My Name Is Asher Lev by Chaim Potok Page A

the apartment, his hair wet; his sidecurls, which he had not tucked behind his ears, were dripping.
    “You will catch pneumonia one day,” my mother said, bringing a bath towel into the kitchen. “Please dry yourself.”
    “Simcha is out,” my father said to her. “He’s in London.”
    My mother paled. “When?”
    “Yesterday.”
    “Thank God,” my mother said. “Thank God.”
    “Who is Simcha?” I asked.
    “A Jew,” my father said. “From Kiev.”
    I did not ask anything else.
    My father went out of the kitchen to put on his tallis, which he always wore under his coat as we walked to the synagogue. On our way to the synagogue, he asked, “Do you know where Vienna is, Asher?”
    I did not even know what Vienna was.
    “Vienna is the capital city of Austria.”
    I did not know where Austria was.
    “Geography you don’t know. Chumash and Rashi you don’t know. Mishnayes you don’t know. Sometimes I wonder whose son you are, Asher.”
    “We didn’t study Austria, Papa. I don’t think we studied Austria.”
    “And arithmetic you don’t know.”
    “I don’t like arithmetic.”
    “Yes,” he said. “I’ve noticed you don’t like arithmetic.”
    The morning service began a few minutes after we entered the synagogue. I saw my father at the table near the front of the synagogue, his head covered by his tallis. The tables were crowded. With very few exceptions, every adult inside that synagogue had experienced the tyranny of Stalin. People prayed loudly, fervently, swaying back and forth on the benches. There was a momentary pause when the service reached Borchu. Everyone stood, waiting. The narrow door in the corner to the right of the Ark opened slowly and the Rebbe stepped out. His head and face were covered by his tallis. The Rebbe stood near his chair and faced the Ark.
    The old man who was leading the service chanted in a loud quavering voice, “Borchu es Adonoi hamevoroch.”
    The congregation responded almost in a shout, “Boruch Adonoi hamevoroch leolom voed.”
    The old man repeated, “Boruch Adonoi hamevoroch leolom voed.”
    The Rebbe turned and sat down in his chair. His movements were very slow. The tallis completely covered his head and face. The congregants took their seats. The service continued. A tremulous crescendo of sound began to fill the synagogue. Men swayed fervently back and forth. Arms gesticulated toward the ceiling and walls. I prayed loudly, swaying, caught up in the intensity of feeling that had taken possession of the service.
    The Rebbe sat in his chair, praying. He sat very still, robed in his tallis. He held a prayer book in both hands. He held the prayer book rigidly and turned the pages with slow and deliberate movements of his right hand. He sat like that, very still, praying. His quiet presence began to move out toward the congregants and dominate the large synagogue. Slowly the outward intensity of the service began to diminish. The wildswaying ceased. The loud cries and gesticulations disappeared. A hushed thick tangible concentration of controlled fervor rose from the congregation. I was no longer swaying; I was concentrating on the words of the prayers. The words moved and danced in front of me. I felt the words inside me. “From Egypt you redeemed us, O Lord our God,” I prayed, “and from the house of slavery you ransomed us.” The words were alive. I felt them alive and moving inside me.
    The Rebbe left after the Musaf Kedushoh. A few minutes later, the service ended. I came outside and saw Yudel Krinsky.
    “A good Shabbos to you, Asher Lev,” he said. He still wore the kaskett. “I have not seen you all week.”
    “I’ll come to see you Monday,” I said.
    He seemed sad. “The dead do not return to life because a tyrant dies. The Ribbono Shel Olom was late. Stalin should have died thirty years ago.” He walked slowly away.
    We sat at the Shabbos meal a long time that day. My father sang the zemiros slowly, his eyes closed, his body swaying