Hebrew School Dropout

Dedicated to Trudy Jas -

You would have read my story and left me feedback filling me with love and laughter. I miss you, my friend!

Hebrew School Dropout

“Pumpkin spice latte?” the waitress asked. I slid my notepad to the side and smiled in response.

My agent looked at me over her glasses, her expression one of exasperation.

I ignored her as our mugs were placed in front of us followed by apple cinnamon muffins. I pulled one close to me, breathing in the fragrance.

“Yum,” I closed my eyes as nostalgia swirled around me. Instantly I was transported back to my grandmother’s kitchen and her freshly baked apple pies. Try as we may, my sisters and I could never replicate those pies. We had come close but never quite got it right. Most likely the secret ingredient we were missing was Grandma herself.

“Earth to Hannah,” Erica’s chastising tone brought me back to the coffee shop and our project on hand.

“Sorry, got lost in apple cinnamon for a minute there,” I said laughing.

“You can’t be serious.”

“What can I say? It’s that time of year.” I took a sip of my latte and flipped open my notepad to a blank page.

Tradition

Erica looked at me, rolled her eyes slightly, and got down to business. “How are the final edits going?” She took a sip of her black coffee.

“Well, about that,” I tentatively began, my heartrate picking up slightly.

“No.” The word was as harsh as the clatter of her coffee cup hitting the saucer.

“I haven’t said anything yet,” I protested.

“No,” Erica repeated. “You are going to finish your novel before going on a wild goose chase. We are close to the finish line now.”

“Yes, but a project is calling me.”

“Projects are always calling you. Don’t answer. Focus, Hannah. You have deadlines.”

I knew it wasn’t going to be easy to pitch my concept, but I wasn’t going to back down. Never had an idea rooted itself so deeply into my mind. I scribbled down the next word.

Conviction

Erica pulled my tattered manuscript out of her oversized tote bag. There was a jarring number of sticky notes hanging off the edges. Not a good sign. Each colorful tab started as a gentle suggestion then ended in battle. I couldn’t do it, not today. With a December deadline, I had plenty of time despite Erica’s bellyaching about procrastination.

“It’s called Being Jewish.” I pushed Erica’s apple cinnamon muffin across the table as a peace offering and plunged ahead. “The new book, it’s called Being Jewish. It’s a collection really, a short story collection, Jewish themed.” I heard myself rambling. My words, my constant companions and confidantes, were running away in fear.

“Jewish themed? You know the amount of time that would go into researching Judaism?”

“No, not about Judaism exactly. More so the experience of being Jewish. How it feels. A mix of fiction and creative nonfiction, with some musings about spirituality.”

Erica sat back. She stared at me. I stared back. I knew it was good. If she didn’t want to back me, I would self-publish.

Holding her stare, my hand blindly added another word to the list.

Determination

“Hannah, you’re known for science fiction. Some may say religion is science fiction, but that’s another story,” she mumbled, taking a bite of her muffin before continuing. “Would you consider using a pen name? Your trilogy sales may take a hit from this.”

A flash of hurt came and went, followed by a moment to collect my thoughts. I didn’t want to lash out at Erica although her insinuation was unkind.

“If I happen to lose a few readers due to ignorance, so be it,” I replied.

Courage

We sat quietly digesting the conversation along with our decadent treats. I knew when to push and when to back off when it came to negotiating with Erica. Finding neutral territory, we made small talk about who said what at a recently attended author’s event.

“Until next week?” I stood, putting the tattered manuscript in my tote bag, grimacing at the rainbow of sticky notes.

“Bring the final edits,” Erica said bluntly, tossing down some wrinkled dollar bills onto the table.

“Bring an open mind,” I answered over my shoulder as I left the coffee shop. In exchange for the edits, Erica would hear me out. I had one shot to get it right and a lot of work to do. The butterflies started flapping their wings.

*

I did the rewrites, submitting to the red circles and slashes through my words. The edits suddenly seemed meaningless as my passion for part three of the sci-fi trilogy had been depleted. The success of the series was no longer important to me, and the revisions were simply an obligation to be fulfilled.

