A Closet
Daughter. Father. Shul. Politics.
Reading Pennsylvania, Hotel Suite, 1954
A door? None of us noticed it before. I open it and begin to cough. A closet. A musty, dark, empty closet. With one foot in, I call out. “I found a place to warm up my voice!”
Dad wants to know if I’m aware of the hour.
I know — it’s 6:30 AM.
A semi-frantic call-out from him: “People are sleeping — singing in the closet at this hour??”
With one inch left before I close myself up in this space, I hear, “Maybe you want to think this over?”
I close the door. Pull my pitch pipe out of my pocket. Here I go!
— Of course, here you go — so get going!
— Yes, thank you, Maestro. My teacher always shows up when I need him.
I begin. Middle C to next one, C# to C#. Now I’m into it. Get to G. Short breath. Onward to high B flat.
Today I’ll be on the Bima — which could never happen in our shul. Today there will be no old men shouting, “No esha!” Of course, in our shul, it would not just be old men. And I would not venture onto the Bima at seventeen years old. The people of our Orthodox shul loved me singing Adon Olam when I was five, but I’m not five anymore. There I am an esha and that’s who I’ll always be.
Today, we are invited to Kesher Zion — a Conservative synagogue — for a guest appearance. For me it is a totally unexpected and exciting moment, being on the Bima with my father.
My father is literally in love with what he does. He has been the chazzen at our shul for sixteen years. He loves davening every Shabbes, all the holidays, the boys’ choir, the Chanukah concert, luncheons for the Sisterhood. He loves the people, as well.
— Why do you stop at B flat? Nothing in that range is a problem for you.
— I know Maestro. I staccato up to the D above that C and stop.
— Another stop? Well, I forget what you’re up to this morning; your father’s going Conservative.
— No, Maestro. You know that will never happen. He’s a guest chazzen at Kesher Zion for this Shabbes only.
— What’s the difference? It’s all nonsense to me.
— I know, Maestro, I know. No religion for you.
So much has happened in these last few months. It all has to do with my father and his shul in Brooklyn. It is an unexpected, unwanted, unreal time in the life of my family. What happens to him happens to all of us: my mother, brother, and me.
I sing two lines from Lucia’s mad scene.
Il dolce suono mi colpi di sua voce!
Ah, quella voce m’e qui nel cor discesa!
— Donizetti made her capable of more than just the wild, horror moments with a knife in her hands, don’t you agree? Can you hear the musical connection between these few lines of the opera and the kind of sounds you will use this afternoon?
— Maestro, I love everything about Lucia.
My father came to America at the age that I am now. In Striy, he had sung as a choir boy soloist at the great shul there. When he got here, he was ready to find the most knowledgeable cantors in New York City, so he could begin training for the omed.
All the young men like my father wanted to hear the best cantors. They’d come early on Friday and stay over Shabbes in someone’s home.
On one Shabbes, my father heard Yossele Rosenblatt daven. My Dad managed to get a few words with this great chazzen. He asked the question pressing on his mind. “How will I know when I’m really a chazzen?”
Known to be the greatest chazzen of his time, Rosenblatt trained his eyes on my father. “You’ll know, young man, you have gotten somewhere as a chazzen, when you start to make enemies.”
Board Meeting, A Certain Shul in Brooklyn
Charlie Greiner raps a gavel on the wooden desk. Seven faces turn toward him. This room is used as a classroom every Sunday. Two high windows bring in dim light; he turns on the floor lamp and a moth flutters around it. To the left of the door, a coat rack holds wool caps and a long scarf, left by students.
One of the ladies, wearing a cap with a feather, pours coffee; the other, who sports a large diamond ring, takes care of the tea. The men, sitting in student chairs, and wearing jackets and ties, wait to be served.
“You all remember what I said last week.” Charlie’s voice commands attention.
Nathan Bender leans toward Charlie and cups his mouth. “Your cousin, right?” he says, sotto voce.
“Yes,” Charlie lowers his voice. “He wrote again — also called.” Charlie takes his cigar out of its wrapper. “He’s getting worried — didn’t hear from me last week.” The cigar, unlit, hangs from Greiner’s mouth. He moves his head away from Bender and eyeballs each of the other members. Raises his voice. “I’ve decided to call this chazzen tonight.”
The feather in that lady’s hat bounces enthusiastically as the lady’s head does the same. “Good idea, Charlie.”
A young, new member in a baseball cap clears his throat. “So, what do the rest of you folks have to say?”
David Gluck’s chair squeaks a bit as his hand waves in Charlie’s direction. “You’re too hasty. You have no real reason.” He holds his hands out to include all there. “Our cantor still davens like a charm. No problems. He still has it.”
“David.” Diamond Lady always speaks her piece. “You and I have known each other a long time. Maybe we should consider someone fresh on the omed.”
“Listen everyone.” Bender’s soft voice reaches his fellow members. “Our rabbi may not be here, but he has had my ear a few times. His opinion should have some weight.”
