The Maggid of Bergenfield

Passover: A Personal Dayenu

Dayenu is a wonderful part of the seder. It suggests it "would have been enough" if G-d had performed just some of the miracles He did for the Israelites on leaving Egypt and not all of them. Right. Because we Jews are so easily satisfied and never complain.

Here is a personal version of Dayenu, in honor of the Maggedet of Bergenfield, who makes it all happen. It’s a great song to riff on, because the real words don’t even fit the tune. There is a secret, heavily kabbalistic acrostic hidden in this modern psalm. See if you can find it.

If you had done all THE Pesach cleaning

And not found the decades old shoes in My closet...Dayenu

If you hAd done all the Pesach shopping

And not bought my special chocolate macaroons...Dayenu

If you had done all the Pesach preparations

And not taken all the kids for haircuts...Dayenu

If you had done a thousand preparations

and not helped a special Girl with Ma Nishtana...Dayenu

If you had Gone through all the kids’ toys

And not found the chEerio with the Rescue Heroes...Dayenu

If you haD bought the koshEr for Pesach Toothpaste

And not bought the Winnie the Pooh toothbRushes...Dayenu

If you had bOught the grape juiCe for the arba KoSot

and not found the Manishewitz extra sweet Malaga...Dayenu

If you had set up for the seder

And not found a plastic bag of plagues...Dayenu

If you had bought the roMaine lettuce

And not the horseradish root for Your masochistic husband...Dayenu

If you had bought the marror for the seder

And not gotten Rolaids extra strength antacids...Dayenu

If you had bought the matzoh for Pesach

and not gotten prunes and fiber supplements...Dayenu

If you had set up the seder plate

And not made your super extra special charoset...Dayenu

If you had prepared for this meshugah holiday

And not done the daily things We take for granted...Dayenu

If yOu had sat down exhausted at the sedeR

And not prepared some divrei Torah...Dayenu

If you had made Pesach because you had to

And not filled our house with Love and mitzvot..Dayenu

Chag Kasher vesameach everyone.

Tzav: Of Temple Ash and Center Field

Vayikra: 6: 3-4

Career Day was one of the most popular programs among the first grade students at the Nachmanides School. That was the day when the students would bring in one of their parents or grandparents to tell the class about his or her occupation. Most participants tried to make it fun. Doctors would bring in models of the body for the children to explore or they would each do their own shtick: Richie Leonard’s mom blew up surgical gloves into balloons for the whole class, and Adam Mendel’s dad gave out funky band aids. Dentists usually came with toothbrush samples, although Chaya Rubinson’s dad brought in a giant set of teeth with an equally large toothbrush on which the children could practice brushing. The parents who were lawyers usually brought small toys for the kids, although Raphael Burstein’s mom, a well known litigator, tried to run a mock court in the classroom.Iit fell apart when Rebecca Feldstein, who had been chosen to be the judge, found her teacher, Morah Roberta, in contempt and tried to have her ejected. Donny Feingold’s dad, who worked for a hedge fund, tried to give out money, but Morah Susan convinced him to redirect his efforts, and each child gave tzedakah at the end of his presentation. Sophie Nadel’s mom, a baker at a fancy café in Hoboken, came with cupcakes for the children to decorate, a big hit with the group. Cory Benzaken’s dad, a policeman in Hackensack, brought plastic handcuffs for all the kids, but half of the class had to be extricated from the playground with wire cutters after recess.

This year, the presentation the children were looking forward to the most was that of Robby Drachtman’s father. Mark Drachtman worked in a magical place in the Bronx known as Yankee Stadium, and this year Career day coincided with baseball’s spring training. Boys, girls, even Mets and Red Sox fans wanted to hear what he had to say. What was Mariano Rivera like? Could he get them free Yankee tickets? Did they have a chance this year? Are Alex Rodriguez and Derek Jeter still friends? Why do baseball players put black stuff under their eyes?

Morah Roberta presented Mark Drachtman, and he stood before the class in a Yankee cap, a polo shirt with the Yankee emblem, and a grass stained pair of slacks. The class applauded loudly.

"Thanks, kids, that’s a really nice welcome. I’m Mr. Drachtman, Robby’s dad, and I’m the chief groundskeeper at Yankee Stadium."

"A groundskeeper," Moshe Lipman called out. "What does a groundskeeper do?"

"I take care of the field at the stadium. Along with my team, I make sure the grass grows and is well cut, and that all the dirt in the infield is well maintained. I also protect the field from rain, snow, sleet, and gophers."

"So then you don’t work with the players?" Shimmy Wallach asked.

"No, not on a regular basis. But I do work with the coaches and the management team if there’s a problem."

Mark could tell that the group looked a little disappointed.

"It’s a very serious job, taking care of the Yankees’ homefield. We have a six man crew that works all year round to keep the field in perfect condition. We mix different kinds of grass seeds, like Kentucky Blue Grass, Colonial Bent, and Perennial Rye to keep my three-and-a-half acre domain that beautiful emerald green you see from the stands."

Robby’s classmates still looked a little dazed.

"Does anyone have any questions?"

A few hands went up around the room.

"Yes?"

"Have you ever met Bernie Williams?" David Eckstein asked.

"Of course. I’ve known Bernie since he was a rookie. He always put serious divets in my center field grass when he sprinted for a line drive, so I would say to him, ‘Bernie, go easy when you dive for the ball.’ But he never listened. None of the players ever think of my beautiful turf when they sink their cleats in it."

"What’s the most important part of your job?" Rachel Weiner asked.

