This is an old Brooklyn story....
just another of the peculiar experiences I had when I first arrived in the city...
I was freshly arrived from Cape Breton Island. the year was 1987.
I was 26, feeling adventurous and full of the right kind of naiveté .
What a city!
I made it my business to get up early every morning and get lost for the day
in a different direction. It was a whimsical way to get to know New York.
I especially loved the ethnic neighborhoods.
I would immerse myself in the little pocket worlds of Chinatown,
little Italy, alphabet city, Flatbush and the like. It was an easy trip
around the world.
For some unknown reason, I gravitated most often toward Williamsburg,
the Hasidic neighborhood in Brooklyn.
It was like a trip back in time. Old Europe...minutely preserved
There was something about the place that my soul craved.
The intensity, the sense of seriousness mingled with a kind of hidden joy.
I fit with them in a strange way...somewhere on the 5th subterranean level
of my being.
I seemed to share many of the same values...
I even dressed similarly...head covering, long skirts, dark stockings, modest sleeves.
Their food was my food.
Their sense of separation and focus were as nearly mine as could be.
I fairly haunted the place trying to soak up the comfort that it gave me
while trying to understand why I was so drawn to this people.
I even wondered if I should convert...
As I walked through the neighborhood, They were as curious about me as
I was of them. We could sense an affinity, but on the street level of life,
I was not one of them...but I could be. It was a bit confusing.
I was nearly identical and yet I was not.
What I lacked was the wig under the headscarf and the baby carriage...
and the usual several children trailing behind.
We looked upon each other as ...............
Furtively glancing, not quite giving way to a smile, but strangely stirred.
If you got too close, there would be a quick and definitive toss of the head,
as the inner blinds were drawn tight against the outside world of strangers.
"Goyim" entered my vocabulary that year.
My growing sense of understanding bought me to the realization that I was both
attracted and repelled in nearly equal measure. The subtleties began to emerge.
But I was already hooked. I thought less of conversion. I had an understanding
of what that would require and while some of it may have been laudable,
much of it would have been crazily regressive to my soul.
Weighing the comfort and stability of a community such as this against
the price to be paid by its female members left me...........
And so I enjoyed what remained to me and continued to observe.
I could be counted on to make my rounds on Fridays. The streets were livelier
as the Hasidic families made their preparations for the Sabbath.
If only I could get a glimpse into the inner ...of these people,
I yearned for an opportunity to share that ....but I knew the chances of that
ever happening were akin to my chance of ...........
My last stop of the day was at my favorite bakery.
I forget the name, but I can see it in my mind's eye as though it were yesterday.
It was pretty basic and utilitarian in appearance...old and in need of sprucing up,
but that is the kind of place I like.
What counted more than the decor, of course, was the quality of the baked goods.
Judging by the volume of customers leaving heavy-laden with Challah loaves,
babka and rugelach, I knew this was the place for me. And so I became a regular.
The woman behind the counter had taken note of me as the months went by.
She had initially been quite reserved, almost suspicious. What was I doing there?
But she had warmed up a little...just a little, mind you.
But one day as I was leaving her shop, she beckoned me closer and asked
in her Yiddish accent "If I would be so kind as to do her a favor?"
I was surprised. I said "Yes, of course". Her voice lowered as she asked
"Do you have a car?" "Yes...yes", I told her.
She leaned in, suddenly conspiratorial and with a sense of urgency.
"The sun will be going down soon and the Rebbe is old now and walks with a cane.
Can you give him a ride to his building? It's not far I assure you...just a few blocks from here.
Please, if you coul do it for me..."
What Rebbe?! It was closing time and I was the only customer in the shop.
She nodded gravely to a figure seated in an unobtrusive corner.
I had never noticed him before. Apparently he had always been there...
But, as I was to learn, he was retained by the owners of the bakery to ensure
that the kosher rules were observed in minute detail.
Not knowing any better, I agreed to help. She rushed over to help him as he rose
with difficulty from his chair. He was a heavy, elderly man of about 70 years old.
He was almost too big to fit in my old volkswagen. I apologized as he maneuvered
his bulk into the front seat. I reached out to help and was immediately rebuffed
the two of them. A woman was not to touch a man, much less a Rabbi.
The woman thanked me and rushed off to close up shop in time to get home before
sundown. The old man gestured this way and that until we arrived in front of his
apartment building. I opened the door, this time remembering not to reach out to help.
As he turned his back to go, he thanked me and murmured that, if it were possible,
could I take him home next Friday?
The following Friday, I was there, of course. I felt both elated and a bit strange about
our arrangement. The woman behind the counter discreetly nodded as I held the door
open for him for the trip home. Nothing more was ever said.
As we drove off, the Rabbe made a little conversation. He offered to give me a little tour
of the neighborhood. Reminiscing, he told me about this house or that shop replete with
details on each family and where they had immigrated from. Entire family histories
unfolded slowly and with care. I slowed the car way down so the stories would not be rushed.
I was enthralled with this living history. His narratives were so filled with insight, pathos
and humor. It was such an intimate portrait of his people, spanning decades and oceans and
generations past to present. I could hardly believe my good fortune.
Could there have been a better guide to this place and its people?
We arrived at his place just before sundown. I thanked him for the tour and bid him good evening.
"Maybe next time, I can show you a little more." And then he was making his way up the walk.
I waited until he was safely inside....
And that is how our unlikely friendship began...
