"Well, I am afraid that once the Bar Mitzvah's over, my private study sessions with Rabbi Weissman will also be over."

"You enjoy studying with him."

"Yes," Paul said, then hesitated. "Very much."

"You stopped yourself for a second, were you thinking of something?"

"I was just thinking about the rabbi."

"What about him?"

"I don't know!" Defensive.

"I'm sure you do know."

"It's just that... I... like him. Not only the studying, but him."

Goldman smiled and waited for more.

"The thing that bothers me most," Paul said, "is that he has invited me to his home for the Sabbath this week."

"Why should that bother you?"

"You can't guess?"

Goldman wasn't stupid. He understood that Alfred and Evelyn wouldn't take kindly to the idea of their son spending a weekend with a Hasidic family in Crown Heights. "You mean that your parents would object?"

"Exactly," Paul said. "I don't even see why they sent me to Hebrew School, or even wanted me to have a Bar Mitzvah in the first place."

"There are some things that people can't abandon regardless of how hard they try," Goldman said.

Paul looked at Goldman, surprised, realizing there was something personal in that last remark. He knew that Goldman was a non-practicing Jew like his parents, for Goldman had revealed as much in previous discussions. Beyond that, he knew nothing about the man. It often made him feel strange discussing his feelings about religion, causing him to wonder what his inquisitor thought of it all. He had actually raised the issue once, but Goldman had retreated to "shrink-talk," claiming that Paul's real worry was about how Alfred felt. It had sounded to Paul like a copout then, yet he was certain he would get a similar response now if he pressed. He chose to let it slide.

"I do want to go to the rabbi's house," he said.

"Perhaps you can ask the rabbi to speak with your father. He does seem to have a little influence."

"That's a good idea, but it doesn't solve the other problem about what happens with the rabbi once my Bar Mitzvah's over."

"Why don't we tackle one thing at a time."

The next morning, at exactly seven, the phone rang in the Sims' home. Evelyn was startled when she picked up the receiver in the bedroom. Still half asleep, she called to Alfred, who was shaving.

He could barely hear her above the noise of the electric razor. "Who?" he called out.

"It's Rabbi Weissman, on the phone, for you," she yelled back. Now she was completely awake.

He thought he heard her say, "Robert Waxman," but he didn't know any such person. He shut the shaver, stuck his head out the bathroom door, and asked again. She held the phone out, gesturing for him to come and take it, and said in a lower but more severe manner, "Rabbi Weissman."

He walked to the phone mumbling, "What does he want this early in the morning?"

"Why don't you take the d.a.m.n phone and find out," she muttered as she handed him the receiver, turned away and stuck a pillow over her head. The rabbi heard this little exchange.

Alfred greeted the rabbi in a friendly, respectful manner. He still remembered that, at least in person, rabbis were to be treated with reverence.

"Good morning, Mr. Sims," the rabbi said in his thick Eastern European accent. The rabbi knew that Alfred cringed at his accent. It reminded Alfred of his parents and grandparents, of the heritage he had so readily discarded. It embarra.s.sed him that there were still Jews who spoke that way, as if they were too stupid to learn proper English. But Rabbi Weissman's problem wasn't stupidity, not in the least, for English was only one of eleven languages in which he was fortunate to have an accent.

"I'm sorry to call this early, but I understand from your son that you are an early riser, and the morning is such a vonderful time to have a meaningful conversation. People think vith such clarity this time of day, yes?" The rabbi knew an evening call would probably not have found Alfred at home.

Alfred listened, wondering what the man wanted.

The rabbi was calling from his home in Crown Heights. "I have to be getting to shul for the morning prayers soon, so I von't take up too much of your time." He knew that Alfred was a bottom line sort. "I vas hoping to be able to have Paul visit vith my family for the Sabbath."

Alfred immediately grabbed the pillow off Evelyn's head. He wanted her to hear this. "This weekend?" he asked the rabbi, as he mouthed to Evelyn what they were discussing. She definitely wouldn't be able to go back to sleep now.

"Vell, I vas thinking that Paul needs more vork during the two veeks ve have left before the Bar Mitzvah, and it vould be difficult for me to spend Shabbos in your home, yes?"

"But he tells me he's doing well, not to worry," Alfred said nervously.

"Indeed he is, Mr. Sims," the rabbi a.s.serted. In fact, Paul had been fully prepared months ago with the essentials for the ceremony. What he and Rabbi Weissman were presently studying was well beyond that.

