The Truth About My Bat Mitzvah

by Nora Raleigh Baskin

  Freida pressed her face against the glass and watched them. They walked up and down the aisles, the little girl smiling and pointing to everything. Then finally they seemed to have made a decision. Freida watched as the mother reached up to take down a doll from the top shelf. The doll looked almost identical to the little girl herself. The straw hat, the white dress and socks. When the mother stretched her arm up, the strap of her pocketbook slid off her shoulder. She handed the doll to her daughter, readjusted her strap, and for a while Freida couldn’t see them anymore.

  The street was busy with cars. People passed by in both directions. Freida turned back and looked toward the butcher shop to see if her mother had come out yet.

  I should go back, she thought to herself. My mother will be worried.

  Just then the beautiful mother and the little girl with the hat, now holding her new doll, strolled out of the store. They turned right and began to walk in Freida’s direction. For a moment, the two girls were face to face.

  Eye to eye. Toe to toe.

  Oh no, Nana. Did you take her doll?

  Of course not.

  Then what? What happened? Something must have happened.

  The little girl stopped when she saw Freida. She clutched her doll even more tightly in her arms and stuck out her tongue, which proved to be more than Freida could possibly take. Right in front of the mother, and in the presence of all of Brownsville, Brooklyn, five-year-old Freida Gozinky hauled back and slapped the little girl right across the face.

  No, you didn’t!

  I did. It left a big white handprint on her red cheek.

  Omigod. What happened then?

  Nothing. I ran away. I ran all the way around the block and hid on somebody’s stoop. I stayed there, crying and crying, until I was sure they had gone. I felt terrible. I still feel terrible today.

  Nana, it was a hundred years ago.

  Well, I wouldn’t say that.

  So that’s it? That’s the story?

  Yup.

  16

  Bloomie’s in Winter

  Practically every time we went to New York City to visit my grandmother she took me to Bloomingdale’s at least once during my stay. She loved to shop and I was like the perfect excuse to do it again. Sometimes Poppy would go with us, but usually he just waited at home with Sammy. He said his circulation was bad, and his feet hurt when he walked too far on city pavement. Besides, it was his day off from work. He liked to relax and listen to Nat King Cole on his new CD player.

  “I’ll be here when you two beautiful ladies get back,” he’d tell us. He’d winked at me. Then just as we were leaving, he’d slip me a single dollar bill and whisper that I shouldn’t spend it all in one place. He was always making jokes like that.

  But especially every December, even the one right before my nana got sick and I wasn’t paying enough attention to notice, we went to Bloomingdale’s. Any other time, the mobs of people walking down the street would just pass right by all the storefront windows of Bloomingdale’s and Saks and Lord & Taylor. But in December all those stores put out ropes and barriers to hold back the lines and keep the crowds in order. People came from all over, not just to shop for the holiday but for a chance to look at the window displays. They were amazing. It was like a minitrip to Disneyland. Inside the windows were moving, singing, lit-up Christmas scenes. Mechanical figures, fake snow, moving sleds and reindeer. Every window, a different scene. Every store, a different theme.

  All about Christmas.

  And close by was the biggest Christmas tree in the world, at Rockefeller Center, all decorated with miles and miles of colored lights. My grandmother made sure we walked right by it on our way to Bloomingdale’s.

  “Are you getting too cold, my shayna maideleh?” my nana asked me. She was holding my hand in hers, leather glove wrapped around wool mitten. We had been standing for a while waiting for the line to move. There were even people in store uniforms that gently urged the crowd along when someone took a little too long at one window. The line wrapped around the velvet ropes three times.

  “A little,” I said.

  I really wasn’t that interested in the window displays. I knew it was my grandmother who loved them. “But I’m fine,” I added. “I can wait.”

  “I can see them anytime,” my grandmother said. “I thought you wanted to see them.”

  “Nah, not really, Nana.”

  She tugged at my arm and pulled me out of the line. “Let’s go inside, then.”

