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To "Chani": Thanks for your very prescient review. Some of your advice was taken into account in the making of the chapter. Nevertheless, this chapter is long on Judaism and short on plot, due to the similar nature of Tishrei.
Disclaimer: Do not ever make a halachic decision based on the actions of a fictional eleven-year-old.
For on this day [God] will make atonement for you, to cleanse you of all your sins, and you will be purified before God (Leviticus 16:30)
Dear Yehuda…
4. Kitzur Shulchan Aruch, siman 18, se'if 7. See also siman 1, se'if 3.
The first time he davened in the common room, he thought he would die. It was early Sunday morning, so the room was almost empty. A couple of older girls were poring over thick textbooks and rolls of parchment, and a boy was browsing at the bookshelves. Quietly, Yehuda shut the door to the dormitory and peeked out the window to check which way the sun rose.
His heart hammering, he turned to face mizrach and took three steps back. His heart pounded and he was sure any moment someone would yell Look, Goldstein's praying! but nothing happened. Instead he bent his knees, bowed, and proceeded with Shemone Esrei. It wasn't quite perfect, he had to keep dragging his attention back to the words, but it was the calmest Shemone Esrei he'd had since the morning he'd left to Hogwarts.
When he finished, he jogged back upstairs to put his siddur away. Terry was dressing and Michael was beginning to stir. No one batted an eyelash when he laid the siddur on the nightstand. Stephen grunted "Shut the door!" but that was all.
He double-checked the calendar just to be a hundred percent sure. Rosh Hashanah was tonight, tomorrow, and Tuesday. Yes, he was allowed to miss class, yes, McGonagall had said so, yes, he just had to tell his prefect, and he waited until the common room had emptied out somewhat, but in the stream of Ravenclaws heading to breakfast, he lost sight of Hilliard. He looked around, confused, and saw a tall curly-haired girl ushering Mandy and Morag toward the door.
"Excuse me," he said. "Do you know where I can find the prefect? Robert?"
"Robert's gone to breakfast," the girl said. "But I'm a prefect, too; Penelope Clearwater, and you are…?" Her eyes lit on his yarmulke. "You must be Goldstein."
"Right." He twisted his fingers behind his back. "And I, uh, have a…holiday tonight."
She nodded. "Right. McGonagall told us you'd be asking. Are you going to need to miss class?"
"Tomorrow and Tuesday." Did he sound like he was only trying to skive off? "I'll be at Astronomy, though."
After breakfast, the others went to look at all the sign-up sheets posted on the common room board. Kevin and Stephen came back talking excitedly about Gobstones and Charms Clubs. Yehuda did not go down to look. Rosh Hashanah was coming in at seven thirty-five, and there was a lot to do before then.
He wrote the wand movements essay as quickly as he could, glancing back at his Standard Book of Spells to differentiate between a point and a jab and a stab. It was complicated, but not as complicated as yiush shelo midaas. He finished, dotted the last period, and stood up, cracking his back. "Michael? Can you give this to Professor Flitwick tomorrow? I'm not going to be there."
Next he drew up a list on his notebook, not wanting to waste the borrowed parchment. For kiddush, he'd need grape juice. They'd put out fruit by the meals, and there might be one or two other things he could eat, he'd ask the house-elves to save some overnight because probably you couldn't cook, but it wouldn't be a proper Rosh Hashanah without the simanim. Apple and honey, a fish head, carrots, beets …a rimon to make Shehechiyanu. He flipped to the corresponding page in his ArtScroll machzor. Fenugreek and gourd? They'd never done that at home.
Satisfied, he jammed the list into his pocket and stood up to go place his order. Terry gave him a curious look as he left the dormitory.
He would have made it to the kitchen quicker, but the staircase that had been there yesterday was not there anymore, and he wandered the third floor aimlessly until the caretaker yelled at him to get away from the door, and then he ran so fast he had no idea how he had reached the ground floor. He tickled the pear until the kitchen door opened and slipped inside the kitchen. He watched the chaos for a few moments before he was noticed, and a little cluster of bat-eared tennis balls swarmed him. "Master Goldstein! What is Master Goldstein wanting?"
