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"The Basketball Game" is a graphic novel adaptation of the award-winning National Film Board of Canada animated short of the same name – intended for audiences aged 12 years and up. It's a poignant tale of the power of community as a means to rise above hatred and bigotry. In the end, as is recognized by the kids playing the basketball game, we're all in this together.

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Byline: Izzy Abrahmson

A new family tradition

A new family tradition

(photo by Mark Binder)

Rachel Cohen stared at the full box of candles. Since her parents had separated, getting ready for Hanukkah wasn’t the same. Four candles were broken. Of course.

She chewed on her lower lip.

In the old days, her family had gathered around the kitchen table, and argued about who would light the shammos and who would light the first candle.*

“You did it last year,” her twin brother Yakov always insisted.

“No,” Rachel would counter. “I lit the shammos, which is better.”

“No, it’s not. The first candle is best.”

“Children, hush,” their mother, Sarah, would say as she flipped a potato latke. “You’ll disturb your father.”

Their father, Isaac, would be looking at his little book, pretending to mumble prayers, while holding back a smile.

The compromise was always the same. Rachel would light the shammos, which was better, and Yakov would light the first candle, which made him happy, too.

This year, her parents lived in different houses, and Hanukkah wouldn’t be the same. Rachel didn’t know what to do. She felt small, helpless and embarrassed.

In the village of Chelm, 12-year-old Rachel Cohen was known as the smartest young girl, someone whose wisdom was both sought after and respected.

“If you don’t know what to do,” everyone said, “ask Rachel Cohen, and whatever she says, do that!”

Rachel knew that she wasn’t really that brilliant. But whenever someone asked her a question, she either had the answer, or knew how or where to find it.

“The secret of being wise,” Rabbi Kibbitz had once taught her, “is to listen quietly for as long as you can without saying anything. Ask a few questions, and then nod your head and wait until the answer arises. Most of the time, they’ll think of it themselves, and then give you all the credit.”

Rachel nodded her head and asked herself, “But what does a so-called wise person do, when they don’t know the answer?”

She looked around the kitchen, which was also silent.

Then it came to her, and she smiled.

* * *

The bell over the door to Mrs. Chaipul’s restaurant rang and, without looking up, the elderly woman behind the counter told Rachel, “Your mother’s gone to the market in Smyrna to get potatoes for the latkes.”

“Can we talk?” Rachel asked quietly.

Mrs. Chaipul glanced at the young girl, nodded her head and shouted, “All right, the restaurant is closed until lunch for a health and safety inspection!”

Most of the men finished drinking their tea or coffee, put on their coats and headed to the door.

Reb Cantor the merchant didn’t budge. “I thought you already paid the health and safety inspector.”

“This is for your health and safety,” Mrs. Chaipul told the merchant. “Because I won’t guarantee it if you stay.”

Reb Cantor smiled, stood and kissed Rachel on the top of her head as he left the restaurant.

Mrs. Chaipul locked the door behind him and led Rachel to the table in back, where she’d already placed two cups of hot herbal tea.

The young girl and the old woman sat across from each other, lifted their cups at the same time, and blew.

* * *

Mrs. Chaipul listened as Rachel explained, “On the first night of Hanukkah, our family starts with eight candles ablaze, and then we light one fewer each night. This, my father says, echoes the Maccabees’ fear that the oil in the eternal light might burn out at any moment.

“But, on the last night, where there would only be one candle and the shammos, we changed the tradition and light all eight again. For us, the last night is a true celebration of joy. My mother says it’s just nice to have all the extra lights.

“This Hanukkah, Yakov and I are supposed to take turns, one night with Mama and the next with Papa. I want things to be the same, but no matter how hard I try to rearrange it, the number of candles always comes out uneven. Plus, four of our candles are already broken, which seems like a sign!”

