“Mommy, why is that lady over there crying?”
My mother put her finger to her lips. “Shh Nechamie, not so loud. If anyone can help her stop crying, it will be the Rebbe.”
I was glad I was wearing my nicest shabbos dress with the pink flowers and lace. The girl in front of me was wearing a denim skirt that didn’t cover her knees, with clunky purple earrings hanging to her shoulders. I guessed her mother hadn’t told her that she must wear her nicest clothing to the Rebbe. I looked at the hundreds of people standing in a line that took up the whole block, and felt like yelling out, “It’s my birthday. I’m going to be six today!”
It felt like forever, but the line slowly moved forward. As we got closer, Mommy started telling me what to say. “Nechamie, tell the Rebbe that heint is mine yom huledes.” The words sounded strange on my tongue. We never spoke Yiddish at home. “Ma, why can’t I just tell the Rebbe that today is my birthday in English. It’s too hard for me to say.”
“Just try. I’ll practice with you.” She said, patting my hand reassuringly. “Now after you tell the Rebbe that it’s your birthday, he will probably give you a brocho in Yiddish. Even if you don’t understand, just say amein.”
As the line snaked slowly towards 770, I practiced the unfamiliar Yiddish words over and over again, “heint is my yum holedus.” I didn’t want to mess up. As I hopped from one foot to another, I chanted to myself, just say Amein, just say Amein.
Finally we arrived at the big ornate brown door, and walked down a long hallway. “It’s so quiet.” I whispered to my mother.
I craned my neck to look ahead. There was a man videoing everyone who went by and someone snapping pictures with his camera. A big lady with a curly brown shaitel and big green glasses, was quickly pushing people along. I was glad that I was too short for them to reach me. I didn’t want to be pushed.
I stared at the Rebbe as I approached. He had a white square beard. I didn’t know anyone with such a white beard. My father’s beard was black and my grandpa didn’t have a beard. I wondered how the Rebbe could stand so many hours. My feet were already hurting and pinched from the patent leather shoes I was wearing.
I stared at the Rebbe’s face curiously. He must have been very old, but he didn’t have any wrinkles like my grandma had. He had such nice blue eyes. I liked his eyes. Mine were plain and boring brown.
Finally it was my turn. I stood in front of the Rebbe. He handed me a dollar in my right hand, and then he looked straight at me, and listened as I pronounced the words I had practiced so carefully. “Heint is mine yom huledes." The Rebbe bent down, so he could look me in the eye.
“Are you making a party?” he asked in his thick Yiddish accent.
“Amein,” I said, as I looked proudly at my mother for approval. She tried signaling something to me, but I didn’t understand what she wanted.
The Rebbe bent down and repeated the question another two times. “Are you making a party?”
“Amein!” I spoke a little louder this time, thinking that the Rebbe hadn’t heard me.
The Rebbe bent down a little lower.
“Are you making a party? He repeated patiently.
This time I heard the words- “Yes, yes,” I said, happily, pigtails bouncing. “I’m making a big party for all my friends.”
The Rebbe smiled, and handed me another dollar. I smiled back, staring at those wonderful blue eyes, before I was swept away by the big lady wearing the curly shaitel and big green glasses.
My mother put her finger to her lips. “Shh Nechamie, not so loud. If anyone can help her stop crying, it will be the Rebbe.”
I was glad I was wearing my nicest shabbos dress with the pink flowers and lace. The girl in front of me was wearing a denim skirt that didn’t cover her knees, with clunky purple earrings hanging to her shoulders. I guessed her mother hadn’t told her that she must wear her nicest clothing to the Rebbe. I looked at the hundreds of people standing in a line that took up the whole block, and felt like yelling out, “It’s my birthday. I’m going to be six today!”
It felt like forever, but the line slowly moved forward. As we got closer, Mommy started telling me what to say. “Nechamie, tell the Rebbe that heint is mine yom huledes.” The words sounded strange on my tongue. We never spoke Yiddish at home. “Ma, why can’t I just tell the Rebbe that today is my birthday in English. It’s too hard for me to say.”
“Just try. I’ll practice with you.” She said, patting my hand reassuringly. “Now after you tell the Rebbe that it’s your birthday, he will probably give you a brocho in Yiddish. Even if you don’t understand, just say amein.”
As the line snaked slowly towards 770, I practiced the unfamiliar Yiddish words over and over again, “heint is my yum holedus.” I didn’t want to mess up. As I hopped from one foot to another, I chanted to myself, just say Amein, just say Amein.
Finally we arrived at the big ornate brown door, and walked down a long hallway. “It’s so quiet.” I whispered to my mother.
I craned my neck to look ahead. There was a man videoing everyone who went by and someone snapping pictures with his camera. A big lady with a curly brown shaitel and big green glasses, was quickly pushing people along. I was glad that I was too short for them to reach me. I didn’t want to be pushed.
I stared at the Rebbe as I approached. He had a white square beard. I didn’t know anyone with such a white beard. My father’s beard was black and my grandpa didn’t have a beard. I wondered how the Rebbe could stand so many hours. My feet were already hurting and pinched from the patent leather shoes I was wearing.
I stared at the Rebbe’s face curiously. He must have been very old, but he didn’t have any wrinkles like my grandma had. He had such nice blue eyes. I liked his eyes. Mine were plain and boring brown.
Finally it was my turn. I stood in front of the Rebbe. He handed me a dollar in my right hand, and then he looked straight at me, and listened as I pronounced the words I had practiced so carefully. “Heint is mine yom huledes." The Rebbe bent down, so he could look me in the eye.
“Are you making a party?” he asked in his thick Yiddish accent.
“Amein,” I said, as I looked proudly at my mother for approval. She tried signaling something to me, but I didn’t understand what she wanted.
The Rebbe bent down and repeated the question another two times. “Are you making a party?”
“Amein!” I spoke a little louder this time, thinking that the Rebbe hadn’t heard me.
The Rebbe bent down a little lower.
“Are you making a party? He repeated patiently.
This time I heard the words- “Yes, yes,” I said, happily, pigtails bouncing. “I’m making a big party for all my friends.”
The Rebbe smiled, and handed me another dollar. I smiled back, staring at those wonderful blue eyes, before I was swept away by the big lady wearing the curly shaitel and big green glasses.
