The Chazzen’s Daughter

When I entered his world, I discovered he was more than just my father

It was a long walk to Shul.

“Tati, how much longer? I wish we could see the Shul.” My legs felt like sticks. It was hard to keep up with Tati.

“Honey, we’re just three blocks from our house.” My father stopped for a moment. The sun made his hair bright; I had to squint to look at his face. “We still have a way to go.”

My fancy shoes for Shul had a strap across the top of my feet. It was hurting and itching at the same time. I wanted to scratch that spot. I wished I had my sneakers on; nothing hurt my feet when I was wearing those. When we got to the Shul, I was going to take the shoes off and give the tops of both my feet a good scratch!

We stopped for a few minutes at Corbin Place. It was a big street. I could see the houses and the bright grass on the other side of it — the pretty side. When the light changed, Tati held my hand to stop my running. “Today is Shabbes, a nice walking day.”

I looked up. His eyes were waiting. “Tati, will you always walk with me every time I go to the Shul?”

“Do you mean when you are older and go to Talmud Torah?”

“I guess so — but what about all the times you daven, on every Shabbes?”

“Well, we’ll see.”

In the years between that long ago first walk with my father, I crossed Corbin Place many times. That Shul was my father’s second home and a marginal home to the rest of my family — mother, brother and me.

“Will you always walk with me?”

“Look, honey, look straight ahead. Can you see where I’m pointing?”

And there it was! The Shul! My father’s Shul. Well, he didn’t own it but for all the years he spent praying for this congregation, it remained — my father’s Shul.

It was early. There was no one else around. We entered a side door which led to my father’s room.

“Tati, — someone else is here.”

“That’s Mr. Gluck, our Gabbai. When you go out to the Bima, you’ll see him.”

“You mean right now?”

“Soon dear, soon — when I’m ready to open my door.”

Everything takes time when you’re a grownup. Now, I could hardly wait until the door was opened. I was learning to wait — sometimes — but I really didn’t like it.

“Tati, what happens when you become a Cantor in your Shul?’

“I’m always a Cantor — even when I’m walking in the street or shopping in a store.”

I leaned closer; I watched his eyebrows move up and down.

“When I am in Shul facing the ark I’m never just praying for myself. A Cantor has a very special job.”

“Does G-d give you that job? Does he come and whisper it into your ears?”

My father smoothed a few hairs that had become loose from my hairdo. “No, our dear G-d doesn’t whisper about it in my ear. In a little while, you’ll see me davening. While I do that, I never forget about all the people who are in Shul at that same moment. The whole time I’m davening, I’m praying for each one. That’s the job I’m telling you about.”

“I’m always a Cantor — even when I’m walking in the street or shopping in a store.”

“Do you have to know everybody’s name to do that?”

“No. Not even when I do the silent prayers.”

“Tati, do any of those people ever do their own praying?”

“Yes, of course they do. But my promise to our G-d is to never forget why I’m here in Shul.”

With just one step on the Bima floor, I heard someone call me.

“Gut Shabbes.” The voice came from my left side. There sat the Gabbai. His smile for me was in his eyes and also in the turned up corners of his mouth.

“Gut Shabbes,” I said.

I looked back, saw my father smiling at me.

The Gabbai stood up. “Gut Shabbes, Chazzen.” He shook Tati’s hand. “So, do you have a good ‘Mimkomcho’ for us today?”

“Yes, Mr. Gluck. It’s one I have always liked. I’m happy to be sharing it with everyone.”

The Gabbai turned, looked down at me. “I heard you want to walk on the Bima.

“I really do!”

“Come. We’ll walk together.”

I put my hand in his which was warm and squeezy. “Okay.”

I knew I had to walk slower than my usual running and skipping. Walking with a grown up, especially one who is holding your hand, makes you walk grown up.

Some people entered the Shul.

Tati came out of his room. “Ah! A familiar voice! Mrs. Bernstein, Gut Shabbes! And your husband — How good it is to see you here — a Gut Shabbes to you!”

I watched the Gabbai, a big smile on his face.

