ROSH HASHANAH

Jaw
The Baker

Jacob was a poor man, an anonymous man,
until the secret of his wisdom became known.
A book excerpt.

NOAH BENSHEA

Special to The Jewish News

I

it was still dark when Jacob woke.
He shut his eyes, pulled the cov-
ers over his head, and thanked
God for returning his soul.
It was cold in his room, and the
cold interfered with his ability to focus on
his prayers. He knew he was saying them
quickly. He prayed for understanding.
It was still dark when Jacob woke. He
shut his eyes, pulled the covers over his
head, and thanked God for returning his
soul.
It was cold in his room, and the cold in-
terfered with his ability to focus on his
prayers. He knew he was saying them
quickly. He prayed for understanding.
He turned on the small heater in his
bathroom and dressed in front of it. The
warmth soothed the back of his legs.
In the kitchen, he sliced a piece of hard
cheese and dark bread. He ate slowly while
the tea water boiled. When the tea was
ready, Jacob clenched a cube of sugar be-
tween his teeth and relished in the hot tea,
sliding slowly past the sweetness.
"Surely," he thought to himself, "this
is a taste of life in the world to come."
The moon was still high as he walked
to the bakery. His boots crunched the snow,
and the sound traveled back to his youth.
He felt a great truth between the silver
moon, the white snow, and the black night.
The shutters on most of the homes re-
mained closed, their worlds asleep. He
remembered a time when an old man
would rap on the shutters and call people
to morning prayers.

From the book, Jacob the Baker,
by Noah benShea. Copyright © 1989 by
Noah benShea. Reprinted with the
permission of Villare Books, a division of
Random House, Inc.

74

FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 29, 1989

The old man was gone. He wondered
what people would do if he started bang-
ing on their shutters.
He hurried on.
Behind the bakery, pigeons pecked
circles in the hard ground, finishing the
crumbs from yesterday's bread.
Jacob stared at the tracks the birds left
in the shallow pockets of snow. The three-
fingered pattern radiating out of a single
source . . . the patriarchs; Abraham, Isaac,
and Jacob . . . the past, the present and the
future . . . "Yes," thought Jacob, "it fits. It
all fits."
The pigeons rose and settled on the rain
gutters.
Jacob stood by himself, staring up at
the stars between the buildings that press-
ed in on him.
He looked at his hands as he unlocked
the rear door of the factory. Then he
stepped from the night into the reassuring
blackness of the bakery. "It is like pulling
a prayer shawl over my head;' he thought.
"This darkness is my own."
He was stiff. Bending to fire the oven
was an effort. From his knees, he hyp-
notically watched the pilot light and sensed
its affirmation. He thought of the "eternal
light" and patience. He prayed for such
patience.
This was the oldest bakery in his com-
munity, and, though much had changed,
the original oven remained. The bread it
baked rode 'round and 'round on a ferris
wheel of shelves. Jacob paused and laid his
cheek on the warming bricks outside the
old oven.
Soon the oven would reach
temperature. Soon the other bakers would
arrive. They could sleep later in the morn-
ing, see their children before they left for
school. Jacob lived alone.

He was not lonely. He was cut from life
but not removed.
He turned on the mixer and began to
work the first dough. His eyes followed the
spiral meter arm on its endless roll. Its pat-
tern confirmed a truth he saw everywhere.
Gradually, he added the warm water,
careful not to make the dough too stiff or
too wet. Moderation. Balance. Taking
measure of what he was doing.
Joseph the baker understood this.
Now there was time. His time. A little
time. The dough needed to rise. The oven's
heat curled through the bakery.
Jacob took a thick flat pencil from his
back pocket and began to write. But, it real-
ly wasn't Jacob writing.
Jacob was a reed, and the breath of God
blew through Jacob, made music of him.
In this way, was Jacob's voice.
Jacob finished just as the other bakers
arrived. He folded the little pieces of paper
with his scratchings and shoved them
under the scale on the dough bench. At the
end of the day, he would collect his
thoughts and add them to the stacks at
home. Now, he would make bread.
Cold air and light broke in through the
back door. The bakery filled with activity.
Men were coming and going with large
silver pans of braided egg loaves, frosting
white cakes with castles and pride, build-
ing biscuits, rolls, and bagels into tottering
towers which collapsed into baskets where
customers could, with delicious anticipa-
tion, pick their favorites.
Clearly, Jacob was a man on his path
in the process of this work. He did not ap-
pear to be laboring. He was at one with his
efforts. He knew what another baker need-
ed without being asked. When Jacob
worked with others, doors sprung open just
when a load became unbearable and clos-