Sons and Fathers

1

Sons and Fathers

Shalom Camenietzki

So far, Irwin Glasberg reassures himself, Jerry’s Bar Mitzvah is coming along just fine. Not a single glitch. His in-laws and parents have been called to the bimah, the Shul’s raised platform, to intone the blessings before and after the reading of Torah segments. As a ripple of anxiety rises through his excitement, he forces his eyes to follow the English translation of the holy text. It’s the story of Abraham almost slaughtering Isaac, his only beloved son. He shivers. He glances at his own son, sitting to his right. Breathing shallowly, Jerry is fidgeting. Soon he’ll be called to the bimah to chant the maftir, the last segment of that week’s Torah portion.

Grey-haired and dark-skinned, Irwin swells with pride: he’s soon to play host to dozens of guests he and his red-haired, fair-skinned wife Jennifer have invited to the ceremony. He turns around and decorously inspects the Shul. Gathered behind the Glasberg clan, most women are decked out for the occasion in a rainbow of smart hats and festive dresses. The Glasberg men, their male guests, and some regular Shul-goers wear dark suits that elegantly clash with their lime-white shirts and silky neckties. Together, they exude pomp and a gratifying, solemn excitement.

At last, it’s the loud, manly voice of the hoary master of ceremonies summoning the Bar-Mitzvah to the bimah. How hesitantly Jerry walks up the stairs to the Torah’s lectern. Why must his voice be so high-pitched as he recites the blessings, so tremulous now that he chants the maftir? Look at his eyebrows, as thin and downy as a toddler’s. And that small praying shawl, draped over his oversized charcoal suit with such a broad, satiny red-and-blue necktie. It makes him look too young for his age -- “a shrimp”, that’s what his taller few friends call him. Against the silence, with everyone watching, Jerry’s reedy voice only intensifies his immaturity. Just get the readings over with, one way or the other, Irwin thinks, and be rid of this nagging anxiety!

Summoned to the bimah, in unison with Jennifer, Irwin blesses God for ridding him of the burden of his son. His own Bar Mitzvah, thirty years before, in this same Shul, comes back. How anxious he had been to please his relatives, especially his father! Then a high-powered corporate lawyer, his father not only insisted that Irwin read the Hebrew texts accurately, but also chant them pleasantly, in a loud voice. Days before the ceremony and the readings, he had slept poorly, afraid of disappointing his family. Yet, he’d performed at the bimah very well, exactly what had been expected of him. Afterwards, however, it had been weeks before his anguish could subside.

Now his own Jerry stands on the bimah alone. He’s intoned the blessings and chanted the maftir without a blooper, and now is chanting a passage from Kings, the accompaniment to this week’s Torah portion. Not a single mistake! As Jerry recites the final prayers, Irwin feels Jennifer pinch his hand twice. He smiles back at her. Turning to the boy’s bearded tutor, he nods knowingly and smiles his thanks. His gaze shifts to his own father. Look at him, proud as a peacock, engrossed in his grandson’s praying.

Jerry’s chanting ends, and everyone is noisily showering him with the traditional soft, coloured candy. Raising his arm to protect himself, Jerry looks so stiff and unresponsive, even as the children swarm to pick the candy from the floor. He must be worried about his upcoming commentary on the Sabbath’s Torah portion, the Dvar Torah.

“Come, come,” the Rabbi is urging the Glasberg family and members of the congregation to hold hands, dance, and sing around the bimah. Slipping beside Jerry, Irwin whispers in his ear, “Dance, son, dance! Relax! Just one hurdle left! You can do it!”

Should he have said that? Why was he always afraid of Jerry screwing up in public? Why couldn’t he just bask in Jerry’s accomplishments so far? Sit back, relax. Why be so hard on Jerry and on himself?

Once again, Jerry stands alone on the bimah. Relax, Irwin tells himself. Just weeks before, he’d helped his son edit his Dvar Torah. In a few hours, they will host a reception at home. Jerry will stand by the door and greet family friends, relatives, and his own few guests. Nothing demanding. Nothing potentially embarrassing.

Any moment now, Jerry will slide his hand into his jacket’s inner pocket, pull out his speech, and read it. Instead, Jerry’s eyes have focused on a point above the heads of the congregation, as if trawling for inspiration. “Today,” he finally utters, “we won’t deal with Torah perse, but with a topic that involves us as Jews.”

Irwin shudders. The speech he edited revolves around Abraham, one of the few figures in the Bible whose faith God has tested. In our times, his son had written, divine tests are unnecessary, obsolete. The Holocaust, Jerry asserted, poses spiritual questions that only souls unsoiled by rage can answer. Experiments like Abraham’s and Job’s were relevant only before the advent of violent anti-Semitism. Today, his son had concluded in the prepared speech, testing of one’s faith is an everyday event. As a high school teacher of English inured to inarticulate papers, Irwin had marvelled at his son’s depth of thinking. He’d encouraged him to read further on the complex issues raised by his Dvar Torah.

