“El malei rachamim, shochen bam’romim...” The rabbi’s voice drones in and out like a lullaby. I sway to the words and let my eyes fall shut.

“O, God full of compassion,” My eyes pop open. “Grant the perfect rest beneath thy sheltering,” I make myself drone with the rest of the synagogue, using a finger to keep my eyes from closing. “Of Your divine presence unto Chava Coopersmith who has gone to her eternal home.”

Next to me, saba sniffles and places a hand over my shoulder. I pat his back, doing my best to seem reassuring. 

“Doing alright, Gideon?” My mother, on the other side of my grandfather, reaches out to hold his hand.

“Fine.” I am surprised to watch their hands touch--even hold! My saba never accepts pity. 

I study him carefully. As always, Saba wears a neat suit, finely combed gray hair, a small beard, and, as we are in service, a black Yarmulke on his head. But he’s not as erect as usual. He seems vulnerable and exposed. Nearly scared. I watch a single tear drip down his wrinkled cheek.

“Thank you, everyone, for coming to temple in honor of Chava Coopersmith, beloved wife of Gideon Coopersmith, mother of Eben Lewin, and grandmother of Ester Lewin. Thank you, everyone. I will see you tomorrow for services and Sunday school. Thank you.” The rabbi steps down from the podium, tripping on the step to the floor.

“Bumbling fool,” Saba mutters.

“He’s doing his best,” My mother assures him. “Now let’s get you to the car. Your son’s right behind us.”

“Alright, Ester.” Dad helps me stand. 

“You okay?” 

“Fine. Just, you know. Sad.” He sounds on the verge of tears.   

“Yeah.” I follow him towards the door. 

“Eema was a great woman, you know. Your grandmother,” he corrects himself. “Your savta. Always so happy. We’ll all miss her. Poor abba. How are you, Ester? I haven’t seen you cry.” 

We step out of the synagogue. Cold air, a dark sky, and the yellow glow of street lights greet us. I watch dad in the new light. Brown hair, brown eyes. Always with a pair of glasses and a pen tucked into his shirt.

“Ester?”

“Oh, sorry. I don’t like crying. It’s… depressing. And I guess I’m just still processing.” I rub my arms. The truth is, to me, savta has been gone for years now. With her Alzheimer's and illnesses, Savta hadn’t been able to speak to me for months.  “I don’t know what things will be like now that she’s really gone.” I gulp down a sob. “It-it doesn’t s-seem real.” Now I am crying. 

I cover my face with my hands and allow dad to take me into his arms. But then he’s crying too. We hug each other tighter. “Why?” I want to ask more, but I can’t.

Dad takes away one hand to rub his eyes. “I don’t know Ester. I don’t know anything anymore. You’re right. It’s just surreal.”

I nod and wipe away my tears. 

“Alright then. To the car?”

Again I nod. Gosh, Ester. Say something, won’t you? You’re being quieter than dad. That must be revolutionary! But I can’t. Because then I don’t think I would be able to hold back my tears.

The car ride home passes in deafening silence. Saba quietly exits the car at his apartment.

Mom sighs after he’s gone. “Well. The service was touching, don’t you think?”

Dad and I are silent.

“Alright, then. But before you two launch us into a perpetual silence I can’t help you out of, let me remind you of one thing.” Mom’s a lawyer. I think that’s how she can change her tone so effectively to mirror the exact opposite of what we need. “Let me remind you, Ester, to get up bright and early for Sunday School tomorrow!”

“But…” I take a calming breath. I’m not going to dissolve into tears over Sunday School! “I have volleyball practice tomorrow. I don’t think I want to go to Sunday School anymore. Savta wanted me to go, but I think she was the only one.”

My parents glance at each other. “If you’d like, Ester. We’ll let you choose.”

“What about my Bat Mitzvah next year?” 

Again, mom looks at dad, but he looks away. “That doesn’t have to happen, sweetheart. Not this year. We’ll leave it all up to you.”

“Did you wack any balls?” Saba leans against the car, his arms crossed, sounding incredibly bored.

“Good morning to you too, saba. I did bump some balls. It was fine. I thought dad was picking me up.” I’m still irritable. I haven’t been able to shake myself out of it since the funeral. 