My father leaned over the railing. He shook everyone’s hand — Mrs. Bernstein, the sons and finally, Mr. Bernstein. “Gott zol danken, Mr. Bernstein.” Tati took the man’s hand into both of his. “All turned out well — how happy that makes me!”

Mr. Bernstein came closer. “Your visits meant so much — in the hospital and then in my house. You’re my Cantor, my Chazzen! May G-d give you the strength you need to always be a good Shaliach Tsibur!”

The words I heard from that man — calling my father his Cantor were not words I had heard from anyone — ever! When all the greetings and wishes were finished, the Bernsteins’ Cantor, my father, turned and went back to his room.

I watched the empty space where my father had just been. I didn’t call out to him and he didn’t look back at me. I felt my stomach giving a tiny turn.

“You’re my Cantor, my Chazzen!”

The Gabbai pointed with his head. We were in front of the Ark. Everything was quiet. It felt like the quiet got extra quiet. He put both his hands over his eyes. Mine remained at my sides.

I already knew that Torahs were inside the ark. Tati had a friend who wrote letters on Torahs with special black ink — not paint and not a pencil. This ark was special. It was the Ark in my father’s Shul.

“Come,” said Mr. Gluck. “Our Shabbes service is about to start.”

Out of the door to Tati’s room — came my father — Tati — dressed in his Cantor clothes.

How could he look so tall — was it just the satin hat, the yarmulke for Shul? I couldn’t see his shoes.

I saw the tips of his fingers on one hand and his siddur in the other. He was the Cantor now. I wanted to see my regular Tati. My stomach moved again.

He smiled, nodded to the Gabbai and to me. Mr. Gluck nodded back. I looked to see if Tati would say something to me, something my Tati would say. He didn’t and I didn’t nod back.

The Gabbai, showed me the little chair where I would be sitting for the service. I sat with my head down.

The chair next to the Gabbai’s chair was reserved for the Cantor. My father, the Cantor, sat down.

I wanted to see my regular Tati.

The Bima’s red carpet was still under my feet. I pulled each of my braids in front to check the red ribbons. Yes, they were there. It was probably okay to lift my head a little. My stomach wasn’t turning so much but it knew and I knew that something was different.

I watched my father get up from his chair. Without hurrying, he walked to the lectern, turned and faced the ark. He put his siddur on top of the thin cloth. He didn’t look at where I was sitting.

I rubbed my cold hands together. With a little wave to Mr. Gluck, I sat up straight.

Now my eyes were only on Tati.

As he began Mimkomcho I watched him stand straight. He placed his hands on each side of the lectern. I had heard this prayer as he sang parts of it at home.

This was not like it was at home. He faced the ark, with the Torahs inside. Now, his words, his voice and his thoughts were given to his G-d.

My father was doing what he came to Shul that day to do. I didn’t take my eyes off him. His voice, his singing always made it to my ears at home. Here, on the Bima, it landed on my ears and in my head.

I heard fancy notes that climbed way up and then all the way down. There were words that had no up and down notes and these weren’t fancy — they just stayed where Tati put them.

My father was doing what he came to Shul that day to do.

Tati repeated some of the words and he stretched them out like a rubberband.

Sometimes there were no words, just empty spaces — like when I forget something I want to say. I took a closer look at Tati’s face and saw ‘things’ taking place that were new to me. His eyes were closed, his hands were resting on top of his Siddur with his fingers facing up.

His singing stopped.

I held my breath.

My father raised his hands a few inches from the siddur and for a moment kept them in the air. Maybe he was speaking to G-d.

I got scared, felt very alone.

When I looked at his face — I saw a tear rolling down his cheek. I had never seen my father cry. I wanted to leave my spot and run to him.

Looking to my left, I noticed that the Gabbai also had his eyes closed. Ohhhh — I saw tears on his cheek.

And then Tati began again, bringing back all the words from the empty spaces.

After the service, I stood next to Tati.

He looked down at me. “Well, Tochterel, how did you like coming to Shul?”

I looked at him, at his eyes. Maybe he knew what I was feeling.

“Gut Shabbes, Chazzen!” People came close. “Your Mimkomcho! Thank you for that.”

The Chazzen was their Shaliach Tsibur — his job was to carry their prayers to G-d.

And I was the Chazzen’s daughter.