A Bubbe Meyse

This short story, a monologue, will be performed at the Terwilliger Plaza talent show on September 28. It is included in my collection of short stories "Misplaced Persons" which is available as an ebook at Amazon.com and B&N for the Kindle and Nook and as a handsome paperback from lulu.com.

A Bubbe Meyse

a monologue by

Harley L. Sachs

What’s a Jewish mother to do? You struggle, you try to make a good life for your children and what do they do? We say small children small tzuris, big children, big tsuris. But back to the beginning I should go.

We’re a poor Jewish family living in a country under foreign occupation, those Romans, ptui, ptui, ptui, I should spit three times to ward off the evil eye. It’s not bad enough that we have to live under those arrogant, brutal legions, strutting around in their breastplates, helmets and short swords like they own the place. Which, in fact, they do.

Unfortunately this time there’s no Judah the Maccabe to throw them out like happened against the Assyrians. The Maccabes set up the Hasmonean government. True to form, power corrupts, and the Hasmoneans were a shande, a disgrace, so its no surprise that now we got the Romans, those Pagan goyim.

At least as long as we pay our taxes and don’t make trouble, they more or less leave us alone. You should hear them bragging about it, the pax romana, they call it, the Roman peace. Peace! Tyranny, I call it.

As if occupation weren’t enough, we have to deal with that Jewish traitor, that Herod, that megalomaniac. Mister big shot. He skims from the taxes and builds himself palaces, temples… there’s no end to it. You should see the fortress he built on Masada, as if putting himself up there would keep him safe in case we ever stood on our hind legs and revolted. This I would never do or even be a part of. Like I always say, don’t make trouble.

It’s not safe to stand out from the crowd. Just mind your own business and keep your head down, I always say. If anything, my husband Jossele, is too meek. Let me tell you how meek, that schlemiel. I was nine months pregnant, about to deliver, and Joseph says we have to go back to the old neighborhood and register for the census. At least he puts me on a donkey so I don’t have to walk the whole way, but you should try it, nine months pregnant and on a donkey. Oy, gevalt.

Not only that, but do you think Jossele, that schlemiel, at least would get us a room reservation so when we got to Bethlehem there’s be a decent place to stay? No such luck. The best he could do was gets us a bed of straw in the stables. What kind of a hotel accommodation is that for a dutiful Jewish wife?

So as luck has it, I deliver. It’s a nice baby, a boy. Shayne punim. You’d think a mother with a newborn should have some privacy, but no. Who shows up but three clowns dressed up like they’re going to a costume ball with crowns and the whole bit. Me, I think they’re like Harry, Mo, and what’s his name. They say they came to the stable following a star but what star? They argued the whole time, this star, that star, a vision. And they bring presents, frankinsence, myrr. What I needed was a decent bed to lie in, a clean blanket, decent food. Believe me, if I have to bring something to a baby shower it’s ain’t going be frankinsence. I’m alleregic.

It didn’t help that Herod, that Jewish despot who sold out to the Romans so he could be Mister Big Shot, also suffered from an unhealthy paranoia. Someone told him that a Jewish baby, a boy, would be a threat to his position. So what does he do? He says all the male newborns are to be killed. Jossele doesn’t have to be told twice to take the hint, so off we go, again with a donkey, to flee the country, go to Egypt, and hang out there until the heat blows off.

Fast forward a few years. We’re back in the homeland. Little Yeshua is learning carpentry, an honest profession, a good trade. With carpentry you can make a decent living. Naturally the Romans are still in charge, and Herod is lording it over everyone in his palaces and fortresses, the great defender of the status quo while he skims from the Roman tax coffers.

My Yeshua is a nice Jewish boy but he’s got big ideas, a rebel. The whole business of animal sacrifices at the Temple Yeshua sees as little more than Roman paganism. What matters, Yeshua insists, is Torah, the five books of Moses who got our people out of Egyptian slavery. Maybe Yeshua thinks he’s going to be another Moses and get us out  from under the Romans and Herod. What do I know? The Ten Commandments, Yeshua insists. Like the Torah says, love thy neighbor like yourself. Not love the Romans, of course, but your Jewish neighbor.

Yeshua went meshugga when he saw the temple functionaries insisting that Roman coins not be used in Jewidsh prayer. So they change the money for shekels, taking a nice commission into the bargain. But Yeshua makes a scene and drives them out. This is not a smart thing for a young man to do. You don’t want to draw attention to yourself.

But no, Yeshua is full of himself, like so many young people these days. He goes around preaching, neglects his carpentry work, takes up with a kurve, that whore Mary Magdeline. This is not the sort of girl a good Jewish mother wants her son to take up with. I warned him. Stay out of trouble, I said. Don’t get big ideas.

But you know how gullible people are. Someone gets up on a soap box, gives a few speeches, and that next thing you know he has a following.

For what? Jeshua ain’t going to be part of the Sanhedrin, the high Jewish court. That bunch of judges think they have authority, but it’s only over religious matters. They have no voice in politics. For that you got Herod, that arrogant figurehead—ptui , ptui, ptui—he should grow like an onion with his head in the ground, and the Romans, oy. From them we don’t even speak. It’s too dangerous.

No matter how much I kvetch, Yeshua doesn’t listen. He says he’s a reformer. He’s going to bring us Jews back to the law of Moses and to heck with that Temple cult business. Worse yet, he’d so intoxicated by the adoration his misbegotten, fawning followers lay on him that he’s beginning to believe it himself. That’s what a bit of fame and celebrity get you—a big head.

If he would only keep his head down, not make trouble, be a nice carpenter. It’s a good trade. But no. Jeshua starts bragging. He goes completely meshugga. He develops this messiah complex, like maybe he’s another Judah the Maccabe, tough guy. But the Romans aren’t Assyrians. They may hang around and get fat on our local figs, olives, and dates, and patronize the local Jewish whores, but you don’t want to mess with the Romans. They are plenty tough guys.

So you probably already heard. The straw that breaks the camel’s back. Yeshua goes around bragging that he is the king of the Jews. You think Herod, Mr. Big Shot, is going to take that lying down? The Sanhedrin know what side their bread’s buttered on. They rule that what Jeshua says is blasphemy, but blasphemy is nothing to the Romans. They already got a king they appointed, Herod. From the Romans point of view it ain’t blasphemy. It’s sedition.

No little Yid like Yeshua is going to overthrow the Roman government, Herod or not. I warned him. Yeshua, shut up. Be a nice carpenter. Find yourself a nice Jewish girl and make me a grandmother. If you keep up this nonsense they’ll crucify you.

And they did.