“Who didn’t?” Kagan asked with conviction.
Someone klopped the reading table with his open hand. Everyone became quiet with anticipation. A moment later the chazan began to chant quietly.
“In the heavenly assembly....”
The decorum was shattered by half the congregation calling out, “the earthly assembly.” The chazan himself was klopping the reading table in righteous, even surly, indignation. The rabbi emerged from under his tallis, raising his arms in smooth patting gestures to quiet the congregation, as if all of Israel were stuck together like dough and a little pat here or there was all that was needed to prepare the loaf of Israel for its natural ferment, Kol Nidre.
Kagan laughed. He had a sense of tradition that embraced such catastrophes. The same thing happened every year — like clockwork, like Yom Kippur itself — since in some books this introductory formula to Kol Nidre read, “In the heavenly assembly and in the earthly assembly,” and in others it was the reverse. Every year the same tumult occurred as the holiest day of the year began. Kagan wondered if the heavenly assembly had similar problems. He made a mental note to ask Ozzie. •
“Listen, Benny,” Kagan heard himself saying, “you know that chimp down the street? I think he’s Jewish.”
Before Kagan could explain or even before Benny could react, the earthly assembly had quieted down and the chazan had begun Kol Nidre.
Kagan listened to the sounds with a quiet heart. Although the “ay” wasn’t a particularly soothing sound in itself, all together, “Kol nidray, veassaray, vacharamay, vechinuyay, vekinusay” had a soothing effect like the rabbi’s patting gesture. Kagan heard the fearful necessity: life is perilous but it must go on. Kol Nidre makes it go with all those “ays” as in “Oy vay!” You can make it in such a difficult and crazy world.
Kagan put his tallis hoodlike over his head. He rarely did so, but the warmth of the chazan’s hushed tones seemed to welcome the intimacy of the prayer shawl about his head. Kagan felt that they all were one congregation. All standing together before God on the eve of the holiest day of the year, Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. All equal.
You can’t tell the players without a scorecard, Kagan had joked, but he knew that you didn’t need a score-card to tell the name of this game — life or death. It was obvious from the uniforms. Some were wearing shrouds, but not Kagan. (Theatrical or not, there’s a limit!) When Kagan asked why, he was told, “We wear white to be like the angels. The angels wear white and they don’t eat; they sing God’s praises all day.”
Kagan couldn’t buy that after hanging around with Ozzie. It’s true Ozzie didn’t eat, and for all Kagan knew, Ozzie wore white, but it certainly wasn’t any shroud. More likely a turtleneck. As for praying all day, there wasn’t much chance of that unless you counted his praying to get laid. If we’re like the angels, Kagan thought, a pity on us.
In the old days people didn’t run around like the angels on Yom Kippur; they were just afraid of death. They wore shrouds to get their heads together, not for some heavenly costume ball. Kagan remained a traditionalist: he was afraid of death and he admitted it. As for being an angel, well, Ozzie could have it. Where was Ozzie? Strangely enough, Kagan had never seen him (heard him really) on any Yom Kippur. Maybe everybody playing angel by praying all day embarrassed him. Who knows, he never comes into shul anyway.
Kagan’s reflections ceased as his eye caught the white woolen tallis hanging near his face. Up close he could see the rough woolen weave, somewhat uneven but regular. He found it very reassuring that all those coarse, rough fibers could come together to form a sacred garment, a tallis. He wanted to reach out and touch his fellow Jews, but his hands cradled his machzor. Instead he looked down at the page, and as he did so he heard the chazan begin the repetition of Kol Nidre in a more forceful voice.