The rabbi didn't feel deceptive, for he believed that he was still teaching Paul things that were very much related to entering Jewish manhood. They were toiling through the pages of the Tanya, the great book of mystical lore written in 1796 by the first Lubavitcher Rebbe, Schneur Zalman of Liady, a disciple of the Baal Shem Tov, the original founder of Hasidism. Paul had learned that Lubavitch was only one of many Hasidic sects that had emanated from the Baal Shem Tov's teachings, and that the Tanya held the path to spiritual enlightenment through the doctrines of Chabad, a Hebrew acronym for wisdom, understanding, and knowledge. Lubavitchers believed that the true Hasid, or pious one, strives for these three ideals, and therefore refer to themselves as Chabad Hasidim.

Another thing that the rabbi was teaching Paul was the history of the Chabad Hasidim, and how the name Lubavitch came from the Belorussian village in which Rebbe Zalman lived during the last years of his life. Although the Rebbe died in 1812, most of the Hasidim remained in the town until 1915 when they were forced to flee because of Russian persecution. They relocated to other parts of Europe, and in 1940, the sixth Rebbe, Yosef Yitzchak Schneerson, brought many of them to Crown Heights. Of those who remained in Europe, most eventually perished at the hands of the n.a.z.is.

Ten years after their arrival in Crown Heights, the sixth Rebbe died, and his post was a.s.sumed by his distant cousin and son-in-law, Menachem Schneerson, a renowned genius who commanded many languages and had been educated at both the University of Berlin and the Sorbonne, in addition to his Torah scholarship. Rabbi Weissman had told Paul that many Lubavitchers believe that this Rebbe was to be the last before the coming of the Messiah, and Paul had found it intriguing that a man as intelligent as Rabbi Weissman could accept this. In fact, Paul found most of what the rabbi had to say intriguing.

"But as you know, vone can never know too much of anything," the rabbi added, "there is alvays room for improvement. I vant Paul to be perfect. After all, it is as much a reflection on me as it is on you, yes?"

Alfred had known from the moment they'd met that Rabbi Weissman was a hard man to bargain with. Initially, the rabbi's una.s.suming presence had Alfred thinking he was a push-over. Just tell him that I'm not interested in my son having a private tutor, Alfred had said to himself, and that will be that. But by the time their first meeting in the Hebrew School cla.s.sroom had ended, Paul had a tutor for three hours each week, and at twenty dollars for each of those hours.

"I'll have to discuss it with my wife. I'm not sure if she has plans for the weekend." Alfred felt a bit embarra.s.sed at having flaunted his non-observance of the Sabbath in the rabbi's face. The rabbi didn't think twice about it; he was a true Lubavitcher, believing that every Jew has a hidden desire to return to "G.o.d's way." That's why he schlepped, each Sunday, from Brooklyn to the Five Towns to teach children like Paul. Not solely for the money-as Alfred had thought-but to bring the children closer to Yidishkeit, to Judaism, and thereby hasten the coming of the Messiah. True, the modest salary of a Talmud teacher in the Lubavitcher Rabbinical Seminary was not enough to support his wife and daughter, and give the required ten percent to charity. But Rabbi Isaac Weissman, a survivor of the n.a.z.i death camps, in which he'd lost his first wife and son, was motivated by more than money. And his interest in young Paul was deeper than Alfred could fathom.

"Of course you vill," the rabbi responded, knowing full well that Alfred usually couldn't care less about his wife's opinions. "And please apologize to her for me, I'm so sorry to have avakened her. I vill hold on for a few minutes vhile you talk to her, yes?"

Not exactly what Alfred had planned. "To tell you the truth, she's only half awake right now. It would be best if I discuss it with her later when she's more coherent." The rabbi knew Alfred was lying, that most men lie when they begin a sentence with "to tell you the truth."

"That vill be fine. Better yet, I vill call her myself, later. There's no reason vhy you should apologize for me. The Talmud teaches us that each person must seek his own forgiveness, there are no intermediaries, yes?"

Alfred was speechless. The rabbi was outsmarting him once again.

"Anyvay, I vill call you back again tomorrow morning, a little later of course. Maybe after the morning prayers, around five minutes to eight, yes?" The rabbi knew that Alfred left at eight. He also figured that stating an exact time would prevent Alfred from avoiding the call. It was an appointment, and missing it would be an insult.

