Christmas for Joshua - A Novel (31 page)

Stopping at Aaron’s table, I asked him discreetly if he knew where Cantor Bentov was.

“
He sent me a text message,” Aaron said, “that Rabbi Rachel needed his help at the hospital. I think she does grief counseling once a week, but why would she need him there?”

Before I could enlighten Aaron, Mat Warnick saved me, bringing over his mother-in-law to shake my hand. Meanwhile I saw the servers clear up the buffet and begin to bring out desserts. The vacant tables were still awaiting Father Donne and his group. Had he decided not to join my attempt at interfaith bridge-building?

Rebecca beckoned me from the front. It was time for my speech.

Approaching the podium, my mind was racing. The evening had gone peacefully so far. The Christmas decorations made for a thunderous statement, an assertion of my right to have it my way. Wasn’t it enough? Should I leave it at that, limit my comments to a few benign sentences, and invite seven friends to recite the blessings? The night would come to an amiable conclusion, and we would go home to help Debra and Mordechai pack for their morning flight back to New York. It was a tempting prospect, but when I reached the podium and turned to face the hall, Jose walked in with Father Donne, his black gown buttoned tightly at his neck, and ten or so parishioners following behind.

Jose led the group to the reserved tables. He gestured at the dessert trays along the wall.

I waved at Father Donne from the podium, and he nodded. With the microphone clipped to my shirt, and all those faces watching me in silence, I cleared my throat. “Welcome, everyone,” I said, “to our special event, which doubles as a Sheva Brachot dinner for Debra and Mordechai, and a Christmas Nosh for our larger community.”

A tide of murmurs swept the hall.

“I want to extend a special welcome to Father Donne and those who came with him. And to paraphrase a famous Christmas song,” I cleared my throat and sang, “
Although it’s been said many times, many ways
—
but not in a synagogue
—
Merry Christmas to you!
”

In the total silence of the hall, Father Donne responded, “The same to you.”

“Thank you.” I took a deep breath, calming myself. “You might guess why I chose this line. Anyone?”

No one had an answer.

“
Did I quote it because it has become the most popular of all Christmas carols? Or because the line was so fitting for this occasion?” Turning to Debra and Mordechai, I said, “Yes on both counts, but the third reason is that ‘Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire’ was written by Mel Tormé and Bob Wells, whose real names were Melvin Torma and Robert Levinson, and whose respective parents were kosher Jews.”

I waited for the various expressions of surprise to quiet down.

“And now, let me say something that might shock you. As few of you know, Debra’s wedding wasn’t an altogether happy occasion for me. Rather, it was one of the most devastating experiences of my life.”

This statement incited wild chattering as everyone turned to ask their neighbors if they knew what I was talking about.

“
Let me explain,” I said, tapping on the mike to silence them. “Our daughter made a stunning bride, the magnificent wedding hall and abundant kosher gourmet were as breathtaking as the underlying costs, and the affair started beautifully. But when the officiating rabbi discovered my first name and learned of my non-Orthodox conversion, he banished me from the chuppah, from the ceremony, and from speaking with the bride—my own daughter.”

Many in the hall uttered a loud “No!” Some of the women pulled out handkerchiefs. Rebecca stood, came over to my side, and held my arm.

I leaned forward on the podium, struggling to maintain my composure. At his table, Father Donne was speaking to his parishioners, his forefinger raised in emphasis.

When the hall quieted down, I continued. “What happened in New York broke my heart. It did. But it didn’t shake my resolve to continue to be a good Jew.”

Everyone clapped, which surprised me. What did they expect?

“
It also made me realize that becoming a Jew shouldn’t require a total rejection of who I used to be, of what I cherished before my conversion, or of the world around us, which is predominantly Christian. And so, here we are.”

I stepped over to the piano while Rebecca returned to her seat.

“
Why music?” I tapped a few keys. “Because it connects us, especially at Christmas time, when most of the popular songs were written and composed by Jews. I’m thinking of ‘Silver Bells,’ for example.”

I played the beginning notes and sang, “
City sidewalks, busy sidewalks, dressed in holiday style, in the air there’s a feeling of Christmas.
Do you know who wrote it?”

No one volunteered.

“
Jay Livingston and Ray Evans, Jewish kids from Pittsburg and Buffalo who started a band at the University of Pennsylvania and wrote hits together, including ‘Silver Bells.’ And how about this one?”

I played while singing, “…
he sings a love song, as we go along, walking in the…
”

“‘
Winter Wonderland!’” someone yelled.

“
Good guess,” I chuckled. “The composer was Felix Bernard, born in Brooklyn as Felix Bernhardt to Russian-German Jewish immigrants.”

They clapped.

My fingers tapped the notes on the piano, and I sang, “
Let it Snow, let it snow, let it snow
. This one we owe to Sammy Cahn-Cohen and Jule Styne, who also wrote ‘The Christmas Waltz.’”

I played the rest of the song, letting a few brave voices sing the lyrics.

“
And how about this one:
I’ll be Home for Christmas…
” The slower, almost melancholy tune filled the hall, and I saw Aaron pantomiming the use of a microphone as he sang to Miriam, “
You can count on me…
” She rolled her eyes, laughing.

