Great Expectations

A mixture of apprehension and desperation radiated off young Srulik’s face. “Rebbe, the note, the note” he said in a voice that portrayed disappointment. He could finally rest a tired arm that had been raised with pride and promise, for the Rebbe had finally decided to heed his call.

“What note” said Rebbe Klar impatiently. “Why is it that I can’t proceed for five minutes without interruption. huh, why?” asked the Rebbe.

“Rebbe, I brought you a note this morning asking that I be excused at eleven. My father will be outside waiting.”

Rebbe Klar was always cross. Teaching a class of twelve year old boys was taxing. The pay was inadequate, the work load demanding, the material boring and the boys; well exhausting. There was a knock at the classroom door.  ”Come in” said Rebbe Klar in an elongated monotone, one that betrayed his premonition that this was a carrier pigeon, a pupil on errand for a colleague. Perhaps the teacher next door had run out of blackboard chalk or perhaps the courier held a note. It might perhaps read “are you going to that chuppah later or not, and can I have a lift”.

But it was none of these, it was Srulik’s father who tentatively pushed the door open and popped his head through the classroom doorway keeping his feet firmly outside. “I am Sorry for interrupting,” he said with a mustered smile, “but I sent a note with Srulik, he should have been outside school five minutes ago”.

“Ah, I am so sorry” said Rebbe Klar with an equally plastered smile, as he motioned to Srulik indicating that he was free to go.

Srulik’s father was cross. “Why couldn’t you be on time”? he asked. “The Rebbe wouldn’t let me go” said Srulik apologetically. The father had taken time off work, he was running late. The duo made their way together to the car and hardly a word was exchanged between them.

He was on his way to choose a hat, a coat, a few suits, bekishes, the complete Bar Mitzvah package at B&G . Pre-Bar Mitzvah Shopping Day was a day he had been looking forward to. A day his friends had spoken of so often. He would stand at the centre of the universe on that day, placed there by shop owners and by parents alike, they promised. Yet here he was with his father at the hat shop, despondent and glum.

The hat man, measured his head, tried a wider brim, a taller crown and a bigger size. “Stand straight,” he said, and Srulik did. His father decided on a hat of the right proportions and they progressed to the suit section. And so it was throughout the escapade, he was sized up and looked upon from side to side, but he didn’t choose much, save for two suit designs and between a few bekishe floral patterns. Srulik felt small as a storm brewed beneath his eyes.

He walked back to the car taking nothing home. The clothes needed alteration and the hat needed to be brushed and set. His father drove to work, and he returned to an empty class. His peers were out at play. Srulik sat down in his seat. He rested his tired head upon the desk as tears trickled down his cheeks. The floodgates that had held up thus far gave way.

But in preparation to Jewish adulthood he had learnt an important lesson that day: Haredi life is never about what you want as an individual. Rebbe Klar had not chosen his job, Srulik’s father had not chosen to have a child of thirteen at 32. The hat man made hats, but did not design them.

Srulik will not choose an academic study path nor will he choose his bride. He will not style his wedding, and he will not name his child. He will not choose the school that that child attends and upon death he will not choose his funeral casket.