"

"Oh, right. I must have left it at work."

But she already knew it was in the wind, so to speak.

"Ron, what am I going to do with you?"

She didn't enjoy talking to him like he was a ten-year-old, but what else could she do?

"What do you mean? It's no big deal. I'll bring it home tomorrow."

"Uhuh."

"Relax," Ron said with a wink and a smile that had won him the trust of many a juror. "I'm sure it's in the closet in my office."

But she never saw the coat again. She knew she wouldn’t. And Ron never mentioned it again. It was most peculiar.

The next week, she ordered a new blue pea coat from L.L. Bean. It was a beautiful jacket, and you couldn't beat the free shipping.She patiently waited four days for it to arrive. When the package came, she cut off the labels and slipped it over Ron's shoulders before he went to his car on Monday morning.

"What's this?

"A gift."

"It's beautiful, and it fits me perfectly."

"Yes, I'm an expert at buying you outerwear."

"You're such a kidder."

"Am I?"

"I love you dear."

"Right back ‘atcha."

Ron climbed into his Honda Pilot and headed off for the Bergen County Courthouse. This time, Nicole was taking no chances with Ron's new coat. After he pulled out of the driveway, she raced to her Toyota minivan and took off in pursuit. She stayed back a safe distance so that she would remain undetected in the local traffic. Nicole had seen enough police shows on television to know just the right distance to maintain.

At the courthouse, Nicole stood in the shadows, but watched Ron’s movements as best she could. She was determined to get to the bottom of the case of the disappearing coat, no matter what she learned in the process.

Ron was in court all morning, prosecuting an alleged burglar who was suspected of a series of home break-ins in the Paramus area. At lunchtime, he ate in his office with his staff and then went back to the courtroom. At 4:00 he finished in court, worked in his office until 6:15, and then came home, still in posession of his jacket.

Nicole made sure to be home before he arrived. Dinner was uneventful. They spoke about their days (she told about her supermarket run and some carpools-- she felt bad lying, but she was determined to see this to its conclusion.). They ate leftovers from shabbat. They read and went to bed.

Tuesday started out pretty much the same as Monday, and Nicole followed Ron to work yet again. She was getting good at the whole car surveillance routine, and found it a more than a little suspenseful (not that she wanted to do it everyday, mind you). Ron went straight to the courtroom when he got into the courthouse. But on this day, his lunchtime routine was different. It was a brisk day outside, and Ron went out into the Courthouse Green in his new pea coat (the color brought out the blue in his eyes), and sat on a park bench. Nicole hid behind some bushes adjacent to the marble courthouse steps.

Downtown Hackensack was an area that had seen better times. Other than a handful of courthouse employees who had ventured outside to eat lunch on this chilly, overcast Tuesday, the park was mostly peopled by local residents and a few of the homeless. A man sat down next to Ron on the bench and began to chat. They seemed to know each other, though not well.  Was he an informant? A former defendant, or witness? Nicole couldn’t decide. Ron pulled his tuna sandwich out a paper bag and spoke as he ate. The other man rubbed his hands together to keep warm and looked downward as he spoke. The two never made eye contact. As Ron moved from the tuna to the strawberry yogurt Nicole had packed, he absent-mindedly pulled his arms from the sleeves of the jacket and draped it over his shoulders. By the time he moved on to his green apple, the jacket was off his shoulders and strewn behind him on the bench. As he tore open his ruffled potato chip bag, the jacket was on the bench beneath him, almost an afterthought. Ron and his bench-mate parted without saying goodbye. Ron walked back toward his office without the pea coat. The man on the bench waited until he was gone, and then looked both ways, as if to make sure the coast was clear. He shed his old down jacket and put on the pea coat. He was gone in moments.

Nicole walked out from behind the bushes and sat on the now vacant park bench, lost in thought. This was a side of her husband, the fierce prosecutor, of which she was simply unaware; a secret he had kept for quite some time, judging from the number of coats that had gone missing over the years. And as she looked around the park, she thought she saw a few overcoats she recognized. Was that man near the Seven-Eleven wearing the leather driving coat she had bought Ron last Chanukah? The boy near the fountain, did he have on the grey ski jacket that Ron had lost before they left for Vermont in December? Nicole couldn't be certain, but almost everyone in the park looked like they were wearing one of Ron's coats. It was like an L.L. Bean catalogue on the streets of Hackensack! And truth be told, all the coats had held up well. Two points for the clothing makers from Freeport, Maine.

Nicole tossed up her hands in resignation. She returned to her car and drove home.

 That night, Ron Halberstam came home coatless. Nicole looked him up and down and hugged his cold torso warmly.

"So where's the coat?"

"Oh, I'm pretty sure I left it in the courtroom. I'll bring it home tomorrow."

"Fine. And do you know what? I think you could use a nice pair of gloves to go with that jacket. It can get cold out there."

Ron eyed his wife suspiciously.

Nicole winked with a smile and walked into the kitchen.

 

Shemot: 35: 5

 

Rabbi Chezky Markovitz knew that second grade was not where he was meant to be. True, he had just finished his semichah program and had been ordained as a rabbi only two months earlier--and under the circumstances he was glad to find any teaching job on such short notice (Rabbi Blass had left with diverticulitis--indefinite leave)--but he wanted more. He wanted to be a community rabbi with a big shteler, in some prestigious synagogue, with lots of important baal habatim. But for now, serving as a rebbe at the Nachmanides School would have to do.  Deep down, though, he knew he was going places.

Until that time, he had a classroom of students to contend with. And they didn't seem too interested in a mid-year replacement teacher. The boy in the third row with the red hair had a comic book hidden in his binder, the girl in the back with the braids was doodling a picture of a dancer on the side of her chumash notes, and the boy in the front with the Transformers kippah had his head down on his desk and was actually drooling. Chezky knew he had to spice things up, or he would struggle with this group all year long.

"Does anyone know what this week's parsha is?"

