Chapter 58, Bar Mitzvah
“Big Nail and Small Nail were neighbors” Dad started his story, “Big Nail was very rich and Small Nail was very poor.”
We were sitting around him at the yard in front of aunt Rachel and uncle Rone’s house. All the kids of our family loved to hear Dad’s stories. He was a great storyteller, and he also did some magic tricks the little kids loved even more.
“Big Nail had a big flock of beautiful sheep. Small Nail had only one cute little sheep. He loved his sheep and took care of her. He shared his food with her and protected her like his child. One day, Big Nail invited a few friends for a party. He wanted to feed them but by no means did he wish to waist any of his sheep for the dinner party. He had to get the sheep from Small Nail. And so, he did. In the middle of the night, he stole the sheep from Small Nail and roasted it for his dinner party.
“No way, cried Batyah, Aunt Rachel’s daughter.
“Well,” said Dad, “it wasn’t the only bad thing he did. He tried to take over Small Nail’s grape vine.”
“Horrible!” Said Batyah.
“But when the king who was one of the guests heard what had happened. The king became very upset. He took everything the Big Nail owned and gave it to Small Nail.
I am not sure why did Dad call them Nails but, hey, it is his story. (Not exactly, I am not sure how he got it, it has some biblical roots, but Dad was very young when he dropped out of school to care for his younger brothers.)
“Nanou!” I heard Mom calling, “come back in we need to get you ready for the party tonight. Aunt Rachel can’t wait to wash you.” Yup, embarrassing, it is a mitzvah to wash the Bar-Mitzvah “Groom”.
“OK Mom, I am coming. Dad, tell them the Jukitah story, the little ones didn’t hear it yet and the older ones will love hearing it again.”
It was the day of my Bar-Mitzvah Party. Mom and Dad decided to make it a small party because of the death of Uncle Claude in the Six Day War, they didn’t want to upset Meme Milli. So, for the next day they planned a bus trip to Jerusalem.
For a year now I had been preparing for this moment. Well, ok, maybe two years. Even before the war, I started to go to the synagogues in the neighborhood. Every Friday evening and every Saturday morning, I visited one or another synagogue, until I found my favorites. Two buildings next to our building we had a Moroccan synagogue. It was a low ceiling, dark room of a small hut. I went there three times, and every time was afraid to walk in. The people there didn’t look happy, most of them were old and were dressed like monks with a long dress and a hood over their heads. I didn’t feel welcomed, they looked at me as if I came to cause trouble.
One of the synagogues I liked was practicing a Tunisian / Algerian tradition. It was located close to a home for the handicap on the border with Avihayil. A group of orphans was attending there every Friday evening and Saturday morning. They walked about 2 miles each way with their school director all the way from their orphanage. They knew the prayers and most of the time lead the service with the cantor. I asked the cantor to teach me and help me get ready for my Bar-Mitzvah, but he said he was too busy and gave me a name of some other Moroccan Rabbi who specialized in preparing kids for their Bar-Mitzvah. He attends the Libyan (Tripolitanian) synagogue closer to my house. Are you confused yet?
The synagogue I attended every morning during summer vacation was Ashkenazic where I learned the Talmud. Or at least I tried to. They had two rabbis there. One who worked with us on the Mishnah and told us wonderful stories. I wanted to become like him when I grew up. The other one taught us the Gemarah all in Aramaic and he always insisted I pray before studying. I had no idea what I was supposed to do. What to read, when to stand, and when to sit or sing out loud. I gave up on them quickly. Sometimes I wished I stayed at Neve Shalom and studied with the Yemenite rabbi where we were all sitting around the table with one book in the center, reading together from the big old bible. But I finally decided to join the Libyan synagogue.
There were a few reasons for me to choose the Libyan Synagogue. The fist reason was, it was close to my house, less than a mile. On the way I found a Pitango bush and always had some snack on the way there and back. The service was easier to follow. They didn’t have the frills of the Tunisians. They didn’t read the vowels in the Ashkenazic way or the Yemenite. It was simple and friendly. My favorite part was the “Kabablat Shabat”, the welcoming of the Shabat with songs. We sat in a circle and each one of us sang in his turn a verse or two of the songs and all would join in with the refrains. On Shabat when it came the time to read the Torah, it was fun to see the auctioning of the “Torah Portions”. No, we didn’t cut the Torah to pieces. Reading a part of the Torah is an honor. Since the Synagogues in Israel don’t charge membership, the only way for them to survive is by selling Torah Portions and by donations. For my Bar Mitzvah Dad bought some silver decorations for the Torah Scrolls of that synagogue. And of course, he bought the auction, and all my close family shared the Torah Portions. The blessing “Mi SheBerach” is a blessing for the sick or any special event. The Rabbi would bless the sick or the honorary person who just came to read the Torah and of course mention the price of the donation made by the family member. The Libyans had a funny way to pronounce the letter R it was almost like a saying the letter G. And for some reason when the Rabbi would bless you, he would stress his Libyan accent even more so. I couldn’t hold myself and had to giggle. Maybe he did it just to draw some laughs, I guess I will never know.
