Fiction
The Bar Mitzvah Boy
By Judah Leblang/2001
"Sheket bevakasha!" she hissed, which was basic
Hebrew for "Shut up." I hadn't picked up much of the
language in my four years of after-school study, but that
was a phrase that I'd heard before.
I didn't argue with Mrs. Heinz; I needed her help if I was going
to get through the trauma of my Bar Mitzvah. I looked at the
wiggly Hebrew letters spread out before me--a miniature version
of the Torah portion I had to read in only four weeks. The clock
was ticking, and I was nowhere near ready to stand before the
congregation and "become a man." Basically, the Torah
was a giant chapter book; a different installment was read every
week. My particular "parsha," or chapter, entitled
"Bo," in Hebrew, told the story of the Jews' struggle
to escape from Egypt.
More than anything, I wanted to escape from Mrs. Heinz. She stood
above me on that snowy day in January 1970, tapping a ruler against
her palm, licking her lips as if she couldn't wait to smack me
into line. "Chant your parsha!" she snapped in her
harsh Eastern European accent--a taste of Poland or Hungary,
a foreign world I couldn't imagine. --continued
A Night Without Stars
By Judah Leblang
I breathed in the cool fall air streaming in off Lake Michigan
as my father inspected the trunk of his spanking new 1975 Lincoln
Mark IV. My "stuff"--black foot-locker that had seen
my two brothers to overnight camp, corduroys in shades of blue,
maroon and gray, Carole King albums and the black polyester leisure
suit my mother insisted I buy, all rested safely in my dorm room.
The dormitory-a boxy red brick building, the worst of 1950's
architecture--loomed over us. At least I could see the lake if
I craned my neck as well as the crumbling edifice next door--the
headquarters of the Women's Christian Temperance Union--which
had been founded in Evanston a hundred years before my arrival.
--continued
Judah does a great job capturing the wistful spirit of places where hopes have not been realized, where the mood is expectant yet melancholy. Humor plays at the edges of his writing, which is rich with visual and emotional details. He also has an ability to convey subtle shadings to readers, and he does so without being trite or obvious.
-- Kathryn DeLong, editor, Northern Ohio Live magazine
A friend recommended Judah's writing to me. His keen observing eye, lyrical prose, and kind humor craft a warm thoughtful encounter. My enjoyment of his writing moved me to seek him as a teacher. I look forward to starting as one of his students next week.
--W.F. McCartin
National Account Executive, Winchester, MA
Non-fiction pieces
Papa's Place
by Judah Leblang ~ click to hear Judah read some of Papa's Place (mp3)
1975, CLEVELAND'S SOUTHEAST SIDE
My mother often said, "Your grandfather's gonna die in that store," and now it appears she may have been right. I press the accelerator hard and careen down Harvard Avenue, propelled by the scribbled note left on the kitchen counter.
"Papa rushed to St. Alexis collapsed at store. Hurry!" she wrote, and I do, a nervous 18-year-old steering Papa's rusted out Chevy Bel-Air through Mt. Pleasant toward Slavic Village. I inhale the smell of tobacco that clings to anything he touches, his special scent of Camels mixed with musk.
The Road Not Taken
Judah Leblang
The school looks the same as I remember it, from 20 years ago. It's a slit-faced red brick structure with tall narrow windows that don't open, giving the place a fortress-like feel. The building folds inward, modern and stale at once, mired in 1971, a silent witness to white flight and the slow steady march of poverty, joblessness, and loss of hope. --continued
Small Dreams --read here, or click to hear Judah read Small Dreams (mp3)
First Day
University Heights/Beachwood, September 1962-1963
On my first day of school, my mother sat in the stuffy classroom with the other parents. The teacher, a prune-faced woman with cat's-eye glasses, named Mrs. Ulberg, went over a list of dos and don'ts while I nervously scoped out my peers. -- continued
With a sharp eye, a wry sense of humor and endearingly offbeat
sensibility, Judah serves up no-nonsense stories that touch the
soul. They make great reading. And listening to him perform them
is a delight, too.
--Barney Stein, Massage Therapist, Jamaica Plain, MA
Judah Leblang is a marvelous writer whose work --both in fiction
and memoir -- is sharply observed, often contemporary in its
setting, but honest, healing and wise, in the great old storytelling
tradition. It will also make you laugh.
--Andrew Szanton, Writer, Newton, MA