Rachel waited for Mrs. Chaipul to tell her how to solve the problem. But Mrs. Chaipul didn’t say anything. She was married to Rabbi Kibbitz, and kept her own name, which is another story. She’d often chided her husband that it was better to keep your mouth shut than to put your foot into it.

Rachel sighed. She sipped her tea.

Then she smiled, and nodded. She suddenly knew what to do. “Thank you, Mrs. Chaipul. I need to hurry and buy more candles.”

Mrs. Chaipul gave Rachel a hug. “I didn’t do anything. But I wish you well.”

Rachel ran from the restaurant, and Mrs. Chaipul reopened the front door for the lunch crowd.

* * *

That year, Rachel Cohen changed their tradition again.

“Whether we are with mother or father,” she told her brother, “instead of lighting eight or seven or one, each night we will take turns lighting all eight Hanukkah candles.”

Yakov was upset. “So many candles seems wasteful. And that isn’t the way Hanukkah is supposed to be celebrated!”

“Everything changes,” Rachel said, “and it’s up to us to make it new again. This way, the time we spend together will be even brighter.”

“All right.” Yakov shrugged. “But I light the first candle.”

“You did it last time.” Rachel smiled. “But that’s fine. Lighting the shammos is better….”

Izzy Abrahmson is the author of Winter Blessings and The Village Twins. He’s also a pen name for storyteller Mark Binder. Find the books on Amazon and Audible, with signed copies and links to the audio version of this story at izzyabe.com and markbinderbooks.com.

***

*A note on candlelighting
A shammos is the candle that is used as a match to light the other candles. While most people follow the tradition of Rabbi Hillel, lighting one candle the first night of Hanukkah and then adding candles each night, the followers of Rabbi Shammai start with eight and work their way down. Rachel Cohen is not yet a rabbi, but who knows what the future will bring.
– IA

Format ImagePosted on December 9, 2022December 8, 2022Author Izzy AbrahmsonCategories Celebrating the HolidaysTags Chanukah, Chelm, folk tale, Hanukkah

The Chiribim-Chiribom feud

Many years ago, in the village of Chelm, there were two families, the Chiribim and the Chiribom. They were enemies. They fought over everything. They fought over land, they fought over water, they fought over cows and horses and chickens. They fought over air.

The Chiribim and Chiribom didn’t talk to each other. They were stubborn. They didn’t look at each other.

In the synagogue and village hall, they would sit on opposite sides of the room and glare or shout or scream. Or spit. It was disgusting.

The feud had been going on for years, decades, perhaps centuries. No one knew where it began or how it had originated. What insult had provoked the first Chiribim to scorn the first Chiribom? It was long ago and long forgotten.

Sometimes the anger came to blows, but, fortunately, so far no one had been seriously injured or killed.

Rabbi Kibbitz, the oldest and wisest of leaders, was sick of it. He was tired of the malice, tired of the hatred, tired of the tension. He was tired of mopping spit off the floor of the synagogue.

So he decided to solve the problem. The Chiribim and Chiribom needed to come together to work out their differences. They were farmers, they worked the land. They were neighbours, living so close to each other but so far away.

The problem was that he couldn’t get them all in the same room without someone blowing up.

It had been pouring rain for most of the week of Passover, and everyone was cranky.

In those days, after a long rain, everyone in the village would go out into the woods to pick mushrooms. Mothers, fathers, grandmothers, grandfathers, aunts, uncles, cousins, brothers and sisters would all pack up their lunches, bring along empty baskets, and hunt for wild treasure. The youngsters would find dozens of kinds of fungi, and the elders would teach them which ones were tasty, which were revolting, and which might kill you.

During the rainstorm, Rabbi Kibbitz sent a note to the Chiribim, asking them to join him in the forest for lunch. He also sent a note to the Chiribom, asking them to join him for lunch in the same place, at the same time.

Early the next morning, the rabbi pulled on his boots, put a basket over his arm and plodded into the Black Forest. First, he would find the Chiribim and then the Chiribom. And then they would work it all out.