"Anyone?"

"Vayakhel?" a girl in the fourth row, who was pretending not to chew gum, said.

"That's right" Chezky said. "Very good, uh..."

"Shoshi."

"Yes, very good, Shoshi. And in this week's parsha, klal Yisroel brings to Moshe beautiful gifts to decorate the Mishkan, the Tabernacle. So I have an idea. Tomorrow I'm going to bring in a special table for davening, and whoever leads the class in tefilot that day will stand at the special table.

" Now I want all of you to bring in some of your favorite things from home to decorate the davening table, and we'll make it beautiful, like our own private Mishkan for praying to Hashem. What do you think?"

Chezky wasn't sure, but he thought he sensed a bit of excitement from the children.

"Now we're getting somewhere," he thought.

The next morning, Chezky grabbed an old shtender that he had sitting in his basement, gathering dust, and put it in the backseat of his car. He carried it to the classroom and placed it before the group.

The children stared at him in silence.

"Nu, so what did you bring me?"

One by one, the class straggled up to the teacher's desk and offered an object for the davening table.

An old matchbox car.

A bald doll.

A lollypop.

A New Jersey Devils hat, lightly worn.

An action figure, minus a left arm.

Chezky stopped them before more could be brought up.

"This is what you bring for our Mishkan? This is the best you could do?  Everybody sit down."

Class 2-A took their seats.

"When klal Yisroel donated to the Mishkan, they gave all their best stuff. It was from the heart. They gave gold and silver, turqoise and linen. Now, I can't tell you what you should give, but I want our davening table to be special. I want you to go home and search your hearts for what Hashem should see in our special Mishkan tomorrow, O.K.? You just put your gifts up there when you come in, and we'll see what we've got."

Chezky swept the room with his gaze, making eye contact with each child.

"I think you get the idea. Now let's open our chumashim and get back to work."

The day passed without incident.

The next morning, Chezky came to the classroom a few minutes late, to allow the children time to put out their donations before he arrived. When he opened the door to room 16, all the children turned to look at him with proud smiles.

Chezky surveyed the teacher's desk.

An iPod Touch.

A Rolex watch.

Silver candlesticks.

Diamond cuff links.

A trophy that looked astonishingly similar to an Oscar.

Chezky turned to his students and stared in disbelief. Obviously, he hadn't intended for them to loot their parents' houses, but still, their level of giving was astounding, and inspiring. Suddenly, he realized how influential a speaker he was, and how much he could inspire others. He knew that he would go far in life, leading the Jewish community.

He also realized, that, at that moment, he was in.........a lot of trouble.

 

 

 

Shemot: 32: 19

 

Nachum Hereford loved cookies.

He loved all kinds of cookies. Oreos, chocolate chips, lady fingers, oatmeal, Swiss fudge. Yum.

But the cookies he loved most of all were his mother's home-made butter cookies. They were golden delicious, and they melted in your mouth in the most wonderous way. When his mom baked them, the whole house was filled with the smell of bakery heaven.

One week Mrs Hereford baked a big batch of cookies for shabbat on Thursday afternoon. She used a special baker's mold that made all the cookies in the shape of Jewish symbols. There were dreidels, menorahs, Torahs, magen Dovids, and shofars. There was even one (but only one) of the Ten Commandments, which Mrs Hereford made extra special by putting chocolate lettering on both sides of the double-tablet cookie.

Sometimes Nachum's mother would give him a cookie before shabbat, since she knew it was his favorite thing in the world, but this week she denied him his early morsel.

"I need them all, because we're having guests, so don't touch!" she admonished. And she placed the cookies up on a high shelf where she was sure wandering hands couldn't reach them.

Now Nachum was generally a good boy. He did his chores and listened to his parents, most of the time. But denying him his cookie was more than he could bare. The whole house smelled like a giant butter cookie, for goodness sake! He simply couldn't live without at least one.

On Thursday night Nachum bided his time until he thought everyone was asleep. Once the house was silent, he climbed out of bed and snuck down the stairs and into the kitchen. The coast was clear.

Nachum pulled a kitchen chair over to the edge of the lower cabinets and placed a foot stool on top of the chair. Then he climbed up onto the granite counter. It was cold under his feet.

Half way there.

Next he stacked a group of cookbooks together (The Kosher Palette, The Enchanted Brocolli Forest, Kosher by Design, The Joy of French Cooking, and A Taste of Teaneck) and topped it off with the Bergen County Yellow Pages. As he climbed atop his culinary mountain and reached for the cookie jar he was sure he was home free--

Upstairs in the dark, Mr. Hereford heard noises in the kitchen.

"What was that?"

"I'm sure it's nothing, honey," Mrs. Hereford said. "Go back to sleep."

"I'd better go check it out."

He stepped into his slippers and walked quietly toward the stairs.

When Mr. Hereford flipped on the light switch in the kitchen, he almost couldn't believe the scene he witnessed. There was his beloved son Nachum perched precariously high atop a pile of cookbooks with a golden cookie in his outstretched hand. And it wasn't just any cookie; it was the Ten Commandments.

--Nachum had the cookie in his hand when suddenly the light came on. He was so startled, he let go of the Ten Commandments cookie, and it it fell to the ground, ricocheting off the granite and falling to the off-white tile floor, smashing into hundreds of pieces.

Busted.

Needless to say, he was in a lot of trouble. After he was made to sweep up the cookie crumbs, Nachum was sent to his room-- it was after midnight, after all-- and straight to sleep. The next day he dressed and got ready for school, and other than a few nasty looks from his mother, no one spoke of the cookie fiasco of the night before.

Before he left the front door of the house, Nachum turned to his parents.

"I'm so sorry," Nachum offered. A tear poured down his cheek. Then he left for school and closed the door behind him.

Friday night passed without incident, and on shabbat morning, Nachum came downstairs dressed in his suit, hoping to receive a butter cookie before he left for shul with his father. He would have been perfectly happy with a dreidel or a menorah-- whatever his mother could spare-- but he would understand if none was forthcoming.

