Excerpt from My Brother's Keeper

Excerpted from pages 423-424 of My Brother's Keeper: A Memoir and a Message

One gathering especially deserves recounting. Here is the way I journaled it at the time: The family assembled in Amsterdam for a most unusual Bar Mitzvah, that of Daniel, the severely autistic son of my niece. We are delighted to find each others' arms, and pleased that we made the trek to honor the Dutch branch of the family and the gargantuan efforts we hear the staff made to teach Daniel a few line of the essential prayers for the occasion. Some of us doubt that even given these efforts, Daniel will be able to meet the minimal requirements of ritual that turns youngsters into members of the Jewish community. My mother has no doubt. "No way, never, not in this life. I wonder why they are even trying? The poor boy."

The synagogue is packed. Daniel climbs on the bima with much effort, his parents supporting him on the left and right. On the bima, he is unstable on his feet, drooling on his suit. He smiles apologetically. I wish I could whisper into his ear, "its ok; no matter."

The ritual is started by others, but when it is Daniel's turn to bless the reading of the Torah, he looks like someone who has a huge egg stuck in his throat, straining to get it out, but he is able to cough up only a little. He flushes as he tries to speak, eking out one or two legible words. He becomes flustered; strains harder, but now only grunts can be heard. We all wish we could just go up there, hug him, say the prayer for him, and end this wrenching scene. Indeed, two members of the congregation who stand on his left and right, chime in. An embarrassed smile occupies Daniel's face. His body twitches. He is perspiring profusely; his mother keeps wiping it off, which seems to trouble him even more. I am searching desperately for what one could do to spare him even another minute of this very public ordeal.

Someone else reads the portion of this week's Torah the Bar Mitzvah boy is supposed to chant. During the following rounds of prayers Daniel is a bit more relaxed, able to utter a few words he has rehearsed scores of time. The congregation joins in a song praising the Lord, and Daniel hums along; somehow he finds it easier to sing than speak.

Then there is a moment of silence. And Daniel suddenly recites, in a clear, though halting voice: "Sh'ma Israel, Adoni Elohenu, Adoni Echad" (Hear, O Israel, the Lord is God, the Lord is One). It is the line Jews, who were given the option by the Inquisition, to eat pork and convert to Christianity or be burned at the stake, recited when they chose to jump into the fire; the line Jews repeated when they finally realized that they were being marched not into showers to be deloused but into gas chambers in the Nazi concentration camps; the line, that more than any other, captures the Jewish essence.

There is not a dry eye in the place. The community rises, without any signal from the Rabbi, and breaks with much gusto into a song of thanksgiving. Daniel's body stops twitching; he seems drained but beams widely. My mother whispers, "my God, he made it."

I don't know what made for the magical movement; did God interrupt all he is doing to intercede or--did the community's love carry Daniel over the threshold. I am not even sure what exact difference it makes. I am sure that there was a presence of a kind I never witnessed before. It was surely the most unique family get together of them all.