Saba shrugs. “He had to edit something for the newspaper.” Dad works for the Los Angeles Times. Saba gets in the car and I follow. “I didn’t see you at services this morning.” He starts the ignition.

“Mom and dad say I don’t have to go anymore.”

Saba snorts in disgust. “In my day that would not be tolerated. They’d be kicked out of the synagogue. I’d wack some sense into that boy. First marrying that goy and now this…” He slaps his hand against the steering wheel as we wait at a red light.

“Mom converted to Judaism!”

“But only because she knew I wouldn’t give any consent to the marriage otherwise! When was the last time she went to the synagogue on her own accord? Disgraceful.” He presses his foot hard against the gas pedal as the light turns green. “Chava would have reasoned with your parents. But no one will listen to me. Disgraceful.” He fixes me with a hard stare. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, do you know that? You ought to be ashamed. Do you know your ancestors survived the Holocaust for your freedom, and your Judaism, and-”

“Stop swerving! You're gonna get us in a car crash!” I grip the seat in front of me. I catch my breath as he slows. “Gosh, saba, it’s not like this is my decision!” I let go of the seat. “Anyway, how do I know what my ancestors went through when you won’t even tell me- What are you doing? That’s not the way home!” 

Saba turns to the closest street and parks in front of a mall. “You want a story? I can tell you a story.” The deep, growling voice is enough to make me shiver. He closes his eyes.

* * *

“It was nineteen-ten. A bad year for all of us. 

“I could hear them talking. Cousin Joseph and Mume Ayla. Mume means aunt. But you wouldn’t know that. No one remembers the old language anymore. And they don’t remember the stories.”

“Well, what happened?” I wonder how long this ‘story’ will take.

“No interruptions. Patience, Ester. Patience. 

“Joseph was proposing a trip. He said he was going to America. Joseph was almost eighteen and would be conscripted to the Russian army the next year. I heard him tell Mume that he couldn’t stay in Russia. It was too dangerous. No one had come back from the army alive and full. 

“She was brave when he said that. I remember being proud of her, mume Ayla. I thought she was as fragile as a teacup. 

“But then he started talking about bringing the children, and she broke. I can still hear her say, in that small, sweet voice, ‘It’s dangerous out there, Joseph. The kids aren’t old enough. They won’t make it. I know you’ll do amazing and you’re brave and strong and confident, but the Russian army still wants to conscript you. Everyone knows we’re Jewish. I just don’t want you to get hurt.’

“But he told her about America, and how they were going to be free, how he could do this. How he could travel with his seven siblings thousands of miles on foot to America. He told her if he didn’t, it would be much, much worse.

“She believed him. 

“They embraced. I can see the tears in their eyes to this day. They were so happy together, at that moment before the world… began… to fall apart.”

* * *

“Did they make it? Wow, I didn’t know you were that good a storyteller! Saba?” I glance into the driver's seat.

Saba’s head lolls over the headrest. He is starting to snore.

I sigh and call mom to rescue us.

“I know! It’s a hard time for all of us! But an orthodox synagogue? I don’t know the difference between the prayer for the bread and the candles! I forgot the bread’s name!” I fall backward on the bed.

“Challah.” Mom adjusts the mirror to check her eyeliner. “Don’t be dramatic, Ester.” Frowning, she uses a towel to dab away and alters her makeup. “Leave your acting in the theater. It’s only two hours. Ester! Stop giving me that look! It’s a Shabbat service, not a satanic cult ritual, for goodness sake!”

I roll my eyes and prop my head on my hands.

“Ester! This isn’t negotiable. It’ll make your saba happy. He’s just…disappointed you're not going to Sunday School anymore.” Disappointed is one word for it. Saba hasn’t talked to either of my parents since the news. “And there’s his car!” She pushes aside her mirror to make me watch Saba's old Chevrolet (immaculate as always) pull into the driveway. “You’d better go out and meet him.”

I sigh and roll off the bed.

I walk down the aisle of the synagogue feeling thousands of eyes probe my exposed legs and arms. Don’t be silly, Ester. This is your fault! Mom told you no one would be wearing shorts. But you didn’t listen, did you? Anyway, there aren’t even a thousand people here. But I feel like I’m stepping onto a stage wearing the wrong costume. Being the wrong person. I tug my shorts as low as I can make them. 

“This way.” Saba leads me down one of the front rows of seats.

