I was born in Chicago and grew up on the North Side, in a neighborhood called Albany Park. It was a “mixed” neighborhood (half Jewish-half Christian), but my father often reminisced, “before the war it was almost all Jewish around here. If you walked on Lawrence Avenue you’d see dozens of bearded men in long black robes and fur hats – Yiddish was the language of the street.”

At school it was easy to tell which kids were Jewish (like me): we usually had a kosher pickle, wrapped in tin foil, in our lunchbox – Christian kids had an apple or a banana – some had nuts. Beyond that I didn’t know too much about religion – it was confusing. For example, I couldn’t understand why Christians worshiped Jesus Christ even though he was Jewish, but Jewish people didn’t know a lot about him. Actually, I don’t think we worshiped anyone, except maybe Moses, but only at Passover – that’s when we ate matzohs instead of bread. That was also confusing; matzohs are supposed to represent suffering, but they’re delicious, especially when covered with butter.

I had fun helping the gentile kids hang ornaments on their Christmas trees, even though some of their parents didn’t like me. They said the Jews killed Christ. But, I thought the Santa Claus story was dumb - a jolly fat man saying “ho ho ho” while flying around the world in a sleigh. 

There’s not much more I can say about my childhood in Chicago. I guess I was kind of a loner. That’s because of my fourth grade teacher, she encouraged me to read a lot.  I don’t remember her name but I remember her advice: “What you read as a child will define your identity.” So, I read a whole series of biographies, all about famous pioneers, scientists, athletes, cowboys, and frontiersmen. They were advanced books - sixth grade level - without pictures.  My favorite one was about Davy Crockett, and whenever I got in an argument - or if I was just mad at the world - I’d shout out a great quote from that book: “y’all can go to hell but I’m going to Texas.” Yeah – I know, Davy died at the Alamo. So what! We all have to die somewhere. Texas, Tennessee – what’s the difference? And he named his rifle Betsy – I thought that was really neat. So, in honor of my first hero (definitely more than Moses) I named my bike Betsy – that’s because I didn’t have a rifle.

One of my friends was Deitmar Shank, a Lutheran boy from Germany; his family came to America because they hated Hitler – but I’m not sure if they liked me. They didn’t exactly blame the Jews for killing Christ - I just had that feeling. Deitmar and I often rode our bikes to Old Heidelberg, a German deli. My favorite sandwich was liverwurst on a Kaiser roll, and he loved taking a bite of the pickle in my lunchbox. He didn’t know much about baseball – they didn’t play that sport in Germany. But, he knew that I hated the New York Yankees – so, when we were together he liked to say, “the Yankees suck.” I laughed – it sounded funny with his German accent – and when I laughed, so did Deitmar. I taught him Jewish words, like “shmuck” and “putz” – I wasn’t really sure what they meant but I often heard my parents and relatives laugh when they said those words.

Oh, one more thing, before I forget – during Christmas vacation, every evening just after the street lights came on, the gentile kids gathered in small groups and walked from house-to-house singing Christmas Carols. The neighbors gave them money. Sometimes I joined them, but when they sang words like “Christ the Lord” or “Little Lord Jesus” I covered my mouth and mumbled “la-la-la.” I could have made lots of money but I gave my share to the gentile kids – it was their holiday. I wish we had good Hannukah songs; I hated “dreidel, dreidel made of clay.” I mean, how can you compare that stupid song to Silent Night or the Little Drummer Boy? I loved singing “pa rum pum pum pum.”

GOODBYE CHICAGO

Several months after my 12th birthday my childhood in Chicago came crashing to an abrupt end - my father had a heart attack while playing Poker with relatives. Chicago winters were too difficult for him to tolerate, so he retired and we moved to Miami Beach, Florida – one block from the ocean, a short walk (or bike ride) from my new school. It should have been easy to make friends – if I wanted to - but I was very depressed about leaving Chicago – and most of these kids were Yankee fans. So, most of the time, after school, I just rode Betsy (my bike) to the public library; they had interesting programs for kids. I especially liked one slide-show about the ruins of Pompeii. The people in that ancient Roman town died from volcanic fumes; even dogs were unable to escape the poison death. I sure hoped there weren’t any volcanoes near Miami Beach. Well, a small eruption wouldn’t be so bad – then we would have to move back to Chicago – or maybe Texas.