"Hmm, good question. I would have to say aeration. You have to keep the field well aerated by putting lots of holes in the dirt to keep the grass healthy. We have a really cool machine that does that. You should see it."

"Uhuh."

"What’s your favorite part of the job?" Lauren Roberts asked.

"I love when we go out to rake the field during the games. At the end of the fifth inning, they play the Village People’s YMCA over the loud speaker system, and me and my ground crew go out and rake the dirt in the base paths to make it nice and smooth for the later innings. We stop and spell the letters Y-M-C-A with our hands when it gets to that part of the song" Mark said, demonstrating the proper hand movements, "and the crowd goes wild."

Clearly the class was less than enthused by his presentation. Mark could tell they had been expecting someone more like Derek Jeter.

"Listen, kids, taking care of the field is a very important part of the game. It lets all the amazing home runs by Alex Rodriguez and the strike outs by Mariano Rivera happen. It’s a team effort to make the Yankees a success."

Clearly they weren’t convinced.

"You know, in this week’s parsha, Tzav, the Torah tells how the cohanim, the priests, were responsible for cleaning out the ash from the altar after the sacrifices were offered. G-d commanded that the cohen should wear michnesay bad, special linen garments, to clean out the ash. The parsha even explains exactly how the removal should be done. Clearly Hashem felt that even cleaning out the charred leftovers from the altar should be considered a holy act, worthy of priestly garments and a special procedure. It was called terumat hadeshen, the separation of the ash."

Mark looked over at his son. "Robby, why do you think the Torah made the cohen wear special garments to take out the ash?"

Robby shrugged politely, not excited to be receiving extra attention.

"I think that what the Torah was trying to teach us is that every action can have sanctity if it is approached correctly. Every part of the service is important for the completion of the Temple worship.

"Who here has heard of Derek Jeter?"

Everyone but the boy in the Red Sox cap raised their hands.

"Now Derek Jeter is a natural born shortstop. He can field a bouncer or pull off a double play better than anyone I’ve ever seen. As for me, I’m a gardener. I love to seed, fertilize, and water the grass so that it grows perfectly. We each do our part to help the Yankees succeed, and both roles are important to help the team win. If we take our roles seriously, they have importance.

"So I’m a groundskeeper for the Yankees, and I wear my Yankee cap and my grass stained pants with pride."

Mark looked around the room and could see that most of the kids got his point.

"And speaking of Yankee caps, who here wants a team hat autographed by some of the players?"

The cheer that erupted in the room would have made any major league player proud.

Passover: The Telltale Pretzel

Shemot: 13: 7

Barry Stern was not much of a cleaner. Truth be told, he was a slob, a big slob (there, you dragged it out of me). So when it came time for Passover cleaning, his wife Cheryl did not have high hopes that Barry was going to pull his weight. Each child in the family had been given a cleaning assignment to complete. Jason, the eleven-year-old, was in charge of straightening up the toys in the basement. Ariella, the eight-year-old, had to clean out her dresser. Michal, the five-year old, had to arrange the shoes in her closet and check for chametz under her bed. Joel, the one-year-old, was given a pass. But no one expected Barry to do much of anything. Every year he claimed he was going to help more than he had in the past. He would clean out the garage. He would go through his closet and throw away old shoes, maybe a hanger or two. But every year something came up, and the time slipped away. So Cheryl gave Barry just one assignment.

He had to clean out the car.

Cleaning the car for Passover may not seem like a daunting assignment. After all, an automobile is a self-enclosed, finite space, not particularly large in comparison to the entire house that Cheryl cleaned. But it was actually a fairly decent job. Four kids and a messy husband can spill lots of food out of their seats over a year, especially on long family trips, and a car is loaded with nooks and crannies* where chametz can hide. So Cheryl appreciated that Barry took care of this every year.

Barry took his task seriously. Every year he would set out with a pocketful of quarters to feed into one of those giant vacuum cleaners at the car wash. He would crawl through the minivan on his hands and knees, thrusting the vacuum hose into the folds of the seats and into every crevice he could reach. His Honda minivan was a jungle, in which small pieces of popcorn, animal crackers and chocolate could be hiding, just beyond his field of vision. And don’t get him started on the granola bars! They shouldn’t even be allowed in a Jewish motor vehicle. But after an hour of battling with the smallest potential particles of leaven, not to mention the leaves, wrappers, crayons, and old school projects that such a hunting expedition unearths, Barry would return home, strutting from the garage into the house like a conquering hero, where he would eventually utter, "You won’t believe what I found under the kids' seats!"

None of the children wanted to come along this year, each deeply involved in his or her own assignment, so Barry jumped into the Honda and set off alone. Barry knew that success in his mission would require a certain amount of cunning, for he was not the only father sent out to search for chametz that day. Hundreds of fathers all over Passaic had been deputized by their wives to perform the same task. To beat out the hordes trolling the local car washes for a vacuum cleaner, you had to be on top of your game.

Barry pulled out onto Route 3 and went west. Years earlier he had scouted out a car wash all the way on the far side of Clifton, the next town over, that no other chametz hunters knew of. There he could vacuum in peace, with no worries of competition for the hose. Those other dads had no idea who they were dealing with.

Sure enough, when Barry got to the Clifton Splash and Go on Paulison Avenue, he was all alone. He parked his minivan and pulled out all the car seats, the stroller, the jumper cables, the soccer ball, and the two lawn chairs. Barry dropped his quarters into the slot, and the vacuum cleaner erupted with the loud sucking sound that instills fear into the hearts of old M&M’s everywhere.

The car cleaning started out uneventfully. The back seat had the usual crumbs and detritus that a year of family life will create. Things were actually going smoothly until Barry reached the moveable second row bucket seats. Underneath the front right floor hook was a small three inch long cylinder, one quarter inch in diameter. It appeared to be made of wheat, but if Barry could have checked the ingredients, he would have found that this particular pretzel, a Herr’s Whole grain Pretzel Stick, contained wheat flour, corn flour, rye flour, soy flour, rice flour, barley flour, oat flour, buckwheat flour, and flax flour. I’m not kidding. It was a veritable chametz and kitniot smorgasbord.

Barry tried to suction it out with the vacuum nozzle, but it wouldn’t budge. He tried to pry it out with his finger, but he couldn’t reach it.

After trying to suction it out for over five minutes, Barry gave up and finished cleaning the car. He drove home listening to some old Avraham Fried on the CD player, but he lacked his usual sense of triumph over the dirt in the car. Deep down he knew that the pretzel stick still dwelled deep in his seat mechanism. You couldn’t see it unless you searched for it on all fours, but it was there. He tried to put it out of his mind. He didn’t have to get it out. The pasuk in the Torah pertaining to the removal of chametz stated: Matzot yeyachel eit shivat hayamim veloh yeyra’eh lecha chametz, veloh yeyra’eh lechah se’or bichol gevulecha. Matzoh shall be eaten throughout the seven day period; no chametz may be seen in your possession, nor leaven may be seen in your possession in all your borders. He wasn’t supposed to own any chametz. But on the eve of the holiday, when he read the Kol chamirah vechamiyah paragraph, nullifying any chametz he couldn’t find, or didn’t dispose of, he would include the dreaded pretzel, and he would no longer be responsible for its existence. No one would know. Barry felt better.

Barry pulled the minivan into the driveway, and Cheryl came out to inspect the car.

"So, how did it go?"

"O.K.," Barry volunteered.

"O.K.? Just O.K.? Usually you’re preening like a rooster when you get back from the car wash."

"Whatever."

Cheryl slid open the side door and looked in.

"Wow. It’s perfect."

"Oh, for heaven’s sake," Barry exclaimed. The pretzel had become a malevolent presence, lurking under the seat like a telltale heart.** He went into the garage and came out with his tool kit. To the amazement of his wife, he climbed back into the Honda and got on his hands and knees with two screwdrivers and a pair of tweezers. But even that didn’t work. The pretzel wouldn’t come out in one piece, and if he broke it up, he would create a chametz metastasis that would creep through the seat mechanism like a cancer.

In the end, Cheryl helped Barry unlock the bucket seat from its anchors (Barry was both a slob and mechanically challenged), and he captured the pretzel in one piece, much like a surgeon removing an infected appendix. The operation was a success.

Barry could have tossed the pretzel in the trash, like any other wayward piece of chametz apprehended during the pre-Passover purge, but instead he saved it to dispose of with the bread pieces he removed during bedikat chametz. It made the burning of the chametz that much more sweet (though perhaps salty would have been a better choice for an adjective, since the pretzel was covered with poppy seeds, caraway seeds, sesame seeds, and salt).

*My apologies to the makers of Thomas’ English Muffins

**My apologies to Edgar Allen Poe

Vayikra: The Divine Pizza

Vayikra: 2: 1

The Divine Pizza Dishes It Out

By Jake Herman

Special to the Jewish Standard

Lou Feingold’s life is dominated by pizzas. He is not only the owner of the most popular pizza store in Teaneck, The Divine Pizza, he also spends an inordinate amount of time thinking about pizza. I paid a visit to The Divine Pizza in Teaneck last week to find out what makes it so special.

Every other pizza emporium in Teaneck offers other products as well: canolis, burekas, falafels, even sushi. Lou only makes pizza, and he has dedicated his life to perfecting his recipe. Perhaps that is why The Divine Pizza is the only strictly kosher pizzeria in America to receive the Zagat Survey’s highest rating (in fact, it is the only strictly kosher pizza joint rated by Zagat at all).

Lou got his start in San Francisco in the nineteen-nineties. "I became a strict vegetarian while attending college at Berkeley," he told this reporter. "I even did some experimentation with macrobiotics with some of my dorm buddies."

Once, while on a bad wheat germ trip, Lou had a vision of a giant flying pizza hovering over his bed. He decided that his vision was a message from G-d and started wandering the Bay Area going from pizza parlor to pizza parlor searching for something– what, he wasn’t sure.

At that time, Lou knew nothing about keeping kosher. He went to every famous San Fransisco pizza parlor and tried a slice. He visited Goat Hill Pizza, Za Pizza, Arinell Pizza, Little Star Pizza, even Zante’s Pizza and Indian Cuisine. All the slices he tried were delicious, but none helped him fulfill his quest. Feeling a bit dejected, he boarded a cross-town bus to start his trip back to Berkeley. Out the window he spied a store marquee which read The Flying Pizza. Lou couldn’t believe his eyes. This had to be it.

"The store was a dive," Lou said. "There were only three tables in the place, and two of them had wobbly legs. I sat at the third table and ordered a slice. By professional pizzeria standards, it wasn’t very tasty. It had thin crust, weak sauce, and stringy cheese, but somehow it spoke to me. I approached the owner, Mel Rubinstein, and asked, ‘why is this slice different from all other slices?’"

"‘Easy,’ Mel said. ‘It’s kosher.’"