“Shalom!” The woman sitting next to us greets me.

“Shalom!” That does mean hello, doesn’t it? C’mon, Ester, you’re an actor! Play your part.

“You wore shorts.” Saba stares at me.

I nod. “I did.” I turn towards the ark, where the Rabbi is organizing his notes. My eyes travel up to the ceiling. It’s so tall! The building’s so immense! It makes me feel so insignificant.

The Rabbi raises his hands. The room silences instantly. My breath sounds obnoxiously loud. 

“Let us start with the evening prayer.”

The synagogue swells with sound. My eyes slowly fall shut.

“Go up there!” Saba pushes me awake.

“Huh?”

“All the children! Please make your way forward for the children’s prayer.”

I stand, blinking my eyes open. I join the trail of children on their way to the ark.

I am already in front of the room before I realize the children are all a head shorter than me. 

This time, millions of eyes stare at me. 

I stand in front of all of them, feeling more exposed than on a stage in front of millions.

Sheesh, Ester, you’re thirteen. You can’t die from embarrassment! 

But I still tug my shorts down lower. I feel my face redden. I mouth the words all the children know.

This’ll be a long night.

“You wore shorts,” Saba mumbles as we drive home.

“I did.”

“But it was fine. Better than that bumbling fool at Chava’s, tripping down those stairs. But you did fine.”

I desperately need a change of subject. “Don’t you want to tell me more of that story you were telling earlier?”

Saba glares at me. “You didn’t like the service, did you?”

“It was… Well, no, I didn’t, really.”

“What about this.” His voice is dangerously close to the growl from a few days ago. “You come to another Shabbat service next week at a different synagogue, and I tell you more of the story today.”

“Why don’t you want to tell me the story?”

“I would love to tell you the story, Ester. I would also love for you to come to synagogue on Friday.”

I twist a strand of black hair around my finger. “What synagogue?”

“One you’ll like better.”

I stare out my car window at the passing city, watching lights in the darkness. “Fine.”

* * *

“It was late nineteen ten, that same year. Mume asked me to read a letter Joseph sent her. She couldn’t read. I have it here.”

Following his instructions, I open the glovebox and ruffle through it until I find a small piece of paper. It’s laminated, winkled, yellow, and stained. 

This is almost a hundred years old! 

I wonder if I should be wearing gloves. I glance through it as quickly as I can.

March 17th, 1911 

North-East Russian 

Dearest Mame,

I take this pen in hand to express my deepest sorrow for not writing to you sooner. Our prayers are with you.

We’re alright, just like I told you we’d be, although it’s been hard. We’ve stopped at shtetls almost every night this month, but we had to sleep on the ground last night. Miriam didn’t sleep a wink, she was so frightened by every sound. To compensate, we went to town today, I bought all the children challah, and I will soon mail this letter. 

We’re doing fine with food. I was even able to teach Benny and Morris how to fish with their hands a week ago when we were running low. Sometimes we have to eat roots and wild berries, but we’ve never gone hungry for more than a day. Most of the people we pass are nice, and some even give us food and extra clothing. We had a close call some weeks ago with some old man who wanted to pry into our business. Rebecca nearly told him our real names and how we are running away, but Samuel came up with a brilliant cover story. 

I really am holding us up. I told you I am old enough for this! It’ll all be fine in the end. We can deal with a few empty stomachs and worn clothing.

Affectionately yours, your son, Joseph Coopersmith

“Mame means mother.” He continues the moment I glance up. “You should remember that. 

“I didn’t read it aloud to her at first. I kept it to myself. I was young. I hadn’t seen the world. I didn’t know cruelty. I had never known a goy. I had no idea where I’d be today.” He laughs.

“Please don’t talk about mom,” I whisper. “I want to hear the story.”

“So I remember looking back up at mume Ayla and seeing the red lines around her eyes for the first time. She was delicate, that woman. Her skirt was a mess, her hair in disarray. And those eyes.” He shakes his head. “They were so deep. Like looking up into a starless night sky.

“So I lied to her.”

“You what?”

“You heard me. I told her Joseph was doing wonderfully. He would be in America before the winter.” He falls silent.

* * *

“What happened?”

“I told you I’d tell more of the story.” He gives me a slight smile. “Not all of it.”

“Saba!”
“The rest will come. Be patient.”