The two men ended their conversation as cordially as it had begun. Alfred hung up and stared into s.p.a.ce for a few seconds. Evelyn tried to get him to tell her what was going on, but he was lost in thought, wondering what the rabbi was after.

CHAPTER 7.

"Hey, Peanut, wait up!" Celeste called. Joshua was surprised to see her. He was already twenty minutes late for school, and she was always in school on time.

School had started less than a month ago. Loretta usually left around six, and had entrusted the Eisenmans, the elderly Jewish couple next door, to get Joshua out of the house. They were doing their best.

He stopped and waited for Celeste to catch up. "What are you doing here?" he asked.

"Same as you."

"But you're supposed to be in school by now."

"So are you," she said, leaning her body into his.

Close enough to be slow dancing, or other things, Joshua thought as he felt an erection. She pushed her hip into his; it seemed she knew exactly what she was doing. He grabbed her and pulled her into an alleyway. He wedged her between himself and the wall, and kissed her hard, and long. She wrapped her arms around him and held him tightly.

"Let's not go to school today," she suggested as soon as they broke for air.

"So that's why you're here. You wanna play hooky."

"Not just play hooky, but play it with you."

"You planned this?"

She smiled.

"And I bet you got some other games in mind, too," he said as she brought her lips back to his.

This time, a short kiss. It was too dangerous for them to stand there for long, even in the alley. Joshua's apartment was empty, but they couldn't go back to the building because her father might catch them. She grabbed his hand and pulled him across the street, toward the park.

They found a gra.s.sy spot, hidden within the trees. Joshua was about to sit when he noticed her reach into her bag for a sheet she just happened to have with her. "You sure did plan this," he said, as she spread the sheet on the ground.

"We're gonna have a picnic, a lo-ng picnic," she said as she sat down and pulled him close to her.

A few pa.s.sionate kisses eventually lead to her easing his hand up her shirt, and letting him play with her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. The next thing he realized, her hand was in his pants.

"Wow," she said, "they sure ain't calling you Peanut because of this."

They both chuckled as he started returning the favor, and suddenly, Celeste became gun shy.

She froze up and looked at him. "I think we should just kiss."

"Yeah, sure. Fine," he said, concealing his disappointment. In truth, he was really okay with it. He knew that sooner or later things would happen. Many things, in fact, each with its own novelty and excitement, until eventually he would become a full-fledged man. He took it for granted that all this was destined to happen with Celeste. h.e.l.l, he believed that everything of importance for the rest of his life was going to happen with Celeste.

Jerome, for the most part, pretended not to notice what was going on. It was hard for him, because his sister and Joshua were spending a lot of time together. Joshua felt bad that Jerome and he were drifting apart, but couldn't help himself. Luckily, this year there were three new black kids in their cla.s.s with whom Jerome had become friendly. One in particular, Roy Sharp, was replacing Joshua as Jerome's best friend. Roy, a well behaved and extremely bright fellow, was clean cut, short and thin, bespectacled, and always dressed like a black "Poindexter." His father was the Reverend Jameson Sharp, pastor of the local Baptist Church which had recently opened in a store-front on Empire Boulevard. Jerome had begun frequenting the church, and also the Sharps' home. The more time Jerome spent with Roy and the reverend, the more he disapproved of Celeste and Joshua.

That night, at three a.m., in the small bedroom they shared in the back of the their bas.e.m.e.nt apartment, Celeste and Jerome were soundly asleep. All was quiet, except for Jerome's snoring.

Awake in another room, just a few feet away, lay a beast, a creature with inhuman l.u.s.ts and cravings, sweating, obsessing, hating himself for what he was about to do. He looked at the woman fast asleep beside him. He despised her too, blaming her for not stopping him, for turning a blind eye all these years. For no matter how hard he tried to stop himself, he couldn't.

The door to the children's bedroom opened slowly, creaking hinges breaking the cadence of the snoring. Celeste's eyes opened, but she lay still. The snoring suddenly stopped, but Jerome's eyes remained closed. The children were both awake now, each pretending not to be, each knowing exactly what was going to happen.

The beast slipped into the room like a burglar, leaving the door slightly ajar. The faint light from the hall was just enough to help him navigate. Slowly, he moved toward Celeste's bed.

