LITMIR.BIZ

      About half an hour before sunset, Israel, Jakob, and Zelek went to the synagogue. Inside the small building, in the center of the room, was the bimah, a raised platform from which the services took place. About three-quarters of the men and boys in the village were in attendance, each of them wearing his best clothing, and, under his shirt, his fringed tallith katan, to remind him to keep God’s commandments.

      On the bimah was Rabbi Warnitski and his cantor, an assistant who chanted the prayers. In large synagogues, the cantor was a full time employee, and his greatest attraction was his voice, but in Gremai he was Moishe Feldman, the owner of the small shop. Feldman had been an unpaid volunteer for fifteen years, and during the past two or three, his voice had begun to give out. At the times he was to strike a high note, the boys would start grinning, expecting the worst, which did come, but their fathers kept their respect, for Feldman gave what he could.

      When Jakob entered, the rabbi spoke a few quiet words in Feldman’s ear, then motioned his cousin’s son to him. Jakob stepped up to the bimah, and, standing by Rabbi Warnitski’s side, began assisting him. He chanted with such clarity, in such perfect tone and speed, that the members nodded in satisfaction.

      It was a short service, about forty-five minutes, then the three started homeward, Israel making the best speed he could, and Zelek holding onto Jakob’s hand. Israel had been impressed by his new boarder. Generally, he was tuned off by the young men who dedicated themselves too eagerly to every dot and dash of ceremonial fervor. He himself was religious, and he gave the Lord His due at every turn, but he accepted the fact that God was slightly less concerned about how often you bowed your head then He was for man’s true feelings. So Israel had made his peace with ritual, and did not feel guilty about cutting a corner here or there. Jakob had made him feel that ritual did have meaning beyond its purely exhibitionist character. Here was a youth headed straight for a seat among the pious Talmid Chachems, yet equally the kind of lad he would have liked to sail with. He spoke straight out, with respect, even though he had an air which placed him far above the norm. And look at the way Zelek took to him. Furthermore, he did not make an effort to help Israel walk, like so many did, but unobtrusively kept down his long-legged gait so the older man could limp along without undue stress.

      By sunset, the house had been swept and scrubbed, and the women and girls dressed in their Sabbath finery. Motlie lit the traditional two candles and closed her eyes. “Blessed art Thou, O Lord our God, King of the Universe,” she prayed, passing her palms towards herself over the candles, “Who has sanctified us by Thy commandments, and has commanded us to kindle the Sabbath light.” Alongside the candles was her prized plate, and on it was a small coin, the most she could afford for charity. Beside her were Hanna and the girls, for they, too, must memorize the words, since it was the wife’s duty to recite them every Sabbath for the reminder of her life.

      When Israel entered, he kissed each of them, wishing them a good Sabbath. Hershel was there, clad in a fine, light blue suit with five buttons down the front, a white, high-collared shirt, blue tie, and soft, ankle high dress boots.

      He eyed the Hasid curiously, having been told of his presence earlier, and was surprised at the firm grip he received when shaking his hand. In short order, all were seated at the table, set with the best linen tablecloth, the best dinnerware, as is custom on the Sabbath.

      At Israel’s place were two braided challahs covered by Motlie’s favorite cloth, and his silver goblet, given to him on his bar mitzvah almost thirty years before, containing wine. He gave the blessing, then pulled pieces from a challah and passed them around for each to eat and sip their own wine.

      Suddenly, Jakob began to sing a Sabbath song. One by one the others joined in. He switched to a more spirited tune and clapped his hands to keep time. Quicker and quicker went his beat, then he rose from his chair and started dancing, whirling with the tempo, raising his hands high, jumping into the air. The gold flecks in his eyes sparkled with pleasure and his face shone.

      “Come!” he called out to the others. “Dance to the Shabbas, the Queen of our week. Our Bride.”

      He began to sing: