The Golem of Orla Shalom

by David Naimon

Murray was Nathan’s only lifeline at Hebrew school, Wednesday nights at Congregation Orla Shalom. None of his other friends had to go. Their parents believed in home schooling: a crash course in Woody Allen films or lectures on the proper bagel. Or they weren’t Jewish at all, if they were lucky.

Murray, on the other hand, was caught in the middle of a religious war—his mom stuck him in this Reform synagogue merely to spite his Modern Orthodox dad.

Nathan tried unsuccessfully, like kids of all religions, to reason with his parents.

“Grandma converted, Mom. And she converted after you were born. So you don’t count.”

“I was raised Jewish, sweetie.”

She pinched his cheek in that annoying yet reassuring way that, he had to admit, he did find Jewishy.

“Mom, Murray’s mom is a real Jew. And I mean that in the kindest way to you. You can just tell he’s the real thing. The guy is a complete klutz. He pushes the door that says pull. If he ties his shoe in the middle of a lesson, within a couple minutes it’s untied again. And he always has food on his shirt. I swear sometimes he poops his pants.”

“Nathan, do we need to meet with the Rabbi again? To get help with your lessons?”

“I’m not a Jew, Mom. Not a Jew like that. Murray’s dad said I wasn’t a Jew. He is the real megillah.”

“Murray’s dad is a crazy.” Nathan’s dad said this without turning his head from the screen. He had been watching the Packers with the sound off on the little TV in the kitchen, minding his own business. He had no strong opinions about where Nathan scored on the Jew-ometer. Nonetheless, he could muster some passion when it came to freaks of religion, as he called them.

“George!”

“All those black hatters are nutters, Becky. You read about those babies getting herpes from that mohel who sucked the blood off their penises.”

“George! Not in front of Nathan.” She covered her ears as if that would somehow cover her son’s.

“Please, Becky, he’s heard the word cocksuc…”

“Nathan, go to your room!” Becky’s arms flailed to block her husband’s words from reaching her son.

“That is exactly my point, Dad. I’m not like that. We aren’t like that,” Nathan yelled as his mom ushered him out of the kitchen.


Another unwelcome Wednesday. Rabbi Steinberg, five months pregnant, was seriously beginning to show. She rested her guitar on her swollen belly as she launched into her warm-up song, “Holy Mountain.” She asked everyone to close their eyes and chant the “lai lai lai” chorus on cue.

Nathan showed up a bit late to the refurbished wing of the synagogue with its tight-knit synthetic blue carpet still giving off gas, with its floor-to-ceiling windows that reminded him of the airport. Instead of airplanes taking off, you could see the rabbi’s Volkswagen SUV with the license plate SH’MA, parked just outside, that is, if the late afternoon sun didn’t blind you in this sanctuary filled with so much light.

The old sanctuary had reminded Nathan of his grandfather’s cigars, all mahogany and faded yellow, of shadows, of stale air and tiny windows that served more for decoration than as faint reminders of the outside world. The old pews had been filled with old wrinkled souls—and the restless people they needed to drive them at night due to bad knees or the early signs of dementia. The new wing and the newish rabbi were meant to attract younger families back into the fold.

Along with the modern updates, Congregation Orla Shalom also tried to breathe life back into the community by dipping into the past, albeit selectively, to traditions that had since been overlooked. Thus, the rabbi also had a golem, Yossele....