One time, in an effort to escape into my head, I hopped on Betsy and zig-zagged in between garbage cans in a lonely alleyway. A homeless old man sitting next to a dumpster sipped from a bottle of wine. He stared in space and shared the wisdom of the alley: “never look in a mirror too long.” I raced past him, a little scared, and started singing a catchy tune about Texas.

Across the alley from the Alamo -- Lived a pinto pony and a Navajo.
La-la-la and hi-de-ho (I didn’t know all the lyrics)
One day, they went a-walkin’ -- Along the railroad track
They were swishin’ not a-lookin’ -- Toot, toot, they never came back

SHABBOS DINNER ~ THE BIG LIE

Aside from slide-shows at the library or singing in the alley, I sometimes went to the beach with Howard Lefkowitz or Dick Solomon, my two new friends - my only friends. Howard was from Newark, New Jersey – he scratched his crotch when he talked, trying to look cool, and he spoke with a funny accent. Like when he said Newark, it sounded as if he was saying New York – but he kept reminding me, “Newark is near New York but it’s in ‘Joisey’ – a different state.”  Dick was from Boston and he spoke weird – he never pronounced the letter “R.”  “In Boston we say pahk the cah in hahvahd ya`hd. I think we only got 25 letters in the alphabet.”  Howard and Dick didn’t like each other, so I never went to the beach with both of them together. Howard laughed at Dick’s Boston accent – “he talks like a “pompous faggot.” And Dick ridiculed Howard – “he’s a low class degenerate – always scratching his balls.” 

THE DIVORCED NYMPHO

One day, while at the beach with Howard, he started telling me nasty stories about a divorced woman who lived in his apartment building – her name was Virginia and she loved to “fool around” with young boys. “Divorced women are all horny nymphos.” Then he went into detail, explaining what he meant by “fooling around.”  He was a good teacher and when we were alone, away from the New York kids, he could carry on a conversation without scratching his crotch. Even his “Joisey” accent disappeared.

“All you gotta’ do is smile – and they start licking your ears – they can’t wait to squeeze your gonads.”

“What are gonads? I never heard that word.”

Howard chuckled: “C’mon with me – Friday, after school, we’ll visit the nympho - you’ll find out.”

This was creepy; I really didn’t want to go but Howard insisted, and warned me - if I chickened out he would tell all his friends, and everyone would call me a fag or a homo – not a good way to start at a new school.

Howard lived in a section of town that was sometimes called Bagel Beach. It got that name because it was home to thousands of elderly Jewish people. His apartment was in an old purple and white building that had arched doorways and circular windows. The architecture in Bagel Beach wasn’t modern, not like the James Manor, my new apartment, and the other buildings in my neighborhood.

We walked up to the fourth floor - no elevators in the building. Howard knocked on the door of Virginia’s apartment – no answer. He knocked again - she wasn’t home. Thank God - I was so scared I was shaking. Then we walked down to the first floor – Howard’s tiny apartment.

“My father died a few years ago, and my mom is too sick to get a real job, so we’re on welfare. That’s why we live in a rat trap shit hole like this.”

Howard told me how he loved Newark, but his mother had lung problems: “she can’t tolerate those fuckin’ cold winters no more.”  Then, as he continued telling me about his sick mother, and memories of his father, he put on an apron and started vacuuming the apartment - to get ready for Shabbos - the Jewish Sabbath.

“Almost everybody is here for the same reason,” Howard raised his voice, to be heard above the grinding sound of the vacuum cleaner. “One of their parents got sick or died and they had to move to Florida. You ever hear of Horace Greely?”

“Yeah - he was the newspaper writer in New York that said ‘Go west young man.’”

“Yup! but my mom says the old people musta’ been hard of hearing - they all went south, specially’ the old Jews.”

Howard read a lot, like I did, and we talked about the way colored people were treated in Miami Beach; we both thought it was disgusting. “In Newark, some of my best friends were negroes, but it’s way different down here. In Florida they ain’t smart enough to go to the same schools as white kids – that’s what one of my teachers said. That’s why they gotta’ go to special schools.”