Now, Jerry gazes into empty space, as if trolling for his next sentence. If only Irwin could go up to him, fish the written speech out of his jacket’s pocket, and hand the folded pages to his son. “Don’t fool around! Read it!” he wants to whisper, his voice firm and authoritative. “Don’t embarrass the family and me in front of the congregation! Read your commentary! Go ahead, just do it!”

In a barely audible voice, Jerry begins. “As practising Jews, we must contemplate the fate of the Palestinian people. Millions of them live in squalid quarters. They’re hungry and humiliated.”

The congregation is so silent, Irwin can hear them breathing.

His only son goes on. “The Palestinian refugees…” he half-moans, “…every honest Jew shares in the responsibility for their misery.” Irwin’s face flushes. A wave of anger floods him. Why is Jerry preaching pity to the congregation? And what do politics have to do with Torah, with the Sabbath services? Why is Jerry -- always so shy, so meek, so unassertive -- talking down to adults as if they know nothing about the topic? Where does he summon so much chutzpah?

Jerry halts, as if searching for further arguments about the plight of the Palestinians. White-faced, he stammers, “There are now millions of them, in squalid camps. They -- ”

A voice 0from behind Jerry bellows, “At the time, there were almost a million Jewish refugees from Arab countries.” Irwin spins around. Who has broken the taboo of never butting in during a Dvar Torah? One of the Shul’s regulars, with abundant white hair under a colourful skullcap is red-faced, as if he can’t wait to get his indignation off his chest.

Jerry stands frozen on the bimah. Have all his thoughts abandoned him? He looks hurt and helpless, a little boy dressed in adult clothes. The prayer shawl he wears for the first time ever in Shul is a mockery of grown-ups.

The air in the Shul feels as if it has turned into a membrane. Jerry gazes at the ceiling for a few moments. Regaining composure, he goes on, tears gleaming in his eyes. “The Palestinian people are our brethren,” he half whispers. “We must love them, nurture them, treat them as equals. They are poor, landless, they are -- ”

“The Bar-Mitzvah boy forgot our sources,” another voice thunders.

Irwin whirls around. Dr. Jacob Mandel, past-president of the Shul, is standing up, both hands clutching the long fringes of his oversized prayer shawl. His knuckles are white now, his thick cheeks red. He mutters something in Hebrew, then hollers, “Get up early in the morning to kill those that conspire to kill you! The Torah sanctifies life! There can be no pity for murderers!”

People applaud. Irwin is mortified. What a terrible scandal! Jerry clasps his hands, crestfallen and pitiable.

Stocky Rabbi Goldfarb has jumped to his feet. His red, blue, and white prayer shawl swings as his outstretched palms motion to the congregation to calm down. He steps up to the bimah, and standing next to Jerry, embraces him. “Jerry’s approach to his Dvar Torah is seemingly unusual, but not against our traditions.” The Rabbi’s forefinger pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. His balding head shines. “Jerry was talking about tzedakah -- charity, mercy, from the Hebrew tzedek, justice. What Jerry was saying is that we Jews have to spread justice and be charitable, even with our perceived enemies. I know, what he said came across as controversial, but it’s still acceptable to us Jews. We can’t dismiss it. Sometimes, Torah and politics don’t mix. ”

Still standing up, Dr Mandel looks right and left, then bellows, “I want to go on record as saying that there can be no hesed, no mercy, no compassion, for our enemies. The Rabbi and the Bar-Mitzvah boy are appeasing murderers.” He sits down, angry and self-righteous. Some people applaud.

“Jerry!” a young man Irwin doesn’t know hollers from the back of the Shul, “I swear that tomorrow, between four and five after four, I’ll indulge in your Jewish-mother guilt.”

Some people are laughing, others chatter loudly. The Shul sounds like a vaudeville, thinks Irwin. What an infuriating, embarrassing commotion his son has created.

Rabbi Goldfarb opens a prayer book. His face is stern. “The services will continue on page four hundred and twenty-five,” he announces. The leader of the services climbs the steps into the bimah and sings the first prayer. The chattering and whispers stop. Jerry walks to the pew and sits down beside Irwin. Why even dignify that boy with a look? Jennifer, of course, stands up, hugs, and kisses him, but she refrains from praise or congratulations. Her embarrassment and shame are obvious.

The services go on. Irwin dreads the end of the prayers: it’ll be time for the Kiddush, the Sabbath luncheon, and their guests will come up to him and his wife to congratulate them. Will their friends and relatives ignore the embarrassment of the Dvar Torah? Will they express only polite, lukewarm congratulations to conceal their indignation? Will they hug their hosts or merely shake hands, cooly?

If only the services could continue indefinitely, but it is time for him to bless the wine, and later on, in the Shul’s basement, the braided Sabbath bread. Irwin is mortified. His guests shake his hands, congratulate him on Jerry’s readings, but omit any references to the humiliating Dvar Torah. He’s certain they’re pussyfooting, afraid of hurting his feelings. He looks around the room and sees Jerry awkwardly dealing with well wishers.

“Brent,” Irwin asks his slim and bearded best friend, “could you pass by my house half an hour before the reception starts?”