Unfortunately, he forgot his glasses, so he was having a hard time seeing where he was going.

Soon, he came upon a group of people.

“Chiribim?” he asked them.

They shook their heads. “Chiribom,” they answered.

Sighing, the rabbi continued his search.

He realized he should change his tactics. He would meet with the Chiribom first, and then the Chiribim.

Soon, he came upon another group of people. “Chiribom?” he asked them.

They shrugged, “Chiribim.”

“Hmm.” The rabbi wandered off, muttering, “Chiribim bom bim bom bim bom.”

Another group of people were asked, “Chiribom?” and they answered, “Chiribim.”

The next group were queried, “Chiribim?” and they replied “Chiribom.”

The rabbi was getting frustrated. “Ai Chiribiri biri bim bom bom! Ai Chiri biri biri bim bom bom!”

Back and forth the rabbi went racing through the forest. If he asked, “Chiribim?” they told him, “Chiribom.” If he asked “Chiribom?” they told him, “Chiribim.”

“Ai Chiri biri biri bim bom bom. Ai Chiri biri biri bom!”

image - “Chassidic Dance” by Zalman Kleinman, 1964
Until Rabbi Kibbitz decided to put an end to their feud, one could never have imagined the Chiribim and the Chiribom speaking, let alone dancing together. (“Chassidic Dance” by Zalman Kleinman, 1964)

The Chiribim and Chiribom were stubborn. They loved an argument, and neither group liked to be pinned down or admit to anything. Perhaps they were playing tricks on the rabbi. Perhaps they were just being obstinate.

“Bim!” the rabbi shouted.

“Bom!” they answered.

“Bom?” the rabbi yelped.

“Bim!” came a chorus.

“AAAGH! Bim bom bim bom bim bom!”

He began to twirl about.

He asked another group, “Bom?”

They answered, “Bim!”

The next had to be … “Bom?”

“Nu. Bim!”

“Impossible! Bim bom bim bom bim bom!”

The rabbi was running and twirling, almost dancing. “Ai Chiribiri biri bim bom bom.”

His hair was everywhere. His coat was open. “Ai Chiri biri biri bim bom bom. Ai Chiri biri biri bim bom bom. Ai Chiri biri biri bom.”

Well, the Chiribim and the Chiribom started laughing. They couldn’t help themselves. Their rabbi, this wise old man, was acting like a chicken with his head cut off, like a frog trying to escape a pack of curious boys, like a school teacher with a cube of ice dropped down his back. All the time he was muttering to himself like a crazy man, “Chiribimbombimbombimbom.”

They laughed and they grinned and they smiled, and then they looked up.

Across the forest they saw something that they had never seen before.

They saw each other smiling and laughing and grinning.

They looked and they realized that they all wore the same kind of clothes. They had the same kinds of shoes and hats and hair. They all held baskets full of mushrooms.

So the Chiribim and the Chiribom came together in the middle of the forest and shook hands, and they kissed cheeks, and they hugged.

And, of course, they had a Passover lunch.

Such a feast! Chopped liver on matzah with fresh-picked mushrooms. Beet salad. Brisket. And Mrs. Chaipul’s light-as-a-feather lemon meringue pie. So delicious!

When they were done eating and finished cleaning up, they lifted the poor rabbi up on their shoulders, because he was still too dizzy to walk, and all together they carried him back to the village of Chelm, singing: “Ai Chiri biri biri bim bom bom….”

From that day on, they were no longer known as the Chiribim or the Chiribom, but as the Chiribimbombimbombimbom…. Bim…. Bom.

“Ai Chiri biri biri bim bom bom.

“Ai Chiri biri biri bim bom bom.

“Ai Chiri biri biri bom….”