I groan and fix my gaze outside the window.

I walk down the aisle of the synagogue feeling thousands of eyes probe into me. Thankfully, this time I was smart enough to wear a long black dress with sleeves and no figure. I will refuse to draw attention to myself. Just so long as no one from school sees me-

A woman makes her way down the aisle towards Saba and me. 

Shoulder-length strawberry-blonde hair. Black dress. Assertive gaze. Stops to talk to everyone. I gulp. She spells out the word r-a-b-b-i. Act, Ester!

“Hello, Gideon!” She stops in front of my grandfather. Strangely, she wears a large, wholehearted smile. “It’s always a pleasure to see you! How are you doing?”

“Fine.” It’s more a grunt than a word.

“And you must be Ester!” She steps up to greet me.

“Uh, shalom.” Something about her throws me completely off guard.

“Shalom to you! I know you’re new here, Ester, and I know that can be weird sometimes, but I want you to make yourself at home! Do you want a cookie? We have some extra from Sunday School.”

Cookies at Sunday School? Is this a synagogue? “Umm… no? Thank you.”

She laughs. “I don’t know what you’re saba’s been telling you, Ester, but this synagogue celebrates Reform Judaism. Not everything in Judaism is the same. Well, we’re the same, of course, everyone is. But we’re different too.”

Is she trying to confuse me? Is this some sort of test? “Okay?”

Again she smiles. “I have to go start the service. I hope you enjoy it, Ester!”

The rabbi begins with a song in Hebrew. I mumble words, doing my best to copy the shape of her lips.

I don’t mind not understanding Hebrew. It’s just the way it is. Only devoted Jews know Hebrew, or that’s what saba says. In Sunday School we learned about religion, not Hebrew.

“There’s a transliteration on the next page.” The woman sitting next to me hands me a prayer book and flips to the second page. 

“Oh! Thank you.”  

Lecha dodi likrat kalah, p’nei Shabbat n’kab’lah. It’s gibberish. But I can read it. I can read Hebrew! I grin and sing with the rest of the synagogue. 

“Ester!” I turn from the door of the synagogue. “Can I talk to you for a minute?” I come back into the building to the rabbi. Saba stays by the door.

“Sure! The service was really good. Actually fun.” Oh no. Did I say ‘actually’?

“I’m so glad! I know they can get boring sometimes. Ester, I know you're saba said your relationship to Judaism is complicated right now, but I was wondering if you’d like to come to Hebrew School next week. Plenty of it will be on Bat Mitzvahs, of course, but that won’t mean you have one! We can get you all caught up in no time. I can have someone start teaching you Hebrew!”

“That sounds amazing!” I hug her. “No one’s ever said I could learn Hebrew before! Oh, wait. I’m hugging you. Sorry.” I pull away blushing.

“Never be sorry for that.” She squeezes my shoulder. “I’ll see you next week!”

“Bye!” I walk back to saba. “Saba?” We start walking to the car.

“Hm.”

“I’m going to Hebrew School next week here. Can you drive me?”

He raises his eyebrows. “I’ll pay.”

“Thanks. And saba?”

“Stop asking questions, Ester. It makes you sound stupid and shy.”

“Okay. Well, saba?” Oh. Shoot. But I do feel shy now. For once in my life.

He glares at me.

“I think I want to have a Bat Mitzvah. I know I won’t be able to have it ‘till I’m fourteen, a year late, but I want to be part of Judaism here.”

Saba smiles. It’s the first time he’s smiled since Savta's funeral. It’s a smile that brings light into those deep brown eyes, smoothing the wrinkles in his cheeks, making his silver hair a shade darker. “Are you?”
“Yes.”

“And what did you think of the service?”

“It was amazing! So different! Do you like it, saba? It seems sort of…” I shrug. “Unconventional.”

“I enjoy Reform Judaism more than conservative Judaism, Ester. But I want to expose you to all dimensions of Judaism.”

“Oh.”

“Well then, Ester. Don’t you think it’s time to finish that story?”

I grin and hop into the car.

* * *

“It was 1911, nearly two years after Joseph left that mume Ayla had me read the second letter. Here.”

I take the letter. This one seems even more old than the last, obviously having been handled much more frequently.