We also talked about how colored people had to ride in the back of the bus; that was the law, and they had to drink at separate drinking fountains. And, if they tried on clothes in a department store, especially bathing suits or underwear, they would have to buy it, even if it didn’t fit.

“Myron, that’s one law I agree with. How can you let a shvartza return a bathing suit after he touched it with his “shlong?” He liked that word and said it several times (so did I) and we started making up dirty poems with rhyming words - “King Kong had a long shlong” - we were laughing so loud we didn’t hear Howard’s mother enter the apartment; she was wheeling a small cart loaded with several bags of groceries.

Mrs. Lefkowitz looked at me and smiled: “I heard you just moved here from Chicago. Why don’t you join us for dinner?” I helped her unpack the groceries and watched as she clipped a few coupons and put them under a magnetic Jewish star on the refrigerator. She puffed on a cigarette and said a short Hebrew prayer – some kind of blessing for the coupons. After she finished with the blessing she told me that she was working “off the books” as a maid; if the government knew about that job she would lose her welfare payments. But, she needed extra money to pay back loans for Howard’s Bar Mitzvah.

Mrs. Lefkowitz reached for a leather photo album and beamed with pride, especially when showing me a large picture of Howard wearing a yarmulkeh and tallis. “Howard gave me goose bumps when he chanted from the Torah” – and smoke came out of her mouth as she reminisced about the happiest day of her life. “His father, may he rest in peace, would have been so proud of him; the Bar Mitzvah is the most important moment in the life of a young Jewish boy. It’s his covenant with God.”

“Yeah, that’s true, ” I said. “I had my Bar Mitzvah early, at 12, before I left Chicago.” I couldn’t tell her the truth, that I was not going to have a Bar Mitzvah.  

“Myron, would you like to read the prayers before dinner?” asked Mrs. Lefkowitz.

“No, I can’t read Hebrew; at our temple we only read in English.” I was getting myself deep into a lie; I didn’t like this - I wish I had just told her the truth.

“But the Torah is only in Hebrew.”

“I know, but ours had English translations. They do things different in Chicago; it isn’t as religious there.” That almost sounded believable.

“I hate it here, the way they make you say morning devotionals at school.” I tried to change topics - I didn’t want to talk about Bar Mitzvahs anymore. “My homeroom is almost all Jewish but we have to pray to Jesus and the Holy Ghost.”

“Those are only words Myron. As long as you have been Bar Mitzvahed they can’t hurt you - they can’t force you to convert to Christianity - Hashem will protect you.”

I called my parents and asked if it was OK to stay late at Howard’s apartment; I was invited for dinner. Mrs. Lefkowitz said they were having a Friday night dinner with one of their neighbors.

“C’mon Myron, we have to wash our hands and get ready for Shabbos,” said Howard. We went into the bathroom and shut the door; he wouldn’t let me leave the room until he peed and said a brief Hebrew prayer - a special prayer for washing your hands. “Baruch Atah Adonoi - Elohenu Melech Hah A Lom – clean hands - Ahh-main.” Howard removed his T-shirt and put on a white dress shirt, his special Shabbos shirt. He loaned me one also; “Myron, it’s disrespectful to God to wear a T-shirt at a Friday night dinner.”

I was worried – was it also disrespectful to God - to lie and say that I had an “English only” Bar Mitzvah in Chicago?

THE UPSTAIRS NEIGHBOR

“Myron, this is Virginia, our upstairs neighbor,” said Mrs. Lefkowitz, “she will be joining us for Shabbos.”

Virginia smiled, a hint of a smile, kind of like the Mona Lisa; she had full red lips and her hair was cut in bangs. She looked at me but said nothing. I was in a trance, seduced by the far away look in her beautiful blue eyes.  I was sitting at Mrs. Lefkowitz’s Friday night dinner next to the divorced nympho - God was aware of my thoughts (which were not very religious) I couldn’t stop thinking about this mysterious woman licking my ears.  Howard told me that she could lick both ears at the same time. How was that possible?

