Dreidels on the Brain (29 page)

“Well, I . . . um,” I stammered. “I really like your jeans. They're cool! And the choir—everyone's wearing pants!”

“Yep,” she said. “We're finally going to get rid of the dress code. You're not the only one with a revolution. Or secrets.”

Then I remembered something. “Wait a minute—on Friday, in class, with Mr. Culpepper's tie. You thought he was going to tell your secret . . . and I thought . . .” I stood there, puzzling it out in my mind.

“You know,” she said, “for a magician, you're kind of slow. But,” she added with a smile, “you're a good dancer.”

I don't know how long the two of us were up there, spinning slowly around. Maybe forever, like dreidels in a dream. Then she leaned in close to me. For a moment I thought she was going to kiss me! Instead, she whispered in my ear: “Happy Hanukkah.”

That was my fourth Gimel.

And that's when my dad, who had pushed his walker all the way to the very front of the stage, raised his hands above his head in gnarled fists, shaking them in the air. He was
singing so loudly, and with such passion, that everyone else stopped what they were doing and watched him as he sang, “If I were a weaaaaaaaaaal-thy maaaaaaaaan!”

The place went crazy.

We Jews think a lot, about pretty much
everything
. Even so, I'm not sure anyone has given much thought to the last day of Hanukkah.

There's been a lot of discussion—and, of course, argument—about the last
night
of Hanukkah. I read in the
Jewish Encyclopedia
that when the rabbis were figuring out how to celebrate the holiday, Rabbi Shemmai said we should kindle eight lights the first night, seven the second, six the third, and so on until, on the final night, there would be just one left. But another rabbi, Hillel—who always won their arguments—said we should
start
with one light on the first night, add a second the next night, and so on, because it's about the
growing
of the light. So that's what we do, building up to eight candles on the last night.

But what about the last day, which comes
after
the last night? It's usually forgotten. There's no big celebration, just melted wax and pieces of foil from chocolate gelt, the smell of latkes long since fried and eaten, and maybe a few dreidels lying around. You know what happens when that day comes to an end?

Nothing.

You don't gather around to light candles or sing blessings. The moment the sun sets on the last day, it goes from Hanukkah to Not-Hanukkah, which lasts for almost the whole year.

So how do you celebrate the last day?

That's what I'm wondering as I sit here on the AstroTurf on my front porch. It has cooled down now—the heat wave has finally broken. The sky is streaked with colors, and several you might call orange. But there's nothing quite like the color of the one I've been rolling back and forth between my hands as I replay the memories of this Hanukkah in my mind. Right now I'm thinking of Brian's face as he came rushing up to me at the end of the assembly.

“Joel!” he said. “That was wicked cool! Now everyone wants to be Jewish!”

“Yeah, right,” I said, remembering something. “Hey Brian—when my family was walking up to the stage, what was that noise in the audience?”

“Oh, that was nothing, really. . . .”

“But I heard something. Did you see it?”

“Well, yeah,” he said. “But it's not important.”

“What was it?” I wanted to know.

“It was Arnold Pomeroy.”

“What did he do?”

“He said, ‘Hey, look! Joel's dad's a gimp!'” Then Brian smiled, a little sheepishly. “So I decked him. Like Judah—the Maccabee.”

When I told my dad later how glad I was that he had come to the assembly, he looked surprised, then smiled. “I wouldn't have missed it for the world.”

That look is something I'll remember, even when I'm grown up. But I'm not going to tell anyone about it. Or anything else about these past eight days. Not now. I'm going to wait.

I don't know how long. That old man on the bus held on to his story for a really long time, since The War ended, over twenty-five years ago! That's twice as long as I've been alive. If I wait that long, it will practically be the year 2000—the next millennium! I wonder what the world will be like. I hope the Vietnam War will be over. Maybe
all
wars will be over. Maybe Los Angeles will figure out some way to get rid of its smog—and its traffic. I'm pretty sure they'll have flying cars by then.

However long it takes, I'll wait until the time is right. And then I'll tell my story to some kid I've never met, sitting on a bus, all confused about life, with dreidels on the brain. Maybe they'll have had a week filled with chopped liver, stuck between two older brothers in the backseat of their parents' flying car—looking through a little hole in the
floor at the earth below—wondering whether to believe in magic, or miracles, or anything at all.

I won't be able to answer their questions, of course. So I'll ask another: “Would you like to hear about the Hanukkah of 1971, when I was twelve—and prayed for snow, but was given an orange?”

As a child, I learned not to expect presents, for Hanukkah or anything else. Now, as an adult, I am blessed by the gifts I've received, including the many that have come in the course of writing this book. They have taken the form of wisdom, insight, ideas, support, and editing.

My longtime friend and fellow author Jeff Lee, who has helped me in so many ways for so long, came through once again in
Dreidels on the Brain
, working with me to sift through a tangled mass of verbiage so I could figure out what I was doing. Likewise, Pete Neuwirth was the first friend to read a sample chapter. He saw something in it that I did not, and gave me encouragement and support that stuck with me through multiple drafts. Much later, I shared the book with my good buddy Jordan Winer, aka Great Zamboni, who read several drafts, each time offering insights that helped shape conflicts and form characters. Others have also offered suggestions, edits, memories, and support as I have written this book, including Jerry Sontag, Lee Dickholtz, Valerie Lapin Ganley, Rob Saper, Zahava Sherez, Jay Golden, Barry Brinkley, Maggid Jhos Singer, and my in-laws, Hezi and Ruth F. Rutenberg. I thank you all.