Brent tweaks his square chin. He must have trimmed his beard that morning: his smooth upper cheeks shine, and his well-cropped moustache looks thinner. “Certainly,” he says, “but are you sure I won’t be interfering with last-minute preparations?”

“No, not at all. I must get something off my chest.”

“The Dvar Torah?”

“Yes. It’s bugging me.”

“I understand.”

Once at home, Jerry hurries to his room, probably afraid of being confronted. Frustrated, Irwin changes into jeans and a sweater and helps Jennifer prepare for the evening’s reception. “You look uptight,” she remarks.

“Are you surprised?”

“No! I’m also upset about Jerry’s speech.”

“‘Speech’ you call it? It was one huge guilt trip. And what a chutzpah! To imply that the congregation knows nothing about the Palestinians, and it’s up to Jerry Glasberg, a grade eight kid, to preach justice and fairness to them. He shot off his mouth. It had nothing to do with Torah and learning!”

“Look! The reaction he got was a harrowing experience! He needs our support, not your anger. Calm down! He’s a kid, Irwin! He’s a loner, you know that, an idealist without the benefit of feedback from peers!”

“I felt stunned, mortified! He embarrassed us in front of our guests. I’m so angry I could kick him!”

“Control yourself! You’re the adult!” She peers around the room. “I’ve a lot of things to do right now and I’ve no time for your tantrums.”

At six-thirty, Irwin sits in the living room, anxiously waiting for Brent and his family to arrive. Brent is fifteen minutes late. What if there isn’t enough time to air all his concerns?

“It’s about Jerry.” Irwin pours his best friend a drink. “I felt terribly humiliated by the commotion.”

“Just rebellion, Irwin. He’s a teenager now. Hormones are crackling in his veins.”

“That’s not the issue. Jerry hasn’t reached puberty. In the gym, he hides behind a towel. He’s hairless down there, a shrimp.”

“Irwin! You sound derogatory! I know you’re angry, but you can’t put your son down.”

“This morning I thought about Abraham. He got murderously angry with Isaac and almost slit his throat. Only later, when his rage abated, he made up the tale of God testing him.”

“You’re going too far, Irwin! My David dropped out of school and is on drugs and isn’t working. I’m hurt and disappointed, but I don’t feel like killing him.”

“Are you sure? You can’t deny that our teenagers make us feel murderously angry!”

“Use your head, Irwin! You don’t even know why Jerry did what he did. Teenagers can be so callous!” His hand taps Irwin’s knee. “You’re too angry at the moment.”

“The Canaanites sacrificed their firstborn, Brent. The Greeks too were honest. Remember Chronos devouring his children?”

“For God’s sake, take it easy! To justify your rage, you’re quoting myths alien to us Jews. You attribute filicidal rages to Abraham. What a crock! It isn’t even hinted at in Genesis or in any commentary!”

Irwin stands up. “Our guests will be here in a moment. I’ll be at the door, with Jerry.”

“Okay, Irwin. Call me.” Slowly Brent rose from his chair. “We have a lot to talk about.”

Friends and relatives pour in. The house gleams from the ceiling lights and candles burning in every corner. The guests are effusive, and no one mentions the services at Shul that morning. Jerry stands at the door, greeting all the well-wishers with equanimity, as if nothing unusual has happened. Struggling to conceal his bad mood, Irwin shakes hands with the men and exchanges pecks with the women. He keeps thinking about his conversation with Brent and despite the busyness of the reception, he can’t stop thinking about the word “filicide”. To control himself, he hauls another stack of Jerry’s presents up to the bedroom.

Jennifer meets him in the upstairs hallway. “I talked to Jerry while you were with Brent,” she says.

“What did he say?”

“Almost nothing. I did almost all the talking. He was testy and didn’t answer my questions.”

“What did you ask?”

“I asked him why he gave a speech about the Palestinians instead of reading his Dvar Torah.”

“Exactly what I want to find out.”

“He doesn’t trust us with his feelings, Irwin. My hunch is that he felt indignation about the condition of the refugees and decided to use the bimah to draw the attention of the congregation.”

“On his Bar-Mitzvah, eh? As someone hollered in Shul, here goes Jewish guilt. How many WASPs,” his forefinger pokes the air, “feel guilty about what their ancestors did to Canadian Indians? After the reception, I’ll talk to him.”

She reaches for his stiffened arm. “Please don’t! You look so hurt, so angry. It’ll only make things worse. Wait a few days!”

With fewer guests streaming in, Irwin stands in the sunroom, where people congregate around the bar. He doesn’t want to think about it, but sooner or later people will go home, and he’ll have to face his rebellious son. The prospect feels like re-opening wounds that have barely stopped bleeding. Still, he can’t wait. His anger demands straight answers.

At about one in the morning, all the guests have departed. Jennifer is placing the leftover food in plastic containers. Irwin takes off his jacket and tie, then pads up the stairs, to confront Jerry in his bedroom.

His son is sitting at the computer, so absorbed with the game he’s playing that he doesn’t’ notice his father standing by the door. Twice Irwin clears his throat. Jerry turns around. He blushes, and his fearful eyes assess him.