"Er…hello," he said awkwardly. "I'm having a holiday tonight, and I wanted to know if you could save me some food for the next two days since you're not allowed to cook."
"Does Master Goldstein wish a ram's head for the New Year?" one of them asked eagerly.
"A ram's head?" He was taken aback. "Don't you mean a fish head?"
The house-elf bowed his head. "Remmy will get what Master Goldstein asks. If Master Goldstein requires a fish head, Master Goldstein shall have one."
"All right, thank you, and it has to be from a fish with fins and scales. Is that all right?"
Heads bobbed up and down. He checked his list. "I also need grape juice and a pomegranate and an apple and honey."
After dinner, he quickly ran out to the Owlery and borrowed a school owl to place an order for parchment and quill and a few jars of ink. He counted out the little silver and bronze coins and tucked them into a pouch strung around the owl's tarsometatarsus (Common Owls of Wizarding Great Britain had informed him this was the proper name for the bird's ankle) and sent it off to Diagon Alley. At least he would be prepared, after Rosh Hashanah.
Last and finally, he set up his candlesticks.
"Again?" Terry said.
"Lay off him, Boot," Kevin said. "It's only his business if he wants to light candles."
Yehuda studiously ignored them. He lit the candles at 7:30, five minutes earlier than the calendar said to, just in case. He made the brachos, covered his eyes, and sat back down on his bed just as Stephen flung open the door. "Any of you finished your essay for Flitwick?"
"Shhh!" Michael said severely. "It's his New Year!"
His face got hot. "I've finished mine," he said. "Michael, you've got it, can you give it to him?"
"I'm allowed to?"
He prayed to sink into the earth and disappear, but his prayer went unanswered. Instead, Michael watched him with fascination as he dipped the whole apple straight into the honey jar. He had no knife to cut it, although he had seen a second-year use a spell to do that. He made a proper Shehechiyanu on the pomegranate. Terry and Michael showered and got into pyjamas while he ate his seudah: hard-boiled eggs, peas and carrots, and orange juice. They put out the torches while he ate dessert, which was some forgotten sweets he discovered at the back of his drawer.
He had a leisurely morning, waking up to the sight of the others heading to class. At home, he had held the last page of Shacharis so he could count down the hundreds of pages as they went by. It was much faster here. There was no leining, though he read the story of the Akeida to himself, and no shofar, because Rabbi Zeller had written that it was all right to skip it since he wasn't bar mitzvah. It didn't feel right to not have shofar at all, so he made tooting noises under his breath.
The machzor instructed him to say tashlich at a nearby body of water. He could say it at the bathroom sink, he supposed, but why bother when there was a lake right outside? His Shabbos shoes squeaked against the stone of the empty corridors as he headed downstairs, distant waves of chatter wafting from the Great Hall doors. He ducked inside and grabbed a bread roll from the nearest table, ignoring the startled stares of a few Slytherins, then headed toward the big double doors.
"Oi—Goldstein!" He turned. Michael was coming out of the hall, his robes open and school tie crooked. "Where're you going?"
He instinctively turned the machzor so the plain blue English-way side faced out. "Out to the lake. I have to say something by the water."
"Can I come? You missed an interesting class today." They stepped onto the path, blinking in the fading light. "Professor Sprout took us to see the Whomping Willow. Did you know that if a branch of it gets hurt, it's treated just like an arm? Why do you have bread?"
"It's something we do for the New Year," he tried to explain. "It's like we're throwing our—" how do you say aveiros in English "—sins into the water for the fish to eat."
Usually his father found the place for him, but today Yehuda navigated the table of contents on his own, Michael's chatter a pleasant background hum in his ear. He crumbled the bread in his hands and tossed chunks of it into the water. "Mi Kel kamocha, nosei avon v'over al pesha l'sh'eiris nachalaso…" He skipped past a few pages of small print and walked slowly along the shore, dropping bread as he went.