I yearned to write something important, something that touched people and made them say, “Yes, I get it. I feel the same way.”

*

“So, Hannah, the Jewish High Holy days are next week. Are you going to services?” Erica asked as we sat in our favorite diner the following week.

“No, I don’t belong to a temple. I’ll try to catch something livestreaming.” I rearranged the fries on my plate and took a bite of my pastrami sandwich.

“That doesn’t sound very inspiring. What will your readers think of someone writing a book about Judaism who doesn’t observe the holidays?” She blew on her soup before taking a tentative sip.

“Erica. Again, it’s not a book about Judaism but rather about being Jewish. Who’s to say the right and wrong way to observe? Maybe I will sit and reflect at home or maybe I will choose not to.” I put my sandwich down, preparing for battle.

“You would choose to ignore the sacred holiday and still call yourself a Jew?” Erica crumbled crackers into her soup nonchalantly after tossing that zinger at me. Her words hurt me deeper than I would have liked.

“Yes, I can be a nonpracticing Jew. I have a strong love for the culture, the history, the people. I feel a pull when I see someone wearing a Magen David and feel inner joy when they notice mine. It’s a sense of belonging, community.”

Identity

“Your passion is back, I see. Have you researched the genre?” she asked, putting on her no-nonsense agent face.

“I have. Jewish-themed stories are on the rise. Think about it, Erica, it makes sense. Antisemitism continues to rear its ugly head. But it’s more than that; there’s a troubling sense of doom, really. Right under our noses, museums are stripping away exhibits. And by the way, have you seen the banned books table recently? You go to bookstores routinely. Have you noticed authors being silenced, or are you too busy searching out your success stories?”

My words were back, rallying around me in my cause.

“We need to teach children about the Holocaust in a way they can relate to. Who is going to pass along the stories when the survivors are dwindling and the deniers are gaining traction?”

I pressed on. “People are terrified. We need a voice, a reminder of who we are.”

Never again

“And you’re that voice, Hannah? Hebrew school dropout turned expert, is that your tagline?” Erica pushed aside both her empty soup bowl and her tact. She was playing devil’s advocate with me, and I didn’t appreciate it.

The fear of reading from the Torah in front of a packed congregation came back to me. At thirteen I was more comfortable reading books in my bedroom than reading prayers at a Bat Mitzvah. Erica was right, I did opt out of the ceremony, but it wasn’t a decision that I had made lightly.

I didn’t acknowledge the snarky remark, not feeling it necessary to defend my younger self. Instead, I explored the memories that she had stirred up.

The rabbi appeared through the door hidden in the paneling as organ music filled the synagogue. His presence on the bema silenced my sisters and me as we sat in our best dresses and patent leather shoes. The cantor’s kind face calmed me as he led the chorus while the Rabbi scanned his congregation seeming to see deep inside each one of us.

I listened back intently from the diner, hearing my childish voice reciting the words softly. My Hebrew was strong enough to read along from the prayer book, and when I faltered, the collective voice of the congregation kept me afloat. The words always came back to me with a gentle tug.

The V'ahavta suddenly played in my mind like an old forgotten song on a turntable. Its message of devotion struck me like never before. They say that youth is wasted on the young. Perhaps the same is true for those incredible words of wisdom.

For the second time in the span of a week, I was transported back to the tiny Bronx kitchen. “For a sweet year,” I heard my grandpa announce as we dipped crisp apple slices into golden honey.

Holidays were more than black-and-white memories kept in a plastic bin. They were colorful, like the tablecloth embroidered by my grandmother’s hand. They were strong, like the silver candlestick holders polished to perfection. They were warm, like the freshly baked challah.

Who would keep these memories alive? Would they slip away, as if they had never existed?

I looked at Erica through the mist in my eyes, feeling the presence of my parents and grandparents in the booth with us. The last line of the V’ahavta echoed in my mind, a line that had always intrigued me as a child, visualizing it in my imagination.

Write them on the doorposts of your house and upon your gates.

It was time to write. Will the readers relate to my stories, will it touch their hearts? I had to believe so.

Faith