“And what the hell is this?!” the older lady asked in a deep accent. Her hair was white a good two inches from its roots, copper-colored beyond. She carried (only carried) a cane and wore big green jewelry, slices of oxidation between glass beads. But her eyes (also green, but untarnished, worn only like sea-glass, depth-charged) and her carriage bespoke a strength that had never been fashionable, so why try? The sticker on the lapel of her coral smock (matching pants) read, “Jewish-Christian Retreat” at the top, “Welcome to the Center” at the bottom. Her name glowed red between.
She had cornered the man with the yellow star on his sweater.
Of course, her loud voice had stopped everything within its radius, had sucked the sound right out of the air. A vacuum moment, still, suspended. Until someone said, “Actually, I’d wanted to ask about that, too . . .” and then the hum of chorused anonymity, voices safely crowded.
The fellow in question ignored them all. A large yellow star, four inches or more, point to point, was pinned to the front of his sweater, to wide bands of orange, aqua and navy stacked like sky at fierce, engulfing close of day. But on this star stood no inscription in Hebrew or German. Rather, something resembling string-art seemed to be plastered to it; a closer look (which sea-eyes had clearly taken) revealed a cruciform shape, like a stick-figure in string, looped arms reaching to the far corners of the upper star, tiny, rolled ball of a head at its pinnacle, thin line of a body descending to its lowest point, then splitting and crossing its feet.
The older woman was livid. She took one step, then another closer to the man — that her hesitation might mean age or rage mattered little to those gathered round. The issues were ancient anyway, and had smoldered beneath their feet all weekend, beneath the tables around which they had discussed, under the chairs they’d sat on. People had shifted a little, needed to visit the coffeemaker, been glad of breaks. But they’d made it. Now this, after all the prayers, at the closing reception. “Thanks be to G_d . . .”
“Jesus?” she said, close to hissing. “Jesus nailed . . . to a yellow star?”
The man tilted his fisher’s cap back from his head. Salt and pepper hair, and beard. Heavyish, spectacles. Air of education about him, and boyishness. And the tradition. Tevyah with a Ph.D.
“Are you so sure?” his bass continuo voice both hushed and boomed. “Take a closer look.”
She did — at his face, with that, “Oh yeah?” look that older women, too well-brought up to ever speak that way, perfect. Then, although she never seemed to take her eye off him (Old Lady Trick #2), she looked down, fiddling for the pearl-handled magnifier she wore on a chain around her neck. She raised it to one eye, squinted and leaned . . .
Sure enough, that did seem to be a minimalist version of Christ crucified on that star of David. But then she looked closer. Just below the transept of arms and body, there appeared another yellow star — tiny, attached to the crucified.
“Clo–ser,” Mr. Abramovich bent, his chin forming almost a canopy over her head. Whispered each syllable separately, pizzicato.
Somehow, she saw, was sucked in, magnified. On the yellow star worn by this Jesus hung another string figure of crucifixion, itself with a yellow star. Focus — on that star, too, hung a figure of Christ, again with a yellow star. Refocus. And on that star . . .
The accuser stepped back, unsure.
Was Christ pinned to the yellow star? Or was the yellow star pinned to Christ? Or . . .
“Now let’s start the retreat!” called the man, in a voice the opposite of patina. A shofar. A bell.
Excerpted from The Lives and Spiritual Time of C.L. Abramovich.