Izzy Abrahmson is a pen name for author and storyteller Mark Binder, who lives in Providence, R.I., and tours the world – virtually and in-person. Abrahmson’s Winter Blessings: Warm Stories from the Village was a National Jewish Book Awards finalist. This story about Chiribim and Chiribom is from his latest book in the Village Life Series, The Village Feasts: Ten Tasty Passover Stories, which is available on Amazon and at books2read.com. To listen to the audio version of this story, narrated by Binder, visit izzyabe.com.

Posted on April 8, 2022April 7, 2022Author Izzy AbrahmsonCategories Celebrating the HolidaysTags books, Chelm, Chiribim, Chiribom, music, Passover, storytelling, Village Life
Dream warms frozen flames

Dream warms frozen flames

It was just before sunset on the last night of Chanukah, the coldest it had ever been in Chelm. (photo from pxhere.com)

It was a cold day in the village. It was so cold that when Reb Cantor, the merchant, sneezed without covering his mouth, his mucus solidified and blew a hole through the window of his shop, which his wife fixed by throwing a cup of tea at his head. He ducked, and the tea hit the windowpane and froze into place. It was that cold.

It was so cold that the flame of the eternal light in the synagogue froze solid. Instead of flickering brightly, it stood still, like red and yellow glass.

The villagers were frightened. It was just before sunset on the last night of Chanukah. Soup froze on its way from the pot to the table. Vodka oozed as it was poured into a glass. Chanukah candles snapped at the slightest touch. Reb Cantor’s matches broke into splinters. Stoves were almost useless. Warm challahs froze into rocks in seconds. Axes had to be warmed or else, when they struck the firewood, the blades shattered as if they were made of crystal. The Uherka River had frozen solid, trapping in its icy clutches a flock of geese late to leave the area.

It seemed as if the end was near. Everyone was hungry. They were afraid to go outside because the wind sucked the heat from their skin. The air itself left their lips numb. Kissing could be dangerous.

The day had been dark and cold, and the night would be darker and colder. Meals were uncooked and uneaten. Chanukah candles, set in their menorahs, were unblessed and unlit. Families stayed in their homes, huddled together in bed.

Even in the house of the wisest man in the village of fools, the menorah was dark.

Rabbi Kibbitz shivered in his bed with his wife, Channah Chaipul (she kept her maiden name, which, as you know, is another story). The two of them lay fully dressed beneath four sheets, three blankets, two quilts and seven coats – everything warm that they owned. Still, his teeth were chattering. For the first time in his life, he regretted not owning a dog or a cat.

“Channah,” the rabbi said. “We have to light the candles.”

“You do it,” she said. “I’ll watch from here.”

“My hand is too unsteady. The shammos will blow out. You are better at that sort of thing.”

“I’m almost warm,” she said. “You do it.”

“I’m nearly frozen,” he answered.

“So? You want me to get out of bed, light the candles, and come back in with icy cold feet?”

He shuddered. The last time she had put a cold foot on his ankle, his heart nearly stopped.

He sighed and closed his eyes. Maybe in a few minutes he would….

“Are you awake?” she said, elbowing him in the ribs.

“Channah!” he said, suddenly sitting up. “I had a dream!”

“Are you crazy? Lie down, you’re letting in a draft.”

“No, Channah, I’ve had a dream. Quickly! Get up! We need to gather everyone together in the synagogue.”

Mrs. Chaipul squinted at her husband. She hadn’t seen him this excited since he’d beaten Rabbi Abrahms, the schoolteacher, at canasta. “What did you dream?”

“I can’t tell you,” he answered. He slid out of bed and gasped as the frigid air slapped his neck like an icy wet towel. “Tell everyone to bring their menorahs and come to the synagogue. Quickly!”

Grumbling and shivering, Mrs. Chaipul stood, and nearly stopped right there. She wondered if it was possible for blood to freeze. Then, the rabbi went one way and his wife went the other, banging on doors and windows. They ran as fast as they could (which was remarkably briskly, considering their ages), waking villagers and telling them to gather in the synagogue.

“What? Why? Are you crazy?”

