Jew Off the Graph3rd Place in the Fiction Writing Contest
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Issue 17
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Like any curious young boy whose parents were tight-lipped, he foraged through junk drawers in his mother’s old chifforobe, a combination closet and a chest of drawers, where there were unlikely things buried in the drawers. Buttons, garment trimmings, handkerchiefs, trinkets, costume jewelry were predictable, undefinable paraphernalia.
In the second drawer, a skull cap, a prayer shawl, phylacteries, papers committing his older brother to a mental hospital. In the bottom drawer was a box of condoms, an illustrated pornographic book in French and a handwritten essay in his father’s writing, entitled The Chasity Belt, purporting that the medieval restraint was imaginary. His father cast doubt on its alleged purpose, to preserve the purity of maidens left behind, as men went to the Crusades. It was unfinished, bearing the comment, “hypocrisy, more research...” The young boy was unusually analytical and perceptive. He was clear that males despite chivalrous displays men enjoyed a dominant role. He wondered what chaste women thought. His mother and father were both offspring sired by Chassidic Rabbis married to Jewish wives, yet they never went to pray at a synagogue, not even on high holidays. His father was clean-shaven and did not wear curled forelocks. His mother had a full head of her own hair, not a shaven head and a set of wigs to wear outside their home, though she sometimes wore a babushka. They didn’t keep a kosher home. The humorous anecdote which suggests that Jews answer a question with another question was illustrated by both his parents. Occasionally they might direct him to where he could obtain the answer. Not to ask a Rabbi. He was chided for being a pest, was called in Yiddish, a nudnick. He was left to speculate why they had abandoned their orthodox upbringing, though his father’s photographic memory was crowded with aphorisms and rules for living in a compilation of laws and customs found in the Talmud. Hypocrites say one thing and practice another. He concluded that the murder of family members by Nazis was for them a last straw. And they renounced their faith in God. Yet they insisted he go to Hebrew School, learn the language and the history and culture. In return he was entrusted to decide, when he was confirmed at age thirteen to be a man, to choose what course his religious persuasion, if any might be, including abstention. He felt irrevocably a Jew in name only. He was reminded by his mother that when he was confirmed, if he chose not to observe the high holidays, that she agreed with his father who told him that he needed to stay out of sight in their neighborhood. The weather oddly often was nicest on Jewish holidays. He wanted to avoid provoking his parents’ supervision or reproach so he left home before sunrise and returned after dark when dressed casually. He locked horns with the Hebrew language instructor and the Rabbi who were inflexible and babbled endlessly about having faith. At Hebrew school and the synagogue, he spent considerable time in the rest room reading. “Rabbi, I do not believe that there is a Lord to punish and reward. I do not believe that there is a promised land after death. Purported heritage and mythical tales can’t displace my thoughtful doubts.” “For example, young man?” The Rabbi foresaw a sulky bad tempered discussion. “The Christian men who went off to medieval Crusades my father believes immorally insulted the truth and women by falsely creating a myth of chastity belts, which never happened. Yet, he saw models in a museum.” The Rabbi was floored and amused. He suppressed his expression. He wisely resisted criticizing opposing believers. And held out for acceptance, “You were born Jewish. You are defiant of misrepresentation, what do you believe?” He was hesitant to preach to a Rabbi, an authority who must be obeyed. “I believe that an ideal person should pay attention to what they say and what they do and be trying to do what pleases him or her while actually being kind-hearted and helpful.” “What about God?” |
Mel Einhorn is an octogenarian reemerging writer and poet tests his mettle.
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