Here’s the thing: Everybody’s always asking me, a black guy, how I became a Jew, so I’ll give it to you straight.
It happened some twenty five years ago on a blustery late March evening. I had just visited a dentist and was coming out of his office on Park Heights Avenue when I noticed a woman across the street who seemed to be in some kind of trouble. First she walked in one direction, then she turned and walked the other way. It looked like she was searching for somebody but it was already seven o’clock, long past rush hour, and the street was empty.
I came down the front steps, walked down the pathway to the street, turned the corner and started walking toward home. I was rubbing my still partially Novocained mouth and sore jaw when suddenly I heard running footsteps behind me. Plenty of mean streets were nearby, and plenty of competing gangs that went with them, and I was scared out of my wits. Steeling my spine, I stopped and turned sharply.
It was the woman I’d seen from across the street and she was running so fast she nearly ran into me. Relief flooded over me. “What is it, lady, ” I asked, “what y’all want?”
She was panting a mile a minute and held on to her side until she could speak. “I’ve got a . . .problem,” she finally said.
“What kinda problem?”
She looked flustered and I could see she didn’t know how to begin. “My name’s Jessica Brandwein. I live near here.”
I was seventeen then, a big strapping kid, and if I’m to believe what the ladies used to tell me, quite a hunk. Although the woman was a nice looking squeeze of about thirty, not for a second did I think she had any funny stuff in mind. You see, under her coat she was dressed in a skirt down to her ankles and her head was covered with the too-good-to be-true mop of ash blonde hair that identified her as an Ortho. That’s the name we give to the ultra-orthodox Jews who live in the area. In Baltimore, (Ball’more to the natives) they don’t call Park Heights Avenue the Rue des Synagogues for nothing.
I figured the lady needed me to do some heavy lifting. I mean real heavy lifting, serious stuff, like moving a big dresser or piano from one room to another. Or up some stairs. That’d happened to me once and I got ten dollars for the effort. Ten dollars then was worth a lot more than it is today and was even harder to come by legit.
“You see,” said she, “I need you to be a Shabbas goy.”
“A Shabbas guy?” I stared at her. “What’s that?”
“Goy, not guy. It means somebody who isn’t Jewish.” An embarrassed smile. “You’re not Jewish, are you?”
I rolled my eyes. “I got me enough troubles. What y’all talkin’ about?”
She shook her head. “It’s hard to explain. You see I’ve already lit and––”
My mouth fell open. “Lit? Y’all a Stone head?”
She shook her head. “How can I make you understand? I’ve already lit the candles for Shabbas––that’s what we call the Sabbath.” The words came out in a rush. “And it’s not only just Shabbas but tonight is the start of Passover as well, a double header. For two days I can’t open my refrigerator because I just remembered that I forgot to unscrew the bulb. Maybe my husband unscrewed it but I don’t think so. He’s in shul with the kids and won’t be back for a couple of hours.”
School at this hour? The refrigerator? Duh! Was she off her rocker? “Look, Missus…er…Brandwein, Why y’all can’t open it? Y’all a. . .cripple or somethin’?”
“I’m afraid to open it because if the light’s still on I won’t be able to shut it because then it’ll be another sin.” She looked at what must have been my dumbstruck face and threw up her hands. “You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you? I wasn’t raised this way myself so I know how hard all this is to understand. You see, we’re not allowed to turn anything on or off with electricity on Shabbas, let alone . . . oi vay. . . Shabbas and Yom Tov combined. The food will spoil with the door open for two days.” Her voice thickened and she burst out with a sob. “Nearly all my food’s in the refrigerator. I stayed up all night preparing everything. We won’t be able to eat––”
“But if y’all can’t turn anything on or off, how y’all gonna cook?”
“We leave the stove and oven on.”
“Why y’all do that? Ain’t that fu…dangerous?”
Two tears from wide-set brown eyes rolled down her cheeks. “No, we put a blech on top and keep the gas lit low. But the refrigerator’s another matter.” She wiped her face with a tissue she took from her pocket and blew her nose. “You look like a nice kid. You could help me and it wouldn’t be a sin for you or for me. I’d never ask you to do it if it was. I live just a couple of streets off Strathmore. It’d only take a few minutes. Will you do it?”
“Of course, I’ll do it,” I said, wanting to calm her down. “Don’t want y’all starvin’ for two days.”
“Barooch Hashem!” she said. Although at the time I didn’t know what in blazes she was calling me, I later learned she was blessing God. A gust of wind whipped up; she put the hood of her coat on her head and I turned the collar up on my jacket. As we turned to walk along the darkening streets I remembered a story I’d heard about a soldier feeling a piece of metal under his foot who immediately realized he’d stepped on a mine. He knew if he lifted his foot the mine would explode and he’d be a goner, so he stood there, not lifting his foot, not moving a muscle, for ten horrific hours.