His mother smiled at him as he entered the kitchen. She reached into the cookie jar, which now sat in the center of the kitchen table, and pulled out... a new Ten Commandments cookie. It didn't have chocolate lettering on both sides like the first one did, but it was still a mighty fine cookie. 

And Nachum didn't understand how, but by some shabbat miracle, it was still warm.

 

Once in the town of Paramus, there were two veteran teachers, Morah Chani and Morah Mirriam. They both taught kindergarden at a wonderful Jewish Day School, one of New Jersey's best.

Morah Chani and Morah Mirriam had different didactic approaches to the classroom setting. Morah Chani was a hand holder. She focused on spoiling her young charges and keeping them happy with overwhelming praise and lots of gifts and prizes. Morah Mirriam was more of a law and order-type. There was no coddling in Morah Mirriam's classroom. It was her way, or the highway. When she taught a lesson, everyone was expected to pay attention, if the little darlings knew what was good for them.

One of the settings where the two teacher's contrasting styles was most evident was the weekly Shabbat party. Every Friday morning, lekavod shabbat, the two teachers would each throw a party to celebrate the upcoming day of rest. In both classrooms, a boy would be chosen as the Shabbat Abba, who recited the bracha on the grape juice, and a girl would be designated the Shabbat Ima, who made the bracha on the candles. 

It was there that the similarity ended.

Morah Chana's party was like a scene from Willy Wonka. There were Oreos and licorice. Laffy Taffy was available in every color of the rainbow. It was a hyperglycemic holiday (too much?). Morah Chani offered lots of hugs, and a brief dvar Torah the children could share with their parents around the Friday night table. It was truly a joyous affair.

Morah Mirriam also had fun with her young charges. They sang zemirot in honor of the upcoming shabbat. In fact, they learned all kinds of wonderful tunes while sitting properly in a circle. And they also got a dvar Torah to bring home to their families. But other than the grape juice and a nice round challah roll, there was no candy. Students of Morah Mirriam gazed longingly out the doorway at their friends in Morah Chani's classroom across the hall. They yearned for sweets, but alas, none were forthcoming.

One week--in fact, it was the shabbat of parshat Beshalach-- Morah Chani was in a big hurry on Thursday night. Her daughter was sick, the in-laws were coming for the weekend from Cleveland, and her sitter had called in sick. Long story short, everything was so mixed up, she forgot to buy the sweets for the weekly Shabbat Party.

"I'm sure this won't be a big deal," Morah Chani thought to herself. "I know these kids well, and I'm a veteran teacher. I can get by without the candy for a week. We'll still have a good time in the classroon lekavod Shabbat."

Boy, was she wrong!

Bereishit: 41:14

 

The number 78 would not have looked good in black. At the top of a test paper it wouldn't look good under any circumstances. But in red it looked even worse. It was a big, fat, red 78.

78.

It was a disaster.

Shimmy had studied for the science test like any other examination in his long illustrious academic career (he was in seventh grade; he was a pro). But somehow the material had gotten away from him. As he handed in the paper he had a feeling he hadn't done so well. He was expecting something in the low to mid 80's.

But he had never dipped below 80 before, and the sensation he was experiencing as he looked down at his results was not pleasant, not at all. Before him he could see a long road of mediocrity.

Gone were all the enrichment classes he had been attending.

No more teacher's pet.

He wasn't sure he would get into high school at all.

Can you say "community college"?

He couldn't bring this home to his mother. What would she say?

The bus ride home felt like an eternity. Every bump in the road felt like a major pot hole. At every turn he was sure the bus would turn over. He grasped his seatbelt to make sure it was tightly fastened. Shimmy felt like he was having trouble breathing. Was he getting asthma?

It could happen.

The walk down the front path to his house was like a stroll down the halls of a penetentiary ("Boy who got a C-plus walking!"). Shimmy took one step through the front door, looked at his mother and burst out crying.

"Shimon Azriel,  what's wrong?"

Shimmy couldn't speak. He thrust the test before his mother's eyes and looked away. He couldn't bare to endure what was going to happen next.

"Oh, Shimmy."

"I know."

"That's it?"

Shimmy looked at his mother.

"You're upset because you got one bad grade? Big deal."

That certainly wasn't the reaction he was expecting from his mother. Rumor had it, she had once asked the principal of his school if there was an honors kindergarten class for her son Shimon, the iluy*.

"You mean you're not mad?"

"Shimon, bubbe, come sit with me."

Shimmy sat across from his mother at the kitchen table.

"First of all, I don't get mad. I get angry. Only dogs get mad. Second of all, of course I'm not angry. It's just a test. We all have bad days."

"Do you know what this week's parsha is, Shimmy?"

"Miketz?"

"Good boy," she said, pinching his cheek. "And in Miketz, Yosef starts off the parsha in jail. He's been sold into slavery, he's worked as a servant, and then he ends up in jail. But does he lose faith?"

"No?" Shimmy said rather tentatively.

"What was that?"

"No."

"I can't hear you."

"NO!" Shimmy said emphatically.

"That's right. Yosef kept his faith in Hashem, and he kept plugging away. And did he get out of jail?"

"Yes."

"He most certainly did. He ended up the ruler of Egypt, second only to Pharaoh. So you see? You have to stick with it and not be discouraged by one bad test."

"So if I don't get discouraged, maybe I can end up being President some day?"

"I guess that would be O.K.," Shimmy's mother said. "But if that doesn't work out, there's always medical school."

 

 

*the genius

The following is a short story I posted on another blog  (Storytellers) years ago. I thought it might be nice to reintroduce it.

He always knew he was funny. As early as he could remember, Shimmy made people laugh. Was it because his father was a very funny accountant? Or perhaps it was because his mother was a stern school teacher who didn't laugh often, but when she did it was uproariously, and well worth the wait. Or was it because he was the youngest of six and used humor to stand out-- survival of the fittest by banana peel? Whatever had planted the seed in his brain, he was a natural born comedian.