Mrs. Lefkowitz rested her burning cigarette on the far end of the table, covered her head with a lace doily, and lit the ceremonial candles. She coughed and recited the same prayer that Howard said in the bathroom - her prayer concluded with a blessing for Shabbos. Then, she went into the kitchen to slice the brisket – the main course for dinner. While she was in the kitchen Howard leaned over and started whispering to Virginia. I’m not sure what he said, but the beautiful nympho blushed, “yeah, that sounds like fun – after dinner.”

My face turned red, like the horseradish that was starting to make me choke. One bite of the spicy gefilte fish, which Mrs. Lefkowitz smothered with horseradish, and my nose began to run like a faucet. Virginia had the same problem; her nose was dribbling all over her face. Every time I looked at her she had a napkin in hand, wiping her nose – then she smiled and stared at my left ear.

“Hey Howie,” said Virginia, “why don’t you and Myron come upstairs – I got this new Eddie Fisher record – you’ll love it.” Mrs. Lefkowitz gave Virginia a strange look; I think she was very suspicious and knew that her divorced neighbor wanted to conclude the Friday night dinner with a special dessert.

“Myron, I think it’s time you headed home, your parents will be worried.” I thanked Mrs. Lefkowitz and as I left the apartment Howard started flapping his arms (pretending they were chicken wings) – he mumbled under his breath… “puk puk puk puk.” 

I lived at the James Manor until the end of eighth grade and I saw Howard many times, but I always found one excuse or another not to visit Virginia, and not to show Mrs. Lefkowitz the pictures from my “English only” Bar Mitzvah. I told her that the photo album was lost by the movers, the company that transported all our personal belongings from Chicago. It was difficult to live a constant lie, but I didn’t want her to know that I never had a Bar Mitzvah. In future years, after my voice changed and a few pimples disappeared – I searched for Virginia, but I could never find her again.

DICK’S BAR MITZVAH

Several days after the Shabbos dinner at Howard’s apartment, I was walking to school with Dick Solomon. He lived at the Miljean Hotel, next door to my apartment building – his dad was the manager. Dick was very religious – Orthodox – but, you’d never know it by looking at him. He had light blond hair; my mother said he looked like a shaigetz.

“Do you know Howdy Doody’s real name?” asked Dick, “you know, the dumb puppet on TV.”

“Uh – no!”

“It’s Hello Shit!”

Dick cracked up laughing and put his arm around my shoulder. He wasn’t a homo, or anything like that – he just liked me. Of course, I made sure to remove his hand once we got near the school.

“My Bar Mitzvah’s in November,” said Dick, “you gotta’ come – lotsa’ girls gonna’ be there.”

Oh No! I didn’t want to get caught in a lie again – like with Mrs. Lefkowitz. It was six months until my 13th birthday and I was not going to be Bar Mitzvahed.  In Chicago, as my father always said, we were very assimilated. None of my Jewish friends or relatives were being Bar Mitzvahed. I would soon find out that in Miami Beach it was much different. Most of these kids were New York Jews – much more religious than we were in Chicago. It was unheard of for a Jewish boy in Miami Beach not to have a Bar Mitzvah.

Then came the dreaded question: “Myron, when’s your Bar Mitzvah?”

“Uh – er – um – we just moved here – we don’t belong to a synagogue – it’s kind of late for me to start Bar Mitzvah classes, so I guess I’m not going to have one.”

“That’s horrible. Unless you read from the Torah you won’t ever be a man, at least not in the eyes of God.” Dick said he was going to tell his parents and maybe his rabbi could put together an “instant” Bar Mitzvah for me.

I reached into my lunchbox and grabbed an early snack – a few potato chips. “Hey Dick – d’ya want some?” Hopefully, with a mouthful of potato chips he would stop talking about Bar Mitzvah plans.

“Lemme’ see the bag – only if they’re kosher – gotta’ have a U with a circle around it.”

“No U,” I observed, “but its got a little K in a circle. Is that OK?”

“No – only the U is kosher for the Orthodox. I guess the K is OK for other Jews, but we’re super strict kosher.”

