Read Online This Is Not a Love Story: A Memoir by Judy Brown - Free Book Online
Authors: Judy Brown
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beard glistening, walked swiftly into the room. He set eight small candlesticks on the silver candelabra and the long silver candlelighter near it. Then he pulled on his long Shabbos overcoat. He took out his shtreimel and set it carefully on his head.
“Gut Shabbos,” he called out. “You have four minutes left!”
My father gave me a kiss on the forehead. Also one on the nose. Then he and Yitzy went off to shul.
I stood on the couch, my face pressed against the window, watching them walk down the block. I thought my father looked like a king, with the shtreimel like a crown on his head. I watched the fur hat moving regally along, growing smaller and smaller, until it was gone.
I looked up at the heavens. The sun spread majestically in the sky, streaks of red and orange stretching wide along the horizon like shimmering ribbons. Then, as a streak of red dipped and bowed, touching the roof of a distant building, the low wailing of the Shabbos siren rose over the Brooklyn neighborhood, announcing to all Jews everywhere that the before time was over. Shabbos had come.
My mother stood by the candelabra in her elegant velvet Shabbos robe and held the candlelighter. Pointing the lighter at the wicks, she tapped them gently, one by one, as if with a magic wand, and eight flickering flames jumped to life. They danced under the glow of the chandelier, near the sparkling silver kiddush cup and covered challah bread. The warm aroma of chicken soup swirled slowly into the living room.
My mother swayed. She recited the blessing over the candles. She raised her hands, circling the candelabra three times, ushering in the Shabbos queen. Then she covered her eyes and prayed.
Once, long ago, in the days of the shtetl in Europe, the great rebbe of Viloshnik said that the words uttered over the Shabbos candlelight hold the power of many prayers. He said that the holy mitzvah of the Shabbos candles could undo any curse from above, and any sins from a dark past. Each time a woman asks for her sons to grow up to become Torah scholars, for her daughters to be future mothers of the nation of Israel, the angels dance with joy. And God is happy.
My mother’s hands trembled. Her face was hidden beneath the palms of her hands. I could not hear her words, but I could hear her tears. She wept quietly. She was asking God for a miracle.
Miri ran into the dining room, holding Avrumi’s stuffed rabbit. Vrumi chased angrily after her. Still, my mother prayed. Rivky sat in the chair near the flames, her siddur open to the Friday night L’cha Dodi prayer. I folded napkins into sailboats and airplanes.
Finally, my mother finished. She uncovered her face and stared wistfully at the flames. She wiped her eyes and looked down at us.
“Gut Shabbos,” she said quietly and then smiled.
Then she saw Nachum, standing like a stranger at the entrance to the dining room. He was staring at the flames of the holy Shabbos candles, hypnotized. My mother walked toward him. Her hands reached out, beckoning him, but Nachum never saw her. She bent down, pulling him into her arms, and he stared at the flames over her shoulder. He could not feel my mother’s embrace. He did not know he was being held.
My mother kissed Nachum on the forehead. She hugged him quickly, and then he pulled away.
I wondered about my ancestors. Why, if there were so many of them, noble rabbis and holy saints, had they not already made a miracle? After all, wasn’t it my own great-great-grandfather, the Vunder Rebbe, who did just that for so many others? Then why not for us?
My teacher had once told us that when a person prays from his heart, all of Heaven hears his desperation. The souls of our ancestors carry those prayers aloft, ensuring that they reach the heavenly throne. Then, standing in front of the Almighty Himself, they pray on our behalf.
So what was happening up there? I could not understand. It was really impossible to know. Because my teacher also said that in
“Gut Shabbos,” he called out. “You have four minutes left!”
My father gave me a kiss on the forehead. Also one on the nose. Then he and Yitzy went off to shul.
I stood on the couch, my face pressed against the window, watching them walk down the block. I thought my father looked like a king, with the shtreimel like a crown on his head. I watched the fur hat moving regally along, growing smaller and smaller, until it was gone.
I looked up at the heavens. The sun spread majestically in the sky, streaks of red and orange stretching wide along the horizon like shimmering ribbons. Then, as a streak of red dipped and bowed, touching the roof of a distant building, the low wailing of the Shabbos siren rose over the Brooklyn neighborhood, announcing to all Jews everywhere that the before time was over. Shabbos had come.
My mother stood by the candelabra in her elegant velvet Shabbos robe and held the candlelighter. Pointing the lighter at the wicks, she tapped them gently, one by one, as if with a magic wand, and eight flickering flames jumped to life. They danced under the glow of the chandelier, near the sparkling silver kiddush cup and covered challah bread. The warm aroma of chicken soup swirled slowly into the living room.
My mother swayed. She recited the blessing over the candles. She raised her hands, circling the candelabra three times, ushering in the Shabbos queen. Then she covered her eyes and prayed.
Once, long ago, in the days of the shtetl in Europe, the great rebbe of Viloshnik said that the words uttered over the Shabbos candlelight hold the power of many prayers. He said that the holy mitzvah of the Shabbos candles could undo any curse from above, and any sins from a dark past. Each time a woman asks for her sons to grow up to become Torah scholars, for her daughters to be future mothers of the nation of Israel, the angels dance with joy. And God is happy.
My mother’s hands trembled. Her face was hidden beneath the palms of her hands. I could not hear her words, but I could hear her tears. She wept quietly. She was asking God for a miracle.
Miri ran into the dining room, holding Avrumi’s stuffed rabbit. Vrumi chased angrily after her. Still, my mother prayed. Rivky sat in the chair near the flames, her siddur open to the Friday night L’cha Dodi prayer. I folded napkins into sailboats and airplanes.
Finally, my mother finished. She uncovered her face and stared wistfully at the flames. She wiped her eyes and looked down at us.
“Gut Shabbos,” she said quietly and then smiled.
Then she saw Nachum, standing like a stranger at the entrance to the dining room. He was staring at the flames of the holy Shabbos candles, hypnotized. My mother walked toward him. Her hands reached out, beckoning him, but Nachum never saw her. She bent down, pulling him into her arms, and he stared at the flames over her shoulder. He could not feel my mother’s embrace. He did not know he was being held.
My mother kissed Nachum on the forehead. She hugged him quickly, and then he pulled away.
I wondered about my ancestors. Why, if there were so many of them, noble rabbis and holy saints, had they not already made a miracle? After all, wasn’t it my own great-great-grandfather, the Vunder Rebbe, who did just that for so many others? Then why not for us?
My teacher had once told us that when a person prays from his heart, all of Heaven hears his desperation. The souls of our ancestors carry those prayers aloft, ensuring that they reach the heavenly throne. Then, standing in front of the Almighty Himself, they pray on our behalf.
So what was happening up there? I could not understand. It was really impossible to know. Because my teacher also said that in
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