  In and up we went, directly to the girls’ department, with the toy section in the back corner. It wasn’t big, not like FAO Schwarz, and it was mostly collectible toys—fancy train sets, expensive stuffed animals. And dolls.

  She walked right up to the glass display counter. The Madame Alexander dolls were all on display. Some on the shelves in the counter and more on the shelves against the wall. “For your holiday present this year,” my grandmother began. “Which one do you want?” That’s what she always called it, a “holiday present,” I think so she wouldn’t hurt anybody’s feelings.

  My grandmother had already bought me three other Madame Alexander dolls. To start my collection.

  I wish I could have told her I didn’t like them. I had never played with dolls very much, even when I was little. But when I had, I liked tiny dolls, miniature things. Little people and animals you could move around with your hands, hide in your pocket, stick in the soap dish in the bathtub, bury in the dirt in the backyard after a good rain.

  Madame Alexander dolls were about three feet tall and they were dressed in elaborate costumes from all over the world. And they were really expensive.

  “How about the Argentina girl?” my grandmother asked me.

  I shrugged. She was pretty, with her red shirt and vest, her black hair. The girl from India was beautiful too; her dress looked sheer and silky wrapped around her body from her feet to her head.

  “Look at the girl from Turkey. Oh, look at those little sandals.”

  I shrugged again. “You don’t have to get me a present, Nana,” I said.

  “Of course I do,” she said. She was trying to get closer to the shelves behind the counter. Then she stopped. She put her purse down on the glass and turned to me.

  “You don’t like these dolls, do you?” she asked me.

  I looked down at the ground, at the gray carpet, at a little round stain. When I touched it with my shoe, it was sticky.

  “Caroline. Look at me.”

  I did. She was smiling. “You never liked these dolls, did you?”

  I shook my head.

  “But you let me buy them for you.”

  I nodded.

  “Because you knew I wanted them, didn’t you?”

  I nodded again.

  My grandmother took me into her arms and drew me toward her. I could smell her sweet perfume right though her clothes. It would settle in my hair and on my sweater, and when I went to bed that night I would smell it on me.

  “I wish I could buy one for you, Nana. For a Christmas present.”

  “I don’t need a doll,” she said. “I’ve got everything I could ever want, right here with me. Right now.”

  I was so relieved.

  We made our way back to the apartment the exact way we had come. I was hoping Poppy had already ordered the Chinese food. He knew just what to get. We got the same thing every time. There were still tons of people in the streets, still a line waiting to see the window displays. I could see the red fabric and white fur trim of a mechanical Santa Claus throwing his head back as he listened to the mechanical little boy on his lap. I could hear the Christmas music piped out through speakers to the whole world. You could still hear it two blocks away.

  “Oh no, Nana,” I said suddenly.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I meant Hanukkah. I meant the doll could be for your Hanukkah present, right?”

  It was getting dark already. We walked close together and as quickly as we could. My nana squeezed my hand tigh
tly. “Yes, my shayna maideleh. For Hanukkah.”

  17

  Plenty to Worry About

  I decided to try on my Jewish star necklace again. And this time, I would wear it to school and see how it fit me.

  So to speak.

  Nobody would even have to see it. Not yet.

  I wore it under an old long-sleeved shirt I had, one with a high collar. I thought maybe I would bring up the subject of a bat mitzvah this afternoon. Then, when I was ready, I could pull down my collar and show my mother I had been wearing my necklace, that I was sincere.

  “Caroline, are you going to wear that to school?” my mother was asking me. Thursday was her day off. She was in her bathrobe. Her hair was tumbled all around her head. She had a cup of coffee in her hand.

  Sammy had taken his breakfast into the den to watch ESPN and my dad had wandered by and gotten stuck there watching highlights of a baseball game I knew for certain they had watched just last night.

  My mother and I were alone in the kitchen. Had she seen my necklace with her X-ray vision? Did she know?

  I looked down at myself as best I could. “Wear what?”

  “That shirt,” she said.

