Hush (18 page)

Devory’s mother looked straight ahead, her eyes tense with anger and embarrassment. Miriam and her friends stood in the corner of the
shul
near the door giggling nervously and whispering to one another.

“At least they should wear masks so nobody should see who they are,” I heard Mrs. Lefkowitz whisper to my mother. My mother nodded sympathetically and raised her eyes to heaven in a “what-can-one-do?” expression that quickly turned into “what-the-heck-is-going-on-here?” when Shloimela, the son of Mrs. Miller, threw his Mordechai-the-
tzaddik
hat on her while fighting with Duvidel the Lion over who was the strongest.

Mordechai hit the lion and Duvidel opened his small mouth in an angry roar, just as an impatient Mr. Lefkowitz stood on a chair on the men’s side of the
mechitzah
so that the top of his face could be seen and, throwing up his hand, gestured angrily to the back of the room.

“
Nu, shoin,
what’s going on here! You want to hear the
megillah
or
nisht
?
Zah shtill
!
Zah shoin shtill
!”

The
chazan
—the cantor—ignored it all and began reading the
megillah
. His powerful voice cut through the noise and Old Mrs. Goldman stopped right in the middle of a long speech about this most disrespectful generation unlike the one before the Holocaust when even babies dared not cry in
shul,
to listen to the singsong chant of the
chazan
telling the story of the evil Haman.

Reading the
megillah
was a difficult task. A man had to practice long and hard to be able to read the Purim story with the correct rhythm and beat. I loved hearing of the terrible Haman, who tried to exterminate the Jews, and of his complete defeat at the hand of simple, long-bearded Mordechai. I loved hearing of the mean queen Vashti, and the tail that sprouted right from her tush, and how they chopped her head right off her neck after she refused to come to drunken Achashvairosh’s party with nothing on. And of course there was Queen Esther, who, though her mask was dreadfully boring, saved the Jewish people with her prayers and bravery. But the best part of the
megillah
reading was Haman. With each “Haman!” announced by the
chazan
the
shul
went wild, stamping their feet, whirling the
graggers
, and I, rattling my
tzeddakah
box as hard as I could.

By the time the
megillah
was over, the men began to dance. They sang
La’Yehudim,
an old Purim song, and, linking hands, kicked their feet in the air, dancing around and around as the old men thumped their fists on the tables and the boys jumped wildly up and down in the middle, their
payos
flying in every direction. The women swarmed to the
mechitzah
, peering through the slats in the partition. I stood under the slats, jumping frantically up and down, trying to see my father through the hole. I tried a lower slot, but Mrs. Lefkowitz blocked my way, her armpits directly over my nose. I squirmed out, dragged a chair through the crowd, and pushed it against the partition, but every slot was taken. I did find a small crack between the slats, though, and when I squashed my face between Mrs. Richter and Mrs. Broida and their screaming babies, I could see the top of the
shtreimels
bobbing up and down. I found another, larger crack to my left side and if I looked at the right angle I could see the side of some beards.

Then I lost my balance and fell onto the floor. I crawled out from under the crush of high heels and saw Devory climbing on top of some chairs near the wall, dangling casually over the
mechitzah
, perched on top of the thin wall happily shaking her
gragger
to the beat. I climbed after her, but Mrs. Goldblatt saw us and strode over quickly.

“Devory, get down now!” she called worriedly. “What are you doing? It’s not modest and it’s dangerous. Get down here now!”

Devory didn’t hear and I pretended not to. Mrs. Goldblatt pushed into the crowd, trying to reach her. Then someone pushed someone else, who leaned against the
mechitzah
, which began tipping over. Devory screamed, and her mother reached up to grab her, pushing against the partition even more. A
shtreimel
flew through the air, someone’s
gragger
whirled loudly, and the whole thing fell to the floor with a crash—with Devory spread out on top of it.

The dancing stopped.
Shtreimel
s froze middance, men on one side, women on the other, and everyone stared at the fallen
mechitzah
.

Devory giggled. She tossed the pointy hat on the floor, jumped up, and began dancing a jig, first right, then left, then all around.

Mrs. Bloom gasped. Mrs. Lefkowitz of the smelly armpits shook her finger. Old Mrs. Goldman glared. And Mrs. Goldblatt grabbed Devory’s arm, pushed her through the angry crowd and into a corner where she yelled and screamed, then grabbed her coat and marched her right out the door.

The men quickly picked up the
mechitzah
, and my mother, trying to hide a smile, said it was high time we left. So out we went into the crisp cold night and crowded into the car for a ride home, where my mother, sitting in the front seat near my father, turned on Purim music.

“Did you see what Miriam was wearing!” she yelled at my father over the music. “You should’ve seen her and her friends,
oy vey
! Let me tell you, you can really tell a person from the way he dresses when the rules don’t apply.”

“
Nu
, Mommy,” I said. “But it’s Purim. It’s just a costume.”

“There’s no such thing as just a costume,” my mother admonished loudly. “The kind of mask you choose reflects your inner being! Purim is not an excuse to look like a goy. And those who dress up like modern Jews, well, it shows.” And then the van came to a screeching halt.

A small truck lined with streamers and balloons swerved around our van, jolting to a stop. A group of
yeshiva
boys dressed like delivery boys and holding a booming stereo jumped out of the back, ran up the steps laughing loudly, and disappeared into a house.

My father fumed. He poked his head out the window and shouted, “
Meshugunah!
Are you trying to get someone killed?” But they were already gone, they hadn’t even turned off their headlights, and my father moved angrily around the truck and drove on furiously muttering Yiddish expressions we weren’t supposed to hear.

