Sapphic Voices General Fiction

Sanctuary

Leah found sanctuary in the sanctuary of her synagogue. More than once. The sanctity of the sanctuary.

As a child, the temple was the hub of the family’s social life.

Leah had been a member of the first graduating class of Temple Emanuel Nursery School, and she had gone to Sunday School there starting in kindergarten and she had gone to Hebrew School there starting in the third grade.

And she had teachers like Mrs. Shikes from Israel who gave out gum if everyone brought in their homework, except if you had braces and then you got different candy.

And she and the other kids, the other kids who had been in her class since kindergarten, like Jamie, Jamie, Jamie, Johanna and Jody – and Josh and Daniel and Paul and her best friend Becca – all of them giggled as Mrs. Shikes pronounced each word. Because it sounded nothing like what they heard in temple services. In reform Americanized temple services where Hebrew wasn’t spoken with even the slightest Israeli accent. New York accents and north shore accents and Polish and Russian and Czech and German and Austrian accents – even an occasional Ethiopian accent when the temple president’s daughter married an Ethiopian Jew, much to everyone’s astonishment – but never an Israeli accent.

Leah’s mother was a member of the sisterhood and, after Leah graduated from preschool, her mother became a teacher there. And so she was a central and well known member of the establishment.

As was her father – on the board of the brotherhood and member of the finance committee.

And the adults all knew her and it was her extended family. And she loved dressing up and looking to see who else would be there and who would be wearing what and who had brought a baby that Leah could play with during the kiddush following the services.

Leah found herself often counting the mahogany beams on the ceiling as the grownups prayed. Or gazing fondly forward past the bimah at the Hebrew lettering that adorned the wall.

Or at the ark itself. Leah used to think it opened magically, because the rabbi would simply begin pulling at the door and the curtains then parted revealing the beautiful torahs within. Ornate as can be. With their velvet covers and gold embroidered thread and gold jeweled crowns.

Leah imagined herself up on the bimah. Years from now – ages from now – when it was her own Bat Mitzvah. And the Friday night before she would get to recite the blessing over the candles, like all of the other older girls.

Baruch ata adonai, eloheinu melech ha’olam, asher kidishanu bmitzvotav vitzivanu ldadlic nair shel Shabbat.

Praised be the Lord our God, Ruler of the Universe, who has commanded us to kindle the lights of Shabbat.

Leah had memorized that by the time she was six. She had memorized them all within a few years. The endless songs and chants that lulled her into peace as she sat in the sanctuary.

And her parents who had been arguing only moments before now stood silent. And prayed. And offered her tic-tacs. A secret.

And when the sermons came and everyone put down their prayer books, Leah rested her head in her mother’s lap. On her wool or nylon skirt. And her mother stroked Leah’s golden brown wavy hair. Jewish hair. Here at temple lots of girls had hair like hers. Not like at school.

And she played with her mother’s gold bracelets and switched open and closed the clasp as she half heard the rabbi speaking of the New York Times and Israel and far away places.

And then they would sing Oseh Shalom. And that always was Leah’s favorite. Even before she knew it was a song for peace. And when she learned the harmony at camp she sang that too.

And Shalom Ra’av. All prayers for peace. Peace for us and peace for Israel and peace for the world.

Leah would listen to the cantor and sing too, sing in an unknown yet hauntingly familiar tongue.

Her friends couldn’t believe it. That she could memorize so much yet know so little about what it all meant.

Leah could hardly believe it herself. Even years later as an adult, a couple of notes of the tunes would make it all rush forward into her consciousness. And she would recite 3 page long prayers and sing 15 minute chants on her way to work. Without thinking. Without knowing.

Because by the time she was an adult, or a young adult, the magic of it all had all but disappeared.

Leah’s parents had divorced and her father moved away and her mother remarried. A rabbi. A conservative rabbi at a different synagogue. And so Leah had no reason to go back.

A non practicing Agnostic Jew.

And her mother’s husband’s synagogue brought her none of the same joy or memories or familiarity. There was no organ and no beams to count on the ceiling. And everyone prayed on their own instead of in a chorus.

And it all worked to further distance her from the magic of it. The safety of it.

Because it had become something unsafe. Something hypocritical.

Prayers for peace. Songs for peace.

For us and for Israel and for all the world.

And at the same time we have sermons about Israel.

Sermons that paint half a picture.

Stories upon stories untold.

Atrocities unmentioned.

And Leah could no longer be lulled by the simple beauty of it all.

Except in her mind.

In her mind when she sang herself the songs to calm her ever expanding mind.

To bring a sense of ritual to a chaos.

She misses that.

The ritual.

The familiarity.

The hauntingly familiar melodies of songs whose meanings she doesn’t know, but whose messages she hopes to live.

Despite sermons to the contrary.

Shalom ra’av al yisrael amcha. Tassim l’olam. Shalom ra’av al yisrael amcha tassim l’olam.

If you have enjoyed Lani Radack's "Sanctuary", then please be certain to e-mail her at  radacklani[at]hotmail.com  and thank her for posting this Story.

Click here for a list of all of Lani Radack's  Stories and Poetry at  Sapphic Voices Authoresses.