“
The promise to be home for Christmas, which millions of listeners have identified with, was created by Walter Kent, born to a Yiddish-speaking Kauffman family in New York. Kent wrote with Samuel Buck Ram, a Jewish partnership that gave us other great songs, including one that’s perfect for a marriage celebration.” My fingers ran on the keys, I looked at Rebecca, and sang, “
Only you…can make this world…seem right…
”

She smiled. I winked, and she winked back.

“
And now, the ultimate ‘Sleigh Ride.’” I played the familiar tune. “
Giddy up, giddy up, giddy up, let’s go, let’s look at the snow…
”

They clapped with the rhythm, and I kept playing to the end of the song.

“
That’s by Mitchell Parrish, a good Christian name if there ever was one, only that he was born Michael Hyman Pashelinsky in Lithuania and ended up also writing lyrics for the all-American Jazz immortal ‘Stardust’ with Hoagy Carmichael.”

Spontaneous applause came up from my audience, and I breathed in relief. They were not bored with my pitch!

“
Now, I know that everyone would agree with these words.” I played the first line and sang: “
There’s no place like home for the holidays…
”

Many voices kept singing in the crowd while I played the rest of the song.

“
That was Al Stillman,” I said, “another Jewish lyricist, just like Joan Ellen Javits, who co-wrote ‘Santa Baby.’”

Someone said out loud, “Really?”

“
Yes,” I said. “Really. But the longest list of hits came from the man who wrote everyone’s all time Christmas favorites.” I played rapidly each first line as I named the songs:

“
Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer…
”

“
I heard the bells on Christmas Day
…”

“
Rockin’ around the Christmas tree
…”

“
A holly jolly Christmas
…”

“
Run, Rudolph, run
…”

More clapping.

“
All five songs were written by the same Jewish virtuoso, Johnny Marks, who also served America in the Second World War, earning the Bronze Star!”

This time I joined the applause myself.

“
But no one,” I continued, “not a single composer did for American songwriting and for Christmas as much as the Jewish man who gave us ‘God Bless America’ as well as ‘I’ve Got My Love to Keep Me Warm…’” The piano keys danced under my fingers with each line. “The same song writer who wrote the perennial, pulling at the heartstrings,
I’m dreaming of a white Christmas
…” I stopped playing and declared, “The great Irving Berlin!”

The clapping was deafening, many standing up to honor that most prolific composer of the twentieth century.

“
And I wonder about this genius, this tireless fountain of immortal songs, this Irving Berlin who was born as Israel Baline to a destitute immigrant cantor from Belarus, I wonder, what did he know about Christmas? What gave him the inspiration to write:
I’m dreaming of a white Christmas, just like the ones I used to know…
”

I let the last piano note echo through the hall.

“
How did Irving Berlin, who grew up as a poor Yid on the lower east side of New York City, know to describe so aptly the longing that every gentile feels for a white Christmas? How did he know the aching homesickness that was felt by every GI, every prairie farmer’s son, and small-town boy from Middle America when Christmas came and they were stuck in the balmy trenches of the South Pacific, the swampy rivers of Vietnam, or the scorching sand dunes of the Arabian Gulf? How did Irving Berlin know how they felt?”

There was complete silence, their faces looking at me expectantly.

“
Because we all experience Christmas,” I said, “all of us, no matter what our faith or what language our parents spoke, we all experience Christmas. And we do it through music, because music is the common language that we share, Jews and Christians alike.”

The first notes of “O Come all Ye Faithful” generated humming around the hall. It was a very old Church hymn, but its fame had grown after Pavarotti sang it, his rendition now replayed by every radio station multiple times during the holiday season.

“
We’re all faithful,” I said, “Jews and Christians, praying to the same God on this birthday of a Jew named Joshua, or Jesus, who was a righteous man—whoever fathered him. So let us all join in a song for God. You know the tune, but the lyrics I wrote especially for tonight. You’ll find a folded piece of paper under your plates.”

My fingers repeated the first notes while the noise of unfolding papers told me they were complying. I hit the keys hard and started singing:

“
O come, all ye faithful,

Joined in love and kindness,

O come ye, O come ye to brotherhood,

Come and behold God, who made us in His image;

O come, let us be brothers,

O come, let us be brothers,

O come, let us be brothers,

Christians and Jews.”

To my great relief, many in the audience joined me, at first hesitantly, but in growing numbers. I made the transition on the piano, running up and down the scale of notes, and continued with the next verse:

“
O come, friends and neighbors,

Sing in gracious chorus,

Sing all that heard in heaven, God is Shalom,

Give up thy fury, grace is all the mightiest;

O come, let us be brothers,

O come, let us be brothers,

O come, let us be brothers,

Christians and Jews.
”

Singing left me out of breath, so I played the tune from the beginning while the majority of the guests sang with full voices from the lyrics I had prepared for them. I shivered, my eyes on my fingers, tapping the keys, afraid to look up and break the magic that only music could create.

But eventually the song came to its natural end, and I joined everyone for the last words of my lyrics, “
O come, let us be brothers…Christians and Jews!
”

The hall erupted with cheers. They kept it up, and eventually I had no choice but to stand and bow. “Thank you,” I said, “thank you so much!”

As the applause gradually quieted down, singing could be heard. It was Father Donne and his parishioners, who resumed the same tune, but sang the common lyrics, a literal translation of the original Latin words of ‘
Adeste Fideles.’

“
O come, all you faithful,

Joyful and triumphant,

O come ye, O come ye to Bethlehem.

Come and behold Him, born the King of Angels,

O come, let us adore Him,

O come, let us adore Him,