Because of the Hanukkah wreath, Granny M, I mean Safta, made what was the equivalent of a 911 call to the rabbi. I didn’t actually see her make the call, but at the beginning of our next meeting, Rabbi Doug asked me if I knew what “assimilation” meant.

“This is about the wreath, isn’t it?” I said.

He smiled. “Look, I know what it’s like to feel left out, David,” he said. He pronounced it the Hebrew way, which is more like Dah-veed. “I’m just saying we can appreciate someone else’s traditions without adopting them for our own.”

“I know.”

“We don’t need a Hanukkah bush or a Dreidel Man in order to fit in.”

“I know,” I said again.

“We have a long and proud tradition of our own.”

“I know.”

“If you’re ever in doubt, think about the food,” he said. “We have them beat on the food. I’d take rugelach over a fruit cake any day. Or babka. Babka beats fruitcake.”

But what about Chinese Jews? I wanted to ask him. What is their long and proud tradition? I didn’t ask, though, because I was pretty sure he wouldn’t know.

He winked and turned back to the Torah. Rabbi Doug was still trying to teach me the trope, which is the melody you use when you’re chanting your haftorah or Torah portion. I always thought it was random, but there were actually little marks to tell you when your voice goes up and when it goes down. Usually, I went down when I should be going up, even though the rabbi put the whole thing on a cassette tape so I could practice at home.

“Closer,” said Rabbi Doug. I couldn’t tell if I was really getting closer or if he was just saying that. I didn’t think rabbis were supposed to lie, though. “Do you mind if I take off my shoes?” he said.

“No, it’s okay. We do it at my house all the time,” I said, because who is going to tell a rabbi he can’t take his shoes off in his own office? Besides, maybe it would make him think I was doing a better job, if he was comfortable.

“Again,” he said.

My reading was going pretty badly when there was a knock on the door of the study. The rabbi padded over to the door in his socks. I didn’t mind the interruption, until I saw who it was.

“Granny M?”

“Hello, Rabbi,” said Grandma Marjorie. “We spoke on the phone earlier. David’s safta?” Argh, I’d forgotten to use safta again. “I would never interrupt, but this is important—I want to talk about David’s bar mitzvah. Something I saw when I was in New York.”

“They do things differently in New York,” said Rabbi Doug. He gave me a smile that said he liked the way we did things here a little better. And he winked again. “Besides, I don’t have anything to do with the reception.”

“This isn’t about the reception,” Safta said. “Why should I trouble a rabbi about the reception? This is about the service. It’s about finding David’s Russian twin.”

My spine went cold. I had a Russian twin? Was there someone who looked just like me in Russia? Maybe we all had twins in Russia as part of some bizarre genetic program.

“I’ve heard about this,” said Rabbi Doug.

“I haven’t,” I said. “I haven’t heard anything about this.”

“The rabbi can explain,” Safta said.

Rabbi Doug nodded again. “In Russia, children are not free to celebrate a bar or bat mitzvah, so in some countries where the children are free, they may decide to celebrate for a ‘twin’ back in the Soviet Union.” He looked at my grandmother. “Did you attend a bar mitzvah like this?”

“It was Jacob’s bar mitzvah,” said my grandmother. “My sister, Seal’s, grandson. He had a Russian twin.”

Ah, that explained it. My great-aunt Seal. Again.

“I don’t have an actual twin?” I said.

“What?” said my grandmother. “What are you talking about?”

“A twi—” the rabbi began. “No. A ‘Russian twin’ is someone whose birthday is near the birthday of the bar mitzvah boy. You’re bonded by birthdays, not blood. And you’re bound by a spirit of helping another human being. I’ve heard about synagogues doing this but we haven’t tried it here. You could be the first. Sharing your bar mitzvah with someone who can’t have one? I could get behind a trend like that.”

“To top it off, Seal’s grandson gave half his bar mitzvah money to his twin,” my grandmother continued. “To help him emigrate to Israel. He’s a mensch, my nephew. Not that Seal had anything to do with it.”

Not that she’d know, since they still weren’t talking. This made me not want to talk to my grandmother, either. Giving away half my money to someone I’d never even met? What kind of idea was that? You’d think that with money so tight because of the bar mitzvah my parents would at least want me to keep it for college, instead of giving it away to a stranger.

“It sounds wonderful,” Rabbi Doug said. “Do you know the organization that does the matches?”

I hoped my grandmother hadn’t gone too far into her research, but she reached into her purse and pulled out a folded slip of paper. She waved it at the rabbi.

“If you approve, we will take care of it,” Safta said. “I’ll wait outside.”

“Maybe you’d like your grandmother to stay and listen,” Rabbi Doug said to me. His eyes twinkled. “After all, it looks like you’re learning for two now.” He made it sound like I was pregnant.

“No,” I said. My grandmother looked a little offended, so I added, “I want it to be a surprise.” Rabbi Doug smiled and changed the subject.

“I know some Russian,” said Rabbi Doug. “Spasibo means ‘thank you.’”

I imagined my Russian twin saying spasibo for half of the bar mitzvah money.

“I’ll just wait in the front hall until your lesson is over,” my grandmother told me. To the rabbi, she said, “Let me know if I can do anything else to help.”

You’ve already done enough, I thought. I wondered how to say mind your own business in Russian. Or Hebrew. But the only language I knew it in was English, and I didn’t have the guts to say it out loud.