That moment changed Lou’s life. He quit college and studied under Mel to learn the culinary art of kosher pizza making. He learned the different fat contents of kosher cheeses, the high quality sauces that have hashgacha, and the art of reheating a slice to perfection. Three days at The Flying Pizza, and Lou knew he had absorbed all that Mel could teach.

Lou then disappeared from the grid for a while, and during our interview he wouldn’t speak of that time period. Rumor has it he spent three years exploring the best kosher pizzerias in America and finding religion. Lou became a pizza cult figure, and there were Lou Feingold sightings all over the country. Rumors placed him at many different pizza parlors, sometimes at the same time. There were reports from Eddie’s NY Kosher Pizza and Nagilla Kosher Pizza in Los Angeles, to Tel Aviv Kosher Pizza in Chicago, Slice of Life in Skokie, and Kinneret Pizza in Cleveland Heights, to Edge of the Woods in New Haven and Tov Pizza in Baltimore. A website sprang up dedicated to Lou sightings (where’slouf.com), and everyone wanted a slice of him, so to speak.

In New York, Lou had been sighted at Amnon’s, Pizza Time, and Benny’s in Brooklyn, Pizza Professor in Queens, Jerusalem 2 and Café Viva in Manhattan, Hunki’s in Oceanside and Shalom Chai Pizza on the Lower East Side, all in one week.

Wherever he had been all that time, Lou Feingold emerged in Teaneck in 2003, sporting a yarmulke, a wife, two children, and a lease to the pizzeria formerly known as the Kosher Inn. The rest is history. "The Divine Pizza is not just an eatery, it is a destination,"this newspaper wrote in 2004.

It is hard to describe what makes a slice from The Divine Pizza so special. Is it the mozarella cheese Lou imports from a small kosher cheese manufacturer in California? Is it the sauce made from San Marzano tomatoes? Could it be the brick oven he designed to his own specifications? Whatever it is, Lou Feingold’s pizza is, quite frankly, divine. The crust is light and airy, the sauce is zesty, and the cheese seems, for lack of a better term, treif.

During our interview I cornered Lou and asked him, flat out, what makes his pizza so special. I told him that whatever he said was off the record.

"It’s quite simple," Lou said. "I modeled my pizza after the Korban Mincha as it is described in Parshat Vayikra."

"The what?" I asked, not well versed in the Bible.

"The Korban Mincha," Lou said. "The meal offering in the Tabernacle. It was a sacrifice to G-d made from flour, olive oil, and livona, or frankinsence.

"I thought all the sacrifices were animals," I said.

"Not quite. There were special occasions, like the Omer offering on Passover and the loaves of bread used in the Tabernacle on Shavuot that were sacrifices made from grain. But I was much more interested in the mincha offerings that were given by individuals.

"How so?" I asked. This was the longest conversation I had ever had with Lou Feingold in all the years I had been frequenting his restaurant, and I wanted to keep him talking.

"Poor people who couldn’t afford an animal would present the flour offerings instead. It was all they could manage financially, but just because their sacrifices were less expensive didn’t mean these worshipers were less sincere or less dedicated. This is the only sacrifice in the parsha that describes the supplicator as a "nefesh," as a soul. These flour offerings came from the heart.

"That’s how I make my pizza," Lou continued. "It is my vegetarian offering to G-d. But since there are no sacrifices today, when I take it out of my brick oven, you get to eat it. It’s that simple."

"Fascinating," I observed. So you use flour and olive oil, just like in the Korban Mincha."

"Exactly."

"And the frankinsence?"

"The original allegedly came from the resin of a Boswellia tree. That’s kind of hard to come by in New Jersey. Let’s just say we use a secret ingredient."

"Fair enough," I demurred.

Vayikra: The Maggid Convention

Vayikra: 1: 1

The New Jersey Maggid Convention was one of the highlights of the year for any Jewish storyteller from the Garden State. It was a place where you could spend Shabbat singing zemirot with old friends, enjoying a nice, steaming bowl of chulent in catered elegance, or just swapping stories with some compatriots. Two years ago it had been held on the Shabbat of Parshat Bo on the Atlantic City Boardwalk, but that seemed a little racy, what with the casinos and all the gambling. Last year it had been on Parshat Yitro down at the Ocean Place Resort in Long Branch, but that was also thought to be a tad risque, since the spa’s clientele tended to wander the hotel lobby in their bathing attire. So this year it was being held at the Meadowlands Sheraton on the Shabbat of Parshat Vayikra. When you walked into the hotel, the big electronic sign in the lobby (just after it flashed a greeting for the Hudson County Volunteer Firemen Convention and just before the notice acknowledging the Plumbing Suppliers meeting) read WELCOME MAGGIDS. That in itself was worth the registration fee.

There were always interesting lectures to be heard at the convention. This year the presenters were an all-star crew. The Maggid of Maywood was giving a talk on “The Art of Euphemism: The Yehuda and Tamar Story.” The Maggid of  Metuchen was speaking on “The Talmud in Storytelling: The Aggadita I Gotta Tell Ya.” The Rebbe of Camden was presenting on “The Ambience of the Maggid: What Cookies to Serve the Children on a Shabbat Afternoon.” And the Chochom of Kearny was talking on “Telling Jokes in Your Stories: Is It Really Punny, or Just a Rambummer.” All in all, it looked promising.

