24/9/99

Our Succa, Our Igloo

Celebrating Succot in Canada was hardly reminiscent of our desert ancestors.

    Right from the days of Abraham, the Jews were never meant for cold weather. We're the Chosen, not Frozen People.
     The desert is our natural habitat, not the tundra. Did Adam and Eve wear gatkes? Did Moses split the Red Sea with ice cutters? Not a single biblical character is depicted trudging through snow drifts in mukluks, parkas or earmuffs.
    Yet there we were, descendents of the ancient Hebrews, sitting in our succa on Jesus Island and f-f-f-freezing our tushies off.
    "What'n heck are the Orbaums doing now?" the neighbors would ask, as my Dad commenced the annual ritual of erecting the succa and embarrassing his eldest son (I hated being odd, which was inevitable, as we were the only Orthodox Jews for blocks around).   
    "Must be a toolshed."
    "No, it's the Orbaums; must be something, like, Jewish."
    Of course, a toolshed in Canada wouldn't have leaves for a roof, because that's logically where you'd store the shovel, which would be buried under six feet of snow. You'd need the shovel to dig it out.
    Our succa was kosher in every way but one: it was not built as a temporary structure. We'd only have it up for the eight days, of course, but for it to stay up that long, it had to be fortress-strong to withstand punishing weather conditions. Late in autumn, we never knew what we'd get, but we did begin to notice a weather pattern: as soon as the succa went up, look out!
    Our subarctic succa never did fail us. It was made of huge, thick sandwichboard walls, which my father -- well, this is how it seemed to me as a kid -- bolted into the bedrock. The bedrock, of course, was the center of the planet, which explained why our succa was so solid. (I never asked me father for the truth; I rather liked the way I imagined things.)
    We had gale-force winds, and Mom might have said "kids, get out of the house and into the succa, where it's safe."
    Even though I could not budge the boards, and I could barely lift the hammer even once to bring it straight down on a nail, I wanted to help build the succa. Not because it was a Jewish tradition, but because it was a man thing. I was not a man yet, though. I'd flex my arm and admire the bone, which I thought was a muscle.
    I yearned to have my manliness recognized by being allowed to build the succa, but instead I was consigned to the decoration detail. Instead of whacking iron through wood, I was given a pile of crepe paper and crayons. Girl stuff. Ick.
    I finally got old enough, but I wasn't yet smart enough to know I was being had. "You want to help? Sure," my father said. "Bring me a nail. Right -- now, stand back." Whack! Whack! Whack! "Another nail." Whack! Whack! Whack! "A glass of water, please." The boards would go up, but not until I was at a safe distance, so I shouldn't get hurt.

FINALLY, EVERYTHING was ready, and the festival was upon us. To eat in the succa was supposed to be a great treat. Well, we did, and it was not.
      It was very cold. My sisters and I were bundled in layer upon layer of winter clothing, sitting on cold metal chairs, shivering, stomping our feet and rubbing our hands together to keep the circulation going. Our noses glowed red, and dripped. We were miserable.
    Not my father. He was experiencing being Jewish, and no amount of suffering could diminish this joy. "Cold?! It's not cold," he would inform us.
    But when the chicken soup arrived, piping hot, he would say, "hurry up and eat it before it freezes over."
    I understood very little about science (still don't), but I always expected that the steam rising from the hot soup meeting the vapor from my frozen breath should create a snowstorm over my plate. 
    There was only about 30 seconds between the time the soup was too hot and too cold. In that half-minute, we'd slurp, gulp and khlop it down, radiating in the warmth. Then, until the next course arrived, glacial gefilte fish, "br-r-r-r-r..."
    Mom could have saved herself a lot of bother. She'd cook some stuff ahead of time, put it in the freezer, then defrost, reheat and serve. Frankly, she could have served it right from the freezer. No one would have known. We never knew if we were eating rice or ice.
    Our Israelite ancestors certainly had to weather sandstorms in their succa, which had an entirely different effect on the food, but we had blizzards. Actually, that was cool: a foot or two of snow on top of the s'chach would in fact insulate the succa, rendering it very much like an igloo. Only small amounts of snow -- together with twigs and leaves -- would crash down like bombs upon us. But so what. We were Canadian. We were tough.
    Worse than snow was a cold rain, and it always rained during Succot. Of course, we sat through it, stoic, Jewishly stiff-necked, hunching down further into our parkas and pulling our toques down over our ears. We ate fast, and happily skipped dessert.
    My mother was in the kitchen, slaving over the proverbial hot stove, and I envied her.
    Just off the kitchen was a stairway down to the back yard, where the succa was. My mother comes from a rather inventive family (an aunt is said to have created permanent-press pants), and she liked to conjure efficiency systems. Our succa was the only one I ever saw equipped with a dumbwaiter. Ma rigged up an ingenious pulley contraption so that she shouldn't have to run up and down the steps with our festival victuals. I was happy to volunteer to clear the table, if only so I could ferry things up by the dumbwaiter.
    We were required to eat in the succa, and we did. We were also supposed to sleep in the succa, but we weren't crazy. My mother would not allow her children to spend a night being frosted over.
    There were few other succas on Jesus Island. The biggest was, of course, at our shul, the Young Israel of Chomedey. Apparently the principle was, for 600 congregants, build a succa to fit 450.
    This was very wise. No matter how cold it got, even if it snowed, in that succa I was always toasty warm. I loved being enwrapped in the crush of large bodies dressed in holiday finery, pushing through to get a cup of Kik Cola, or a handful of n'hit (chick peas) or a chunk of honey cake. The men and women were wedged in tight and underfoot were dozens of kids squirming through, and no one seemed to mind. It was hot.
    I imagine in 3,000 years, when every last Jew is living in Eretz Yisrael (halevai), Succot will recall the tribulations of hardy, devoted Diaspora Jews bravely huddled in their makeshift huts. And it will be said of Shmaryahu ibn Julius that no matter what the goyim said, despite all the wintry plagues God cast down upon the frostbitten Jewish ears, there was suffering but perseverence, which is why, in memory, we will then decorate the succa with shaving foam and eat artikim.