Avi would never admit that fate or factors beyond one’s own control could determine one’s destiny. He was a rationalist and dismissed people with other perspectives on life as being misled by false reasoning or, worse yet, by emotions. He said, if questioned about the imponderable, “It’s best to leave those questions alone. Fine with me if you want to posit a God like a Newtonian clockmaker, setting things in motion and then sitting back to watch it unwind.” Then, after a pause, he hastened to apologize, “If you’ll forgive the pun.”
After earning his MS in computer science he felt he also qualified as an apprentice clockmaker, at least in terms of his own life. He could choose a location and employer, a place to live, clothes, friends, leisure pastimes, etc. “All done in a rational manner. And I’m always aware of the consequences of my actions and choices. With all the facts before me I can rationally select the best path to follow.”
His past, his childhood, family, and forebears, he claimed ,were just the raw materials that could be fashioned by a skilled Swiss craftsman, refusing to acknowledge that they were external or factors beyond his control. He shrugged them off. “They’re just there and not what makes my clock tick.”
He found a position in New York City and moved into an apartment on the Lower East Side, not knowing that his maternal great, great grandparents had lived a few blocks away when they escaped to the New World from the pogroms in Eastern Europe at the end of the 19th Century. He was used to saying, “In an irrational world there is plenty of room for coincidence.”
His grandparents had moved to Chicago after they were married and his own parents met while studying at the University of Wisconsin in Madison. They moved to Milwaukee after graduation. Neither had talked about the old country or their roots in New York and Avi never asked. He had no idea he was named after two of his great, great grandfathers: Avi and Martin. Now they were separated by six blocks and a hundred and twenty-seven years.
Avi liked his job. He worked remotely. Team meetings were infrequent and most of them via conference calls. New York was exciting and lower Manhattan was a mix of many neighborhoods and ethnicities. From Chinatown to Little Italy. Restaurants with cuisines from all over the world.
He took several short walks during the day, finding that they cleared the cobwebs, got his brain turning over in high gear. He let the varied surroundings register in his backbrain. He was not aware that he smiled when he walked by a closed storefront that was once a Kosher butcher or any of the old buildings, locked gates in front and a single Jewish star above heavy doors, that once served as small ethnic synagogues. Several had weathered notice boxes in front with messages about services or sermons, most were in letters or languages that he couldn’t read.
He noted later that it was Monday, February 12th when he threw off his covers two minutes before the alarm went off at 6:15 and realized the little schuls were probably each established by immigrants from Jewish communities across the Pale of Settlement and beyond. The thought was gone before he stepped into the shower.
Two days later on a short walk, out of the corner of his eye he caught a fresh notice in an announcement box in front of one of the little schuls. He took two steps back. The gate across the front was locked. He chuckled and unconsciously scratched his chin and pulled on his ear. So, Avi, what does this tell you? and he answered his own question. “Someone must have come with a key to the lock on the gate when I wasn’t looking!” He smiled. If you don’t believe in ghosts that’s the only logical explanation. Avi didn’t believe in ghosts.
The note appeared to be in three languages. One, he guessed, was eastern European, the next was probably Hebrew – or Yiddish, Avi recalled that Yiddish also used Hebrew letters – and the third was in English. It was an open invitation to come Friday night, February 16 at 6 PM to celebrate the anniversary of the birth of their Rebbe: Zalman Zuzig, OBM, who was born on 8 Adar I, 5627, parashat Terumah. Someone had penciled in 1867 above the Hebrew year.
Two nights later after supper, he was taking his customary walk, letting his feet determine his journey. It was already dark. He stopped with a stitch in his side, noticing that he was standing in front of the old schul. The gates were open and there were lights on inside. An elderly man wearing a long black coat and a funny fur hat came down the stairs and asked, in heavily accented English, if he was OK. “Come in, a glass of tea may help, or seltzer water?” He joked, “Don’t be afraid. We’ve finished praying and now is our Happy Hour, as people say.”
Avi wasn’t sure why but he let himself be led by the elbow. It seemed harmless enough. Besides, it had just started to rain and he felt chilled. The offer to sit down and have a hot cup of tea was inviting.
The old man led him up the front stairs and across the vestibule, opening two old wooden doors. Inside was a large room where long wooden benches surrounded a raised platform with a podium. A sigh escaped. “Here’s where the Rebbe prayed after we came to this country. But come, Kiddish, where we sanctify our prayers with food and drink, takes place downstairs.” He led Avi to the stairs at the side of the vestibule.
There were a dozen men and boys sitting around a long table. A white tablecloth was covered with a heavy clear plastic drop. In the center was an old brass candelabra, twinkling flames reaching up from small cups, which Avi learned later were filled with olive oil.
The old man said something in a foreign language and they all laughed. He apologized. “I reminded them that earlier I had said that the Eybishter, The Supreme One Above, will send us the zeynte, the tenth man, and here you are. See, my note said celebration. Not for everyone is prayer celebration. God knows we all like something to drink and something to eat. So, you He sends in time for your celebration. Rebbe Zuzig, of blessed memory [obm] approves. Nu, not much of a joke, but still a joke.”
