The Truth About My Bat Mitzvah

  “You’re tired,” Aunt Gert said. “Would you like to see where you are going to sleep? There is a bathroom in there as well. I laid out towels and an extra brand-new toothbrush.”

  “No, I’m fine,” I said. I wanted to know what she knew. I put the photo down on the coffee table and my aunt Gert picked it up.

  “Our father was a very severe man, Caroline.” She ran her fingers across the glass in the frame. “He had worked hard his whole life. He was especially hard on his son, your grandfather. He was not a very loving father. He demanded respect.”

  I thought about my mother. She was hard on me, all the time. But I knew she loved me. I never doubted that.

  “I should have been married by then, I was older, but, well…I was not particularly pretty. It’s hard to explain. My father let me know this almost daily. Men made money and women were pretty. I was never going to get married, so he put all his efforts into his seventeen-year-old son, your grandfather. He wanted his son to marry this young woman, Rita Gordon, I remember, the daughter of one of his business associates.”

  As I watched my aunt Gert talking I could see something in her face, almost a version of her younger self. Not beautiful, but strong. What she must have looked like without the wrinkles and the spots. Handsome, the kind of woman they call handsome. Which, I hope, is never me.

  She went on. “But my brother was in love. He wasn’t going to marry so young, but, well, his father forced his hand. When your grandparents ran off and got married at town hall in Brooklyn, my father was furious. He cut off your grandfather in every way. He threatened to make my mother sit shivah. I had never seen a woman cry so much.”

  “Shivah? Isn’t that when someone dies?”

  “Yes, the mourning period,” Aunt Gert told me. “Mourners sit on boxes so they can’t be too comfortable. They cover their mirrors so they won’t be vain.”

  I remembered the mirrors at my grandparent’s apartment draped in sheets. I couldn’t imagine doing that just because your son didn’t do what you wanted him to do.

  “But I thought your family wasn’t religious. I thought they hated my grandmother because she was too Jewish?”

  Aunt Gert took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “That was partly it. Not the religion but the class, maybe. Your grandmother—Nana, right? You called her Nana?”

  I nodded.

  “Your nana was an eastern European Jew, from Russia. Her mother was born there, in Lbov, I believe. My family had been in the country for three generations already, from Germany. My family didn’t speak with an accent. We never spoke Yiddish. We even had a Christmas tree. We had done pretty much everything we could not to look Jewish.”

  Looking Jewish? Like the little boy I saw at the Bronx Zoo with the black hat and the curls of hair? Like getting to mail out bat mitzvah invitations? Like me wearing my Star of David necklace? Being Jewish but not sure I wanted anyone to know?

  “It was hard,” Aunt Gert went on. “I don’t blame them really. A Jew couldn’t make it in the business world. Door were shut to us. Clubs, organizations. Colleges.”

  “Colleges?”

  “Oh, yes. Colleges. Certain towns, even.” Aunt Gert seemed to be talking to herself almost, figuring it all out. When the sadness took over her face, instead of the meanness, she looked almost pretty.

  “So my family just kept their Judaism to themselves. Hoffman is a German name. It didn’t have to be Jewish. We were Jewish; we just didn’t wear our Judaism on our sleeves.”

  Being Jewish came at certain cost. But I already knew that, didn’t I? Even before I understood, I had felt it. From Lauren. From Rachel. From the Orthodox boy with the blue eyes. From my grandparents.

  And from myself.

  “After my brother defied our father and left home, I was more afraid. I was afraid I would be alone forever. I was afraid I would never marry and if I upset my father I would have no one. So I did what he asked. I didn’t talk to my brother or his wife.”

  “Ever again? How did you get those pictures?”

  She smiled. “Well, we spoke when we could.”

  “Did you…,” I began. “Did you ever get married? Do you have any kids?”

  At this Aunt Gert smiled again. “Yes,” she told me. “I fell in love. I was much older. Our father had passed away. I married my husband and we had eighteen wonderful years. And you know the funny thing?”

  Could anything about this be funny? “What?” I asked.

  “After all that controversy with your nana’s family, I married a very observant Jewish man. We kept a kosher home. I became shomer shabbos.”

  I had no idea what that meant.

  Aunt Gert went on. “We weren’t blessed with any children; I was too old. But we had love.”

  I heard her make a little sound, almost a sob, but she swallowed it away.

  “My husband was my great love,” she told me. “I was a very lucky woman. And now I am lucky to know you.”

  33

  I Am a Bat Mitzvah

  My aunt Gert didn’t get out of the cab when we got to the hospital where we were meeting my parents. I think it was hard for her to get up and down. She waved at my father and I watched as she leaned forward and spoke to the driver. I watched still, as the yellow car pulled around the circle and into traffic.

  The sunshine was taking up most of the world. Even though it was cold, it was clear and bright. It was November, and the snowflakes started to fall. One by one at first, almost as if someone were throwing them from a rooftop, then all at once. The tiny ones that drift and float around right in front of you before they land.

  My dad would drive me home and pick up some fresh clothes. Sam was fine but my mother wanted to stay with him. My dad would go back in the afternoon and I could stay at Rachel’s.