"You throw your sins away? The bread is your sins?" Michael jogged alongside him. "If the fish eat the bread, and someone eats the fish, do they have all your sins now? How does it work exactly?"
"I don't know," he said tightly. He fumbled for the last page and recited the final pasuk seven times, counting each repetition on his fingers, and flung the last bit of roll as far into the lake as it would go. "Let's go inside. It's getting dark."
He woke the next morning with his eyes closed, listening to his roommates' breathing and breathing the cool sunlight on his face. After a few minutes, he pushed himself awake. Sleeping roommates were something to take advantage of. He dressed quickly, washed negel vasser, and made the fastest, quietest Kiddush humanly possible. Then he grabbed his machzor and escaped to the still-empty common room.
The others left to class while he was in the middle of Shemone Esrei, facing the other way so he could imagine they werent looking. He skipped the chazzan's repetition, plowed determinedly through Avinu Malkeinu, and fell to his knees for Aleinu. The morning prayers finally ended on page 593, but it took the better part of the day to get there.
After, he made kiddush (grape juice was starting to get boring) and ate cold potatoes and the remainder of his pomegranate. He paged restlessly through the Mishnayos Rosh Hashanah that had been inserted into his machzor. He paced off the length, width, and circumference of the dormitory. He reread Rabbi Zeller's letter for the billionth time. He even reread his essay on wand movements. Would it be so bad to just go to class? He wouldn't write or do magic or anything, but he could sit there and…do something.
With the smallest tinge of guilt, he got to his feet and left the tower. The building echoed with emptiness as he descended the staircases. It felt like he was sneaking around somewhere he shouldn't be. On the fourth floor, the ghost professor suddenly glided through the wall and his heart skipped so fast he lost his breath.
"Why aren't you in class?"
Yehuda's mouth opened and closed wordlessly.
"Well?" Professor Binns demanded, sweeping closer.
Yehuda turned and ran, his feet pounding the stone even as his brain yelled Wait—you have permission! He flung a glance over his shoulder and saw the professor drifting along the hallway behind him, and he ducked into an alcove and pressed his back to the wall, catching his breath. He peeked around the door and his heart leapt—it was a library. He let out in involuntary gasp and pushed the door open.
The librarian peered at him suspiciously. "Why aren't you in class, boy?"
He took a deep breath. "It—it's—itsmyholidayImJewish."
She nodded curtly, though her face still looked pinched and annoyed. He guessed this was her usual look, and he forged ahead with a hopeful smile. "Do you happen to have any Hebrew books here?"
"Hebrew?" Her eyes narrowed. "Some. The Talmud, and another shelf or two."
"Where?" he said eagerly.
She snapped her hand outward in a general way. "In the library!"
He understood his dismissal for what it was and quickly lost himself in the maze of bookshelves. Wide-eyed, he browsed past shelves full of titles like The New Theory of Numerology and Charms of Defence and Deterrence and Merpeople: A Comprehensive Guide to Their Language and Customs before he slapped his forehead. There was a much easier way to find a Talmud. He stepped back into the middle of the aisle and scanned the bookshelves for matching sets, and less than five aisles later he was craning his neck up at thirty-seven identically bound brown leather books.
3. See Chagiga 12a, Rabbi Zeller had written. How could light have been created before the sun?
He stood on tiptoes, squinting at the spines, and wormed out a volume by his fingertips. At the back of the aisles, he found a table and some chairs, and he unfolded Rabbi Zeller's letter and opened the Gemara beside it. Hour by hour, he worked his way down the list of sources, down a line-by-line archaic translation in a Gemara with no commentaries.
6. Rambam, Sanhedrin 10, ikar #9. See also Devarim 13:1
He discovered that the library lacked a Kitzur Shulchan Aruch, but did have a Mishne Torah, a biography of Rabbi Elyah Lopian, and, bewilderingly, a Sephardic Haggadah shel Pesach. Twice he had to stand up to retrieve a Tanach, or the Rambam's commentary. He paged through analyses of vegetarian food and whether or not non-human cooking was bishul akum. Daylight grew dim and he had to squint to make out the small print, but only when the torches on the wall flickered to life did he straighten, blinking in confusion. Rosh Hashanah was over.
