LOUISVILLE, Kentucky — Once upon a time, there was a sleepy Russian village named Mushpushshushnia.
That’s my village.
Once upon a time, there was a charming, bright, kind, but misunderstood and underappreciated 12-year-old boy named Velvl.
That’s me.
Once upon a time, Papa told me to fetch a chicken to slaughter.
And that’s where the story begins.
According to tradition, on the day before Yom Kippur, every Jewish family performs an atonement ritual called “Shlogging Kapores.” The shlogger holds a chicken over his head by its feet and spins it around several times. Then he slaughters the chicken and gives money to charity, equal to the chicken’s value. All the family’s sins are transferred to the chicken.
“Why?” I asked my father.
“Why what?”
“Why does killing a chicken get us off the hook?”
My father sighed, as he often does when I ask a lot of questions, as I often do when I don’t want to do something he wants me to do.
“The chicken is a scapegoat, taking the blame for our sins. That’s God’s rule, not mine. As we’ve told you many times, God watches, and God remembers.”
“Why not sacrifice a goat?” I asked.
“Because your father and God want a chicken, not a goat. “Scapegoat is just an expression. And before you ask why, don’t.”
I’ve always considered “don’t” simply a suggestion. But, with Yom Kippur coming up, I decided not to push my luck. So I was ready to get my father a chicken.
That’s when my father threw a monkey wrench into the situation, and by that, I don’t mean he “threw” as in “shlogged” or “monkey” as in . . . oh, never mind.
My father said, “Make sure it’s the stupid hen that won’t lay eggs, the one with the black band around its neck.”
That was the monkey wrench: The banded chicken was my sister, Rivka’s, pet.
“Papa,” I said. “Let’s do something different this year.”
Papa looked at me, over his nose and his beat-up old glasses.
“No more questions, Velvl. Just do what I told you.”
I saw an opening.
“I said, ’Let’s do something different this year.’ That’s a statement, not a question.”
Dad closed my opening. No, he slammed my opening closed.
“Perhaps we should ask the Lord to let us rewrite Yom Kippur,” he said, in his best sarcastic voice. “‘Baruch Atah Adonai, Blessed are you, eternal our God, who allows my son to ignore your commandments and centuries of tradition, because he wants to save the life of a hen that doesn’t lay eggs.’”
“Papa,” I said. “It’s 1875. Czar Alexander has freed the serfs. Can’t Czar Hershel free one chicken?”
Papa gave me “the look.” It said, without words, “You will do what I say, Velvl.” It said, “Don’t push it, Velvl.” Papa always repeats my name when he’s about to snap, which meant shlogging Velvl.
That’s when Mama intervened.
“Velvl, we can’t afford to keep feeding a hen that won’t lay eggs,” she said. “If we shlog the banded chicken, we help the poor, we help ourselves, and we obey God.
“Remember, God watches, and God remembers.”
I don’t know if God watches chickens, but my little sister, Rivka, does, especially that banded one. Whenever she’s in the coop, the banded chicken follows her everywhere. Papa loves Rivka, but he doesn’t think a 5-year-old should get attached to an eggless chicken.That banded bird was one cooked goose.
So, this morning, I headed for the hen house, head down, wondering how God would judge me for assisting Papa in the murder of my sister’s favorite animal, wondering how to escape this predicament.
“Hey, Velvl, let’s go skim rocks in the lake.” I looked up, and there was my best friend, Sasha.
“Sorry,” I said, kicking a stone toward his feet. “I’ve got something important to do that I don’t want to do, and I have to figure out how not to do it.”
“Huh?” Sasha kicked the stone back to me.
I knew Sasha would know nothing about Kapores. He’s not Jewish.
“Swear you won’t laugh?”
“Swear.”
“Swear on the Czar’s mother?”
“I could get shot for swearing at the Czar’s mother.”
“I said ‘on,’ not ‘at.’”
“OK, I swear on the Czar’s mother.”
I told Sasha about Kapores. He laughed.
“You swore that you wouldn’t laugh.”
“I didn’t laugh,” he laughed. “I howled. So, why do you care about one dumb chicken?”
I explained my sister’s attachment to the condemned chicken. I also explained that I wasn’t sure God really wanted us prove we were righteous by killing an animal. As I was explaining, an idea came to me.
“Steal the chicken,” I said.
“Should I put it on a boat to America?”
“I’m serious. Just take it, tomorrow morning, while I’m not around. Then, when I tell my papa that somebody took the chicken, I can honestly say I didn’t see anyone do it. You can give away the chicken, and I won’t even know where it is.”
“Won’t your papa just kill another chicken?”
“Leave a note, warning him not to.”
“Sure: ‘Harm a chicken and you are dead.’ Signed, Chicken Man.”
“Write that you’re the Guardian Angel of Chickens, and a curse will fall on anyone who kills a chicken before Yom Kippur. My papa is very superstitious.”
Sasha scratched his head.
“I don’t like stealing.”
I was desperate, so I pulled out my secret weapon: Guilt. It works even against non-Jews.
“Remember how I helped you shovel snow to clear the entrance to your church last winter? Remember how I helped you pull potatoes from the ground when your papa made you do the whole field? Did I ever ask for anything in return?”
“I think you just did.”
*
This morning, Papa called me to his side and reminded me of the “honor” he had bestowed on me.
“Bring me the banded chicken,” he commanded.