He nodded to a seat at the end of the table and went around to the opposite side where he filled a silver cup with grape juice. He laughed. “Don’t worry. There’ll be schnaps, herring, kichel, und andere guten sachen [and other good things] later. First a few blessings and then we eat, drink, and after we sing to celebrate the Sabbath.
Avi had potato vodka and herring on crackers. He only remembered only one song, more of a shout. He wasn’t used to drinking hard alcohol – he drank beer in college – but stopped only after he felt lightheaded. He turned his glass over.
The old man, Avi guessed he must be their rabbi but no one said so, held up his hand.
“Schon, OK, it’s time for the Rebbe’s song.” The hall became silent. His closed his eyes and when he opened them moments later they sparkled. Avi sensed that his words were not only for him but also for all those present or absent. The old man explained: “The words are from Psalm 44 v. 8, which we read on the eighth day of the month. It’s the day the Rebbe was born. King David asks that God should command the salvation, the saving, of the remnant of Jacob, the House of Israel.
And then the old man once again closed his eyes, placed his hands flat on the table, and began to sing, softly at first, “Tzavey yeshuos Ya-a kov.” The others joined in, the chanting went faster and grew louder, finally it was just a shout – Tzavé, tzavé, TZAVI! And then silence.
Avi was exhausted; the desperate command rang in his head. He pushed back from the table, whispering, “I really must go.”
The old man quickly came to his side. “Schon, good, this is no problem. I too need a breath of fresh air before I offer some words of Torah and encouragement to my friends. After, we thank God for his blessings and I will also offer thanks on your behalf.”
The rain had stopped and the air smelled pleasant. They paused for a moment on the sidewalk in front of the schul. The old man took his hands, looking him in the eyes.
“The eyes it is said are the window to the soul. Your eyes have been here before. Perhaps your grandfather or great grandfather, wer weiss, who knows. You doubt but not everything is revealed or follows a rational path. There is good doubt too. So, Martin, since I can’t write on Shabbos, if you walk by this way Sunday morning you’ll find behind the gate an envelope with your name on it. I’ll put a slip of paper inside. Two words, ken zeyn, it could be. Put them in your pocket. It will be a segulah, a charm, but it will remind you that you will always be welcome here. Perhaps you’ll come back next year if not before. Wer wiess?”
Avi was sure he never said anything about his middle name, which he used at work, afraid that “Avi” sounded too Jewish. He swallowed, telling himself he must have said something.
Usually he slept in on Sundays; it was his day of rest. However, that Sunday, February 18th, he was up early, feeling refreshed. He had a quick cup of coffee and went out for a walk, once again letting his feet choose his path.
He laughed when he found himself in front of the old schul again. Reflexively he put his hand on his side – no stitch. The gates were locked. He looked down. As the old man had said, there was an envelope on the ground just inside the gate, the MA – IN visible on either side of the rock that kept it from blowing away. He reached in through the bars. It contained a single piece of paper from an old mailer, it was folded in thirds. The ad was crossed out and on the other side was a note. “Dear Martin. Remember, live can always be – ken zeyn. Keep the small slip with the Yiddish words as a reminder. God willing, you’ll remember and come back next year.” He gingerly picked up the enclosed snip of paper and turned it over: קען זיין
~ * ~
March 2025 came in like a lamb. Avi thought spring might come early and on Sunday he was shaking out the pockets of his all-season coat. The little paper with the two Yiddish words floated to the floor. He had forgotten all about them. He hadn’t been back to the little schul in more than a year but recalled that it was the week before his six-month review at work on February 19th. His evaluation was good and he was given a nice bonus. He smiled, remembering how he had doodled Jewish stars in all the days of the prior week on his desk calendar while on the conference call.
He shrugged. Time for a walk. May as well see what’s happening at the schul. Slipping his hand through the sleeve, he put the paper back into his pocket and left his apartment. This time he purposely walked to the schul. When he was a half a block away, a car pulled up in front. The driver got out, opened the passenger door, and then went to the trunk from which he removed a push broom and a large dustpan.
Avi stood in amazement and watched as the old man from the schul got out of the car, took a large ring of keys from his pocket, and took the broom from the driver. Avi closed his mouth, rushing down the street.
“Here, let me help.” He didn’t know what to say. “Isn’t it too late for the Rebbe’s birthday party? I was just thinking it’s in February.”
“Nu, you’re right. Last year, February. This year, March. Always the 8th of Adar, this year it’s in March, also the 8th, this coming Shabbos. We have a lunar calendar and sometimes a leap month is added like last year. I came to sweep up a little and put up the birthday invitation. Perhaps you can come again? Here, if you can hold the broom, I can unlock the gate and tidy things a bit.”
Avi volunteered to sweep and the old man went to get the new birthday notice from the car. After posting the invitation the old man went up to the front door, checked that it was locked, and then walked to the mezuzah fastened to the doorpost on the right. He touched it with his fingertips and then kissed them. He came down the stairs and smiled. “So, Avi, maybe this year you come early, be a full zeynte, for the prayers and later the schnaps? Don’t worry, the Eybishter likes that we all pray in our own words. 5:30, ein biss’ler, a little early, and you can help?”
Avi stood with his mouth open, wondering how the old man also knew his other name.
“Nu, Avi. Ken zeyn?”
Avi touched the slip of paper in his pocket and, with his voice choking, answered, “Ken zeyn.”