Kagan surrendered himself to the prayer. He no longer felt the need to reach out and touch his brethren for they were already in contact through the “ays” of Kol Nidre, those unlikely sounds of comfort and sustenance that connected each Jew to his fellow. Kagan began to sway with the congregation as if they all were physically attached. His mind relaxed, experiencing directly and understanding indirectly. At the same time that he was hearing, indeed saying Kol Nidre with all his heart, in some mysterious way that did not contradict his full participation he was also intellectually aware of the paradox that this most sacred prayer, expressed through the softest and the most fragile utterances of the communal heart, was also a complex legal formulation — oaths, vows, pledges, null, void! He could hardly understand the English translation, but he knew what it meant: although people are human and God is divine, man is made in God’s image, and on Yom Kippur man’s aspirations are divine. Don’t we dress like angels? Aren’t we afraid of death? People try their best, but they are people and their performance is human. Oh, so human! Kagan could write the book on that routine; what man couldn’t?
Kagan prayed and in his praying he intuited the message of Kol Nidre: life is a sacred paradox. We are created in the image of God, but we are cast in the mold of dust and are subject to the rules of both. The only way to realize our image is to understand our mold. Our mold is a year with hundreds of days filled with a myriad particles of dust that we might mistake for ourselves or what we should be. It is a mold of vows and oaths and nulls and voids. A mold that demands atonement and demands life so that our image can be liberated.
As Kagan swayed and chanted the ancient formulation, he felt fulfilled as a man of the people; for tonight they were all men of the people. Kagan swelled with the magic of community. They were all attached by the reality of Kol Nidre, the weave of the tallis, the furs of Bienstock, the wool remnants of Mr. Isaacson, the calming pats of the rabbi — and, yes, even the remedial-reading tests of Mr. Maurice Kagan, Room 204. Each person is unique and yet a necessary part of the whole. Again the paradox: humanity is only common when it is uncommon for we are all in God’s image unique. Kagan prayed — with humility and with hope — as the chazan burst into full voice for the final repetition of Kol Nidre.
The chazan and congregation, still concentrating intently, then asked communally and responsively that the people of Israel be forgiven for their sins. The chazan intoned the prayer recited at the beginning of every festival: “Blessed art Thou who has given us life... and permitted us to arrive at this season.” People began talking in a wave of relief that swept through the shtibl. Relief that Yom Kippur had begun and an intense emotional and spiritual high, Kol Nidre, had been reached. Some sat down only to stand up again as their neighbors reminded them of the need to recite a certain Sabbath psalm. Again someone in the main room klopped the reading table. Although the more boisterous quieted down and the service continued, a low murmuring persisted.
Kagan remained standing after the Sabbath psalm, his tallis over his head. He did not remove it even though it wasn’t his thing. The hooded-figure look conjured up for him more the medieval Christians persecuting Jews than it did the Semitic men of the desert. But tonight he wanted to remain under the tallis’s influence. Only reluctantly did he even turn the page,
Benny leaned over and took his ten-year-old son’s machzor. Turning to the right page, he said, “Look inside a little bit. This is Yom Kippur.”
“How many times did we say that?” his son asked.
“What?”
“Kol Nidre,” the child said.
“You were here. How many times did you hear it?” Benny asked the boy.
The boy sat with an embarrassed smile.
“Do you think we said it once? Five times? Fifty times? You must have heard something.”
“Three or four, I guess,” answered the boy.
“Three. Look. See here in the machzor it says ‘three times,’” Benny said, showing him the place. The father sat back and continued, “This isn’t the bakery where you pick a number, any number. This is a shul. Look in the machzor instead of daydreaming and you’ll learn. You think you’re at the track with K
agan where you can pick any number? You’re not. We read Kol Nidre three times. It’s a triple. Not a single, not a double, not a.... What do they call it when you pick the first four horses in order? Kagan, what do they call that?”
But Kagan couldn’t answer. The question had unleashed it all. He blinked his eyes but he still saw the four horses pounding towards him. They had just started the race at the rear of the ladies’ section and they were already running 5 — 7 — 3 — 4. He could see the horses straining at the hard metal bits in their long, tender mouths. Behind the pounding hooves, he could see the wheels of the sulkies. They were roaring through the women’s section. Kagan wanted to scream, “Duck!” but the horses didn’t touch the women. Kagan thanked God for sparing Mrs. Bienstock, the furrier’s mother, as the lead horse (what a bright clear five on his side!) dashed through her. Such fury certainly would have trampled such an old woman, who as a child had lived through the Kishiniv pogroms. But Kagan’s mind did not remain for long on the old praying woman. His attention quickly returned to the phantom of Yonkers Raceway. The entire race was before him: the horses were trotting the entire race almost in place. Kagan saw the grandstands and the infield swirl by. The six-branched electric candelabra in memory of the six million became the tote board as the trotters pounded into the backstretch still 5 — 7 — 3 — 4. Kagan saw the apparition sliding slowly forward in its pantomimed frenzy.