  “Daddy?”

  “Yes, sweetie?”

  “Nothing.”

  We drove back, this time with the Hudson River on our left side. The snow had stopped but it was getting grayer out. Colder.

  “Are you taking me right to Rachel’s or are we going home first?”

  “Home first,” he said.

  “Good.”

  We were silent for a time. It was always comfortable not to say anything with my dad. I never felt like he was angry if I wasn’t talking. After a long while I said, “Good, because I need to get something first.”

  Of course, sometimes I wished he would talk a little more.

  “I need to get something important.”

  “What? What, sweetie? What do you need?”

  He was probably thinking about Sam. He was probably really tired. He probably hadn’t slept much, if at all.

  “I need to get my Jewish star necklace.” There, I said it. “The one that Nana left for me. She wanted me to have it.”

  “Oh, yes. I know. I haven’t seen you wear it.”

  “You know? You know I have it? How do you know?”

  My dad shifted gears. He checked his mirrors and changed lanes. “Your grandfather told me about it. He told me he gave it to you. Did you lose it, sweetie? Are you upset?”

  “No, I just thought…I don’t know.” I was quiet again.

  “You thought I’d mind,” my dad said. “You thought if you wore your Jewish star that it would be disloyal to me because I’m not Jewish, right?”

  “Something like that.”

  I liked riding in the car because I could look straight ahead. I didn’t have to show my face or look at someone else’s. I could just talk and just listen. But nobody could leave, nobody could go anywhere.

  We were buckled in.

  “Caroline. I married your mother. I love everything about her. I love that she is Jewish. You can be and do anything you want.”

  I raised my eyebrows at him. “Anything?”

  “You know what I mean, wise guy.”

  “But what about Mom?” I asked.

  “What about her?”

  “Would she care if I was wearing Nana’s necklace? Wouldn’t she t
hink I was being silly?”

  “Silly?”

  I waited, and then I said, “You know, because of the car. Because her mother and father didn’t want you two to get married in the first place.”

  I had never seen my dad laugh so hard, which was kind of good, since he’d looked so beat and tired a few minutes ago.

  “Where did you hear that?” he wanted to know.

  “Mom.”

  “She told you that?”

  I nodded. “She said it hurt your feelings.”

  “Well, yes and no,” my father said, and then he told me another love story.

  This one was about a young Jewish girl in medical school, a young resident whose parents didn’t want her to get married. Not yet. And yes, probably they would have rather she married a Jewish man. And yes, they offered to buy her a car if she waited. But my father had won them over with his infinite charms. Besides, he was clearly crazy about their daughter.

  And yes, there was mention of a car. A BMW? Was it?

  My dad thought it had been a Jaguar. “Now, a Jaguar she might have thought twice about.”

  “Da-ad.” I hit him on the arm.

  It wasn’t for another half an hour, until we crossed the border into Connecticut and we were almost home, that I spoke again.

  “I know I don’t need to have one to be Jewish, but could I? Could I have a bat mitzvah if I wanted?”

  “Yes,” my dad said. “You can have a bat mitzvah if you want to.”

  I knew my dad would tell my mother about what I said, about me wanting a bat mitzvah. I think I probably wanted him to. She wasn’t mad at all. In fact, we started talking more about Nana and about all things Jewish. I told her about the stuff Aunt Gert told me about bat mitzvahs and bar mitzvahs, and my mom told me some stuff too.

  “You know, Caroline,” my mom said to me. We were alone, sitting on the couch. Our favorite doctor love-show was on but there was a commercial.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Well, I’m going to tell you.”

  “Okay, but our show is going to be on soon.”

  My feet were resting on my mother’s legs, and her feet were almost touching my chin, but I didn’t mind.

  “In the Jewish religion, some people believe that the dead are not really gone. That they watch over us. Take care of the ones they loved. During certain holidays there is a special memorial service in synagogue for them. Very religious Jews believe that our loved ones actually come down into the sanctuary and look for the people who are saying a prayer for them.”

  “Like what holiday?”

  “Like Yom Kippur,” she told me. Our show was coming on but I turned toward her.

  “Really? I thought you didn’t believe in stuff like that.”

  “When did I say that?” she asked.

  I decided not to pursue that one.

  My mother went on. “I always thought you could be with someone you loved whenever you want.”

  “You do?” I asked. “Like when?”

  “Like whenever you remember them,” she told me.

  I think I understood now.

  People become memories but they are still there. They are there to grab on to when you are swimming in the ocean, when you dream that you are drowning. We are all like the links on my chain. Something to connect us to everyone who came before.

  And everyone who will come after.

  34

  All Things That Go Around

  Today was make-up day for pictures. There was only a handful of us here in the library—everybody who’d missed getting their picture taken for one reason or another. Being absent, getting to school late, or crawling around on your hands and knees when your name was called.

  Stuff like that.

  “Hey, Caroline.” It was a girl from my science class, Joanne Parkhill.

  “Hey, Joanne.”

  The photographer was setting up his backdrop again, adjusting his tripod. There was no box of combs today that I could see.

  “I missed picture day,” Joanne told me.