“But don’t you think the rabbi recognizes Cantor Zuckerberg’s work with the men’s group, the sisterhood, the boys’ choir?” The young man adjusts his baseball cap. “When I was Bar Mitzvah’ed, he made tapes for me to practice with.”
Charlie gives him a look. He takes the cigar out of his mouth. Holds it between two fingers. “Enough. How about we take a first vote?”
Dave Gluck, who is the Gabbai of this shul, removes his hat. “My G-d!” He throws the hat on the table, touching his yarmulke, to make sure it hasn’t moved. He faces Charlie Greiner and Nathan Bender, speaking to both. “Think of what he’s accomplished since coming — he’s ready to do all that we ask and more.” He sweeps his arm to include all his fellow board members. “None of the rest of us has heard your cousin — we’re going by your memory of his davening.”
Charlie has the cigar back in his mouth, chewing it as he directs his clear stare at the Gabbai.
Reading Pennsylvania, Hotel Suite
I sing another two lines from the opera, then two of today’s answering calls to my father.
— Don’t forget, your father’s chanting of the service and your gentle answers are what those congregants will remember.
— Thank you, Maestro. I remember triad scales. Do three of them.
— I see where you’re going, a little extra for security? Listen, dear girl, not necessary. You did enough.
— I guess so, Maestro. The dark in this closet — it’s gotten to me.
— Don’t worry about the dark — just sing and the light will always come.
I open the closet door. My teacher. Maestro. He always comes through for me.
Leaning forward from a well-upholstered armchair, my father puts his teacup on its saucer and turns to me. “You know it’s 7:30. Thank G-d you managed without waking up the whole hotel.”
“I’ll be dressed in a jiffy.”
“You were talking to your teacher.”
“You know Maestro. He’s always in my head.”
Board Meeting, That Same Shul in Brooklyn
“Look, Dave, I know where your heart lies.” Greiner takes the unlit cigar out of his mouth; studies it. “You’re not really wrong. But frankly the Rabbi’s been complaining lately about your favorite chazzen.”
The others stare.
“Charlie.” Dave Gluck makes a dismissive gesture with his hand, “As for the Rabbi, I’d rather not get into what’s going on — that old color green. Not to worry. He’ll always follow you.”
Chairs scrape as the board members lean forward. The moth’s wings tahtahtahtah against the window.
Charlie pulls an ashtray toward him as he rises from his seat. “Listen up, everybody.” David Gluck watches three of Charlie’s fingers wrinkle and whiten as they push and smash his cigar until it is unrecognizable. Greiner soothes the three fingers with his other hand as he turns to all present. “Why not have a change? We’ll get used to a new sound from the omed. So, what if he’s my cousin? I say we do this — today! Vote?”
Reading Pennsylvania, Congregation Kesher Zion
We hold arms together as we walk. Twenty minutes and there it is — Kesher Zion. I kiss my mother and wait while my father does the same, along with a private word. We escort her in to sit with other congregants. I take quick note of our audience to be. It seems as if every seat is filled.
An outside door gets us to the small dressing room behind the Bima. My stomach gives a slight turn, but I remember how well prepared we are. Stomach quiets down. I’m fine.
It takes me a minute — white choir robe, white yarmulke and bobby pin. Takes Dad a little longer. I watch him — as I have so many times before this day. No rushing. His calmness takes over.
I do wonder if there are any old time ‘no esha!’ men somewhere in this building — in some corner — ready to spring out. I think of Maestro. He’d have zero tolerance for such thoughts. Your support for your father — his superb chanting — these will win the day! I hear him loud and clear.
I watch the cantor adjust his tallis, his siddur in his right hand. He gives me the smile that carried me through childhood and beyond. I wait till he is at the lectern, smile back, and walk to my side. Arrange my pages to the first line I will need to answer Dad’s beginning moment.
Here, in Reading, PA the excitement, the joy in this Conservative shul is palpable.
Two hours later, the service draws to a close. Smiles everywhere. Hands reaching out for our hands. Rabbi Bennett, a happy, full smile on his face, his arm around my father’s back.
The noise! Never heard that noise after any service in any shul. It is all wonderful and glorious.
I want to take that glorious noise back home to Brooklyn.
Brooklyn
On a high windowsill, the moth perches, its wings folded. Below, in the classroom, people are out of their chairs, milling about. Coats are put on. Looks are exchanged.
Diamond Ring Lady wraps the few cups that were used, to be tossed in an outside bin. She watches the feather in her friend’s hat shake vigorously as her friend wipes the desktops.
Nathan taps “Feather’s” arm. Points to a few wet spots on the floor in front of his chair. She and Nathan eye each other.
Feather extends her hand. “Here — use my rag.”
Bender draws back. He walks away.
They all want out — enough talk, enough difficult words.
Charlie and Dave lean over either side of the Hebrew school teacher’s desk — both pairs of hands, thumbs and fingers clamped onto the wood.
“So, David, the decision is made.”
Dave straightens, not breaking his gaze. “I want to speak to him first.”