The mechitzah, the gauzelike curtain (in the theater they had called it a scrim) separating the men’s section from the women’s, was the finish line! In his astonishment and fear, Kagan couldn’t speak. He didn’t even know for whom he should root! How could he feel anything but terrible if 5 — 7 — 3 — 4 won? He could have won a fortune, really cleaned up — plus Ozzie’s payoff for him. And yet — wouldn’t it be something if that number won?
Kagan sat in great amazement and near terror as if he were witnessing some fundamental defining of the universe. He had no idea what it meant, but he sensed that it was terribly important to him, to all sorts of people and places and creatures and things that he could but dimly imagine. Many things would be irrevocably determined by this event. He sat there as if he were witnessing the formulation of the laws of nature: gravity goes either up or down, gentlemen, there can be no other solution.
The lead horse, a large gray creature, charged through the finish line, the unruffled, unmoved curtain of separation. Five, Kagan muttered to himself. A medium-sized brown horse elegantly crossed the finish line a length behind. Seven, said Kagan, registering its arrival. Three and four, running neck and neck, were a little further back. Kagan couldn’t believe how close they were. First one horse would edge ahead temporarily as it leaned into its stride — only to be nosed by the other. Three was on Kagan’s left, and as they came within a foot of the curtain three seemed to have a slight but definite lead. Five — seven — three — four was going to win the superfecta! It was really going to happen! Kagan’s heart beat fiercely, his mouth was dry, his knees were weak. Thank God he was sitting down.
Just then, in the back row of the men’s section, to Kagan’s right, where number four was driving toward the finish, a not so familiar face stood up, pushed back his half of the curtain, and asked, “Do any of the ladies need a machzor?” He pushed the finish line into the nose of number four! Three had been winning! Three had been ahead, but four hit the finish line first! Or had been hit by it?! Kagan couldn’t believe his eyes. How could it be? He stood up and looked over to the memorial tote board. It was flashing the results: 5 — 7 — 4 — 3! Kagan collapsed back into his seat in stupefaction. He turned to see if anyone had claimed a foul, but he couldn’t tell. Benny’s oldest son was in the way. Kagan sat motionless as if he were returning to earth in some kind of a time capsule. He heard a voice calling his name and turned around.
“Moe,” Benny was asking, “what’s the name of the crazy bet?”
“It was close, Benny. It was close,” Kagan shuddered.
“Yeah, it’s close as anything in here. It’s those women back there. If you open a window, they go crazy. They sit there in eighty-degree weather with their coats on. Every year I try to open the window and they ask me if I want to kill them.”
“What do you answer them?” Schwartz asked.
“I tell them the truth. I think they’re crazy, but I don’t want to kill anybody,” Benny answered.
“Benny, you’re a natural diplomat,” Schwartz commented.
“Say, Kagan, what do you call that bet?” Benny asked again.
“A superfecta,” Kagan replied drily, but the word quickened his juices. Kagan turned to Schwartz. “Say, who is that guy?” he whispered.
“What guy?” Schwartz asked in a regular tone of voice.
“Sh!” Kagan hissed, not wanting to embarrass the man.
Just then the man squeezed by them. He was an older man, perhaps an old man. It was hard to tell for sure. The skin color was good, but the flesh was a little sunken. His features, too, looked as if they had known more precise days, but they still weren’t bad. In the right kind of professional photograph they might still look strong. Once they must have been “chiseled,” and now, rather than “weathering” gracefully under the temporal elements, they had caved in a little. Gravity pulls down; the whole face seemed to sag a little.