  I was so relieved, I got confused. If she hadn’t seen my necklace, why was she concerned about my shirt? Of all the things my mother did to annoy me, she never hassled me about my clothes.

  “What’s wrong with this shirt?” I asked.

  She lowered her voice. “I just thought you might want to wear an undershirt or even one of those bras I bought you, Caroline. That shirt is a little clingy.”

  Oh, God. That’s what she was talking about?

  My skin, my face, flushed with a sudden heat of embarrassment as if just that moment I became aware of myself. I materialized in solid form, whereas a minute ago I was invisible. A minute ago I was just a kid. And for no reason at all, tears sprang into my eyes.

  “Oh, sweetie. I’m sorry,” my mother said. “Here, come on. Let’s go into your room. I can drive you to school a little late. Come on.”

  After Sam and my dad left, I let my mom show me what she was talking about, even though I already knew. I had seen it in other girls, little lumps of flesh that practically screamed nakedness. My mother took out the two little bras she had bought me and put in my drawer about a month ago. One was tan, one was white.

  I was just about to take off my shirt with my mom in my room when I remembered I was wearing my Jewish star.

  “No, Mom. Don’t look. Don’t! Turn around,” I shouted. I had my arms crossed, my hands holding either side of my shirt—the shirt that, now that I knew it was practically see-through, I would never wear again as long as I lived.

  She laughed. “Okay. Okay.” She turned her back to me and made my bed as I got undressed. “But, sweetie, we’ve all got them.”

  But we don’t all have this, I thought.

  We don’t all have a religious symbol hanging around our neck. For a second I caught a glimpse of myself in my mirror, my bony collarbone, my bare shoulders, and the glint of gold resting just at my neck. What would Mom think? Would it make her happy or sad? Would she think I was trying to be someone I wasn’t? Would she roll her eyes at me like I was just a child? Like I was hypocritical? Two-faced? Just plain silly?

  I didn’t feel like finding out. Not now.

  I quickly undid the clasp and slipped the necklace back into the top drawer of my dresser. I pulled the elastic bra, the tan-colored one, down over my head, slipped my arms in, and adjusted it over my chest.

  “Okay, now you can look,” I said, turning around.

  “You’re a woman now,” my mother said. “Just imagine that.”

  “I can’t,” I answered. “I’m not ready.”

  “Nobody feels really ready. Ever. If you waited until you felt totally ready for something, you’d probably be waiting forever. You’d never try anything new.”

  I wanted to tell her my idea. Right now. It was perfect.

  “How do you think I got through medical school?” She laughed.

  Mom, I want to be Jewish too. Like you. I want to know funny little Yiddish words. Like Nana and Poppy. I want to know what you do on Yom Kippur. Like Rachel.

  I need a bat mitzvah.

  But my mother was already standing up. “Oh, by the way,” she said. “Poppy is coming up here with Aunt Gert. They want to visit before Gert leaves for the winter in Florida.”

  “When?”

  “This weekend. Why?”

  “But this weekend is that sleepover. At Lauren’s!”

  “Who?”

  “Lauren Chase, Mom. Saturday. Mom, I told you. You said I could go.”

  “Not to worry.” My mother kissed the top of my head. “Sunday. They’re coming Sunday.”

  My I-think-I-maybe-want-a-bat-mitzvah speech and the necklace would have to wait for another day. Suddenly, I was reminded of more important things to worry about.

  18

  What I Need

  Rachel’s invitation came in the mail that very Saturday. I had known that she and her mother made them by hand, but when I opened it, I couldn’t even tell. Except that it was so special. It was gold paper. No, I couldn’t say gold, exactly, more like copper, with a border of purple along one side. In the center, also bordered in purple, was a white paper announcement:

  * * *

  Please join us in celebration of our daughter

  RACHEL YAEL BECOMING A BAT MITZVAH SATURDAY, DECEMBER EIGHTH TWO THOUSAND AND SEVEN AT TEN-FIFTEEN IN THE MORNING TEMPLE SHALOM 259 RICHARDS AVENUE KIDDUSH LUNCHEON FOLLOWING SERVICES SANDI AND JAY MILLER

  * * *

  At the very top, on the copper paper, were three perfectly placed lavender-colored gems and more Hebrew letters, with the translation:

  Make for me a holy place so that I may dwell among you.

