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Shakespeare and the Shamos
Short Story
by BERTHA BECK
After his Bar Mitzvah, Moe didn’t
even go near the synagogue for
more than five years, until his
grandfather got too blind to go to
the beth hamedresh every day to
pray, by himself. So Moe would go
along to help at street crossings
and guide the old man down the
steps. But he never went on Sat
urdays. There was always someone
in the house going that way, Sat
urdays.
On Saturday mornings Moe
caught up on his outside reading.
Shakespeare, Dumas, even Plato;
Moe had great intellectual curios
ity. And when his grandfather
would try to persuade him to come
to the synagogue on Saturday, Moe
would shrug and say:
“There’s nothing in that prayer
book that I can’t say better, grand
pa. It’s nothing but a lot off stuff
some illiterate ghetto Jews put to
gether and nobody dares to revise.”
Moe didn’t know there was any-
hamedresh — the study hall in the
basement of the synagogye, except
to call for his grandfather. The old
man had become so blind during
the last few weeks that someone
had to lead him home too. In the
daytime there was always some
neighbor passing the schule, if the
weather was clear, to take him
home. If it rained Moe had to take
the old man to the minion and
wait for him. It was funny, Moe
thought, how the older men got
the more they had to go to schule.
MoPe didn’t know there was any
one like the shamos in the beth
hamedresh. The first time he went
in he saw nothing but old benches
and old tables, old, yellowed, books
under a lighting fixture that was
out of style twenty years ago. The
first time that Moe saw the shamos
the old man was folding up talesim.
And the reason that Moe saw him
was because the shamos was the
only old man who seemed glad to
see Moe there. The others made him
feel as if he didn’t belong.
Moe knew how the old men felt
about fellows his age. “Goyim, goy-
im,” they said, shaking their heads.
“Worthless, sinful, goyim, with yid-
disher heads to learn better the
goyishker nonsense.”
In a roundabout way Moe asked
his grandfather about the shamos.
His grandfather said, “The shamos?
Who would be a shamos? A man
who is not qualified to be a rabbi!”
"Can he read the Torah?”
“Learned, but not like the
Rabbi.”
“Why is he a shamos?”
“Why? Because he can’t make his
living any other way.”
“What’s he there for?”
“What’s wrong with you, Moses?
The Jews have always had a sha
mos in their schule. This shamos
has such a good head, he remem
bers whole pages from the Gem-
orrah. His mind is so quick, he
reads a page of Isaiah once and
takes it unto himself. He remem
bers every man’s Hebrew name in
the congregation and his father’s
name and his yahrzeits. He can
even recite the Kaballah.”
“All I want to know is,” Moe said,
“what does he do for you? What
does he do for the congregation?”
“Who is he then to do things for
me? Or for the others? He is an
ordinary man like all the rest of
us are ordinary men. He has his
work. He pours the avdoloh cup
full of wine, the kiddush cup — ’’
“And the blessing?” Moe said.
“The Rabbi makes the blessing.”
Moe shrugged and without un
derstanding, he turned to read
Julius Caesar. Who was a shamos?
A nobody. What did he do in this
world? Nothing.
It was April and it rained hard
again the next day. Moe put on
galoshes and a rain cape over his
grandfather’s weekly clothes. The
umbrella covered them both. It
was a long walk to the synagogue.
Moe took his Julius Caesar to read
while his grandfather was saying
the evening prayers. He was hav
ing a rough time with Shakespeare.
When the shamos saw Moe he
greeted him and rubbed his chin
and pushed his glasses up on his
wrinkled forehead as if he were
thinking hard. Moe dropped his
Caesar when he took off his old
army coat. It fell near the shamos.
The old man bent over and picked
it up. “What’s the name of it?”
he said.
Moe was surprised at the way
the old man spoke English. Except
for the sharp d’s and t’s, he spoke
beautifully. Oxford accent with a
little of the s’phardic intonation.
Moe lost his own tongue in com
plete bewilderment.
“What kind of a book is it?” the
shamos said.
Moe opened it up and showed
the old man the title page.
The shamos shook his head.
“What does it say?”
Moe stared.
“I can’t read,” the old man said.
“But — ” Moe began.
“I learned to speak English in
London, during the first world war.
“It’s Julius Caesar,” Moe said.
"Is is — good?"
“I don’t know,” Moe said. “I’m
supposed to read it for English Lit.
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The Southern Israelite
(19)