In grade school that made you the class clown. In high school you would write humorous feature pieces in the school newspaper, and your pranks necessitated occasional visits to the principal's office when they went a bit too far. The whoopee cushion on the teacher's chair. The dribble glass for the math substitute. Anything that involved shaving cream or red food dye. Rabbi Cammerman would sit behind his enormous desk, struggling to look concerned and not to chuckle, and he would say, "Shimon, what are we going to do with you?"

The impulse to make people laugh was suppressed when he reached Yeshiva Gedola. Learning Gemara all day didn't leave much room for levity, although of course the Talmud has lots of humor in it, if you knew where to look. Hafoch bah vehafoch bah, ki koolah bah. Go through it closely, for everything is in it. Still, the Babylonian scholars were not big on knock knock jokes. Writing the Purim schpiel for the Yeshiva once a year was the most he could hope for, and of course any dvar Torah he gave would start with a one-liner. It wasn't much, but it was all he had.

Then one time when he was at his parents' house for Shabbat, he found an old Bob Newhart comedy album. It was vinyl, but his parents still had a working turntable, being the technologically advanced cavepeople that they were, and he put it on and flipped the switch. The album was in bad condition and the sound had a grainy quality like a jazz recording from the nineteen-twenties, but that only added to its mystique. Bob Newhart was funny. Really funny. His routine was as dry as a hot desert breeze. Shimmy laughed so hard, a tear rolled down his cheek. He was hooked.

He started thinking back to the comedians he had seen at the Grossingers nightclub in the Catskills when he was a child. The less well known served as the opening act for some musician or a cantor who would perform Israeli folk songs or excerpts from The Rothchilds or Fiddler on the Roof. But they were often quite good, and the crowd ate them up. Some were headliners, like Freddy Roman, who always gave a good show. Shimmy had even seen Milton Berle once. He was past his prime. But people started laughing before he reached the stage. He just stood there, puffing on a cigar and throwing out moldy one-liners. But then he would give you that patented Uncle Milty look, and the crowd roared. He was an American icon.

Soon he was sneaking in comedy albums every time he came home to visit his parents. Bill Cosby. Shecky Green. Steve Martin. Paul Reiser. Jerry Seinfeld. He had even tried Lenny Bruce once, but thought he would go straight to hell if he didn't shut it off immediately. And Richard Pryor was out of the question. Still, from every comedian he learned something new. Timing, emphasis, material. It was all there.

Shimmy started writing his own standup routine, never once dreaming he would perform it. He practiced in front of the mirror in the bathroom, behind a closed door, pausing at the appropriate places for laughter and applause. He could even hear the snare drum roll when he said a particularly corny line.

Shimmy auditioned at an open mike night at Catch a Rising Comic in Hoboken one motzaei shabbat. He tucked in his tzitzit as best he could, pushed back his yarmulke on his head, and stepped out into the lights. He thought the audience response had been tepid, but the owner called him over after the show and offered him a shot. It wasn't so much that he was funny as the sheer novelty of a yeshiva bochur in white dress shirt and black pants doing standup that got him the spot.

Every other Saturday night Shimmy would do two sets at Catch a Rising Comic. He made excuses to his chevrusah, his learning partner, and rushed out of yeshiva after havdalah, sometimes still in his Shabbat suit. Then he would race down Route 3 from Passaic to Hoboken like a man possessed. He never missed his time slot. To Shimmy, the laughter was exhilarating, as fine as any perfectly darshaned Tosefot.

When Shimmy heard about the Funniest Rabbi in New York competition at Standup New York, he knew he had to go. It was bashert. He was meant to win; he could feel it in his bones. The club was on the Upper West Side, oddly enough directly adjacent to the West Side Mikvah. The contest was scheduled for a Saturday night in November. Shabbat ended early that time of year, and that would give him more than enough time to get there from yeshiva. He wanted to tell his friends, but he dared not. He kept it to himself.

The night of the contest came, and Shimmy bolted out of the yeshiva as quickly as he could. He told his rebbe he had a shiva visit to make in Queens, then went back to his dorm room and changed into his most casual pair of slacks. He left his tie on. This was, after all, a funniest rabbi competition; there was no need to pretend.

Shimmy made it to the City from Passaic with an hour to spare and had enough time to catch a few of the acts going on before him. They were terrible. Real clunkers. Shimmy pictured the students of these Jewish educators in Yeshiva day schools all over the metropolitan area saying to their teachers, "You're really funny, rabbi. You should be on stage," but he doubted they really meant it. If these weren't Jewish religious leaders in front of a friendly audience, there would be some serious heckling going on. Shimmy had an urge to do it himself. But the paucity of talent on the stage gave Shimmy an amazing sense of confidence. He was going to go out there and kick some serious tuches.

Finally his turn came. "Ladies and gentleman. Please welcome, all the way from Passaic New Jersey, let's give a big Stand up New York welcome to Simon Weissblatt."

Shimmy stepped out into the lights and grabbed the microphone. "When I was a kid, I was so religious, I put a mezuzuah on my Doors album."

Polite teetering.

He started to tell the joke about the rabbi who told his congregant it was permitted to ride on an airplane on Shabbat as long as she kept her seatbelt fastened because "then it's as if you're wearing the airplane," when he saw someone in the audience that drained all the color from his face.

Sitting in the second row of small tables near the back of the club, off to the right, but still clearly visible was, could it be?, his Rosh Yeshiva. And sitting next to him was the Rosh Yeshiva's aged father, the Alter Rebbe.

Shimmy couldn't be sure. The bright stage lights were in his face, so it was hard to see the audience.Was it possible? Or was it just his conscience playing tricks on him? What made it even more improbable was that he knew the Alter rebbe didn't speak a word of English. Whoever they were at table 17, they weren't laughing. They sat stone faced in their chairs with no drinks, despite the two drink minimum. If they weren't his rebbeim, they were hating his routine nonetheless.