Anyway, after the “washing of the groom” I was dressed up by Aunt Mary. The new shirt and pants were custom made by a fancy tailor in Netanya. I had to go see him three times last month for fittings and adjustments. Uncle Rone was testing his tape recorder. He wanted to record me giving my speech “D’var Torah”. I worked on that for a long time. My teacher wasn’t a very nice person. Every time I forgot some line or a melody, he would smack my hand or even slap my face. That wasn’t fun, so I was very happy not to see him anymore when I was ready to deliver my speech and my Torah Reading.
“This day, God has created IS a day for celebration.” I opened my speech.
“IS!” said Uncle Moshe. “Did you guys hear how he said IS?”
“Shut up Morris!” Interrupted him Ant Mary. “Let him finish his talk.”
I spoke about the Torah portion and about the feeling of getting older. Thanking my parents and everyone who helped me get here. Of course, everyone had clapped their hands and it was time for gifts and dinner.
“Nanou!” Called Mom when I was trying my first cigarette. “Come I want you to meet your older brother.”
“My what?” I coughed the first and the last breath I took of the cigarette. “Who?”
“Your brother, I had him when I was about your age.”
“You were married before Dad?”
“No, silly! You see this is Moshe, Like my brother Moshe. His mother, the older woman over there, had hard time delivering babies. She had 4 miscarriages, and 2 babies died right after birth. So, we came up with a solution. We thought, maybe she was cursed that all her kids would die. Therefore, if someone would buy her future kid, the child might survive because it wouldn’t be her child. I quickly volunteered to buy him as soon as she was pregnant, I offered to buy her baby for 1 Lira. So, you see? This is my first son. He was born healthy and lives for 18 years now.”
“Nice to meet you!” I extended my hand to shake his.
“Thanks!”
“I expect you to do the same tomorrow.”
I found an ashtray and put out that first and last cigarette of my life. That was not a fun experience, it reminded me the pipe I made when I was six years old from the branches of the castor tree. I was coughing for half an hour just from the smell of the grass I stuffed in it.
“The bus Mom and Dad rented was waiting for us early in the morning. Everyone came to the driveway next to Aunt Rachel’s house and before seven AM we were on our way to Jerusalem. This time we drove the short way; through Hebron and we stopped at the burial cave of our ancestors. Before the 6 Days War we had to drive around, almost to Tel Aviv and then turn sharp east toward the Holly City. Now the west bank of the Jordan River was again in the hands of the people of Israel. I remember, shortly after the war how the Arab towns next to Netanya were opened for Israelis. They were practically cheering us as we walked in. They had opportunity to make more money. We brought more busines to them and they were happy. At least at that time.
Both sides of our family were on the bus. Mom’s brothers and sisters and their families as well as Dad’s sisters, and both my grandmothers. After spending a half hour in the patriarch’s cave and another pit stop for all the boys on the side of the road, we made it to Jerusalem. I can’t explain the excitement we all felt as we entered the old city. As we walked across the invisible line where just a few years ago I saw the Jordanian guards. We walked through the long and crowded market and avoided with difficulty the peddlers who were promising the best price for the souvenirs they were selling.
Once we arrived at the western wall, I don’t think I saw one pair of dried eyes. All of us were holding our tears even the little kids. We found a rabbi with a reading stand next to the” Mechitzah” - divider between women and men. I handed the new camera Uncle Moshe gave me back to him and asked him to take some pictures. Mine was one of the first Bar Mitzvahs performed at the Western wall since it was back at the hands of the people of Israel. I read my Torah Portion proudly and shook the hand of the rabbi. I walked to the divider and received kisses from Mom and my grandmothers. As much as I hoped all my school friends would have been partying with me like most of the kids, I was so proud to have such an experience. All the way back home I was in a daze, I forgot about the other places we visited on that trip. I forgot about the dome of the rock, or the Rachel’s tomb, and how much mom enjoyed haggling with the peddlers in the market. I just had my Bar Mitzvah at the most holly place of the Jewish people.
***
Chimichurri
The Yemenites call it “Schug”, and it is very Spicy. The Tunisians Call it “Harissa”, it has a red color and is also very spicy. This recipe here is for the South American sauce. Unlike the Harissa it doesn’t keep long, so it is best if it is consumed on the same day. I like to chop the ingredients before blending them, it gives a smoother consistency.
Ingredients:
1/2 Cup Chopped Parsley
¼ Cup Chopped Basil
½ Cup Chopped Cilantro
3 Garlic Cloves
½ Cup Lemon juice
¼ Cup Olive Oil
½ tsp Salt
Blend all and serve
-----
Comments
Post a Comment