By Goldie Silverman, Special to JTNews
The Psalmist says that the days of our years are three score years and ten. When a man reaches the age of 70, according to Jewish tradition, he begins counting over again; at 83, therefore, he is entitled to a second Bar Mitzvah.
My father began planning his second Bar Mitzvah when he was only 80. It began as a fantasy. My father, whom I will call Max, which is not his name — all of the names and details that I use are changed, to avoid an ayin horah. In my parents’ house, one never pays a compliment without adding, “Keyn ayin horah,” to fend off the evil eye.
My father is a stalwart of the Conservative synagogue in the Midwestern city where he lives. Every Saturday morning, for as long as many in the congregation can remember, Max and his volunteer gabaim, the two Dovids, open the synagogue, distribute yarmulkes to the men and lace doilies to the women, explain to visiting gentiles why they must cover their heads, and admonish young adolescents on proper dress for the synagogue. My mother calls them the three musketeers, except when she’s talking to Mrs. Dovid, the grocer’s wife, who thinks it is “insulting.”
The planning began with Max and the two Dovids comparing their B’nai Mitzvah in Eastern Europe long ago with the those in their American synagogue. Now, they noted, there is a big to-do over a Bar Mitzvah; even today’s simplest celebration is a big tzimmes compared to their own coming-of-age ceremonies.
They had been poor children in poor families; even if their parents could have afforded it, a showy observance would have brought them to the notice of the anti-Semites in their little villages, and might have brought on a pogrom — truly an ayin horah My father was Bar Mitzvah on a Thursday morning, and Dovid the grocer on Monday, the days aside from Shabbat when the Torah is read. The other Dovid — he is always called “the other Dovid” — had his Bar Mitzvah on Shabbat, but it was a modest affair, with his father bringing a bottle of schnapps to the little shul in their shtetl.
If they had it to do over again, they would say, well, now they could buy it all for themselves: the herring, the gefilte fish, the schnapps, the kugel, the pastries, the decorated cakes that find their way to the Bar Mitzvah kiddush table.
From wishful thinking to the realization that the three of them would turn 83 in the same year to the actual planning of the big “to-do” was simply a matter of three years of talking.
Early in January they began to get down to details. Max’s birthday came first, in March, Dovid the grocer’s in May, but the other Dovid’s not until late November. Mrs. Dovid did not want to risk bringing on an ayin horah by celebrating before her husband’s actual birth date, but all the participants knew that by late November there was the possibility that bad weather or blizzards, could ruin their plans. All three of the musketeers had children and grandchildren scattered about the country who wanted to fly in for the event, and their schedules had to be considered.
On top of that, in their part of the Midwest college football is king; they had to choose a Shabbat on which there was no home game.
Finally Mrs. Dovid was persuaded to accept a date in early October. The synagogue caterer was contacted, and the four of them conferred. Dovid the grocer insisted on having kugel with cheese, but Max wanted his with apples and raisins. They eventually settled on two kinds of kugel, herring and gefilte fish, cottage cheese, vegetables, bagels and breads. Of course there would be a sweet table, provided by wives and friends. My mother and the other women started baking.
Unlike other Bar Mitzvah boys, the three musketeers did not need to spend the year in preparation. They were already part of the daily minyan almost every day, and they knew the routine. The only question for them was deciding who should do which portions. Dovid the grocer wanted to be maftir and to read the Haftarah, while Max chose the seventh section of the Torah reading, the one the Bar Mitzvah boy usually reads. The other Dovid said that he would be content to be one of the other six called up for aliyot, honorary Torah readers who say the blessings and stand at the Torah while an accomplished reader actually chants the words.
But the other Dovid wanted both of his sons to have aliyot, however. I told my father that if I came from the West Coast to his synagogue —it had only recently begun to allow women to be called to the Torah — then I too should have an aliyah. Max has two other children and Dovid the grocer has two, making seven children in all. Then there were children-in-law to include. Already there were more people than the bimah would hold, let alone to be called for aliyot.
Like Solomon, the rabbi came to the rescue. In place of dividing the children into halves, however, he made us into pairs. He decreed we would be called to the Torah as couples.
My husband and went up together, and it was a good thing, too. The lump in my throat on the Bar Mitzvah morning was so big that after the first tearful “Barchu” I could not get another sound to come out.
During the course of the service there were other honors: we opened the ark, opened the curtain, closed the ark, dressed the Torah. We had enough honors to furnish one to every one of the children and grandchildren who wanted to participate, with a partner, except for my son, the youngest of all the grandchildren, who held up the Torah at the end, hagbah, all by himself.
The synagogue was full, like Rosh Hashanah. The rabbi assured the out-of-town guests that every Shabbat was like this. Across the front of the bimah there were three chairs, holding prayer books and draped with talit in honor of the three Russian refuseniks who were paired with the three B’nai Mitzvah.
At the end of the morning Max read a little explanation that the Soviet Jewry chairman had written for him and that I had shortened.
The service went off without a hitch. If the hard-working shamas made any mistakes chanting all our names, we didn’t know it; we came and went from the bimah in proper order, shaking hands and hugging all around. The Bar Mitzvah boys were beautiful, and their faces glowed. None of them gave speeches. Except for my father and me, no one got very emotional.
After the Torah was put away, and the rabbi had read the letter that had come with the three fountain pens from the state’s senior senator, all the families stood to say “She-hecheyanu” together. I looked at my father up on the bimah, he looked down at me, and we both burst into tears; I heard the other Dovid say, “I knew Max would do that.”
Afterwards we had our kiddush with the two kinds of kugel and a big family dinner that evening. Then we all scattered back to our ordinary lives.
Three weeks later I received a call from my parents. My mother had found one of the dread seven symptoms and gone to see her doctor: she had cancer.
So, you’re thinking, we did bring on an ayin horah. Well, you’re wrong. My mother had surgery, and three years later her doctor tells her she’s cured. My mother and father, along with the two Dovids, can still be found most Shabbat mornings in their synagogue in that Midwestern city.
If you go there, one of the Bar Mitzvah boys will make sure that you cover your head; he will hand you a prayer book and find out who you are.
In other words, we don’t all have to wait for the world to come to receive the crown of a good life. Some of us are given our rewards right here. Not all of the good die young; some of them, keyn ayin hora, live long lives, even past their second Bar Mitzvah.