Suddenly Shimmy began to question his material. The Madonna Kabbalah bit was out of the question. And the Conservative conversion routine seemed a bit dicey. He started to feel his timing was off and he was tanking big time. He decided to go with the old Jewish skiing routine he had stolen from Buddy Hackett ("Jew ski, Jew no ski"), follow it with the bit about how every joke in the Catskills ended in incomprehensible Yiddish, and then close with his Shavuot cheese cake sketch.

As an afterthought, he threw in a story he thought his Rosh Yeshiva might like. It was an oldey but goody. Shimmy knew that jokes were taboo in standup nowadays, but he couldn't help himself.

"So anyway, they asked a priest, a minister, and a rabbi what they would most like to hear someone say about them at their own funerals as the mourners were staring down at the casket.

"The priest said, 'They should look down and say, "He was a devoted leader who gave faith to many."'

"The minister said, "I would like to hear, 'He was a devoted family man and an inspiration to us all."'

"The rabbi said, "I'd like to hear them say, 'Oh look, I think he's moving!"'
"Thank you and good night."

Shimmy shuffled off the stage dejected. He had bombed. To be funny, he had to be cutting edge, and having your rebbe in the audience didn't help on that front. But had his Rosh Yeshiva actually been there?

Shimmy grabbed his coat and made for the side exit. Outside in the cold, halfway between the club and the Mikvah, stood his Rosh Yeshiva and the Alter Rebbe. Shimmy walked over to face the music.

The Rosh Yeshiva smiled at Shimmy and patted him on the back. "Shimon, we all have to serve Hashem in our own way. For me it is teaching sacred texts. If for you it is making people laugh, then Ivdu et Hashem besimcha, Serve G-d with joy. Just be sure to do it in a respectful and appropriate manner, and maybe do it in a way that brings others closer to their Creator. And of course it goes without saying that we still hope you'll be back in Yeshiva tomorrow."

Shimmy nodded respectfully. He turned to the Alter rebbe.

"Varf noch nisht dine leibin," said the Alter Rebbe.

"What does that mean?" Shimmy asked the Rosh Yeshiva.

The Rosh Yeshiva smiled. "Loosely translated, it means, 'Don't quit your day job.'"

 

In an instance of life imitating art, I have accepted the position of story-teller for the 5-7 year olds before the shabbat youth groups begin at YIOT (Young Israel of Teaneck). So now I really am a Maggid.

As these stories will be geared toward a younger audience than the usual Maggid of Bergenfield stories, I will specify which of my posts is intended as a "Torah Tale for Tots." This will be the inaugural tale. 

 

Bereishit: 33: 4

 

Once in the town of Rutherford there lived two brothers, Jake and Ace. They were good boys, most of the time. But on this particular Sunday, they were hungry. And I mean really hungry.

"Mom!" called Ace.

"What!"

"I'm hungry!"

"So?"

"So feed me!"

"Hey, I'm hungry too!" Jake chimed in.

"So?"

"Can't you feed both of us?"

"I couldn't, even if I wanted to," their mother said. "I have to go help Aunt Malki with her shopping."

"So then what are we going to do for food?" Ace asked.

"Yeah," Jake agreed. "We're starving."

"Boys, it's only been two hours since breakfast. How hungry could you possibly be?"

"Very hungry," both boys said, with more than a little bit of a whine in their voices.

"So then make yourselves some lunch!"

Both boys gasped.

"Us?"

"For ourselves?"

"Sure, why not?"

"But we've never done anything like that before!"

Their mother stood at the door with her car keys in her hand.

"I guess there's a first for everything."

And she closed the door behind her.

The boys stood facing eachother in shocked silence. Neither moved for what seemed like quite some time.

"What do we do now?"

"We could starve!"

"Or worse."

"What's worse?"

"I don't know, but I'll bet there's something."

Silence.

"We probably won't starve."

"What makes you so sure?"

"The house is full of food."

"True."

"And Mom did say she'll be back in an hour."

"Interesting point."

Crickets.

"Hey, I've got an idea," Jake said. "I know I don't want to make my own lunch, and you don't want to make yours, so how about if we make lunch for eachother?"

"Interesting," Ace said. "Any rules as to what we can make?"

"None."

"None?"

"None!"

Ace and Jake eyed eachother for a few seconds. Then they started to laugh. They laughed for quite some time. Then they shook hands.

"You've got a deal."

Ace got to work immediately on Jake's lunch. He decided to make him a sandwich. A very special sandwich.

Ace thought about all the times Jake had tricked him and gotten him in trouble with their parents. He thought about the super atomic wedgie Jake had given him last week, and all the things he'd been blamed for that Jake had actually done. Yes, this was going to be quite a sandwich.

And what do you think Ace put in his sandwich?

[At this point audience participation is strongly encouraged]

Ace started with two stale pieces of challah that he he found in the bread basket from a few weeks before. At this point they were somewhere between garbage and penicillin.

Then he put in the sandwich some mustard, some ketchup, and some mayonnaise. A splash of peanut butter looked nice on the mustard, and some anchovies from Dad's special stash added a certain crunchiness. Still, it needed something white. Ah yes, cottage cheese was just the thing. Yet it was missing something. What, no green? Brussel sprouts would do the trick.

Ace shoved the two pieces of bread together, and the sandwich made a noise that sounded something like:

SMORCH!

Wait, he'd forgotten the apple sauce! But it was too late. The sandwich of doom was complete.

Jake sat down to make Ace's sandwich. He knew just what he wanted to do, and he knew where all the supplies were. It would be perfect.