I've had some excellent professional help as well. Great thanks to Laurie Fox, who gave sage advice regarding the book contract. And I'm indebted to Rand Pallock, who escorted me as I traveled back to the dark and murky realms of my childhood. It's been said, “The mind is a dangerous place—don't go there alone.” I am lucky to have had Rand on this journey.

A book has to be written somewhere, and much of this one was written—and rewritten—in cafés. Two in particular, here in Berkeley, provided writing refuge and multiple macchiati. My thanks to Nefeli Caffé—
Efcharistó!
—and Abe's Café—
¡Gracias!

This is my second book, and a great deal has changed in my life over the thirteen years since publication of the first one, a memoir—
The Beggar King and the Secret of Happiness
. By far the most amazing transformations I've seen are in our two children, Elijah and Michaela (Izzy), who were five and two years old in the book. Not only have they grown up to be mensches, but also insightful literary critics. Each read a draft of
Dreidels on the Brain
, then said, “I really like it,
but
 . . .” and went on to point out character problems they were uniquely qualified to notice. Those comments resulted in months of rewriting—and a far better book. I am so proud of them—and grateful for their input.

Penultimately, I am deeply indebted to the folks at Dial. My thanks to Danielle Calotta, who took a bizarre idea and turned it into a cover that captures the spirit of this book, and to Dana Chidiac, assistant editor, who has helped every step of the way,
with grace and warmth. Thanks as well to Copy Chief Regina Castillo, who corrected hundreds of my actual mistakes while nimbly sidestepping my many intentional breeches in spelling, and to Nancy Leo-Kelly, who worked typographic magic in the layout of this book. My publicist, Amanda Mustafic, has been wonderful to work with, and I'm glad to have her spinning
Dreidels on the Brain
out into the world.

I am particularly grateful to Lauri Hornik, publisher of Dial and editor of this book. About ten years ago, after reading my first book, she invited me to stop by when I was next in New York. We went for hot chocolate and she asked if I had ever considered writing something for young readers. “Well,” I said, “there was this one Hanukkah when I was twelve, and a story about an orange that's been rolling around inside my head. . . .” When I finished telling her the story, she saw the potential for a book, and asked for a sample chapter.

It took me seven years from that meeting to find the right voice and deliver that chapter, then another three years of writing, rewriting, and rerewriting, to come up with the book you've just read. Lauri has been there with boundless patience every step of the way, offering editorial insight, judicious edits, sage advice, writerly perspective, and, most importantly, the belief that this was a story worth telling. One could not ask for a better editor. Thank you, Lauri—it is a pleasure and honor to work with you.

And, finally, I am so,
so
grateful to Taly Rutenberg, whom I must thank twice:

First, to Taly, my wife, without whom this book would never
have been written. She gave me the push I needed, asking, “Are you ever going to write that book about snow and oranges? Or just keep talking about it until you die?” Then, throughout the writing process, she put up with years of my frustration, distraction, procrastination, and other unpleasant traits that can make living with a writer in general—and this one in particular—a total pain in the Buttsky.

Then, to Taly, my writing partner, who, after I had already written numerous drafts, plunged into the manuscript, working alongside me to tweak every sentence, scrutinize every character's psyche, and twist plots as needed. At times, hers were the fingers on the keyboard. Through those multiple final drafts, she became a true collaborator as we spun this story together, resulting in a much, much,
much
better book. And we had great fun.

In light of Taly's tremendous contributions to this book, I am inspired to add something I have never seen, but befits this Hanukkah tale—a
rededication:

 

For Taly

I am forever grateful for your gifts.

As the dreidels in my brain spin out into the world,

know that the dreidels in my heart

spin for you alone.

In the summer of 1983, after graduating from Stanford, storyteller Joel ben Izzy set off to travel the globe, gathering and telling stories. Since then, he has performed, led storytelling workshops, and served as artist-in-residence in thirty-five countries on five continents.

Over the years he has produced six recorded collections of his stories, all of which have won awards from organizations and publications such as Parents' Choice Foundation, the American Library Association, and
Booklist magazine.

In addition to Joel's writing, teaching, and performing, he is one of the nation's most sought-after story consultants, working with individuals and organizations striving to make the world a better place. He serves clients in numerous fields, partnering with them to craft their stories, find their voices, and bring their messages to life. Joel also volunteers as a board member of Jewish Family and Community Services of the East Bay, which serves a diverse population including holocaust survivors and refugees from around the world.

Joel's first book was the highly acclaimed memoir
The Beggar King and the Secret of Happiness
. Now in over a dozen foreign languages, it is currently in development as a movie.

Joel lives with his wife, Taly, in Berkeley, California. They have two grown children, Elijah and Izzy, who are off having adventures of their own. They also have a dog named Herschel, the only member of the family who did not help in the writing of this book.