Rabbi Silberstein pauses, looking out at the audience in the gymnasium.
“We do not have an answer. We cannot know the mind of God. We only know that suffering is visited on some more than others. In this matter, the Zuckerman family has had more than their fair share. Theirs is a story of suffering … and survival.”
He doesn’t say it directly, but everyone knows he’s talking about Zadie. It’s not like I’m the only grandchild of a survivor in the school. There are a few of us, and everyone knows who we are.
“Now this family is going through another trial,” he says. “And we as a community are called to action.”
Applause spreads through the gymnasium. I look around and see that practically the whole school is here. The professors, the head of school, the dean, and all the students. Tyler stands in the front row with tears in his eyes, clapping his hands.
Everyone is here except Herschel. It looks like my old friend has boycotted my fund-raiser. He’s the only one who knows the truth, so I can’t say I’m surprised.
“We do not act out of goodness,” Rabbi Silberstein says, “though we may indeed be good. We act because it is our duty. As we celebrate the Passover holiday this year and remember how God brought our people out of bondage in Egypt, we will remember, too, the debt we owe to him for this gift. It is our responsibility to act in the lives of others. We are the hands of HaShem in this world. This is the essence of tzedakah. You, the young people in our community, are practicing it today. And I’m proud of you.”
Another long round of applause.
Judi waves her hand in the air, getting the dean’s attention. He motions us over.
The dean steps up to the podium and says, “Thank you, Rabbi Silberstein, for that inspiring call to action. Speaking of calls, our annual building fund drive is coming up after Pesach, and your phones are going to ring—”
The students groan.
“I admit, it was a bad segue,” the dean says. “But it’s my job to remind you.”
The students laugh.
“It’s good to laugh at times like these,” he says. “But now let’s turn our attention to the serious matter at hand. It’s time for me to introduce the real hero of the evening, Aaron Zuckerman.”
Judi hooks her arm in mine and walks me to the microphone.
“I’ve had the opportunity to spend some time with Sanskrit over the last few days,” she says to the crowd. She smiles at me. “To be honest, we hadn’t spoken much in the last few years. It’s strange how that happens. You can be so close to someone yet drift away from them. Childhood friends become strangers, best friends become acquaintances. We lose touch with each other, even when—when it may not be what we intended.”
She looks me in the eye.
She says, “How sad that it took something like this to bring us back together.”
My chest gets tight. This is what she wants to talk to me about after the event. Getting back together. She’s giving me a preview in front of the whole school.
I look over at Barry Goldwasser, and I laugh to myself. Why was I so worried about him? He’s nothing, insubstantial. I thought he was standing in the way, but it turns out he’s not in the way at all.
Maybe that week in second grade wasn’t the end of my love life but the beginning, like an appetizer that happened long before the meal. And now the rest of high school is going to be the meal of a lifetime.
Judi finishes and steps away from the microphone.
I just have to get through this event, then Judi and I will be together. That’s what I tell myself.
I step up to the podium.
“I am the grandson of a survivor,” I say.
The crowd goes silent. I don’t talk about this in school because I don’t want people to ask me about it. It’s one of those things that gives you instant credibility, but a lot of responsibility, too. You’re not just Jewish. You are one of the miracles. Why did your family survive when so many did not? It’s not enough that you’re alive; you have to do something to prove that you’re worth it.
It’s a lot of pressure, and I don’t want it. Not usually, at least.
But tonight I don’t care. I tell everyone who I am, not because I’m proud of it or even because I’m humbled. I tell them because I want them to feel bad for me.
“My family has had many trials,” I say. “But I’m no different than any of you. We all have trials. I don’t know why God has chosen me for this test so young. It’s hard to think of yourself as lucky in this sort of situation. But I have to look for the spiritual in it, in all things.”
I’m so full of crap, I can’t believe it. The rabbi is smiling and nodding, urging me on. I can see he’s surprised, too. He probably thinks I’ve had some kind of conversion. I almost think so myself.
I’m listening to myself speak, but I have no idea what I’m saying. I’m parroting Herschel, the Bible, Moses, some lecture I vaguely remember from Hebrew school when I was ten. It’s a performance par excellence, and all during it, I’m waiting for HaShem to strike me down, send a lightning bolt, cut the power, do something to put an end to it. If there were a God, he would surely stop me.
But nothing happens.
I finish to rousing applause. The dean steps up and hugs me in front of the whole school. He waits for the crowd to quiet down, and then he says, “Could you tell us a little about your mom’s condition? None of us have been able to see her, and it would help us to know.”
He steps away from the podium, and I burst into tears.
The dean is shocked. He puts his arm around me, which just makes me cry harder.
I don’t know why I’m crying. Maybe it’s because I’m such a liar. Maybe it’s because I’m really losing my mother, just not in the way people think, not in some noble and terrible way like a car accident, but in an embarrassing way via YouTube and yoga.
Maybe I’m crying because I have to figure out what I’m going to do next. Even as I stand up here in front of all these people, my mind is coming up with another plan to get me out of this.
A bigger plan. The exit strategy.
I’m going to wait until Mom goes to India, and then I’m going to lie again.
I’m going to say that she died.
It’s terrible and yet it’s perfect. Mom will be in India, so nobody will see her. Sweet Caroline and I will be staying with Dad, just like we would if it really happened. I can even say the funeral was held in Boston, where Mom was born.
It’s a crazy idea, but no crazier than the ideas that got me here in the first place.
I wipe the tears from my eyes. I clear my throat. I lean into the microphone.
“My mother is not well,” I say to the crowd. “The doctor says the prognosis is—” I choke on the sentence, clear my throat again. “The prognosis is very grave.”
The entire gymnasium is silent, maybe five hundred people with their heads bowed.
Just then I hear a hinge squeak in the back of the gym. The double doors swing open, and Herschel walks in. He’s in full Jewish regalia, the black suit and hat I’ve come to know so well.
He’s not alone. There’s a woman with him.
“This is Mrs. Zuckerman,” Herschel announces to the room loudly. “Sanskrit’s mother.”
Heads turn, necks crane, all focus shifts to the double doors at the back of the room.
Mom stands there in her party dress, light from the hallway streaming in around her. I can see Sweet Caroline a couple steps behind her in the hall.
“Sanskrit, what are you telling these people?” Mom says.
I look at her, then I look at the school, the five hundred or so people now staring at me.
“It’s a miracle!” I say.