He started with a beautiful garlic bagel--just the kind Ace liked. He added a big slab of Philadelphia cream cheese and spread it evenly across the bagel. Then he went to their Mom's secret stash of Nova Scotia lox, fresh from the deli, and laid it down on the sea of cream cheese. A perfect shmeer! Jake delicately placed the top of the bagel down on the lox and cream cheese and patted it lovingly. Perfect.

Ace and Jake met in the center of the kitchen, next to the microwave. Each hid their creation behind their back.

"You first," Jake said.

"No, you first."

"Fine." And without further adieu, Jake took out Ace's lunch from behind his back.

Ace was speechless. It was beautiful. Jake had produced the perfect ratio of cream cheese to lox. It was truly a wondrous creation.

Jake smiled.

"Now it's your turn."

Ace stared at his brother. He had wanted to nail him, but now Jake's kindness had changed everything.

"Do you know what?" Ace said. "Your sandwich is so much better than mine. You eat yours. I'll be O.K. with mine."

And without giving Jake time to respond, Ace took his sandwich from behind his back and took a big bite.

"Mmmmmm, he said with a mouth full of brussel sprouts and anchovies. "Just like Mom would have made."

 

 

 

Unfortunately (on many levels), this is based on a true story.

 

Steven Borenstein had gotten up from sitting shiva for his father the day before. The experience had been very draining, as he knew was to be expected. Now a new phase of his mourning was beginning. He had to say kaddish for eleven months. Three times a day. When he considered the amount of minyanim that he would be attending, it seemed rather daunting. But he knew he would do it. It would honor his father. It would honor his tradition. It was what one did.

Minyan had never been his thing. He tried to daven three times a day, but he often did it at home, in the privacy of his own living room. He attended shul on shabbat and on Sunday morning, but he hadn't davened with a minyan three times a day since he was a student. And that felt like a long time ago.

Shacharit and maariv would be easy. He could always get up early or stay up late and find a minyan. Teaneck was the land of hot and cold running minyanim, from 5:55 am until 10:45 pm in the winter months when he was beginning his aveilut. But mincha was a challenge. Steven had juggled his work schedule so that he could attend a 1:30 service in Hackensack, just ten minutes from his office. He had found it on a website called godaven.com (you just can't make some things up).

Now all he had to do was attend minyan. A lot.

It was pitch black outside when his alarm clock went off. He was normally a late riser, so it took him a while to get going. By the time he was dressed and out the door with his tallit and teffilin bags in his hand, it was creeping toward six-thirty. He still had to scrape the frost from his windshield, and when he finally pulled out of his driveway, it was 6:26.

Steven drove to his local shul where he was a member. It was the closest minyan, and it was where he davened on shabbat. He somehow managed to get his tefillin on in record time. Steven wanted to be the chazan and lead the service, as was the tradition for the mourner, but just as he was wrapping his hand with the straps, the gabbai approached him. It was 6:30 and ten seconds.

"You know, they're very serious about being on time at this minyan," he said in a kind voice. "Do you want us to wait?"

"No," Steven said with a smile. "That's O.K." But actually, he did.

The chazan was reading the early brachot by 6:30 and thirty seconds.

"Blessed are you Hashem, G-d of the universe, who gave the rooster knowledge to distinguish between day and night."

"Guess I'll need to be more like the rooster tomorrow, " Steve thought.

After davening, two more congregants came to tell Steven that the minyan was very time conscious. They certainly meant well.  Still, it wasn't what he had been expecting, the day after shiva. His emotions were still raw, and he was hoping for a kinder gentler entrance into his comfort among the mourners of Zion and Jerusalem.

Mincha had been interesting. He had been instructed that the minyan was in the conference room of an office in a high rise just off Route 4 in Hackensack. It took him a few minutes to find the office, and when he arrived he was worried he would be late. But they hadn't started. It was mostly chasidim who worked at the company and a few outsiders who drove in to make a minyan. It took until 1:40 to begin, and Steven hung back and let someone else lead the service until he could get the lay of the land. It was in a nusach that was new to him, but he figured he could handle it. He recited the kaddish with one other man in the room.

Before he left, one of the chassidim approached him.

"Are you a chiyuv?"

"Yes."

"Tomorrow, you're chazan."

Steven smiled. "It's a deal."

It was a start. He could learn a new nusach.

Maariv was uneventful. Steven was at his local shul again, but this time it didn't feel as foreign. A friend of his was saying kaddish as well, and after the minyan, the two of them stood outside after the shul was locked, hovering next to their cars in the cold and sharing aveilut war stories. It helped a little.

The next morning he arrived on time. He started at 6:30 and zero seconds and did his best to keep pace with the minyan. He thought he had been too slow--judging from a look he received at the end of his silent shemoneh esrei-- so he rushed through the repetition of the amidah. Hopefully, his davening had been successful from the perspective of the minyan.

After he took off his tefillin, a fellow congregant approached him.

I hope I'm not being a pain, but I thought your shemoneh esrei was a bit rushed. Maybe slow it down tomorrow."

"O.K." Steven said, a bit stunned.

The next day Steven davened slower, but the congregant still came over.

"I hope you don't mind if I offer you a few helpful pointers."

"Of course."

"At the end of Modim you skipped a word and said "vehamerachem ki tamu chasadecha" instead of "ki lo tamu chasadecha" and at the end of Sim shalom you said Bechol et uvechol sa-ah" instead of "Sha-ah"

"Really?"

"Yes, I heard you say it two days in a row."

'Thanks," Steve said.

This was not working out.

The next morning Steven woke up even earlier and drove across town to the shul in which he grew up. The minyan was at six-fifteen, and it was a ten minute trip, but he figured he could live with less sleep.

He had his tefillin on with time to spare. He stood before the shtender and was about to start.

"Wait," someone called out.

Steven turned to face the kahal.

"In this shul, you need to wear a jacket to lead the davening," the gabbai explained.

Now that was a twist Steven hadn't anticipated.

