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mandatory.
    The shtetl was only an hour from Brooklyn, but as our yellow school bus made its way through the strange village, I found myself intrigued. Young boys wore black suspenders over dull-colored shirts and black pants, their unkempt sidelocks down to their chests—unlike us Brooklyn boys who snipped our sidelocks at chin-length and kept them perfectly curled. Their hats appeared rain-speckled, and every man and boy appeared to be wearing “Medicaid glasses,” cat-eye frames of thick black or brown plastic. Their gartels , thin black prayer sashes, were wound tightly around their waists over ill-fitting gabardines; their shoes looked worn-out, scuffed at the toes and encrusted with mud. Even the women had a more pious appearance, kerchiefs bound over their wigs more tightly than in Brooklyn, their expressions more severe. There was something slightly repellent about these people and, at the same time, strangely enchanting. I half expected to see a yard full of squawking chickens and a milk cow at pasture.
    The bus stopped in front of a large, plain-looking rectangular structure in the center of the village, its only adornment a narrow roofed porch and two concrete square columns at its entrance. This was the village’s main synagogue. Inside the sanctuary, an enormous table was set up, made up of dozens of smaller tables, each covered with what was once a white tablecloth but was now grease-stained and yellowed. Seated on benches with tall backrests along both sides of the table were elderly men, and behind them, leaning on the backrests, were more men, middle-aged, some with small children in their arms or standing beside them. Behind them were rows of bleachers, five stories each, about fifteen feet tall. On the bleachers, young men and teenage boys stood pressed against one another, and more were climbing to take their places among them, all of them looking toward the head of the table, where the rebbe was soon to appear.
    I felt a tap on my shoulder. A thin, tall man stood behind me and extended his hand.
    “Shulem aleichem,” he said. “Welcome.”
    I looked to see if I knew him, but he took off without another word. Soon another man approached to shake my hand, and then another. Some smiled but most didn’t, as if these welcoming gestures were a solemn duty. Some asked for my name and where I was from, but most moved on quickly. The handshakes were as varied as those who offered them: limp, firm, pumping—even a two-handed one from a middle-aged gentleman who smiled broadly as if we were old friends, but he offered no words at all.
    Suddenly, there was frantic hushing, and I watched as men and boys of all ages made a final dash for their places. I tried to get a peek between the many hats and heads and shoulders but couldn’t see much past the jostling men in front of me. The rebbe, I presumed, had just entered from a room at the front.
    Another tap on my shoulder. Chaim Lazer, one of my classmates, stood behind me.
    “Come up onto the parentches ,” he said, and pointed to the bleachers, rows and rows of boys our own age.
    “It looks full,” I said.
    “They’ll make room for you. In Skver, there’s always room for another.”
    I followed Chaim as he climbed to the top row of the last set of bleachers. Already cramped, the boys squeezed together to make room for us and reached across to shake our hands. There was a faint musk in the air, from the compressed bodies and layers of clothes; on occasion, my nostrils were hit with a strong whiff of it.
    The hall fell silent. All focus was on the rebbe, who now sat on a tall gilded chair at the head of the table, its seat and back of rich red leather, a gold crown in wood relief rising from the chair behind the rebbe’s head. I watched as he raised a large loaf of challah, the size of a small child, and cut a slice for himself. He ripped a small piece and chewed slowly, his head swaying from side to side, as if in prayer. Meanwhile, the attendant took