8. Practice, practice, practice. See attached.
Yehuda had laughed when he shifted aside the rabbi's letter and saw klaf neatly printed with the alef-bais in ksav Ashuris. Now, having successfully transfigured a match into a needle on the eleventh try, he put his wand down and set about trying to copy the letters. His brow furrowed in concentration, he nearly missed the conversation behind him. Michael and Terry had turned their chairs to face the chatter.
"We don't actually—fly?" Kevin was saying nervously. "On a broom, like witches?"
The second-years all laughed. "Where do you think that story started?" a girl said.
"And Quidditch is bloody brilliant," Michael enthused.
"I've been practicing on my dad's broom since I was five, I don't need flying lessons—"
Another subject? With a sigh, he straightened to listen in. Apparently, a sign had gone up in the common room announcing that first-years would be having flying lessons outside, with the Hufflepuff house and someone called Madam Hooch, and anyone who had ever flown on a broom was telling everyone how high and fast they had gone. He shook his head, pushing the klaf aside. They were going to fly—? On broomsticks? This place only got stranger every day.
His impression did not change, not even when they trekked out to the grass for lessons.
"Good afternoon, class!"
"Good afternoon, Madam Hooch."
"Good afternoon, good afternoon. Welcome to your first flying lesson. Well, what are you waiting for? Everyone step up to the left side of their broomstick. Come on now, hurry up. Stick your right hand over the broom and say up!"
"Up," he said, feeling rather silly. Nothing happened. Across from him, the blond Hufflepuff boy looked gleefully at the broom now in his hand, the only one whose broom had jumped that far. "Up!" The broom rolled over halfheartedly.
"Say it like you mean it!" the teacher prodded them. "Not everyone's a natural flyer. Go on, now—"
"Up!" Michael yelled. The broom jerked up, just enough for him to grab it.
"Up," Yehuda muttered feverishly. "Up, up, up." Padma's broom bounced into her hand, leaving him the only one empty-handed. If not everyone was a natural, what did that make him? His face burned as Madam Hooch stopped her pacing directly in front of him. "Oh, for heaven's sake, boy, up!"
The broom slapped his hand so hard his palm stung.
"Once you've got hold of your broom, I want you to mount it. And grip it tight, you don't want to be sliding off the end. When I blow my whistle, I want each of you to kick off from the ground, hard. Keep your broom steady, hover for a moment, and then lean forward slightly and touch back down. On my whistle—"
At the last moment, it occurred to him to wonder whether he was allowed to fly: this wasn't something he had to worry about controlling for pikuach nefesh's sake, maybe he shouldn't—
And then Terry yelped and Michael gasped and his feet lifted off the ground, and he forgot everything.
He had drawn enough attention on Rosh Hashanah, and by now everyone knew about Shabbos, and he couldn't imagine how he could approach Penelope or Robert again and say he had yet another holiday. Perhaps he could just stay out of sight, all day. It was Yom Kippur, after all; he certainly wasn't going to come in for meals.
Michael and Kevin were laughing about something someone had said in class, and he passed them in sober silence, feeling it almost a desecration of Yom Kippur to laugh with his goyish roommates. He moved through the common room, the usual tumult ghosting vaguely past his ears.
He sat outside, watching the last bits of sun fade over the lake before he opened his machzor. Kol nidrei, he whispered, v'esorei, u'shvuei, v'charamei. The Aramaic was much more difficult when you weren't singing it slow and haunting along with the whole shul, and it took him four tries to sound out u'd'ishtabana u'd'acharimna. He moved his eyes over to the English.