September 8th, 1911 

North-East Russian 

Beloved Mame,

We all pray for you daily. I do not have long, but I know I must send you this favor. We have arrived in Rotterdam! In 2 hours, we will depart for America! I cannot describe the relief the children feel. The journey has been hard, and steerage will be as well, but we are 2 weeks from freedom!

With Sincere Regard, your loving son, Joseph Coopersmith

“She stood and started dancing around. All around that little room!” He laughs, eyes twinkling. “She praised God! She was the happiest I had seen her in weeks. Her deep eyes had stars in them.”

“She told me- no, not that. I don’t have your young mind anymore, Ester.” Saba smiles and laughs again. “She told me, ‘Won’t you help dress the children, Gideon?’ She spoke in Yiddish, of course. She said, ‘They’re four and five. They should be old enough now.’ She meant old enough to go to America.

“That reminded me of my lie. I told her the truth. I begged her not to go. I pleaded. I started to cry. 

“She told me she’d had her tate, her father read the letters to her. She was going to go. Then she told me something I’ll never forget ‘till the day I die. She bent down so she could look into my eyes and said, ‘Treasure, it’s hard, but sometimes we all have to be brave. We have to be strong, even when we don’t want to, to do something important. I don’t want to go. I know it’ll be hard. But that’s what it means to be brave.’

“So she left for America.”

* * *

“That’s sweet,” I say. We pull into my driveway. “But what happened to the mom?”

“She made it. But that’s a story for another time.” 

“Sa-ba!” I drag out each syllable of his name. But then I laugh. “I knew you’d do that! Can I ask something?”

He raises his eyebrows.

“Why aren’t you telling your story? That’s what I was trying to ask for.”

He sighs and leans back in his seat. “My story doesn’t matter, Ester. It’s our story that matters. All of ours. The Jewish people.”

“Alright.” I wait for him to unlock the car and help me out ‘like a lady’ as he always insists, but Saba doesn’t budge.

“You’re going to have to tell them, you know.” He says finally, taking the keys from the ignition. 

“What?”

“Your parents. About your Bat Mitzvah.” He’s still wearing a small smile.

“No!” I reach out to his chair to steady myself. “I mean, aren’t you going to?”

“No.”

“But-” What would they say? Mom might argue, and I’ve never won an argument against her, and dad would look at me in disdain before disappearing to his writing room. What would they think? “I can’t!”

“Of course you can.” He doesn’t glare but looks at me steadily. Expectantly.

“No, I can’t! They won’t understand! They’ll think you-” They’d think what? “You hypnotized me or something!” I blush. What worse argument could I make?

“This is the problem with you, Ester.” 

“And how many of those are there, exactly?” I mutter.

“You never stand up for anything.” He continues as if I hadn’t spoken. “You do whatever you need to be popular and have friends and then stop there.” He isn’t shouting. Just talking mildly as though we were speaking of the weather. “When have you done something to make a difference? When have you done something someone would disapprove of? When have you been brave?”

“I-” I don’t know.

“Do you want to be Jewish? Do you want to be part of everything your ancestors fought for? To be like Joseph?”

“Yes.” That answer comes easily now.

“Then go do it!” He helps me out of the car and I march inside. 

One Year Later

“A year ago,” I adjust the microphone and glance down at the rows of audience. I have just finished an analysis of my Torah portion. So much acting! And there are so many people! I grip the podium tighter. “A year ago I was still unsure of this whole Judaism thing. Standing here and having a Bat Mitzvah seemed unlikely and sorta weird.” There is scattered laughter. I blush and brush down my white dress. “But then my saba told me a story,” I tell Joseph’s story. “And somehow, that story showed me what Judaism is. How you don’t have to be religious, or even believe in God.” I glance at dad. He has tears in his eyes. “But you do have to honor your past and understand how your ancestors fought for you. You have to learn to be proud of your history. 

“But more than any of that, you have to learn how to make your ancestors proud. And the only way to do that is the same way you make any difference. You have to learn to be brave.” 

I look down at my notes. Anywhere but the audience. What will they think? But no. I have to be brave.

I step back from the podium.

Clap! The sudden applause makes me jump. I look up. My family is standing. Every member of the audience is clapping. 

Saba takes a step towards the podium and whispers in my ear. “I’m proud of you. Chava and Joseph would be proud.”

My concentrated frown breaks into a grin.