I was supposed to have memorized my ten-minute chunk of Torah by mid-January, which would give me one month to polish my performance before my 13th birthday and the Bar-Mitzvah ceremony. Under the weight of Jewish law and the traditions of my tribe, reading from the holy scrolls in front of the entire congregation would symbolize my entry into the world of adulthood. I would bring honor to my non-religious parents, who could show off their brilliant son to friends and neighbors, in the best tradition of our nouveau-riche neighborhood.

Unfortunately, my memory was like a sieve, and the strange letters of the Hebrew alphabet mocked me with their inscrutable spider-like designs. After years of indifferent study, I could finally decipher the sounds of written Hebrew, depending on the little vowel markings which were strategically placed under or over each letter to determine the correct pronunciation. But the ancient scrolls had no such markings; I would be on my own. And since each piece of Torah had its own melody or trope, I had to memorize both the guttural words and their discordant chants, which had been passed down from the lands of Europe and Asia-wherever Jews wandered during their two thousand years of exile.

How did I get into this mess? I wondered as I began to hum the foreign words, trying desperately to keep up with Mrs. Heinz's stubby, brown-stained finger as it traced the Hebrew letters in the massive black book that lay before me. I smelled her scent of tobacco and lemon soap as my eyes scanned from right to left--the language was read "backwards." Hungry for the praise and gifts that rain down upon a lucky Bar-Mitzvah boy, I had actually chosen to do this. Now I wondered if I'd been "had." I hadn't realized the preparation process would be quite so lengthy-and horrific.

My parents attended Fairmount Temple only on Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, and Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. But I was subjected to years of "Jewish education," which consisted of listening to a bunch of middle-aged ladies shriek and curse at me and my classmates as we tried to master the Hebrew language after a full, tiring day of public school.

Once I signed on to "the contract," once the Temple had set the date, once my mother had booked the Host House party center--and 150 guests had been invited, there was no turning back. My small family was not especially close or forgiving. My aunt didn't speak to her in-laws; my mother hated my aunt. Grudges were held for decades, if not generations. And so I was expected to perform--to impress the crowd and please the relatives. If Moses had received the Ten Commandments from my parents, rule #1 would have been "Thou shalt not fail."

My parents hired Mrs. Heinz to whip me into shape. As the days merged, one into another, during that lonely winter, I spent countless hours holed up in my bedroom, practicing my soulful stare at the appreciative audience reflected in the mirror that hung above my dresser. Once I looked sufficiently pious, I'd begin to sing the wavering melody of the Jews' dispute with Pharaoh, squeaking out the ancient words in my high pitched, nasal voice. The parsha Bo described the worst of the ten plagues, which brought death to the first-born sons of the Egyptians--a call from God to "Let my people go!" I was also the first-born, but I carried not a scrap of faith that God would deliver me from embarrassment and shame. I would pass or fail alone, and while I thought of Mrs. Heinz as a first-class bitch, she was a bitch I desperately needed.

The story of the Jews' plea for freedom, and their hurried escape with the help of God and Moses was an inspiring saga. But it didn't sound quite so powerful in my quavering voice. Since I hadn't reached puberty, I sounded like a girl with a bad cold. But over those last few weeks, my memory began to improve, or my studying paid off, or maybe God intervened out of pity.

But I didn't believe in God. At 12, I was asking the same questions religious Jews had struggled with for centuries--some version of "Why us?" Growing up in the years after the Holocaust, I couldn't imagine a God who could let such slaughter happen to his "chosen people." So I tried not to dwell on my lack of faith; the whole issue confused me. Besides, I wasn't getting Bar-Mitzvahed for religious reasons--I simply wanted the pay off--the gifts, the kisses from my girlfriend, and the admiration of my friends.

Mrs. Heinz had given me a tape of another high-pitched boy singing the same Torah portion. My cassette tape player spun endlessly, and by late January I was forbidden to use the tape in her presence. "Is time you sing yourself. You have three weeks, and no tape will help when you sing on the pulpit. Now stand up and sing for me!" Mrs. Heinz smiled. She'd be damned if one of her students was going to break the streak--rumor had it that she'd successfully shepherded over 100 boys and girls through their bar and bat mitzvahs, without a single failure. None of her students had ever faced the Torah and fainted or "gone blank" with fear. I wondered if I'd be the first, and what vengeance she'd wreak upon me if I were.

"Now, you stand up straight, sing out, and show your love of Torah. I will be the congregation, listening for your mistakes," She smiled again. I wanted to smack her.

I stood up instead and closed my eyes. I murmured a silent prayer to the God I doubted and began to sing. Ten minutes passed in a flash, and Mrs. Heinz nodded. "You have more to do. Don't get confident--you have prayers before reading Torah, after reading Torah, your speech to thank your parents, much to do in three weeks."