Shemone Esrei was strange in the dim light of the castle windows, whispering alone on an empty hillside. He bent his back and struck his chest, again and again. Ashamnu. Bagadnu. Gazalnu. He sang some of the Selichos that he knew and sounded out the others. When he finally closed the machzor a hundred and eighty-nine pages later, it was very dark. The moon had risen over the lake and he heard splashes and distant screeches. He pushed himself to his feet and started up the hill to the castle. The door creaked as he slipped inside, but it was an unwelcoming creak that echoed off an empty hall, and his stomach sank. The castle was completely silent.
How late was it?
He climbed the steps quietly, his face turned to the ground and machzor tucked under his arm, feeling as though he were floating through the school in a bubble of Yom Kippur solemnity, in another world. He turned a corner and started up the stairs, but he did not hear the caretaker behind him until an iron hand clamped on his shoulder. "Where do you think you're going?"
He turned to stone, too frozen to scream.
Filch steered his captive to face him. "Out of bed at midnight, wandering the corridors, no doubt up to something…we'll see what the headmaster has to say about that!"
"The headmaster?" Yehuda quailed.
Filch was hunchbacked and sunken all over, but his grip never loosened as he marched Yehuda up the stairs. "They used to hang 'em by their wrists from the ceiling, that'd teach you, wouldn't it? Pity they let the old punishments die out, it's no wonder the students run wild—"
Through his terror, he recognized some of the portraits: they were on the seventh floor. And now two figures in pyjamas were coming toward them, a very short professor, a taller prefect beside him. Flitwick and Hilliard. He felt as though he were falling.
"Mr. Goldstein!" Flitwick looked angry. "Where have you been?"
"I—praying…" He trailed off.
"What were you told about holidays?" Flitwick demanded.
"I could miss class if I tell a prefect," he mumbled.
"Speak up?" Flitwick cupped a hand to his ear.
"I could miss class if I tell a prefect," he said miserably. There was a huge lump in his throat.
"Well, Mr. Goldstein, you have not told a prefect, and you have been missing from your dormitory and from your Astronomy class, causing much unnecessary worry to your prefect and housemates. Students may not be out past curfew, and students may not miss class without permission. I'm afraid you will need to sit a detention."
"Flitwick never gives detention," Michael said, looking at Yehuda with something akin to awe.
He didn't answer. He kissed the machzor and slid it onto his nightstand, and crumpled into bed before the burning in his throat could give way to tears.
Glossary
Mizrach. East.
Yiush shelo midaas, literally "despair without knowledge." When the owner of a lost item does not know that it has been lost (or does not know the circumstances surrounding the loss), but would have given up hope on finding it had he known.
Rimon. Pomegranate.
Rosh Hashanah. The Jewish New Year.
Simanim. Symbolic foods.
Shehechiyanu. Blessing made on a new fruit or other novel experience.
Machzor. Holiday prayer book.
Brachos. Blessings
Seuda. Banquet.
Chazzan. Cantor.
Leining. Torah reading.
Akeida. The binding of Isaac.
Shofar. Blowing of a ram's horn.
Bar mitzvah, literally "son of commandment." Age at which boys become responsible to keep the laws of Judaism.
Mi Kel kamocha, nosei avon v'over al pesha l'sh'eiris nachalaso…Who, God, is like you, forgiving sin and overlooking transgression for the remnant of his heritage (Micah 7:18).
Pasuk. Verse.
Pikuach nefesh. Life-threatening danger.
Negel vasser. Ritual morning handwashing.
Kiddush. Holiday blessing over wine.
Haggadah shel Pesach. Passover Seder text.
Kol nidrei v'esorei u'shvuei v'charamei…u'd'ishtabana u'd'acharimna. All vows, and prohibitions, and oaths, and consecrations…that have been sworn and that have been consecrated. (From the opening prayer of Yom Kippur, annulling past and future vows affecting only oneself.)
Klaf. Parchment.
Alef-beis. The Hebrew alphabet.
Ksav Ashuris, literally, "Assyrian script." A Hebrew handwriting style used for ritual items.
Goyish. Non-Jewish.
Ashamnu, bagadnu, gazalnu. We were guilty, we betrayed, we stole. (Beginning of an alphabetical confession prayer.)
Selichos. Poetic prayers for forgiveness.