Storytime Tapestry Newsletter

The newsletter devoted to spreading love and cultural awareness throughout the world.

Special Treat – Ron Gold

March 19, 2007

KIDNAPPED FOR GOD

By Ron Gold

            He crouched under the movie theatre marquis like a panther, ready to spring on his prey. 

He was a medium-built, quiet, bearded man in a Panama hat.

I was his prey.

            “Are you a Bar Mitzvah?” he asked, a twinkle beaming from those panther eyes.

“Yessir.”

“I need you, Bar Mitzvah boy, for a minyun (ten adult males required as a quorum for Jewish religious services).  It won’t take long and, besides, you’ll enjoy the rugelach (small walnut and raisin cookies) we brought to the shiva (in-home post funeral service).

Before I could ask who died and where he or she lived, I felt him, pushing me toward his car on Atlantic Street (the ‘main drag’ in Stamford, CT.)  I hoped the home was not too far away and I was glad it wasn’t the Sabbath since Orthodox Jews don’t drive on Friday nights.

            We drove about ten blocks to a small old apartment building where the deceased, Yonkel Greenbaum, , lived with his wife in a second floor walk up.  They

moved from a four bedroom house to smaller quarters after both sons graduated college and married.

            As I entered the apartment, I was given a yarmulke (skull cap) to cover my bare head.  I was introduced to the other members of the minyun, men much older than my dad.  Their smiles acknowledged me.  I showed some maturity by remaining convincingly quiet.

            While I was with the men, the women hovered around Mrs. Greenbaum, using their empathy to sooth her tears.  They covered the mirrors with sheets (so individuals won’t see their grief).  Then they set the dining room table. 

Each couple brought home made or store bought food.  Roger, the older Greenbaum son, brought smoked meats and fish, deli salads and a challah (sacramental egg twist bread).  His brother Allan contributed unopened bottles of whiskey.

            Seymour, who brought me, told Allan, “you bring good Scotch and Bourbon.  That’s nice but we’re not used to the fancy stuff.”

            “I couldn’t bring less for my father’s good friends,” Allan said as he sat

on a box.  (Guests sit on comfortable chairs.  Family sit on simple boxes at a shiva.)

            “Dad was a modern man who escaped the concentration camps, came here, worked as a dishwasher until he could buy a second-hand truck.  He’d drive to Jersey to buy fruits and vegetables from farms, which he’d sell to restaurants, diners, delis, small stores and hotels.  Even before business got good, he wired his sister an airlines ticket to come here.  But, I must tell you, I felt inadequate seeing my dad in that skimpy pine box this morning.  He deserved a more fitting send off.”

            “Yes,” Seymour agreed, “but he wanted the simple coffin..  It’s what the books say is right.  The important thing is that your family and his friends were there.  And that you let your papa know he was loved, admired and respected—a good way to go.  You can be proud that you granted his final wish.”

            The front door opened and the rabbi entered, acknowledged the family and   friends—even me, the quiet Bar Mitzvah boy Seymour kidnapped for the minyun.

            The rabbi led the quorum in a prayer service.  He spoke about the inevitability of death and told anecdotes about his recently departed friend.

            We all said the traditional Kaddish (prayer for the dead) and Seymour led me to the sweet table.  “Here, Reuven Hirsch (my Hebrew name) is the world’s best rugelach.  You came and prayed for a good man you never met.  You deserve its sweetness.  Enjoy.”

            I also deserved a corned beef sandwich and a cr?me soda, which I enjoyed almost as much as the pastries.

When I finally returned home, my dad was angry.  “Where were you?  Why were you gone so long?  Why didn’t you phone us?  Your mom and I were worried sick. I went to the movie theatre and couldn’t find you.  Where were you, son?”

            “It’s a long story, dad.  I was kidnapped and brought to a minyun for Mr. Greenbaum.”

            “Good for you, son.  I understand.” Then winking, smiling and biting into the rugulach I brought him, he said, “You’re my one in a minyun.”

 Ron Gold

outthinkresumes@aol.com