The next night a bearded visitor came to our apartment. It was Rabbi Meyer Lipschitz, from Dick’s Orthodox shul. Dick had told his parents that I was not going to have a Bar Mitzvah – the rabbi volunteered to give me six months of private tutoring if we joined his congregation.

However, my father said “no.” He wasn’t an atheist or a communist, or anything bad like that, but he always said, “belonging to a temple is like owning a boat; you never stop getting hit for money.”

Rabbi Lipschitz became very emotional, almost as if I was converting to Christianity. He made an impassioned appeal in Yiddish: “Vimen iz gevoint oif der yugend azoi tut men oif der elter.” (That which is practiced in youth will be pursued in old age). Then he started shaking his fist toward the ceiling and yelling in Yiddish until my mother interrupted, to prevent an argument. She was always concerned about my father’s heart condition. She asked the rabbi to leave.

PARTING OF THE RED SEA

Two months later I attended Dick’s Orthodox Bar Mitzvah - I had more exposure to Judaism during my first few months in Miami Beach than in the previous 12 years of my life. I joined the Solomon family as they walked four blocks, to a very small shul. Religious Jews cannot ride a car or a bus on Shabbos, not even if someone else drives. Thus, most Orthodox congregations were small neighborhood synagogues and the members all knew each other. Dick walked with his father and practiced chanting in Hebrew, bobbing his head up and down as they walked to the shul. I followed, half a block behind, with his grandmother, mother, and Rebecca, his older sister. I was told not to talk to Dick, not to get him nervous; so mainly, I talked to Rebecca. She was 18 years old, very pretty, and a little bit plump - not exactly fat - just curvy and short - that made her look fatter than she really was. “Don’t call me fat,” said Rebecca, “my bubby says I’m just zoftic – more to squeeze.”

She had red curly hair, like Little Orphan Annie, the cartoon character. Her eyes were also red; she had been crying for several days - forced to marry a wealthy older man after the school year ended. The man lived in Boston - a man she had never met. Her mother arranged the marriage and said it was “bashert,” a Yiddish word meaning that it was meant to be. Dick’s grandmother had difficulty hearing, but when she heard the word “bashert” her eyes lit up; “God villing’ - may I live long enough to see my grandchildren married – p’tu p’tu.” She did an imaginary spit on the sidewalk to ward off evil spirits.

“Bubby, I haven’t even met the man, and he’s really old. He has a son who’s older than me!” Rebecca wiped her eyes, swallowed hard, and held back tears. She didn’t want to be the center of attention, not on this special day; this day was a joyous occasion, a simcha. All eyes were supposed to be focused on her brother.

“Is the man Orthodox?” I asked.

“Yes,” she replied – and she mumbled a few curse words – including the “F-word.” Dick had told me that Orthodox men and women never touched each other when they had intercourse. Women draped their bodies in a bed sheet, with a hole strategically placed at the right location. 

“God didn’t mean for men and women to bang away like wild animals,” said Dick. “Only when the woman is in heat.”

“I don’t think you’re right about wild animals,” I replied. “They do it the same way all the time. Its only humans that come up with a zillion different positions.”

Dick laughed. “Then there’s a great business. You can be the first to make modern bedsheets for Orthodox Jews - with lots of holes.” I also laughed, but it wasn’t such a bad idea.

Rebecca’s grandmother offered comforting words in Yiddish: “Beckalah, my precious little flower - it is bashert, it is bashert, not to ’vorry - fun krimeh shiduchim humen arois gleicheh kinder.” (From bad matches good children are also born). “It is bashert!”

I had only been living on this New York Jewish island for a few months, but wherever I turned I kept hearing that word, over and over - “bashert, bashert, bashert” - “It was meant to be.” Even my homeroom teacher, Miss Baker, who wasn’t Jewish, felt that everything was preordained. I was only 12, but I couldn’t accept that philosophy; I found it very upsetting. If everything was bashert, then why did we bother with school or eating well balanced meals?  Why did we even look both ways when crossing a street?  

This sure wasn’t how I envisioned my destiny. The only one to write my life story would be me – not today, not tomorrow – but, someday – somewhere. If not here, it would be in Texas.