“You see,” he said, looking into the rearview mirror. “On Purim it’s a
mitzvah
, Hashem’s commandment, to dress up and be happy, but you can tell what kind of person you are by how you honor the
mitzvah
.” He pointed his thumb back at the receding truck. “Those boys chose to get drunk and act like hooligans. Then there are boys like Devory’s brother and yours, Shmuli and Yossi. What are they doing now? They are sitting in
yeshiva
and learning an extra
blatt
of
Talmud
in honor of Purim. They are treating Purim like a
mitzvah
, not like Halloween! And what do you think they are dressing up like? Delivery boys? No! They are dressing up like
Chassidish Rebbe
s and tomorrow they are going to collect money for
tzeddakah
. Now that’s the kind of mask every Yid wants to see on his child.”

Purim morning I got rich. After hearing the
megillah,
I helped my mother prepare
mishloach manos
and packed them into the back of the car, where I sat with two
mishloach manos
on my lap, three at my sides, four under my feet, and off we went from address to address. I ran out of the car delivering the packages, rattling my
tzeddakah
box hard, and received one dollar from Mrs. Lieberman, five dollars from Mrs. Bloom, fifty cents from the Kriegers, and a twenty from Mrs. Cohen—the mother of a wealthy family who had a large front lawn
and
a backyard.

I danced into my house after the first delivery shift as rich as Job before Hashem selfishly took everything back. I told Surela that I would save my piles of money for my wedding, but she said the money would be rotten by then and that I should give it to her. I stuck out my tongue and ran to show my mother the riches, when she handed me an apple strudel and asked me to give it to Mrs. Yutzplats, the old witch at the end of the block. I stared at her in horror. She lived in that old, pointy, corner brown house across from Tovah, and I wasn’t going anywhere near her. When I told this to my mother, she laughed and said, “Go!” I dropped the strudel on the table and patiently explained to her that I could not go. Mrs. Yutzplats would turn me into a frog and I would never be able to get married. My mother said it was high time I stopped believing such fairy tales and that Mrs. Yutzplats was nothing but an old, lonely woman and it was a big
mitzvah
to give her
mishloach manos
. I told my mother that all witches were lonely and old. There was no such thing as a young and friendly witch, but she wasn’t interested. She told me that if I didn’t go give her the
mishloach manos
I could not go to the Gottliebs, who always gave twenty-dollar bills. I thought about that some and decided that if I wouldn’t go, then Surela would get the twenty-dollar bill and that was far worse than turning into a frog.

I walked slowly down the block, knocked carefully on the door, and was about to drop the strudel on the steps and run for my life, when the witch appeared at the threshold. I stared at her, my mouth open in fear. Mrs. Yutzplats was old, short, and wrinkly. She wore an ugly wig like my grandmother’s, a green sweater like Devory’s grandmother’s, and old ugly shoes like, well, all grandmothers’. She did not have a long tail; she did not have pointy shoes; she did not even wear a pointy hat. Mrs. Yutzplats smiled widely and said that she was so happy to see me. “May your mother be blessed forever for remembering an old lady who lives down the block—thank you so much, thank you so much. You are a good
maidel
,” and she handed me a small chocolate wafer and a one-hundred-dollar bill!

When I showed my mother the one hundred dollars she opened her eyes so wide I was scared they would fall out. She nodded, shook her head, opened her mouth, and then closed it. Finally she said, “Wow, not bad for a witch.”

I also brought
mishloach manos
to the Goldblatt family. Their house was filled with
Yushive
boys singing in the dining room, high school students laughing in the kitchen, neighbors and relatives walking in and out bringing their packages, tasting a slice of Purim cake, and wishing one another a happy Purim. Miriam was nowhere to be seen, but the twins were jumping on the table with their clown costumes, Leah’la was organizing
mishloach manos
, and Shmuli, back from collecting money for the
Yushive Yeshiva
, was dressed up like a
Chassidish Rebbe
with a short, fur
shtreimel
, a long white beard, and the mask of an old saintly man.

Mrs. Goldblatt, wearing a curly, gray wig with a funny hat on top, pushed a quarter into my hand and said I could take whatever nosh I wanted from whatever mess I found it in and that I should go upstairs. Devory was there.

Devory was sulking in her room. She had been sent upstairs when her mother punished her after she refused to take off a rope she had put around her neck so she could be like Haman hanging from a tree. She had also tried pulling the tree out of the backyard, and her mother had said it was off with that dangerous rope or her room for the rest of the morning.

I gave Devory the small
mishloach manos
I’d prepared for her, and she gave me a new pack of stickers and gum. She had a fifty-dollar bill on the table, and I asked, “
Who
gave
that
to you?” She shrugged her shoulders and said Shmuli did, then stuffed the bill inside her drawer. I told Devory she could come to my house for the rest of Purim—we were having a big party soon with my aunt Rivky from Lakewood and cranky grandmother. But Devory said her mother wouldn’t let her. I went downstairs and told Mrs. Goldblatt that I forgot Devory’s
mishloach manos
at home, then asked if she could come to my house now. Mrs. Goldblatt, stuffing one basket with cookies, another with nosh, and talking with a student, hastily looked down and said, “Okay, okay, just go, that girl is making me
meshugah
—crazy.” I told Devory that she could come to my house, and, giggling, we ran all the way home. We played with my cousins, ate two whole bars of chocolate under the dining room table, and received ten dollars each from Savtah.