Before he could react, a middle aged man came forward and pulled off his jacket. He looked familiar. Steven pulled off his tallit and the man slipped the jacket onto his shoulders. The man leaned over and whispered into Steven's ear.

"Your father was a kind, wonderful man, and he'll be missed ."

Steven smiled and held back a tear in his eye.

"Thank you."

He began to recite the brachot with a small smile.

At last, some nechama, comfort.

 

Devarim: 31:19

 

Once in the town of Rutherford there lived a very contrary man named Ephraim Effenbacher. He had to do everything his own way. And no one could tell him anything. Rumor has it he used to wear his right shoe on his left foot and his left shoe on his right foot just to annoy people. And let me tell you, it was kind of annoying.

One day Effie decided he was going to write a commentary on the Torah. I know, this sounds like a challenging project, but just because he was contrary, that doesn't mean Effie wasn't smart as a whip, and hard working, too.

Effie called his commentary "Pi Hachamor," from the pasuk in parshat Balak which states Vayiftach Hashem et pi hachamor (and G-d opened the donkey's mouth). Most of his friends thought the name was uninspired, but Effie liked it just fine.

Effie started at the beginning of the Torah and wrote his commentary over an entire year. He wouldn't let anyone look at it until he was done. One friend, a fellow named Chaim Chacahameister suggested that Effie post his weekly commentary on an internet blog, but Effie just laughed.

"Blogging is for chumps!"

Well, he was a very contrary fellow.

At the end of the year, Effie finished the Pi Hachamor and looked for a publisher. Every Jewish publishing company that read it passed on the project. One editor, at Derech Hayashar Press, sent Effie a note which read:

Yes, it certainly took a lot of courage to write this book, but it would take even more courage to publish it.

Effie was undaunted. He believed in his book so strongly, he paid with his own money to have it published. It wasn't cheap, and it used up most of his life's savings, but he truly believed in the Pi Hachamor.

When the book was ready, Effie threw a big party and invited everyone he knew. All his friends were there, including many of his acquaintances from childhood. His old teachers were there, even Mrs. Heidelberg, his kindergarten teacher who predicted he was going to amount to no good and Mr. Rabinowitz, his eccentric gym teacher from high school who thought gaga should be an olympic sport. And Mr. Hershkowitz, the retired principal of Effie's grade school, made an appearance. In Rutherford's small Jewish community, this was a big event. It was quite a crowd.

Effie gave a brief, polite introductory dvar Torah, a cake was wheeled out, and then copies of the book were distributed to the crowd. The cover art was a braying donkey, though somehow the donkey looked Jewish. Hors D'oeuvres were served, and as people looked down into their copies of Pi Hachamor, between noshing and polite conversation, the crowd became louder. There were some truly wild divrei Torah in this book.

Noah's ark was made of fiberglass?

Eliyahu Hanavi was beamed up to a spaceship when he died?

The twelve sons of Jacob were ninjas?

Effie's commentary was filled with such pearls, and in each case he brought a proof from the weekly Torah portion. It was wild, it was original, it was--

"-completely insane!" Mr. Hershkowitz exclaimed. "The boy is nuts, meshuga, koo koo!"

"Alvin calm down,"  his wife Alma counseled. "You're going to give yourself a stroke."

"I can't calm down," Alvin Hershkowitz said. "The book is just crazy. And believe it or not, it's flying off the shelves of the Judaica House. Kids love it, and I've even seen some adults buying it, too."

"So what's wrong with that?"

"What's wrong with that?" the ex-principal muttered. "What's wrong with that? What's wrong is that it's not Torah, it's science fiction!"

Alma hadn't seen her husband's face this red since the time a fifth grader blew up the toilet in the boy's bathroom at the school with a cherry bomb fire cracker.

"Something must be done to stop this book from being sold," Mr. Hershkowitz said. "It's corrupting the children. And it's giving me an ulcer."

 

To be continued...

 

When Yossi's grandmother asked him what he wanted for a present--because he was the most wonderful grandson in the world--he said he wanted a Torah. Not one of those plush stuffed Torahs, either. He was not some little kid. He wanted one with a real cover on it that you could take off (preferably with lions on the front). And he wanted real wood (or at least plastic) and real paper. And he wanted one with the real text in it, so you could unroll it and read it.  And it should be blue. And it should be big, really big. Then he could dance with it on Simchat Torah, and he would be the envy of all his friends.

Even though his Bubbe had wrapped it in wrapping paper, Yossi knew it was a Torah the minute she walked through the front door. What else could be that shape? He tore off the paper with glee. It was everything he wanted. Big, blue, and real as can be. It didn't have the lions, but it had a really cool drawing of the Ten Commandments on it, which was even better. And over its blue cover, the Torah had a second, thick plastic cover, to protect it from stains and damage. He loved the plastic. It made the whole thing seem really important.

"Thanks, Bubbe, you rock."

Bubbe Rachel smiled a wide smile. "I guess that's a big compliment, eh?"

Yossi smiled back. "You know it, Bubbe."

"And all the words are in there, if you want to look. From Bereishit all the way to Vezot Habrachah."

"That's awesome."

"But don't take off the plastic if you don't have to, Yossi. It'll keep your Torah clean and fresh, just like the couches in my living room. That way your Torah can last forever. "

Yossi thought of the white couches in his grandmother's living room. They too were covered in thick plastic, and although they might be as old as his Bubbe, they were in perfect condition. And they made that great crunchy noise when you sat on them.

"O.K. Bubbe, I'll keep the plastic on the Torah. You can count on me."

Simchat Torah came and all the chairs were cleared from the center aisle of the shul so that everyone could dance during the Hakafot. All the Torahs were taken from the Aron Kodesh, and men danced around the bimah  singing and clapping. And there was candy galore.

Yossi was in the center of everything going on. He held his blue Torah on his shoulder with pride, dancing and singing along with everyone. Normally he would have gone up on his father's shoulders as he danced with the other men, but this year he declined. He was worried that something might happen to his Torah.