  “I figured,” I said. Then, in case that sounded too sarcastic, I added, “Me, too.”

  “But you don’t get to be in your class photo. They’re not going to get your whole class in here again and just take a whole other class photo just because you missed photo day. Right? I mean that would be dumb, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Why did you miss picture day? I was out sick. I had this thing called Coxsackie virus…but it’s not as bad as it sounds. It’s like chicken pox, but you only get it on your hands and feet. Isn’t that strange?”

  Joanne does this in science class, too. That’s why the teacher never calls on her even though she has her hand up every time. She always has the right answer; it’s just that she can’t stop talking.

  But she’s really good in science and she’s not a bad kid. I kinda like her.

  There were no bleachers set up this time. No lines outside the library. It all felt pretty civilized, actually. The photographer looked much more relaxed. I reached up and touched my necklace. I moved the star back and forth along the chain carefully, but I knew it was safe. It wouldn’t break again.

  Not only because I was going to be more careful, but also because my mom bought me a thicker chain, real gold, with a stronger clasp. It was an early birthday present.

  “Joanne Parkhill. Is Joanne Parkhill here?”

  “Okeydokey. Here goes,” Joanne said to me. “See ya later, Caroline.”

  I waved to her and then, when I turned around, I saw Ryan.

  “You missed picture day too?” Ryan said to me.

  “Well, not really.”

  I kind of wanted to tell him. I mean, he picked me to be on his volleyball team the other day. He’s really nice, actually.

  “What do you mean?” he asked me.

  “Well, I was here, but I didn’t get my picture taken.”

  “Oh, my mom’s making me do a retake ’cause my eyes were closed,” Ryan said.

  Most everyone here was on the other side of the room by the photographer, waiting their turn. Ryan and I were standing by the computers. He was leaning against one of the tables.

  I wasn’t sure what to do, where to look. If they called my name I’d just wave and say see ya later. If they called him first, I’d still wave, and I’d still say see ya later.

  “I like your necklace,” Ryan said to me.

  I reached my hand up. “Oh, thanks. It was my grandmother’s. She wanted me to have it.”

  “So you’re Jewish?”

  Yes, I am.

  And in another month I will be thirteen years old, I thought to myself. I will be a bat mitzvah whether we mark the occasion or not. Which I might do, but I might not. But I wanted to wear this necklace for my school photo.

  It’s like a mini bat mitzvah celebration. A statement I am making to the world. The start of a commitment. A gift I am just about ready to open.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’m Jewish.”

  To this Ryan lifted his chin a little, in a nodding gesture. His body hadn’t moved at all. He was still leaning against the computer table. His legs stretched out, his feet crossed.

  “I didn’t know that,” he told me. “I didn’t know you were Jewish.”

  I was about to brace myself, but something told me this time was different. I relaxed. I didn’t say anything.

  “So am I,” Ryan said.

  And I just smiled.

  35

  Like Links on a Chain

  There is a five-piece orchestra and a female vocalist in a sequined gown. People are already dancing when we walk into the room. There are lavender tablecloths and baskets of African violets blooming in tiny purple blossoms on every table.

  I am full from eating all the food that has been walking around during the cocktail hour—teriyaki chicken on skewers, cocktail hot dogs, and guess what? Knishes! Little doughy things stuffed with potato goo.

  And Ryan Berk is here. Because when Rachel invited Laur
en, we got to invite one more boy, so Rachel invited him. She did that for me. Ryan really is a good dancer, especially when we don’t have to do a hoedown. I think he’s waiting for a slow dance so he can ask me again. He hasn’t asked Lauren once.

  But Rachel—Rachel is amazing.

  I think I understand it better now.

  At the service, there were people from all over, people from all parts of Rachel’s life and her family’s lives. There were family and friends, the rabbi and just people from their congregation, neighbors and kids from school. And there was Rachel telling us all that she is Jewish and wants to stay that way. She stood in front of everyone in that synagogue, those known to her and those who were strangers, and she wore her Judaism right there on her sleeve.

  Her voice was shaking at first. But it got stronger the more she sang and chanted. When she caught my eye, I smiled at her. I think it helped.

  But not everything here at the party is going as planned. Rachel’s mom looks pretty nervous. I know there is some major confusion with the food or the wine, something that isn’t right, or isn’t there, or there isn’t enough of. But no one else would have noticed.

  Rachel, in her white socked feet (all the girls got socks to put on over their stockings for when they can’t stand their high heels one minute longer) comes running across the lobby floor just as I am coming out of the bathroom.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “Oh, nothing. My mom wanted me to tell the caterer guy something. All done. I was just getting back to the party.”

  “Rachel,” I say to her. “You look so beautiful. You did a great job, a wonderful job, at your service. You made me cry.”

  Even though she had stopped running before, now Rachel pauses. She puts her hands on my shoulders. “That means so much to me, Caroline. I was so scared. You’re the only one who knows that.”

  “But you did it,” I say.

  She smiles so big her cheeks are touching her eyes. “I’m glad it’s over.”

  “And even with Lauren here, your party is fantastic,” I say. “Everyone is having so much fun.”