Kagan watched him work his way through the main room to the men’s room. After he had disappeared, Kagan again asked his question.
“Who is that guy?”
“I don’t know,” Schwartz said, revealing a trace of aggravation, “but the next time he borrows a machzor, maybe he won’t be in such a hurry to give it away.”
“Yeah?” Kagan asked, amused at the idea of the not so familiar face giving away Schwartz’s extra prayer book. “How many can you use at once?”
“Yeah, well, actually I asked if he wanted one. He didn’t have any.”
“Oh, a socialist after all,” Kagan said, but then he remembered his question. “Who is he?”
“He’s a Jew, a plain Jew. Who knows who he is? I don’t think anybody here does. He comes every year for Rosh Hashanah and for Yom Kippur. He’ll be here tomorrow and then we won’t see him until next year.”
“Just like that? He comes and no one knows who he is?”
“Maybe the rabbi knows. None of us does.”
The older man was finding his way back to the small room. It took him some time to pick his way among the densely packed Jews. When he finally came up to the men, Kagan spoke to him.
“I saw what you did,” Kagan said mysteriously.
“What’s that?” the older man asked innocently.
“Moving the curtain there.”
The older man smiled. “Those are the breaks,” he chuckled. “Some days you can’t get a mitzvah. No one needed a machzor.”
“Yeah,” Kagan said in true disappointment.
“As a matter of fact, it wouldn’t have been my mitzvah. It’s not my book. It’s his,” he said pointing to Schwartz. “You didn’t mind my offering it to the ladies, did you? I should have asked.”
“No, not at all,” Schwartz lied.
Kagan stood and offered the old man his hand.
“My name is Moe Kagan.”
“Good,” the old man said, shaking Kagan’s hand.
The older man returned to his seat and to Schwartz’s machzor.
Schwartz smiled at Kagan.
“I guess he liked your name. It never sounded like much to me.”
“Yeah,” Kagan said, agreeing with the first part of Schwartz’s remark. “I wonder who he is.”
“You really think he can loan you money?” Schwartz needled.
“That’s all you think I think about, isn’t it? Well, you’re wrong.”
Kagan was truly offended. That’s all they think I look for in people, the dollar sign. If these wise guys ever needed money the way I do, they would kill for it. I can’t even greet a stranger on Yom Kippur without everybody making a joke out of it.
“Moe,
I didn’t think you wanted to ask him where he gets his suits.”
Kagan smiled. That was some strange suit. An old, heavy, rumpled dark green wool job. When and where did he get that? That is some old suit! He must be able to afford one newer than that. Who is he anyway? Kagan wondered. Maybe he wears it because he wants to. Maybe he is an eccentric millionaire who comes to pray here where he is anonymous so that he can concentrate on his prayers. At his big synagogue they probably kiss his ass because of all the money. That figures. Boy, do they kiss ass for money! Everywhere. Don’t they think God knows what is going on? That’s probably why he is here posing as a poor man: he is embarrassed to stand before God on the high holidays with all those people pressing their lips to his tuchis. Still, it must feel pretty good the rest of the year.
Maybe he will give me eight or ten thousand to straighten myself out. What’s it to him with his kind of money? If I had it, I would give it to him just to get a new suit, but what does he know about need? What a crazy idea, Kagan thought. How the hell is he going to straighten me out when all he can do is twist around the finish line?
As he thought about that finish line, the image of horse number four nosing out number three at the crooked finish line appeared before him in a freeze-frame instant replay. Gevalt, thought Kagan, this is better than NBC. The image faded and Kagan began to wonder who really would win the superfecta. He looked at his pickle-green watch. It was early, too early. The race wouldn’t be run for at least another hour.
Kagan tried to return to his prayers, but it didn’t work. The wiggly Hebrew print kept turning into horses before his eyes and the page numbers distracted him to the point of madness. How do they expect a person to pray with numbers on every page? he moaned. I’d better settle down and then maybe I’ll be able to pray a little.
Kagan's Superfecta: And Other Stories Page 5