A Story Inspired by the Coming of Passover

BANG BANG BANG

I awoke in an instant. I glanced at the clock on the nightstand - six a.m. Rosenbloom on his morning rounds. Right on time.

“You guys up in there?” called Rosenbloom.

“Ya, ya, we're up. Go knock on somebody else's door,” I said.

“What about you, Eli, you up in there too?” said Rosenbloom through the metal door.

“Bite me, Rosey,” said Eli with his usual morning cheer.

I looked out the window, through the metal mesh, at the small fenced in yard which marked the boundaries of our freedom. I stood up, rubbed my butt, stretched backwards, and yawned widely. It had been a late night. We had partied while the sun slept, and dawn rose far too soon. I put the empty bottle of Southern Comfort into my footlocker. Playboy magazines, pilfered from my father's sock drawer, were scattered on the green, metal desk by the window.

Eli went to take a shower in the communal bathroom. Just as I clicked the padlock on my footlocker, I heard someone fumble with the doorknob to our room. As head counselor, Rosenbloom was charged to make sure everyone got ready for the mandatory hour and a half morning services. He had a passkey to all the rooms. “Yom tov,” he said without feeling as he stood in the open doorway. He looked all around the room, gave a slight nod, and closed the door after himself.

Eli came back in drying his hair with a towel. He looked right at me. “Today!” he said.

I felt a kick in my stomach. “Today!” I replied.

In about ten minutes services would begin. The building would be left empty except for the goyish secretaries in the administration offices. We grabbed our velvet tefillin bags and prayer books, and headed for the synagogue. We entered the house of worship to the dull din of bearded old men who bobbed back and forth, and babbled in Hebrew. We walked over to Rabbi Weine, and he checked our names off the attendance sheet. I stood at my place and began to rock, but my mind was not on Talmud. I forced myself not to look at Eli across the sanctuary (they knew better than to let us sit together), and continued to stare at my siddur.

Last night, as the rabbis slept, Eli and I had stripped the ends of some lengths of wire. We attached the exposed copper to the leads of a portable Panasonic tape recorder and a light-timer.

The cantor lifted up his voice in the sacred and immemorial cry of the Jewish nation:

"Sh'ma Yisroel Adonai Elohaynu, Adonai Echod"

“Hear O Israel, The Lord Is Our God, The Lord Is One”

His voice subsided, and in the moment of silent devotion following this holiest of blessings, trumpets blared from the PA system. Everyone froze, as if turned into the very pillar of salt that curiosity had wrought upon Lot's wife.

“Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ,

who are you? what have you sacrificed?

Jesus Christ Superstar,

do you think you're what they say you are?”

As the unimaginable music played, Rosenbloom and Rabbi Weine dashed towards the dorms. The other rabbis tried in vain to get services under control. The Rosh Ha'Yeshiva yelled, “This is a blasphemy. It is a sin against God. He shall tremble who has the audacity to desecrate the Lord's house, and he shall be banished from the Covenant!”

I shot a glance at Eli and smiled inside.

Everyone did their best to finish out the services, but even the most pious students couldn't concentrate. When the services ended, Eli and I ran through the underground tunnel that connected the main building with the synagogue. No one but us and the Polish janitors knew about the access tunnel that had exposed water and sewage pipes and electrical conduits. There were rats down there, but we'd often go down to drink with the janitors who were under strict orders not to associate with the students. But that day we raced along the passageway. We ran up the service stairwell to the second floor and cautiously peeked out. Rosenbloom and Rabbi Weine stood near the PA system in the offices. They pointed at two loose wires that dangled from the mass of components and were connected to the tape recorder and timer.

We snuck down the service stairs and joined our fellow talmidim in the mess hall. We got our food and sat down at a long, Formica table. Rosenbloom and Rabbi Weine walked over to us and Rabbi Weine said, “Shmuael, Eliyahu, would you know anything about this morning's incident?”

“No, Rebbi,” I said.

“No, Rabbi Weine,” said Eli.

Rosenbloom glared. It was his natural state.

After breakfast, Eli and I went upstairs and got ready for class. About halfway through Torah study, an office messenger came into the room and handed a note to the Moreh. He read it, raised his eyes, and said, “Eliyahu, the Rosh Ha'Yeshiva would like to see you in his office.”

My breath caught in my throat, but I did not look up. Twenty minutes later, Eli re-entered the classroom, along with the messenger. He held another note. The teacher said, “Shmuael, the Rosh Ha'Yeshiva wants to see you now.” This was not good. The whole class looked up and watched me go. The office boy and I were not on friendly terms, and he seemed pleased to escort me to the office. I was shown into the Rosh Ha'Yeshiva's private study and he motioned me to sit.

The Head of the Yeshiva High School and Hebrew Theological Seminary was ancient. He was a revered scholar as well as a lawyer. He wore black pants, black shoes, and a long, black coat. I couldn't look into his eyes, so I focused on the black tie against his white, linen shirt.

“Shmuael, do you have any knowledge regarding the sacrilege that occurred this morning?”

“No,” I said.

“Oh!” he said pointedly. “I just had a nice long chat with Eliyahu.”

I said nothing.

“We only want to help you,” he continued.

He had tried this trick before. It seemed like Eli and I were always in trouble for some minor mischief in the dorms and cutting classes. We never confessed, but there was something in his tone. Had Eli told him? I didn't think so, but if he did and I lied, it would go worse for me. Also, I knew if it didn't work on me, he'd try it on Eli, until one of us broke. After all we were only kids.

I hung my head and said, “I don't know anything about this.”

“You may have to take a lie detector test,” said the Rosh Ha'Yeshiva. “There will be an investigation into this matter. Alright, you may go back to class.”

As the class was about to end, the office boy came in and said that Eli and I were both wanted in the office. We walked down the hall in silence, and our worst fears were realized when we entered the Rosh Ha'Yeshiva's study. There on the desk sat my footlocker, the padlock cut off, the contents set out on display. There were the bottle of Southern Comfort, the magazines - and a wire cutter.

The Rosh Ha'Yeshiva told us to be seated as Rosenbloom and Rabbi Weine looked on. He pushed the play button on the Panasonic tape recorder and several verses of “Jesus Christ Superstar” resounded through the close chamber with accusal. He pointedly depressed the stop button with his index finger, and sat looking at us for several slow moments. I noticed a snicker playing at the corners of Rosenbloom's lips, and sadness in Rabbi Weine's eyes.

The Rosh Ha'Yeshiva said, “It is apparent that you boys do not belong here. I think we should talk to your parents about leaving the Yeshiva.”

He was right. We didn't belong there. Eli went to live with his sister in Atlanta. I graduated from a Chicago public school. I never saw Eli again, but I will always remember my time at the Yeshiva, and I'm sure, so will God.