That’s what I wanted to say to Dick’s sister – but I couldn’t – not in front of her mother and grandmother – so I just held her hand . She understood, and whispered: “Myron, after the Bar Mitzvah, I’m going to introduce you to a really sweet girl.”

“Shhh,” said Mrs. Solomon - and as we entered the small Orthodox shul Rebecca squeezed my hand – a thank you squeeze.

Men sat on the main level of the sanctuary, and women and young children were restricted to the balcony. Since I was 12 (almost Bar Mitzvah age) I could choose either location. I preferred being upstairs, mainly because Dick warned me - the old men would look with disdain if I couldn’t follow along with the Hebrew reading.

Another reason why I wanted to avoid sitting with the men was because I didn’t own a tie and jacket. My mother bought me a royal blue Cubavera to wear to the Bar Mitzvah. A Cubavera is a Cuban style jacket that was very popular with the tourists. Essentially, it’s a long sleeve multi-pleated shirt, worn on the outside of your pants. I really disliked the Cubavera; I looked like a bongo player in a Latin band - without the moustache - but my mother reminded me that the stupid looking Cubavera was half the price of a sport jacket. She also offered a few words of encouragement, “If a girl really likes you she won’t care what kind of jacket you’re wearing.”  

And - talking about girls: The best thing about sitting in the balcony, I got to sit next to a dozen pretty girls - and they weren’t wearing a yarmelke or a tallis. They were just wearing black dresses with long sleeves, and they whispered to each other during the service and giggled. They weren’t much different from the girls at school - but the boys were strange - they had no interest in the girls; they were off in another world, communicating with God.

The religious service (downstairs) was almost entirely in Hebrew It was difficult for me to understand what was happening; it was mainly old men rocking and “davenen” (chanting) and singing various prayers. The women (upstairs) hummed in tune with the prayers, but never stood and rarely chanted. Most of the women wore hats or had their heads covered with lace doilies, like Mrs. Lefkowitz used when she said prayers at her Shabbos dinner. The Torah was lifted from the Ark and held on the shoulder of a bearded old man. Several of the elderly men walked around the room, carrying the Torah, and all the men on the main level touched the Torah with their tallis and then kissed the tallis; they were bonding with God. Since the women and children were in the balcony they were excluded from this holy ritual - they weren’t allowed to bond. I thought about that for awhile, and I wondered whether women ever went to heaven. It sure would be a boring place if it was all old men with beards.

The Solomon family sat on the Beema (the Altar) and Dick’s parents walked forward to the Torah to lead the congregation in the first Aliah (a traditional Hebrew prayer). Then relatives and friends of the family took turns walking up to the Beema - to chant from the Torah. Finally, it was time for Dick to begin chanting from the Haftorah, the weekly section of the Torah that covered one of the Five Books of Moses. I had a booklet, in English, which provided a little insight; the reading for this week would come from “Exodus,” the Second Book of Moses. The passage described the plight of the Israelites in Egypt, the escape from bondage and the parting of the Red Sea.

Dick chanted with passion - rocking and bobbing togetherwith the rabbi and the chazen (cantor). When he finished chanting the Torah was returned to the Ark and Dick made his thank you speech. He thanked the rabbi and the chazen; he thanked his parents, grandmother, and sister - then he spoke briefly about the significance of his portion of the Haftorah. “God parted the Red Sea for the Israelites to escape from bondage and find their way to the Promised Land. For Jews of today, the sea has once again parted. We have returned to Eretz Yisroel. May God bless my family, this congregation, the United States of America, and the new state of Israel. Today I am a man. Ahh-main.”

“Mazel Tov, Mazel Tov.” Every member of the small congregation shouted congratulations to the Bar Mitzvah boy. Young boys in the balcony began throwing pieces of hard candy at Dick, a ritual designed to signify the sweetness of the occasion. Of course, most of the boys attempted to sanctify the celebration by hitting Dick in the face. As I watched Dick cover his head, to avoid the bombardment of candy, my mind drifted - I started thinking about the unusual lifestyle of the Orthodox, where men were allowed to bond with God but women had to sit in the balcony. But mostly, I tried to visualize having sex with a woman who was draped in a special bed sheet. Hopefully, God wasn’t observing my evil thoughts.

