F.
I find Pinni sitting on the deck with his nose in a book. Because he is nearsighted, he doesn’t read with his eyes but with the tip of his nose.
I come up close to him. “Reb Pinni, I have to ask you something.”
Pinni takes his nose out of the book. “What did you say, Peewee?” Peewee is what he calls me when he’s in a good mood, which is almost always, even when he bickers with my brother, and even when his Teibl pouts.
I tell him what I have in mind: is it true there are no classes in America?
You should have seen Pinni flare up with fiery, lofty expressions. America is the only country where true freedom and equality reign, he says. And here’s where Pinni pours out his favorite words. In America, he says, you can be sitting here, and right next to you the president, and next to him a beggar, a tramp, a shlepper. And a little farther on — a count, an earl, a millionaire! Civilization! Progress! Columbus!
An emigrant, a complete stranger, interrupts him. “If it’s such a fortunate land as you say, where everyone is equal, then where do all these shleppers, counts, beggars, and earls come from?”
Let’s leave Pinni to fight it out with the stranger and a few others. We now know that in America there are no classes. Mendl is right — he says you have to hate the upper classes, which means we have to hate those who sit in the ship’s higher classes. I don’t understand — what do I have against them? Mendl points out that “they’ve locked themselves up in first and second class among their fancy mirrors. Why? Aren’t we good enough for them? Aren’t we human beings just like they are? Isn’t our God the same as their God?”
In the end, Mendl has his revenge. One night the snobs from first and second class come down to us in third class, and we all become equals.
It’s the eve of Yom Kippur for the Kol Nidrei prayer.
G.
Because the Prince Albert sailed after Rosh Hashanah, we had to observe Yom Kippur on the ship. On the eve of Yom Kippur, we prepare for the fast by eating roasted potatoes. There is no kosher kitchen on Prince Albert, so we’ve been living on potatoes plus lots of bread, tea, and sugar every day. It’s not so bad — you could live all year like that. But Bruche says that your stomach swells if you eat too many potatoes. Is there anything she likes? She finds fault with everything! For instance, she doesn’t like Prince Albert because it moves so slowly. Who ever heard that a journey should last ten days? she says. We tell her it isn’t the ship’s fault, but the ocean’s fault. And our Pinni explains that there is three times as much ocean as dry land. My brother Elyahu says it’s only two times as much. Whatever you may say, he knows his geography better. The world, he says, consists of two-thirds water and a third dry land, so therefore the ocean is twice as much as dry land.
“Three times!”
“Two times!”
They quarrel but quickly make up.
H.
Who will conduct the service? Who will sing Kol Nidrei? Naturally, it must be my brother Elyahu. Though he was never a cantor, his father was a cantor and a famous one. Elyahu has a good voice for chanting and knows the prayers. What more do you need? Pinni suggests that my brother be invited to sing Kol Nidrei. He spreads a rumor throughout the ship, whispering in people’s ears that this young man with the red beard (Elyahu) is a fantastic singer, and his praying extraordinary! And if his little brother (me) could help out with his soprano, we’d have a Yom Kippur for which God and man would envy us.
Elyahu pleads to be left alone, swearing that in his whole life he has never prayed on the pulpit during the High Holidays. But no matter how much he protests, he is forced onto the pulpit, a round table covered with a white cloth. Pinni grabs me by the ear: “Go, Peewee, do your work!” And we produce a Kol Nidrei for the passengers that they will remember for generations.
I.
What makes it a Kol Nidrei to remember? It isn’t so much the Kol Nidrei itself as the yaalehs, and not so much the yaalehs as the weeping. Men and women alike, they moan, sigh, and blow their noses at first. Then, as they wipe their eyes, the tears come quietly, then louder and louder. Wailing and keening begin, ending with much fainting. They are reminding themselves that just a year ago each of them was in his home, in his synagogue, at his proper place in his usual pew, prayer book in hand, listening to his cantor and choirboys. Now they are wanderers, chased and driven like sheep to the slaughter, packed tightly together so that it’s hard to catch their breath. Even the dressed-up passengers from first and second class, with shiny top hats on their heads, can’t control themselves and pretend to be wiping sweat with their silk handkerchiefs, but I clearly see tears in their eyes. The expression of sorrow is so moving that even the stewards and sailors stand at a respectful distance observing Jews wrapped in white prayer shawls standing on the deck swaying in prayer, weeping and wailing, as they realize how bitter their hearts are.
My brother Elyahu sings out, and I back him up. And there in a corner, among the women, stands my mother wearing her holiday shawl, her prayer book in her hand, bathed in tears.
My mother is in her glory. Today is her day!
J.
The following morning we wake up a little earlier in order to sing “Adon-Olam,” with its old familiar tune, but we can’t do it. Not only is it impossible to pray, you can’t stand on your feet, you can’t reach the pulpit. Everything’s dark. We can barely make one another out. Even taking a breath is unbearable. It’s bad, worse than bad — yes, we’re truly dying.
What’s happened? I’m too tired to explain, so I’ll leave it for tomorrow.
II
THE PARTING OF THE RED SEA
A.
I started to tell you about the unhappy incident that happened to us on Yom Kippur morning on the ship. It was terrible — we’ll remember it all our lives.
It started off innocently enough. Right after Kol Nidrei the night before, a little cloud, a thick black little cloud, had appeared in a corner of the sky. I and my friend Mendl saw it first because while everyone else was down below, crying and reading the Psalms after Kol Nidrei, we were walking around the Prince Albert. We found a little corner and sat quietly. It was still and warm, and we felt good but a bit sad. What Mendl was thinking I don’t know, but I was thinking about God, who was sitting up in the sky, and how great He must be to have created all this below. What must He be thinking when He hears so many Jews reading Psalms, praising Him and pouring out their hearts to Him? My mother says He hears and sees everyone, and He knows everything, even what I’m feeling in my heart this very minute. If that’s so, it’s not good, because I was just thinking about a good apple, a sweet pear, and a drink of cold water. The potatoes have given me heartburn, but we’re forbidden to drink. Who would think of drinking water on Yom Kippur after Kol Nidrei? My brother Elyahu would kill me. He says I have to fast till Yom Kippur is over tomorrow night. My mother says, “We’ll see.” In the meantime she’s searching all over the ship for me and can’t find me. A sailor shows her where we’re sitting at the bow of the ship. She shouts, “Motl! Motl?” “What is it, Mama?” “What do you mean, what is it? Go to bed! Tomorrow we have to wake up early, did you forget? It’s a holy day.” I don’t feel like going to bed, but I have to.