The Story of a Life Read Free Page B

is wide open and prayers flow straight into it. At this point in the proceedings, I feel very sorry that I don’t know how to pray. Two children of around my age are already standing and praying like grown-ups. They already know how to speak to God, and only I am mute. Sadness at this lack of speech wells up within me, increasing from moment to moment, and I remember the park in the city where I sometimes sit with Father. It is a park where there are no wonders. People sit quietly on the benches. They are quiet because they don’t know how to pray, I realize, and I snap to attention. It is at just this moment that the Torah scroll is being taken out of the Ark and lifted high. All eyes are turned to the Torah, and a shiver goes down my back.
    The reading from the Torah on the
bima
, the platformin the middle of the synagogue, is like a secret within a secret. Now it seems to me that when all this whispering of secrets comes to an end, all these people will disappear and I’ll be left alone, face-to-face with God, who lives in the Holy Ark. Four people surround the Torah, speaking to it as if God were tangible in this parchment scroll. For a moment I’m astonished that God—who’s so immense—has squeezed Himself into this tiny platform.
    After this, they roll up the Torah and sing with tremendous enthusiasm. The four people who stood on the
bima
raise their voices, as if trying to obliterate themselves. When the singing is finished, the Torah is raised and then returned to the Holy Ark. The Ark is closed, and the
parochet
, the embroidered curtain, seems to lock it in. For a moment I think that this has been a dream, and that when I awake from it Father will carry me away from this magic, and we’ll return to the city, back to the broad intersecting streets and our house, which I love so much.
    “Why don’t you go outside?” Grandfather’s whisper releases me.
    I stand outside next to two tall trees and feel that I had been far from myself, from my own dreams, that I visited an unknown imagination, and that it’s good that I left and returned to myself, next to the trees that cast their heavy shadows on the ground.
    Again I look at the way the synagogue is built. The structure is so shaky that, were it not for the ivy that envelops it and holds it together, it’s doubtful whether it could stand on its own rickety limbs. Suddenly I’m gripped by a great, unknown fear—a fear that in a moment the people will come out of the building, catch hold of me, and drag me inside. This fear is so tangible that I can feel the fingers of strangers pressing and poking me, and even the deep scratches.
    “Father!” The cry escapes from my mouth, and I start to run. After I have run part of the way, the fear leaves me and I return to the two trees at the entrance to the synagogue. Now the prayers are quiet, and I go inside. Grandfather is deep in prayer and does not notice that I’ve come in. I stand next to him and look at the Holy Ark, which still seems locked up by the heavy embroidered curtain. I try to take in one word from the many words with which the men are talking to God, but I cannot. It’s clear now: I cannot speak. Everyone is whispering, trying hard, and only I am without words. I stare, even though my eyes smart. I will never be able to ask anything of God, because I don’t know how to talk in His language. My father and mother don’t know how to talk in His language, either. Father has already told me once, “We have nothing but what our eyes can see.” At the time I didn’t understand this, but now it seems to me that I have guessed what it means.
    The prayers have come to an end, though I don’t realize it. The last prayer is said amid great enthusiasm, as if it is all about to begin anew. That is the ending, and those praying get to their feet. One of the old men comes up to me and asks me what my name is. I am scared, and I hold on tight to Grandfather’s coat. The old man gazes at me and doesn’t