“Yes, I am,” said Mrs. Chaipul. “But the rabbi has had a dream. So you can freeze in your house or freeze in the shul. It’s up to you.”

Parents groaned. Children were wrapped in blankets. Doors were pried open. Menorahs were carried carefully, lest they crack into pieces on the short trip to the synagogue.

The small shul filled quickly.

Rabbi Kibbitz stood at the front, on the bimah, with five tallisim wrapped around his shivering old shoulders. He stood beneath the eternal light, staring at the still-frozen flame.

“Is everyone here?” he asked. Everyone looked around and nodded. No one was missing. “Then, please, somebody shut the door!”

“It’s shut,” came a shout from the back.

“Oy,” muttered the chilled rabbi.

“So, Rabbi, what is it?” said Reb Cantor. “What is so important that you asked us to risk life and limb to come to the synagogue on a night so cold my eyeballs almost froze?”

“I had a dream,” the rabbi said.

“So, I heard,” answered Reb Cantor. “You maybe want to tell us what the dream was?”

“I dreamed,” Rabbi Kibbitz sighed, “that all the villagers of Chelm gathered together in the synagogue.”

“Yes? Yes?”

“Well, in my dream, it was a cold, cold night, and the Chanukah candles weren’t yet lit.”

“Yes? Yes?” the villagers repeated.

“And everyone, all of you, came here to the synagogue.”

“Yes? Yes?”

“That’s it.” The wise rabbi shrugged. “We were all here. Then Channah nudged me, and I woke up.”

“That’s not much of a dream,” muttered Mrs. Chaipul.

The citizens of Chelm stared in disbelief at their beloved rabbi.

“You’re crazy!” shouted Reb Cantor. “You yanked us out of our moderately warm beds and dragged us here to tell us that you had a dream that we were all here? That’s it? Rabbi Kibbitz has finally lost his mind! Rabbi Abrahms, it is time for you to become the chief rabbi of Chelm.”

The villagers began to grumble and argue and stamp their feet. A wave of exasperated hot air lifted to the ceiling as their voices rose into shouts.

“Wait, wait!” Rabbi Kibbitz said. “Please, listen.”

Just then a child’s voice shouted, “Look! Look!”

It was young Doodle, the orphan, and one of the most foolish boys in the village of Chelm.

Doodle was pointing up at the eternal lamp. The pale light was thawing – flickering faintly, but growing brighter as it filled the synagogue with its glow of red, orange, yellow and gold.

Reb Cantor himself lifted Doodle up. “Careful, careful now,” he whispered, as the young boy touched his shammos to the light of the eternal flame.

That candle was passed back and forth throughout the shul, as every family lit their own shammos. Everyone held their breath, wondering whether the wind and the cold would extinguish the thin flames.

Then, at long last, the villagers of Chelm said the blessings all together. The shammosim touched the other candlewicks. Soon, for each family, one flame became eight (plus the shammosim).

Now the synagogue was full of light, and the villagers began to sing.

Reb Cantor swept the old rabbi up in a bear hug. “That was some dream!”

Everyone laughed and danced.

They stayed there all night, and the candles burned so slowly that it was well past dawn before the last one burned out.

That morning, when the doors to the synagogue were opened at last, a warm breeze left the shul and spread out over the village.

The ice on the Uherka River cracked, and the flock of trapped geese took flight. All the villagers watched and cheered as the birds sped south.

And, from the east, the sun rose higher, and its rays felt warm with promise.

Izzy Abrahmson is a pen name for author and storyteller Mark Binder, who  lives in Providence, R.I., and tours the world – virtually and in-person. Abrahmson’s Winter Blessings: Warm Stories from the Village was a National Jewish Book Awards finalist.

Format ImagePosted on November 19, 2021November 18, 2021Author Izzy AbrahmsonCategories Celebrating the HolidaysTags Chanukah, Chelm, fiction, storytelling
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