I ran to the coop. No banded chicken, but I found a note nailed to a fence post.
I gently removed the note and read it: “God forbid you should kill an innocent animal in the name of tradition. Better you do a good deed without bloodshed.” It was signed, “Unsigned,” and it was circled by lightning bolts.
I ran back to our cottage, waving the note as I burst through the door.
Mama, Papa, and Rivka were there.
“Papa, Mama,” I yelled. “I got a note from God.”
“I don’t need a note from God,” Papa said. “I need a chicken.”
“The chicken is gone,” I said. I handed him the note.
“Are you playing games with me, Velvl?” Papa asked.
We stood in silence for a few moments. Then I had another idea.
“On Yom Kippur, we show God that we are good, that we deserve to live another year, right?”
Papa nodded, stroking his beard. He looked like he expected to get his watch picked from his pocket.
“The note said, ‘Do something good,’ ” I continued. “I say we take another hen and give it to someone who needs it. Remember that family at the edge of town whose cottage burned down?”
Papa kept stroking.
“Velvl, that sounds like a very good idea,” Mama said, finally. “Hershel, God certainly won’t frown on us if we help people in trouble.”
I looked at Papa. He scratched his head. Then he smiled.
“You and Rivka, go pick out a chicken – a good egg layer – and carry it to that family.”
Rivka and I were out the door in two seconds, racing to the hen house.
“We can’t give away Alexandra,” Rivka said, as I opened the gate.
“Alexandra?”
“My pet chicken. The one with the black circle on its neck.”
The banded chicken. I didn’t know Rivka had named it. And Rivka didn’t know Sasha had given it away.
I told Rivka the truth about her hen. Well, part of the truth. I told her the hen was missing.
Rivka started crying. I told her another part of the truth.
“I’m sure it’s happy, wherever it is,” I said.
Rivka cried louder. I told her the rest of the truth.
“Papa wanted to kill Alexandra?” She looked as if I’d just told her Papa was a werewolf. I explained that he was just doing what he thought God wanted him to do.
“God wanted Papa to kill Alexandra?” This was getting worse.
“I’ll get you another chicken.”
“I don’t want another chicken. I want Alexandra.”
“I’ll get you a necklace.”
“OK.”
Rivka and I checked under each hen and picked out a fat one sitting on five eggs.
We got to the edge of town and saw the burned-out family, hard at work, rebuilding their cottage.
“Can I help you?” the father asked. Three children hung on him, looking dirty and frightened.
“We heard about your misfortune. We have an extra chicken, and we thought you might need some eggs,” I said.
The father looked at the mother, who smiled and nodded.
“Thank-you,” he said. “This has been a two-chicken day for us. This morning, we found a chicken wandering through our belongings, and it’s already laying eggs for us. There it is, over by the apple tree.”
My jaw dropped as I turned and saw Alexandra, contentedly sitting in the shade. So Sasha had picked out the same family. But how did this eggless chicken suddenly start laying eggs?
“That’s . . .” Rivka started to say, but I slapped my hand across her mouth.
I started backing up, still holding my hand over Rivka’s mouth and saying goodbye to the family. As soon as we were outside their fence, I released Rivka.
“Why did you do that?” she demanded, kicking dirt on my shoes. “They stole Alexandra. I’m telling Papa.”
I stopped and bent down in front of Rivka, the way that Papa and Mama do when they have something important to tell us.
“Those people need help,” I said in a gentle whisper. “This time of year especially, we need to do only good deeds. I don’t think those people stole Alexandra, and they need chickens more than we do, so let’s just keep this as our secret. And don’t forget the necklace.”
“I want Alexandra back.”
“A neckless and a bracelet.”
“No.”
“A neckless and a matching bracelet.”
She smiled.
We were just about to our cottage when I spotted Sasha, running toward us and yelling.
“Sasha,” Rivka screamed in delight.
Sasha grabbed Rivka, lifted her and spun her around. Rivka giggled. He set her down, and she continued spinning.
“I’m sorry,” Sasha said.
“Why?” I asked.
“I never got to your hen house. My papa had chores for me, and he said he would not let me out the door until I had finished them.”
“That’s not funny.”
“What’s not funny?”
“Playing dumb is not funny. Your note was perfect.”
Sasha looked puzzled.
“Velvl, I’m not joking,” he said. “And what are you talking about?”
I told Sasha what had happened. He looked more puzzled.
“I didn’t write any note. I didn’t take any chicken,” he said. “I swear, I know nothing of this. Go talk to my papa, if you want. I just left our cottage five minutes ago.”
I knew Sasha wouldn’t lie.
“So, who took the chicken?” I asked.
“Who wrote the note? Who made the chicken lay eggs?” he asked. “You don’t suppose it’s . . .”
Sasha didn’t finish the sentence. We stared at each other.
“I’ve got to go,” Sasha said, looking as though he had seen a ghost. He turned and started walking down the road. Then he started running.
Rivka and I walked home. With Mama and Rivka listening, I told Papa everything. Everything.
“A mystery,” I said.
“A miracle,” Mama said.
“A bigger miracle is that you are telling me the whole truth,” Papa said. “Why?”
I thought about all that had happened that day. My answer was easy.
“God watches, and God remembers.”
*
*
Michael Ginsberg is a retired teacher and freelance writer based in Louisville, Kentucky.