Max's Tallit
A Monologue by Mickey Chalfin
(ENTER CARRYING TALLIT: SAY PRAYER, PUT ON TALLIT.)
In the beginning there were grandparents who spoke no English; only
Yiddish. My mother's mother, Dora, born in Kiev, loved me so much. She
would gaze at me as I sat at her table eating butter cookies topped with
cinnamon. During my early teens she once said something to me which my
mother translated from the Yiddish: "Melech, dyne gantser kerper sheynt vi
di levone." "Melech" -- that's my Hebrew name -- "every piece of your skin
shines like the moon."
There were Jewish foods, starting with the letter K: Knishes, Kugel,
Kasha and Kichel, Kishkes, Knaidlach, Kreplach and Kuchen. And let's not
forget the Manischewitz! (POUR SOME WINE) My father's mother, Sara, all
four foot ten inches of her, was born in Odessa. She made the world's best
apple strudel. I can still see and taste it as if time hasn't passed at
all. My grandma lived to be 99. She outlived my father, who was her
youngest child.
In deference to my grandparents, I was sent to Hebrew school. I went to
Hebrew school at the end of the public school day: three days a week, three
hours a day, for three years. The orthodox teachers were mean. They would
shout at us in Hebrew: "Shechet v'shave" -- "shut up and sit down!" Being
only thirteen years old, we thought "shave" was very funny. Meanwhile, we
were eating tons of sunflower seeds and piling the damp shells in our desks.
When my teacher caught me, he shouted, "Parrot food! Why are you eating
parrot food?"
On the day of my Bar Mitzvah I got to sit on the throne chair alongside
the
rabbi, whom I had never met. I chanted from the Torah and gave a speech
written by the cantor. The women, including my mother and grandmothers,
were in the balcony, hidden from view. That was something I really noticed
when I was up there on the stage. I couldn't see them! I remember the
speech began, "My dear rabbi, cantor, parents, and friends..." After the
ceremony, my aunts and uncles stuffed envelopes into my suit pockets. I got
lots of money and Israel bonds. Later there was a big party for me at a
country club. There was a big band and a bigger cake; and all my relatives
lit candles for me. My father filmed the evening in 16 millimeter silent
film, which is now lost somewhere in my brother the attorney's Los Angeles
garage.
Ten years later, at age 23, I was leaving the United States, leaving the
anti-Vietnam marches, leaving the modern hi-tech world to go live on a
kibbutz in Israel. I didn't even know where Israel was on a map. Kibbutz
life is utopian, communal farming, and very a-religious. They even raise
pigs. There were some token Jewish concessions: table cloths on Friday
nights and maybe some wine. I learned Hebrew, and that my Hebrew name,
Melech, was taboo as a name in Israel. My teacher's face cringed when I
said "Melech is my Hebrew name." He said, Lo, lo, lo! Melech means God;
you will stay Meekee.
I left Israel after three years and headed for Canada to clear up my draft
status with the US Government. On the way I travelled through several
Eastern countries. While in Teheran one evening after dusk, I wandered near
an open patio where many older men were chanting. They all wore turbans and
had long grey and white beards. I walked in to listen and watch. After a
few minutes one old man approached me and leaned over to whisper in my ear:
"No Jews." Did I hear right? He repeated it, "No Jews", and I left,
totally mystified. How did he know I was Jewish? My nose? For several
years I would wonder how he knew. Finally I figured it out. I had been in
a mosque. He had leaned over and in his Persian accent he had said, "No
tschooze! No shoes!"
During the same trip I suddenly and unexpectedly had to return from Ind
ia
to Israel. I landed at the airport in Tel Aviv, wearing a long white Indian
shirt called a korta, red and black beads around my neck, fifty cent
handmade Indian sandals and my flowing black beard. The customs official
took one look at me and stated in a heavy Hebrew accent, "Where eez teekeet
out? Must have teekeet out." I said, "What, why?" He said that I could
not enter Israel without a return flight. I was about to throw myself on
his mercy and tell him I was a political refugee because of the Vietnam war,
when his commanding officer strolled by and asked in Hebrew, "Ma yesh?
What's up?" "Ain lo kartis hutzah "-- he doesn't have a ticket out. The
officer looked at me and asked: "You Jooeesh? You Jewish?" "Yes," I
answered. "I have family on the kibbutz (an exaggeration) and I live here",
I bluffed. He gestured with a sweep of his arm: "Pass." I was home again.
Back safely on my kibbutz I met a non-Jewish nineteen year old girl from
Berkeley. I was 27. We fell in love, returned to the US, had two sons. We
did have dinners for Passover, the holiday of unleavened bread. One
memorable one was in Gualala with the Methodist community; a potluck -- five
Jews and thirty five Methodists and lots of garlic bread and spaghetti.
When my marriage ended after fourteen years, I became aware that I wanted
more community in my life. So I attended a Hanukkah party in Mendocino.
There was a raffle, and I happened to win one of the many prizes: a pie of
my choice to be baked by the rabbi. When my name was called out as the
winner, I was immediately surrounded by a dozen or more people who were
saying I had won the best prize. I am now married to that pie-maker. She
bakes the pies, I tell the jokes...
Three Jewish guys are walking down a street and they come to a church.
A
large sign in front says: "Conversions today; we pay you $100." One of the
guys says, "Hey, wait here -- I'm going in to check it out". After about
twenty minutes he comes out. "So did you get the money?" one of them asks.
"Is that all you people ever think about?"
Earlier this year, my wife, the rabbi, and I returned to visit Israel.
It
had been eighteen years since I had last visited there. While there, we had
to be careful, not so much of Arab terrorists, but of orthodox Jews who
viewed us, Reform Jews, as a great threat to their religion. I had to be
very careful to not mention that my wife was a rabbi.
The day before leaving Israel I looked for a shop that might sell me a
tallit, a Jewish prayer shawl. My mother-in-law had given me money to buy
one, and I still hadn't done it. We found a shop which employs older
people, who make various things for Jewish rituals. I asked if there were
tallits, and the storekeeper pointed to an upper room in back. I glanced
around and then said, "I would like your best tallit." She pointed to a
table nearby where a tallit was neatly folded in a clear plastic bag. A
note on top stated, "Max's tallit." The woman explained that Max was an
eighty year old man who weaves only three tallits a year. And they are the
best. It so happens that my real given name is... Max. So I said, "this
one must be the one for me. It has my name on it." I opened it up and put
it on. And immediately bought it. Some months later this year, I wore it
for the first time at Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur in Mendocino.
During the long day's services of Yom Kippur, I began to look closely at
the tallit. The weave and the colors, silver and gold threads, and I felt
the tassels and the fringes. I then remembered Max and felt a connection
with the old weaver. I saw the beauty in the tallit and the mysterious and
wonderful energy from the cloth, and for the first time ever, I covered my
head in solitude and gratitude for that moment of connection.
So, what is this connection? The grandmas? The foods? The Jewish
ceremonies? The trips to Israel? My marriage? The jokes? The community
of friends? The holidays? (COVER MY HEAD) Maybe here, shining like the
moon under Max's tallit. (LIGHTS FADE OUT)
THE END
MAX'S TALLIT;
A MONOLOGUE;
BY MICKEY CHALFIN;
PERFORMANCE: WAREHOUSE THEATER DECEMBER 5, 6, 1995 (FORT BRAGG, CA);
DIRECTOR: LYNNE ABELS
Copyright 1997
(Return to MCJC Home Page)