" Yeah, I know. I got it under control." I said, not wanting to show panic.

" Fine. I have done what I can. Now it's up to you. You study and I will see you at your Bar Mitzvah. You will make the family proud, and me proud, too-yes?"

I nodded and gathered up my books. I stood up to leave and choked out a whispered "thank you." I didn't know what else to say. Mrs. Heinz reached out with her lacquered nails and brushed my cheek. I flinched, but tried not to show it. "You will be ready if you practice every day. I will see you on the bimah-the pulpit at the Temple. You will become a man-a mensch." I stuck out my hand; I was afraid she'd hug me against her ample bosom and cover me in cigarette smoke. She shook my hand, firmly, and I left the classroom where we'd wrestled for the past three months.

On the morning of my Bar Mitzvah, I felt a strong desire to unload my breakfast. I rarely threw up--on account of the choking sensation, which I hated, but on this day, I was prepared to make an exception. It was February 21, and my friends and family would turn out in full force. The friends I could handle; the family--I wasn't so sure.

There was my Aunt Jenny, a tall raspy-voiced chain-smoker who made Don Rickles look like a master of tact, and who asked questions like, "How could you be so stupid?" There was my mother, who might say "We love you know matter what, as long as you do your best," which meant--"Do your best, and don't embarrass us, or we'll never forgive you, for as long as you may live." Finally, there was my father, the most generous and big-hearted of the bunch, a nice man with a few minor character flaws. Dad had a ferocious temper; when I accidentally told him to "cut the crap" when I was 10, he picked me up by the back of the neck, (with one hand) and swung me around like a marionette. Naturally, I didn't want to piss him off.

I was called up to the bimah early in the service. Only 5 feet tall and thin like a reed, I stood on a wooden step, staring out at the assembled multitudes. Rabbi Cohen, a small, squat man with piercing eyes and an endless supply of patience, removed the Torah from the ark and cradled it lovingly as he set the holy scrolls before me on the lectern. Surrounded by the warmth of the Rabbi and the power of my father, I closed my eyes and launched into the first prayer, invoking the name of the God I couldn't find. "Baruch atah adonai," I pushed my shaky voice out to the crowd; my mind-and my vocal cords functioning, much to my surprise.

Rabbi Cohen tapped the scroll with his silver pointer, marking the beginning of my parsha. I looked down at the black letters and felt my stomach drop. Suddenly I was on a roller coaster, plunging down a hill, stomach muscles cramping. Hebrew had reverted to Chinese; I did not know these words. The sanctuary was strangely silent as the Rabbi murmured something into my ear. I was afraid to look down at the front row, where my mother sat, leaning forward. I was afraid to look behind my mother at Mrs. Heinz, who was probably ready to whip out her ruler.

Suddenly the Rabbi tapped my shoulder and moved his pointer to another spot. I looked down, lower this time, and saw the parsha I knew, a long lost friend. I began to sing, to wail out the droning melody as my father had before me, and his father, back in time to the first Bar-Mitzvah boy. My parsha was complete; the story of the plagues had ended.
My plague had ended, too. My grandfather rushed to the bimah and hugged me, pulling me into the warmth of his wool jacket, smelling of Camels as he always did. My father rubbed my head and clapped me on the back with his huge hands. My mother was not to be outdone; she planted a big red kiss on my right cheek, and squeezed the left one until it ached. "Easy, mom-take it easy," I whined.

Then Mrs. Heinz was upon me like a cat. I found myself pressed against her bosom, gasping for air. I could picture the headline, "Bar-Mitzvah boy expires in tutor's chest." She released me just in time. Pushing against her to steady myself, I leaned back toward the safety of my parents. Mrs. Heinz examined me with her gray eyes. A light seemed to come into them; I saw my reflection in her pupils. "So, you study, you work, you learn, no?" I nodded, my mind numb from excitement.

That night the band played "I'll be there" by the Jackson Five, my favorite song--and a big hit on the Bar-Mitzvah circuit. I danced with my mother and my girlfriend, Cheryl-who was just using me until Lee Kushner was available, and finally with Mrs. Heinz. We fast-danced to "Ball of Confusion" by the Temptations. Mrs. Heinz took off her glasses and shook her hips in a way I'd never seen a Hebrew teacher move before. I broke a sweat just trying to keep up with her.

Later that night, the gift table was full. As I said goodbye to my squeezy "aunts" and distant cousins, I realized that Mrs. Heinz had disappeared. Her seat was empty; a pack of Winstons the only token of her visit. My mother pulled me aside while I grabbed the empty package and stuffed it into my pocket. "She said you were one of the best students she's ever had-a real scholar." I felt something burn in my chest like warm oil.
I crawled into bed hours later, exhausted. The pack of Winstons sat in the top drawer of my nightstand. A faint scent of cigarettes circled my nose. I inhaled deeply, and fell asleep.