YOM KIPPUR CONFESSION

SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 25, 2004

“It never rains on Yom Kippur!” Rona exclaimed.

A cool drizzle fell across Great Neck. Morris and Rona drove to Temple Beth Torah to the soft whooshing of his windshield wipers and the angry proclamations of callers to WFAN demanding that the Mets “trade away the whole friggin’ team” before next spring.

Morris was anxious.

It was the strangest Day of Atonement of his life. A man who refuses to make waves generally doesn’t have a lot of atoning to do. On this day, however, he had specific sins to acknowledge and some major forgiveness for which to beg. Morris was anxious to get things rolling, to wipe the slate clean.

Suddenly traffic on Middle Neck Road stopped, and brake lights glared at Morris through the rain-streaked windshield. In the distance, he saw the ominous swirl of police lights against the gray sky.

“Oh my God!” cried Rona. “Something happened at the temple! On Yom Kippur of all days!”

Traffic nudged forward and the police lights grew more intense, along with Morris’s anxiety. He was close enough to see that the Nassau County Police Department was detaining vehicles that were turning into the synagogue parking lot, and waving ahead those that weren’t.

Morris eased his car to the checkpoint and lowered his window. He was always intimidated by police officers. For some reason, their presence induced guilt, as if he’d done something wrong. If the officer at the checkpoint had accused Morris of kidnapping the Lindbergh baby, he would have thought, Well, they must know something I don’t, and extended his wrists for the handcuffing.

But there was no accusation. Just a question: “Are you a congregant?”

Before he could stammer his answer, Rona proclaimed: “Excuuuuuse me! He’s second vice president of the Men’s Club! Morris Feldstein!” Which made Morris wince.

The officer checked a list. And when he did, his eyes widened. “Go ahead,” the officer said warily.

The High Holy Day at Temple Beth Torah always attracted the high rollers: BMWs, Jaguars, Mercedes, and Lexuses. For a people who wandered in the wilderness for forty years, a Range Rover was now essential for a drive of forty yards. But today, the lot was unusually crowded with bland Fords and Chevys, as if the General Services Administration was having a surplus auto auction.

Morris found a spot, and he and Rona rushed toward the entrance. The Al Lieberman Vestibule was packed with the usual Yom Kippur crowd. They came to the synagogue once a year. They sat in God’s general admission section to admit their sins. Then they rushed home to begin a new season of sinning.

On this Yom Kippur, however, Morris noticed many strange, new faces.

Tom Fairbanks stood inside the Leonard Cooperman Auxiliary Catering Hall, set up to accommodate the overflow penitents from the main sanctuary. He scanned the crowded room and scowled. This undercover operation had all the subtlety of the Normandy Invasion. It would take, maybe, a half second to expose the Feds. They were the ones who propped yarmulkes crookedly on their scalps and seemed puzzled by prayer books printed from right to left. In this room, the G in G-Men meant gentile.

As second vice president of the Men’s Club, Morris was entitled to two seats near the front of the main sanctuary, about ten rows from where the rabbi and the cantor led the services. Close enough to the action but far enough not to be noticed. But on this Yom Kippur, Morris sensed that as he and Rona worked their way up crowded aisles, several heads turned toward them, following their progress until they sat.

The congregation fell silent as the rabbi began the service:

“In the tribunal of heaven and the tribunal of earth, by the permission of God—blessed be He—and by the permission of this holy congregation, we hold it lawful to pray with the transgressors.”

For a moment, Morris thought the rabbi was staring straight at him.

The service continued. The congregation read silently and aloud, in English and Hebrew. They arrived at the core of the worship, the Amidah, a series of blessings recited silently while standing. And since it was a silent prayer, Morris took a liberty and asked God to bless the Mets and help them win the National League eastern division playoffs. But Morris also prayed for Rona and Jeffrey and Caryn.

And for himself.

Then they came to one of the most familiar Yom Kippur prayers, the “Al-Chet” (which Morris always pronounced with guttural exaggeration as “al cccchhhhaaaayt”). It was a literal checklist of sins, to be recited one by one, each punctuated by a clenched fist beaten against the heart. It was the Super Bowl of sin, a collective gathering of Jews reciting transgressions and mistakes, crimes and misdemeanors, vices and violations. Confessions uttered through stammering lips, the words rising to heaven, like bringing out a soiled blanket and flapping it in the air and watching the dirt and dust carried off by the winds, chanted in tiny shuls and glittering synagogues throughout the world.

Morris began reading aloud sins of generality. All-purpose sins. One size fits all sins.

“For the sin which we have committed before You with immorality . . .

“And for the sin which we have committed before You by improper thoughts . . .

“For the sin which we have committed before You by a gathering of lewdness . . .

“For all these, God of pardon, pardon us, forgive us, atone for us.”

And he chanted some sins he didn’t quite understand:

“For the sin which we have committed before You by casting off the yoke . . .

“And for the sins for which we are obligated to bring a burnt-offering . . .

“And for the sins for which we are obligated to bring a guilt-offering for a certain or doubtful trespass . . .

“For all these, God of pardon, pardon us, forgive us, atone for us.”

And then, pounding his fist against his chest a bit harder, Morris confessed some more. Silently. Urgently:

For the sin of putting a personal lunch with Victoria D’Amico at the Sunrise Diner on my Celfex credit card . . .

For the sin of coveting Doctor Kirleski’s receptionist and taking her to the Bayview Motor Inn for a total of twenty-two minutes . . .

For the sin of calling in sick that Friday just so I could go to Boca with Rona . . .

For the sin of fighting with Rona and referring to her clients as patients . . .

For all these, God of pardon, pardon me, forgive me, atone for me . . .

He closed his eyes. So tight that his face seemed twisted in pain. Trying to squeeze out the guilt and the sins and the anxiety.

And when he opened them, having confessed his sins, he couldn’t help but wonder: Why is everyone looking at me?