The shul succah. A tish. The Rebbe sits at the middle of the table, while participants fill the seats down the length on either side –their heads are crowned variously by shtreimlach, Borsalinos, and baseball caps. The Rebbe starts a niggun and by the third note the assembly has joined him, voices rising on a swell that lifts them above time and space and connects them to eternity.
Except for one newcomer. He tries to steal glances at his neighbors’ bentshers and thumbs his own helplessly, struggling to find the words and catch the melody.
“Page 47,” says a voice, and when the newcomer looks up to find the source, his eyes meet the Rebbe’s warm gaze. The Rebbe closes his eyes and has already resumed the niggun. He seems not to have halted his ascent to the heavenly spheres, and yet it is as if he never left this succah that stands adjacent to the shul parking lot. Can a jetliner pilot at cruising altitude offer street directions to a cab driver?
The newcomer, meanwhile, has found his place and is transported along with the chevreh. And as his soul soars on the crest of the refrain, he wonders if his elter zeide sang this song in Europe…
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