Rabbi Lipschitz then walked forth to the lectern and the flying candy stopped. As he looked upstairs, to the women and children, his eyes locked on mine – it was obvious, he remembered his visit to the James Manor and the heated encounter with my father. He talked about the significance of the Bar Mitzvah - how a Jewish boy could never be accepted in the eyes of God until he passed through the “metaphorical waters” of the Red Sea - until he read from the Torah. He said that Moses led the Israelites through the Red Sea but he was raised as an Egyptian and never had a Bar Mitzvah. Thus, he did not live to see his dream become a reality, to see his followers reach the Promised Land. Rabbi Lipschitz reminded everyone that the rules of Judaism were very strict; even someone as important as Moses was punished because he never had a Bar Mitzvah.

“Today we reaffirm the dream of the Promised Land,” bellowed the fiery rabbi, and he paused and made eye contact with every member of the small congregation – especially me. “Today, the Red Sea has parted for Richard Solomon, who stands before us as a proud Bar Mitzvah, prepared to continue the faith of our people.”

The rabbi talked about the inevitability of “destiny,” “Vos Got tut basheren ( what God decrees ) man cannot prevent.” He also preached about the day when the Messiah would come. “Az meshiah vet kumen (when the Messiah comes) all the sick will be healed, but a fool will stay a fool.” Once again, he glared at me and repeated his warning, “a fool will stay a fool.”

Rabbi Lipschitz reminded me of Miss Baker, my evangelical homeroom teacher; his message was almost identical - except Miss Baker had already found her Messiah. She was just sitting around waiting for a second visit. The rabbi was anxiously awaiting the first visit. After the Bar Mitzvah I congratulated Dick and his family, but I didn’t stay for the kiddush, the luncheon and blessings that followed the religious ceremony. As I walked out of the tiny synagogue I silently vowed, “never again – I don’t belong here.” – In the distance I heard Rabbi Lipschitz - he was saying a barucha to cut the bread: “Hamotzi lechem min ha’orets.”

Monday morning, I woke up at 6:00 (my parents were still sleeping) - no breakfast – I rode my bike to school, haunted by the warning of Rabbi Lipschitz: “without a Bar Mitzvah – a fool will remain a fool.” Depressed - alone - angry - I shouted to the wind - to a caravan of early morning delivery trucks, “y’all can go to hell - but I’m going to Texas.”  Then, a young girl honked the horn on her bike - she heard my shouting and challenged me to a race. “Betcha’ I can beat you to school?”

She was cute - with braces and a blonde ponytail. I had seen her before, but I wasn’t sure where or when – maybe in a dream. “OK – you’re on.” We darted in and out of traffic - dangerous - stupid - and we laughed. The race was close, but I won.

 “I saw you at Dick’s Bar Mitzvah,” the girl smiled. “You were hard to miss – with your blue Cubavera. Dick’s sister wanted to introduce us during the kiddush, but I guess you cut out early. I’m Elisheva – that’s a Hebrew name - my friends call me Betsy.

“Hi Betsy, nice to meet you,” I reached for her hand. “Could I walk with you to the synagogue next Saturday?”

“Our lives are fashioned by our choices. First we make our choices. Then our choices make us.” Anne Frank

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Myron S. Lubell was born in Chicago and moved to Miami Beach at age 12. He is a Florida CPA (retired), BBA, MBA: university of Miami, PhD: university of Maryland. Accounting professor at Florida International University for 32 years during which time he also wrote weekly tax columns for the Miami Herald and New York Daily News. Author of “The Sixth Borough” (an insightful look at segregation in South Florida in the 1950’s) and “The Kessler Crossing” (a sci-fi social satire).

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THE AUTHOR CAN BE REACHED AT: mysalu@aol.com

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MORE FROM MYRON S. LUBELL

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THE HISTORY OF MIAMI BEACH

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A BRIEF HISTORY OF THE GOD OF ABRAHAM

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THE POWER OF P’s

Ping Pong, Puberty, and Philosophy

The Montréal Review, August 2023

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