The Poison Tree by Henry I. Schvey

breakdown and never returned to the class.
    My mother ordered expensive invitations from Tiffany’s, booked the Sherry-Netherlands Hotel for the party, hired an exclusive caterer—and then, out of the blue, I decided to spoil everything.
    I had learned from Ephraim (whose parents were deeply religious) that there was another kind of bar mitzvah; it involved learning Hebrew, singing, and chanting something called a Haftarah portion. I told my parents that I wanted to learn Hebrew, and that I wanted to be bar mitzvahed as a Conservative Jew, not according to Reform Judaism, which was less onerous, assimilated to American traditions, and (in those days) didn’t involve learning Hebrew. This, however, would mean having my ceremony at a different synagogue.
    â€œI have absolutely no idea where he got this crap,” my father shouted when I floated the idea. “You can be damn sure it wasn’t from me.”
    â€œWhy are you accusing me?” my mother shot back. “My brothers weren’teven bar mitzvahed since there wasn’t even a temple in Philipsburg where we grew up. And anyone can see how they turned out!”
    Her statement floated in the air for a moment like a rather large bubble waiting to be pricked. “Yes … they can,” my father said, deftly inserting a pin.
    â€œVery funny, Norman,” Mom said, but there was even a hint of a smile. I almost thought she enjoyed my father’s joke at her brothers’ expense, since for once it was delivered without excessive malice.
    However incomprehensible it might be, it was difficult for my parents to refuse a whim as harmless and idiotic as my insistence on a more rigorous training in Hebrew. Until that time, my only exposure to Jewish ritual were the High Holy Days at Rodoph Sholem with my father and the bleak, humorless Passover Seder conducted annually by Grandpa Schvey, punctuated by cruel sarcasm (and in a perfectly exaggerated accent) on the weight and density of Grandma’s matzoh balls.
    â€œKnives and forks ve’ll need for dis soup, Birdie. Spoons you better can save for de tziken,” provided the only brief moments of levity at the dark, gloomy Seder held annually at my grandparents’.
    Perversely, I imagined bar mitzvah lessons as a form of escape from the dreaded High Holy Days with my father, where, imprisoned in my uniform of navy blue suit, starched white shirt, and silver tie, I sat immobilized for hours wearing a tallis and yarmulke. The incomprehensible letters on the Hebrew side of the page transformed themselves into weird Jewish devils with heads of rams, cloven hooves, and pointy tails. I sat beside my father, who never opened his mouth, refusing to join in reciting prayers with the rest of the congregation, let alone sing the traditional songs, but jabbed me repeatedly, insisting I do both.
    I decided that my father was present for only one reason: to ensure I never moved for an entire day. I rose when bidden, muttered meaningless prayers in stilted verse, sat, stood, sat, and stood again. If I so much as adjusted the fringe on my tallis, I received a withering glance. Thankfully, this only occurred a few times each year. But the anticipation, especially knowing my every movement would be monitored, filled me with dread.
    Since I was prohibited movement of any kind, sitting in the sanctuary did force a kind of communion with things divine, and I prayed fervently for the end of services, either by unlikely natural disaster, or for the Rabbito be stricken down, a regrettable but necessary means of liberation. As the congregation rose as one, I imagined Rabbi Plotnick with his neatly groomed salt-and-pepper beard and fixed, benign smile, clutching at his breast and collapsing on the Bimah. I imagined I heard the majestic sound of the shofar, with hundreds rushing to his aid, and I would sneak out the back and spend the rest of the day playing ball with my friends. In the midst of this