Many of his friends in shul had Torahs too, but his was by far the grandest. But when they asked to look at his Torah, or hold it, or peek under the plastic cover, Yossi refused. He didn't want it to get damaged. He wanted it to stay as clean and fresh as a pure white couch (from the 1960's). That way it would last forever.

Yossi's father had been watching his son all night long, as he danced around the room. He loved that Yossi felt close to his Torah, but he could see that it was cramping his style. Yossi stayed in the outer circle of the dancing, so that no one would jostle the Torah, and he wouldn't eat a lollipop, because it might stick to its plastic cover. Normally Yossi was a pretty wild dancer (and a wild child in general), but now he was acting very cautiously. This wasn't his Yossi.

"Can I hold your Torah for you for a while?" Yossi's father asked.

"No, that's O.K."

"Then why don't you put it down for a while and go spin with Noah in the circle."

"I'm good."

Yossi's father held Yossi's hand and pulled him to the side of the sanctuary for a moment.

"You know, Yossele, we always try to treat the Torah with a lot of respect. Most of the year we don't take it out of Aron Kodesh unless we plan to read from it. On other times that we take it out, like when we're announcing when the new month is at Birchat Hachodesh, we hold it carefully on the bimah."

"I know, Dad."

"But on Simchat Torah, when we finish reading all the way to the end of Devarim and start again at the beginning of Bereishit, we take all the Torahs out of the Aron and dance with them. We let down our hair a little bit and get close to the Torah on a personal level."

"You let down your hair? Dad, you do't have any hair!"

"It's just an expression, Yossi. It means that you relax a bit. We have fun with the Torahs by holding them and dancing with them. And everyone gets an aliyah. It's time to have fun celebrating with the Torah.

"So?"

"So Yossi, relax a bit. Have fun with your Torah. It's O.K. to put it down sometimes, and you should definitely take the plastic off, and let your friends have a good look at it. Even the real Torah that we read from in shul doesn't have a plastic cover."

"But Bubbe said that the plastic cover would keep my Torah clean and fresh."

Yossi's father leaned down so that he could look at his son at eye level.

"Yossi, you know how when you go to Bubbe's, how you're not allowed to touch anything because everything's glass or silver? Practically the only things you can touch are enbalmed in plastic!"

"Yeah, so?"

He patted his son's cheek and smiled. "Live a little Yossele. Take off the plastic."

So Yossi took the plastic off his Torah temporarily and showed its inside words to his buddies. He even put it down for a while to spin with his friend Noah. And at the end of the night, when he noticed that he'd gotten some lollipop on the blue cover, he didn't worry. It was purple, and you could barely see it.

Bubbe Rachel didn't mind that Yossi had taken the plastic off his Torah. She was so inspired, she actually took the plastic off one of her couches for a bit. That is, until its white upholstery was cleaned.

For Yakov Pultman

 

"Dear G-d, please save us."

The traffic was backed up twenty deep. There was no way to get to where he needed to go. But there was no horn to honk and no lane in which to change. He was stuck, with no traffic helicopter to rescue him with an alternate route, no GPS with help from above.

It was Hoshanot.

"There has got to be a better way," Shimmy Lopatin muttered under his breath. He stood with his lulav and etrog in a line of men that was going nowhere fast. The line of congregants at the bimah was clogged and people were merging from every row of chairs. Everyone had converged on the same spot simultaneously, and no one was moving. It was bedlam, anarchy.

"We need salvation," Moti Rabinowitz muttered. Was that in the siddur, or was he also feeling the strain?

"I'm trapped," Mark Reichlin said.

"I'm sorry," Shimmy said. "Are you referring to your prayers or the congestion?"

"The traffic, of course. My tefillot are just fine, thank you."

"But what can we do?"

Suddenly someone stood up in front of the Aron Kodesh. Clad in white (well, a white talit, at least), he was a beacon of calm in a sea of cantankerous Jews. It was Yitzchak Pruzansky, a man on a mission.

"Fold the first four of the outer chairs in every row near the bimah," he said in a deep voice brimming with authority. "And you, Steinhart, go into the third row and form a second line going toward the rabbi's pulpit."

"It'll never work," someone called from the crowd.

"Enough from the eirev rav," Yitzchak said. "Just do it."

Reluctantly, people began to fold the chairs, and Steinhart did as he was told.

Sure enough, things began to move. It was like a great Port Authority cop had descended from above  and removed the bottle neck.

The Hoshanot were a tradition performed during morning prayers on Sukkot, commemorating a ceremony from the Beit Hamikdash, the Temple. On Sukkot, in the time of the Temple, large willow branches would be set up on each side of the mizbeach, the altar, and after four blasts of a shofar, the Jews who were visiting for the holiday would make a circuit around the altar each day.

"If you're not making the hakafah, move into the fourth row," Pruzansky added. "We'll make that a frozen zone. Feigenblum, keep moving or step to the side."

Nowadays, a circle is formed around the bimah, as someone holds the Torah there, and men with the four species (lulav, etrog, hadassim, aravot) recite the Hoshana prayers as they complete one circuit.

"Mendy, you can talk with Steve later. Just keep walking and no one will get hurt."

The Hoshanot are a prayer for G-d to fulfill our needs through abundant rainfall in the coming year and also serve as a symbolic conclusion to the repentance process from Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur.

Everyone finished their circuit and made it back to their seats. The congregation broke into singing "Hoshea et amecha," Please save our nation, as everyone put their lulav and etrog back into their cases. The mood was festive.

Wow, Pruzansky really saved the day out there."

"I know. He was incredible."

"Is he a policeman, or school principal?"

"No, I think he's a lawyer."

"We should make Hoshanot direction his yearly job in the shul. Official Sukkot traffic cop, or Lulav Czar."

"I'll bring it up at the next shul board meeting."

"Do you think the motion will pass?"

"On most issues I tend to doubt it, but in this case I think it will be unanimous."