Normally the crowd was pretty jovial by the time the Friday night oneg came around, but when the Maggid of Union City, the dean of the New Jersey maggidim, got up to speak, he could tell something wasn’t right. By now, at a typical maggid convention, the maggidim had each had a schnapps or two under their belts, and the singing of niggunim had set the mood for him to tell a nice chassidische tale about dreams and miracles along the Garden State Parkway. Outside the windows of the hotel, the New York skyline was visible to the east and Giants Stadium to the west. What could be more inspiring for this group of mid-Atlantic yarn spinners? But the Maggid of Union City knew that something was amiss. The singing was shvach, and the maggidim lacked the usual gleam in their eyes that was typical of such a fictionally inspired group.

“Nu, what gives?” the Union City Maggid-- heretofore to be known as Reb Yankel-- said.

Everyone averted their eyes, trying not to look the wise, old maggid in the face.

“Reb Shua,” Reb Yankel said to the Maggid of Hackettstown, “tell me what’s going on.”

Reb Shua looked up at his teacher. “Oy, Rebbe, surely you know what’s wrong. If you hold the convention during the book of Shemot, Exodus, we have lots of stories to swap. There’s the plagues in Bo, the receiving of the Torah in Yitro, and even a dark parsha like Ki Tisah, with the sin of the golden calf, has lots of meat for storytelling.

“But here we are holding the maggid convention on Parshat Vayikra, Leviticus. It is at the start of eight weeks of karbanot, eight weeks discussing the details of sacrifices. Which cow, which goat, how you slaughter it, when you eat it. Let’s face it, Rebbe. It’s a storyteller’s graveyard.”

If it hadn’t been Shabbat, a few of the maggidim might have spontaneously torn their clothing at that moment in a fit of despair.

“Is that all?” Reb Yankel asked, a look of joy on face.

“Reb Chezki,” Reb Yankel said, pointing at the Maggid of Rivervale. “Stand up.”

The Maggid of Rivervale, the youngest storyteller in the room, reluctantly rose from his chair. He had crystal blue eyes and a thin beard that provided only spotty cover for his large protuberant chin.

“Tell me, Chezki, is there anything unusual about the first word of the book of Vayikra?”

“Yes,” said Chezki.

“Could you, perhaps, be more specific?”

“The last letter of the word ‘vayikra,’ the aleph, is written smaller than the other letters in the Torah text.”

“And why is that?”

“It alludes to the anivut, the modesty of Moshe Rabeinu. That reminds me of a story. Once, when Moses was a shepherd in Midian, he chased after a lamb--“

“No,” said the Maggid of Burlington, “the aleph is small because the Torah wanted us to treat is as a separate word in the sentence. Aleph means ‘to teach,’ and teaching others is the key to the sacrifices. We must learn--“

“I’ll hear no such thing,” the Maggid of Perth Amboy  said, waving his fist in the air. “The aleph is small because it is sad that “bet,” the second letter of the aleph-bet, got to begin the first word of the Torah back in Bereishit, Genesis. All the letters wanted to go first in the Torah, and they petitioned Hashem to--“

“Nonsense,” the Maggid of Bernardsville piped up. “With all due respect to my colleagues, the aleph is small to show the difference between Moshe and Bilaam, the evil prophet who tried to curse the Jews. The Torah uses the word “vayikar” without an aleph in describing Bilaam. This means his prophecy was accidental, like--“

“Don’t be silly,” the Maggid of West Milford interjected. “The aleph is small because it is a symbol of Adam, the first man. It shows how all men should consider themselves insignificant before G-d. When Adam was in the Garden of Eden, he--“

Soon the whole room was debating why the aleph was small in the word “vayikra.”

Reb Yankel let the debate rage for awhile, basking in all the creative storytelling that had broken out all around him. Finally, he interceded.

“If one letter of the Torah could create so many stories, imagine how many stories the whole book of Vayikra will engender.”

“’Engender?’” a maggid somewhere in the crowd said. “What kind of a storyteller uses the word ‘engender’?”

Reb Yankel tried to see who in the group had attacked his lexicon, but the remark was lost in the explosion of speech that broke out after his oration.

“Nu, let’s sing a zemer.”

The group sang an old Carlebach niggun, and the music rose to a crescendo. All the long faces were gone, replaced by looks of anticipation.

After all, it was Shabbat Parshat Vayikra, and they had a whole book of the Torah to conquer.

Pikudei: Send in the Clouds

Shemot 40: 34

Stormin’ Saul Rabinowitz had been the weatherman on the Secaucus based local New Jersey television station for the last twenty-five years. He was a fixture on their ten o’clock news program, and people all over the metropolitan area tuned in to hear him say such classic catch phrases as, “It’s hotter than Hades out there,” or, “It’s colder than a snowball in Siberia.” He once received an award for his “Storm of the Century” coverage in 1995, when he said, ”It’s not just raining cats and dogs outside, it’s hailing cabs,” (sorry, I got a little carried away), and he could work the weatherman’s blue screen with the best of them. 

Saul was also very popular as a speaker on the stuffed cabbage circuit. He often appeared at local Jewish events in support of different charities, including everything from the local UJA Federation and the Jewish veterans, to AIPAC and the Bergen Jewish Save a Pet Foundation. The walls of his home in Englewood Cliffs were lined with plaques from many grateful organizations, and he gladly gave of his time.

Once, on a partly cloudy Monday afternoon, with a cool northwesterly breeze wafting in from the Northern Highlands, Saul found himself in a synagogue in Ridgewood, standing in front of a group of Hadassah women, speaking about what it was like to be a Jewish weatherman. They ate up his story about how he always tries to downplay the rain in the forecast before Succot, and he closed with the story about his lucky galoshes that his rebbe blessed. Then, as was his routine, he opened the floor to questions.