He crawled in next to her, knowing she was awake, but all too willing to play along with her ruse. This way they could both pretend it never happened.

In the other bed, Jerome lay helpless, tears in his eyes, silently praying that G.o.d would make this stop. But it never stopped. And Jerome, like his mother, was afraid to do anything. He had come far with the white kids in the neighborhood, but this was something else.

In the morning, he too would hate himself, would turn away from his sister in shame for not having protected her. He dreamed of a time when he would be stronger, when he would be able to put an end to it. He dreamed and prayed, and that was all he did.

When the beast was done and gone, neither of the children spoke to one another. Jerome lay in the dark, while Celeste used her sheets to wipe the beast's sweat from her body. She felt contaminated, defiled, wishing she could stop breathing. Anything to get rid of the nauseating, lingering smell.

Her mind took her to thoughts of Joshua and this terrible secret she kept from him. He believed her to be pure, and that was what she needed. She swore to herself that he would never discover the truth of how tainted she was.

What she had no way of knowing, however, was that fate had another plan.

CHAPTER 8.

Paul Sims heard his Hebrew name, Pinchas ben Anshel, chanted as the Cantor called him to the Torah. The exalted moment had arrived as he rose from his seat next to the rabbi, walked to a large rostrum on which the Torah sat, and looked out at his audience.

It was a gothic chapel, with a cathedral ceiling, mahogany pews, crimson carpet, pipe-organ, and bright stained gla.s.s windows along the eastern and northern walls depicting scenes from the Bible. The ark, constructed of marble and bra.s.s, stood ten feet high and eight feet wide between two of the stained gla.s.s windows, and a ma.s.sive silver menorah was affixed to the southern wall. And then there were the people, spruced and adorned to perfection, impeccably observant of the decorum.

In the front row were his parents, sharing a rare moment of joy. They appeared nervous, but Paul was poised. Rabbi Weissman had prepared him well, and he knew it.

Next to Alfred and Evelyn sat Paul's grandparents, Sheindle Simenovitz and Gladys and Sol Vorat.i.tsky. In the same row also sat his Aunt Brindle with her husband Martin, and his Great Aunt Rivka and Uncle Izzy. The other pews were filled with family and friends of his parents. There were some kids as well, a few cousins, and a handful from school whose parents were friendly with Alfred and Evelyn.

The only one in the room who Paul actually considered his friend was Loretta Eubanks-also the only black person-beaming in her long, flowing mauve dress and matching hat. The two other friends that Paul had in the world, Rabbi Isaac Weissman and Doctor Harold Goldman, were not in attendance.

The cantor opened the scroll, and pointed to the spot where Paul was to begin. Normally, in Reform temples, Bar Mitzvah candidates didn't read directly from the Torah scroll itself. Instead, they read a portion from the Haftorah, supplementary readings usually recited after the reading of the Torah, and gave a short speech. But Paul wanted to do it all, just as he had been trained.

Among the lessons Rabbi Weissman had taught him, the most precious was a sense of being "special." Though such a feeling was indeed alien to him, he had come to believe, as the rabbi insisted, that G.o.d's hand was at work in his life. The rabbi saw G.o.d's hand in everything.

Paul began the blessings, his voice resonating throughout the large sanctuary. The words came forth mechanically, but his mind was elsewhere, contrasting his surroundings with the modest, unadorned sanctuary in which he had found himself two weeks earlier. He recalled the hordes of Hasidic men, all in dark suits and fedoras, crowded into a single room with wooden folding chairs and linoleum floors, and the women in their long dresses, hats, and kerchiefs, crammed upstairs in the balcony. Those who had arrived early enough had gotten seats, but most stood. And the praying was noisy, spirited, everyone swaying back and forth, pouring out their souls.

The entire weekend at Rabbi Weissman's home had been a surprise. First, the shock that Rabbi Weissman had managed to convince his parents to let him go; second, the rabbi's daughter, Rachel, a year younger than he, and the most exquisite creature he'd ever seen.

Rabbi Weissman had often spoken of Rachel, but never of her physical beauty.

"My brilliant Rucheleh never ceases to remind me that in the book of Genesis it is the vomen who are in charge, from Eve all the vay through to her own name-sake, Rachel,"

"My Rucheleh prepared these jelly donuts for Hanukah, for me to give to my favorite students. Here are some, they are almost as sveet as she."