  There was a phone number and even an e-mail address just for RSVPs. RachelsBmitzvah@aol.com.

  I held the invitation in my hand, turning it over and feeling the weight of it. It had been addressed to my whole family, Sammy too, because, as Rachel had told me, we were family friends. Not just friend-friends. I ran my finger over the three little stones glued to the top of the page. They held fast.

  I thought about all the people who were getting this invitation today. Rachel had invited her entire family, cousins and relatives she didn’t even know but who wanted to come and share this event with her. People were going to make plane reservations now and book hotel rooms.

  “You ready to go?”

  I nearly dropped the invitation on the kitchen floor.

  “Dad?” I turned around.

  “To your party, Car. Isn’t it time? Don’t we have to pick Rachel up?”

  I had that kind of look, like I was doing something wrong. I dropped Rachel’s invitation on the counter, like I had just broken something or I was sneaking extra cookies, even though, of course, I wasn’t. But when my dad looked at me, I could tell he thought the same thing.

  “I’ll be ready in a minute, Dad. Don’t forget Sammy’s sleeping bag for Rachel,” I called out behind me. I was already halfway up the stairs.

  I threw my clothes into an overnight bag. Pajamas, two pairs, depending on what the other girls wore. Clothes for tomorrow: clean jeans, a shirt, another sweater, new socks, two pairs of underpants, and my one extra bra. You never know.

  I threw in my toothbrush, hairbrush, and my iPod in case I couldn’t sleep, which happens to me sometimes. And then just before I headed out the door I opened my grandmother’s bottle of perfume. I put my nose right up to the top.

  If there were a genie in that bottle, she would have appeared right before my eyes. And she would have looked just like my nana. Actually, it wasn’t like I could see her, but suddenly I could feel her. I wanted to know what she would tell me if she were here.

  I knew what I would ask.

  “Don’t come up,” I shouted down to my dad as I passed the landing of the stairs on my way to my parents’ bedroom. “I’ll be rig
ht there.”

  I went into my parents’ bathroom.

  There, I thought so.

  My mother had cotton balls in her medicine cabinet.

  I turned the tiny bottle upside down against the cotton very quickly, up and down. I didn’t want to waste it. This was all I had. I could see a tiny spot of golden soaking into the fluffy cotton. I carefully put the top on and the bottle back in my room, and then right before I flew down the stairs and out to the car, I tucked the cotton ball under the elastic of my bra. The tan one.

  If she could hear me, I knew what I would say.

  Maybe I could have a bat mitzvah, Nana.

  And then I’d be Jewish too.

  19

  You Don’t Look Jewish

  Lauren’s house was massive. My dad didn’t seem to notice, but if he had, he wouldn’t have cared. My mother and father are not impressed with things like that. He dropped off Rachel and me and all our stuff at the front door. He introduced himself to Mrs. Chase—“Pick-up time is noon tomorrow”—and then he was off.

  We walked inside, into a cavernous hall, and I missed him already.

  I used to get homesick at sleepovers all the time, even at Rachel’s, long past the age it was more acceptable. So even in fifth grade my dad would sometimes have to come and pick me up in the middle of the night. I remember once, I had fallen asleep waiting for him to show up, after I broke down crying and wanting to go home. I heard him come into the dark house. My friend—whoever it was, I don’t remember—was already fast asleep. I heard the mom talking to my dad, laughing softly, telling him not to worry. No problem, she was saying. And I pretended to stay asleep. I kept my eyes shut as he carried me out to the warm car and slipped me into the backseat.

  I felt so safe and comfortable listening to the vibrations of the car and my dad’s soft humming as we rode toward home. Later I would act as if I had been disappointed in myself for being such a baby, but secretly I loved it. I loved knowing I could go home anytime I wanted.