A new or unusual question was rare. People often asked him how he trained to be a weatherman, or what it was like to work with some of the celebrities he had shared the news studio with over the years. Occasionally he would field a question about his son, Rocky Rabinowitz, who was now the handsome young sports reporter on the station. Diehard Rabinowitz fans might ask him a question from the autobiography he wrote a few years back, A Fan of the Wind: The Saul Rabinowitz Story. There was usually nothing challenging in the group.

Saul called on a girl at the third table on the right who was eagerly raising her hand.  Was she the child or the grandchild of the matronly woman sitting next to her? The girl rose from her chair with a big smile on her face.

“Mr. Rabinowitz,” she said breathlessly, “I’m a big fan of yours. My parents have been watching you for years.”

“Please, call me Saul.”

“Um, O.K., Saul. My question is a little unusual. We’re learning about the exodus from Egypt in our chumash class in school, and we’re also learning about the weather in earth science class. So I was wondering, what kind of cloud was the Anan Hakavod?”

“Excuse me?”

“You know, the cloud that led the Jews in the desert for forty years. As a weatherman, I thought you might know what kind of cloud it was. I know there are all kinds of clouds out there.”

Saul stared at the girl.

“What’s your name, young lady?”

“Avital. Avital Magen.”

“Hmm. Avital Magen, that is a very unusual question. I’m not sure there’s an easy answer, but if anyone can help you, I imagine it would be a Jewish meteorologist. Someone get me a chumash.”

One of the women went to the sanctuary and came back with a chumash. Saul opened it to Parshat Pikudei and read the text in earnest.

“Let’s see. It says here that the cloud rested on the Tabernacle, so that would mean it was a low level cloud. I would have to say a cumulus. That would make it dark on the bottom and and bright on the top, and kind of shaped like a cotton ball.”

Saul turned to Avital. “Does that sound right?”

“I guess,” Avital said, shrugging her shoulders.

“Still, it says the cloud would rise up off the Mishkan. That might make it a high altitude cloud, like a cirrus. They can often be bright white in color, and I imagine that’s what the cloud in the desert would have looked like. Do you follow what I’m saying, Avital?”

“Sure, Saul,” Avital said unconvincingly.

“Then again, it would move with them on their journeys, so I imagine it would be a fast moving cloud, something like a stratocumulus. Do you see what I mean?”

“Uhuh,” Avital said.

“Then again, if you were going for pure majesty in a cloud, I would say it should be something high and puffy, like a cumulonimbus. That would certainly look beautiful hovering over the Mishkan, wouldn’t you say?”

Saul looked up from his chumash and noted that Avital and all the Hadassah women in the room were looking at him with blank stares. He smiled.

“I guess no one cloud would fit the bill entirely, Avital. This Anan Hakavod would have to be miraculous to do everything it had to do. It would be a cirrostratocumulonimbus cloud. I guess sometimes science just doesn’t have the answer. Let’s call it a deio cloud, a cloud of G-d. Does that answer your question?”

“It certainly does,” Avital said. “Thank you.”

“Now,” Saul said, turning back to the group, “would anyone like to hear about the time it snowed six inches on Yom Kippur?”

Pikudei: A Public Apology

Shemot: 38: 23

In my postings on The Maggid of Bergenfield, I have always attempted to portray the figures in the Torah in a positive light. I have tried to be pleasant and truthful, telling stories, but never in a hurtful way.

No storyteller is perfect. Unfortunately, it appears that I have slighted someone, and feelings were hurt. In one of my postings on Parshat Ki Tisah, Oholiabs of the World Unite, I portrayed Oholiab the son of Ahisamach from the tribe of Dan as a lesser artisan, more suited to be Bezalel’s assistant than his artistic collaborator. I suggested that the Oholiab Institute, a fictional school named in his honor, was an academy for training individuals to be facilitators for artists, not artists in their own right. It was meant to suggest that we all have our own strengths in life, and that we should employ them as best we can to serve G-d.

Since last week, the letters and emails have been pouring in from all over the Jewish world. Apparently, supporters of Oholiab and his descendants from the tribe of Dan took umbrage with my story. Most of the emails suggest that he was a great artist, and that my remarks were scurrilous, bordering on slander. One reader suggested that if I could write as well as Oholiab could embroider and sew, my blog would be considerably more popular. Some of the things people emailed I cannot reprint. I received a letter from a lawyer threatening legal action if I did not post a retraction. I haven’t received this much angry mail since I wrote my expose on the working conditions among the Israelites in pre-exodus Egypt.

Normally, I would ignore such intimidation, citing my First Amendment privileges as a maggid and as a member of the press (although I freely admit that my stories are, on the most part, fictitious), but in light of some new information that has been brought to my attention, I’ve been forced to reconsider.

In Parshat Pikudei, Oholiab is referred to as a chavash, vechoshev, verokem batecheylet, uva’argaman, uvetola’at hashani uvashesh, a carver, a weaver, and embroiderer, with turqoise, purple, and scarlet wool, and with linen. Clearly, I misjudged Oholiab. He was a skilled artisan, having superior abilities with different materials and with varied media.

I would like to take this opportunity to apologize to Oholiab, his family, and his acolytes. I should have read ahead to the next week’s parsha and reserved judgement until I heard the entire story. In the future I will attempt to make all my references to Oholiab of a laudatory nature. I would also like to apologize to my readers if I misled them in any way. From this point forward, all my posts on this blog will reflect a sense of integrity and will be imbued with all the truthfulness one should expect from a teller of tall tales.

