Purim in Williamsburg was like nowhere else; streets teeming with children in
masquerade, adults running to hear the Megilla, traffic creeping to enable the
drivers to absorb all the sights. A carnival spirit pervaded the whole chassidic
neighborhood, a spirit unknown any other day of the year.
Groups of youngsters, hugging oversized pocketbooks and baskets of shalach
monos, tripped along cautiously, their high heels getting caught in the hem of
mothers' long skirts. Miniature rebbes thumped their impressive canes, trying to look
very stern and adult-like as they adjusted pillows that bulged in the wrong places
and eyeglasses that kept sliding off little noses. Great big round sable hats, long
black coats, pants pushed into long white stockings... a world of mini
chassidim, running up and down stoops, in and out of doorways, zig-zagging
across streets between crawling cars, and reprimanding those younger than they with
instructions about safety and caution.
The reds and purples, blues and greens flashed in the sunlight all along Bedford
Avenue, past Ross, Rodney and Keap Streets, then down Lee Avenue, where the
shopkeepers were having a hard time keeping up with the lively business. There was so
much to buy -- food for the evening meal with loads of company, gifts, sour pickles
from Flaum's Appetizing Store on the corner of Wilson Street. All items for sale were
hung on display outside the shops and blowing in the wind; long-sleeved nightgowns,
white satin Shabbos aprons, peaked velvet caps for little boys to wear to shul on
Shabbos and holidays.
Tante Blima Gittel was so busy on Purim that she didn't have time to scoot us out of
her house, as she usually did, afraid that we'd make it dirty. To make sure that her
house stayed clean, after washing the floor, she'd cover it with newspapers, usually
the Times, which had the most and largest sheets of all the papers on the newsstand.
But on Purim, Blima Gittel and her two sisters were so engrossed in their culinary
and baking activities, measuring the heights of the cakes as they issued them from
the oven, and heaping platters and filling baskets for us children to deliver to
neighbors and friends, that they didn't even have time to worry about what mischief
their sum total of thirteen children might get into.
Mordechai, usually referred to as di vilde Mordechai, and justifiably so, was
dangling from the fire escape, doing the kind of acrobatics that could only be
matched by circus performers. His mother, knowing her s'choira, usually kept a
watchful eye on him, but on Purim, as long as she didn't hear the fire engine sirens
or the shrieking of an ambulance, figured that maybe, please G-d, the kid was
behaving for a change. Perhaps he considered there was too much competition for
clowning around today. Of course, if things got too quiet, it could also be a bad
sign, but the three sisters were themselves making so much noise, putting final
touches on their Hungarian gourmet delights they were famous for, that they were deaf
to everything else.
The children could never figure out why their mothers worked so hard on Purim. Didn't
they already know that despite all the hectic preparation to put together a Purim
Feast befitting a king, little of it would even get eaten? With noshing going on all
day long, with the children gobbling up all the goodies and yummies the moment
shalach monos arrived from neighbors, and eating what came by their way as
delivery tips, by the time the families sat down to eat, most appetites were killed.
The streets began to empty. People hurried home to begin the Purim seuda while
daylight still reigned. But though the traffic with shalach monos had subsided,
the door still kept opening for charity collectors, poor old men with receipt books,
who bargained and joked with the head of the household, until a sizable donation
appeared; for the poor, the sick, the widows and orphans, the yeshivos... and always
for those far away in Israel who guarded the Homeland till Moshiach came.
Once the rush was over, the ladies would quietly moan how much their corns were
burning and their eyes were closing, that Purim was such a hard day for the
baalebusta. But the kids wanted it to last forever, though they knew that as
soon as the men benshed and went off to the Rebbe, the glow would slowly fade.
But that year, the girls decided that instead of missing out on all the fun, they
would also go along to the Rebbe.
The shul was crowded with chassidim humming a melody without words, moving in a
dance without steps. The Rebbe sat up front, hands covering his eyes, body swaying in
rhythm with the others. All eyes were clenched tight.
In the ladies' section, things were more hectic. A very drunk chossid was
sprawled across two benches that had been pushed together. He was moaning and
groaning and calling upon every tzaddik who had ever lived, from Avrohom all
the way down to the holy rebbes of this generation, to come to his rescue.
Seeing him roll from side to side and afraid he might topple off the bench, a woman
stretched out an arm to keep him from falling. He immediately jumped up in alarm and
in a voice, unexpectedly clear and distinct, shouted, "Don't touch me! I can take
care of myself!" He slumped back on the bench, the effort having totally exhausted
him.
In no time, he was up again. "A drink!" he shouted. "I still have to drink. I still
know that Mordechai is blessed and Haman is cursed. Please! Somebody!" he entreated
in tears, "Please bring me a drink. I still haven't fulfilled the Purim
mitzva."
When at last a friend, aware of his absence, came looking for him in the ladies'
section, Ber, as we discovered his name was, sat up sheepishly and coarsely whispered
something into his savior's ear. At that, Avrumchik, the savior, heaved him up and
stooping beneath the weight of the smiling, hiccuping Ber, slowly proceeded to lead
him to the lavatory so that he could vomit and relieve himself otherwise.
"Now leave me alone!" said Ber, still in control of the situation. He lurched inside
and succeeded in locking the door. After what seemed forever, Ber, a look of total
calm, relief and contentment on his face, noisily pushed his way out.
Before allowing himself to be led back into the men's shul, Ber freed himself from
Avremchik's hold and proceeded to wash his hands, splashing himself and the whole
floor in the process. Then, lifting both hands up high, he said the blessing, every
word distinct and emphatic, eyes closed in a concentration that defied any
interruption.
Only then did he allow himself to be led back to his regular corner in shul. In no
time, he was fast asleep.
The swaying of bodies went on and on; the dance without step, the song without words.
Eyes were clenched tight. Faces squeezed together in happy sadness and sad happiness.