Ki Tisah: The Sounds of a Party

Shemot: 32: 17-18

(The dialogue in this tale should be read with a California (or at least an Asbury Park) surfer’s accent)

Raucous parties in a college dormitory are not necessarily an uncommon occurrence. Usually they take place on the weekend or near a holiday, or at least with some advance notice. So when Richie, Dave, and Ozzie came out of the elevator on the fourth floor of Weinstein Hall near midnight on a Tuesday after studying in the library and heard a lot of noise coming from the floor lounge, they were a bit puzzled.

"Dude, what’s the story?" Ozzie asked.

"I think someone’s having a party and didn’t invite us," Dave observed.

Peals of laughter could be heard spilling out of the lounge.

"A party? One week before finals? Dude, that is so wrong!"

"I’m not so sure it’s a party," Richie said.

"Of course it’s a party!" Dave said. "I hear music, I hear laughter, and I hear beer."

"You hear beer?" Richie asked.

"Maybe I’m projecting a little," Dave said, "but I know a party when I hear one."

"A party without us?" Ozzie asked. "That is so bogus."

The three walked down to the lounge and stood outside its closed door. Ozzie put his ear to the portal.

"It’s a party, alright, and from the sounds of it, I’d say the natives are restless."

A loud scream could be heard from the room, followed by more laughter.

"It’s not a party," Richie said.

"How can you be so sure?" Dave asked.

"I’m not sure, but somehow it just doesn’t sound like one of our regular gatherings."

"I think I can hear somebody eating nachos," Dave said.

"Well, at least that’s more likely than hearing beer. Still, I’ll bet there’s no party. First impressions can be deceiving, you know."

"Do explain," Ozzie said.

"O.K., here’s an example.When Moses was coming down from Mount Sinai with the Ten Commandments, he and Joshua could hear some hubbub down in the Israelite camp below. Joshua was sure it was the sounds of battle. He said: Kol milchama bamachaneh."

"What exactly does that mean?"

"It means,’the sounds of battle are in the camp.’"

"Goes to figure," Ozzie said.

"Yah!" Richie agreed. "But Moshe knew better. He said: Eyn kol anot gevurah, ve’eyn kol anot chalusha, kol anot anochi shomeyah."

"What does that mean?"

"Moshe said, ‘It’s not a sound of victory, and it’s not a sound of defeat. It’s a sound of singing I hear.’"

"What was his point?"

"Moses already knew what was going on in the Israelite camp. Hashem had told him about the sin of the Golden Calf already."

"So then why didn’t he just tell Joshua about what was going on? Why all the intrigue?" Dave asked.

"Well, according to the Ramban, although Moshe knew how bad things were, he didn’t want to say anything disparaging about the Jewish people."

"Good one, Moses,’ Ozzie observed.

"Yah!" Richie agreed. "So don’t assume you’re hearing a party you’re not invited to if there’s another explanation possible."

"I guess there’s only one thing left to do," Dave said. He reached over, turned the knob, and pushed open the door to the lounge.

In the darkened room, Billy Shulman sat alone on the couch with an enormous bag of popcorn, watching a movie on the old lounge television with the volume up way too loud. He turned to the door when it flew open. On the screen, a wild party unfolded, complete with togas and wild bacchanalia.

"Hi guys. I rented Campus Daze. Pull up a chair."

"Wo," Ozzie said.

"I couldn’t have put it better myself," Richie agreed.

Ki Tisah: Oholiabs of the World Unite

Shemot: 31: 6

Gilad met his friend Amit for a late night snack at a café on Rechov Emek Refaim in the German Colony neighborhood of Jerusalem. The café offered indoor and outdoor seating, and they chose an indoor table because it was one of those cold Jerusalem nights where you can feel the chill in your bones and it was threatening rain. Gilad ordered some lentil soup and Amit chose vegetable couscous.

"So how was your first day of school?" Amit asked.

"Not bad. It was pretty much what I expected." Gilad said.

"No bad? Your first day at the Bezalel Academy, the premiere institute for artists and designers in all of Israel, and all you can say is ‘not bad?’"

"Actually, I’m not at Bezalel," Gilad said, fumbling with his napkin.

"Oh?"

"I didn’t get in."

"I’m so sorry."

"No, it’s O.K. These things happen.Not everyone is cut out to be a great artist. I’ll just remain an amateur and have fun with my projects."

That’s a great attitude you have," Amit observed.

"Thanks. I try," Gilad said.

Their orders arrived, andthe two friends went to work on their food, trying to fill the awkward silence with chewing and slurping noises.

"So then if you’re not at Bezalel, where are you going to school?"

"I’m enrolled at the Oholiab Institute."

"Where?"

"The Oholiab Institute. Surely you’ve heard of it."

"I can’t say that I have, but it sounds so familiar."

"Maybe you’ve driven by it in Talpiot. It’s in that old office building on Derech Beit Lechem, just on the edge of the city."

"No, it doesn’t ring a bell."

"Then maybe you recognize the name Oholiab from the Torah."

"Really?"

"Yeah. It’s in Ki Tisah. Just after Bezalel is introduced as being filled with ruach Elokim, G-dly spirit, and as having chachma, tevunah, and da’at, wisdom, insight, and knowledge, the parsha mentions Oholiab. It says va’ani, hiney natati ito et Oholiab ben Achisamach, And I, behold, I have assigned with him Oholiab son of Ahisamach."

"Of course!" Amit said. "That must be where I know the name from. So what else does the parsha say about Oholiab?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, Hashem praises Bezalel like crazy with all kinds of accolades. It’s enough to make an artisan blush. So what does the Torah say about Oholiab?"

"Nothing, really. It just goes on to talk about all wise hearted men being imbued with wisdom."

"Oh, O.K.," said Amit, staring down into his half-eaten couscous. "So what does the Oholiab Institute teach?"

"It teaches you how to work with artists."

"Uhuh."

"Like how to be an agent, or how to run a gallery, or how to serve as a personal assistant. Here, let me show you."

Gilad reached into his pocket, pulled out a crumpled piece of paper, and handed it to Amit.

CURRICULUM FOR SPRING SEMESTER AT O.I.

8:45-10:15 Powerpoint: the subtleties of a great presentation

10:30-12:00 The Idiosyncracies of the Artistic Temperament

1:00-2:30 Closing the Deal: how to sell art and not sell out

3:00-3:45 Coffee Through the Ages

4:00-5:00 History of Modern Israeli Artists and Their Ancillary Staff

Amit stared at the curriculum in disbelief.

"Wow. It certainly is unusual."

"Yeah, I’m very excited."

"And you’re sure this is what you want to do?" Amit asked.

Gilad stopped midslurp and slowly put his spoon back into his soup. He folded his hands together and stared at Amit.

"You know, when G-d put Bezalel in charge of crafting the Mishkan, the Tabernacle, I’m sure Oholiab would have loved to have been chosen instead. I’ll bet that he was right there, waiting to submit his designs for the Ark, the Table, and the Altar, but it just didn’t work out the way he planned.

"So do you know what he did? Oholiab decided that he would help any way he could. He would serve G-d however he was best able. I’m sure Bezalel was a great artist, but I’ll bet he couldn’t arrange a presentation to save his life. And ordering office supplies? Forget about it.

"I hear what you’re saying," Amit said.

"Every great artist has an Oholiab at their side," Gilad continued, "to do his part to serve Hashem with his own unique set of abilities. Not everyone can be Bezalel. And that’s where people like me come in."

Gilad slammed his fist down on the table, shooting lentils in various directions. All conversation in the restaurant stopped and everyone turned to look at Amit and Gilad. "Long live Oholiab," Gilad said, with a quiver in his voice.

Amit smiled at his friend. "I like your passion."

"Thanks. Now let’s order dessert. I hear the tiramisu is excellent."

"Make that two."

A Shushan Purim Bedtime Story

(Yes, this actually happened)

It was the night after Purim. The seudah was over, and all the guests had already left. Most of the dishes were washed. The children had eaten as much candy as any child could ever hope for. Piles of uneaten chocolate and baked goods were collected in a box next to the kitchen table. All the face paint had been scrubbed off in the bathtub, and all the children were in their beds.

The five-year-old had just finished saying She'ma, and a very tired father was tucking in an equally tired girl.

"Daddy, can you tell me a story?"

"No."

"Please?"

What is a Maggid to do?

"O.K., but it's going to be a super quick one."

"Tell me the Purim story."

"Leora, at this point you've heard the story so many times it's coming out of your ears."

"Then tell me a different story."

"O.K., here goes. Once upon a time there was a girl who loved Cinderella. She even dressed up as Cinderella for Purim. All her friends were Esther or even Vashti, but she insisted on going as the Disney Diva."

"The what?"

"As Cinderella. Most nights, this girl would even dreamed she was Cinderella. She was in a blue gown with puffy sleeves and glass slippers, and she would go to the ball and dance with Prince Frederick."

"It's Prince Charming!"

"Fine, fine. Every night she danced with Prince Charming. It was a wonderful dream.

"On Purim night, the girl went to sleep and had a totally different dream. Maybe it was because of how many times she had learned the story of the holiday, or maybe it was something in one of the hamentasch she ate, but that night she dreamed of the Purim story. And when she awoke, she was married to a big, fat Persian king."

"Daddy!"

"No, it's the truth! She was married to a big, fat Persian king, with food in his beard and a big pot belly that hung over his royal belt.

"So the girl decided she did not want to be Queen Esther. Then she went back to sleep. And in her next dream, she was Sleeping Beauty. And do you know what that meant?"

"No, what?" the girl asked skeptically.

"It meant she would have to sleep for years until Prince Charming came along."

"His name is Prince Philip."

"Fine, fine. She would have to sleep for years until Prince Philip came along on his royal steed and kissed her."

"What's a steed?"

"It's a horse. Stop interrupting me. This is supposed to be a quick story."

"Go ahead."

"Anyway, she realized she didn't want to be Sleeping Beauty because sleeping really wasn't her bag."

"Very funny."

"So she went back to sleep and started dreaming about the Purim story again, but when she woke up, not only was she married to the big, fat Persian king again; this time the king was displeased with her because of something she did at a party, and she was on her way to have her head chopped off!"

"Daddy!"

"Fine, fine. So she realized she didn't want to be Vashti, either. She went back to sleep, and the next thing she knew she was Cinderella again. That finally made her happy. And they all lived happily ever after. The End."

"I don't want to be Cinderella anymore."

"Oh?"

"I want to be Hillary Clinton."

"Oh, honey. As much as I support her politically, I don't think you want to be Hillary Clinton."

"Don't you like President Clinton?"

"Yes, but I wouldn't want to be married to him."

"Why not?"

"Trust me on this one. Goodnight, sweetie."

"Goodnight, Daddy."

THE END