Columbia Street was a dilapidated dead end lined with shuls. On Shabbos and Yom Tov (Jewish holidays) it was filled with thronging crowds, come to hear the famous cantors of the day, or to be briefed on the latest East Side gossip, or simply to pray. Of all the shuls on the block, Shearis Yisroel was perhaps the most impressive. A luxurious chandelier swayed from the domed ceiling; biblical murals covered the walls. It was only later that one saw that the chandelier was black, the walls peeling, and the floors warped.
On Simchas Torah the stoops and banisters of all the shuls would be overflowing with people, either unable to push into the already jammed buildings or out to catch a breath of air between the hakafos - dancing with the Torah. Children ran from shul to shul determined not to miss any of the dancing in any of them. Wherever you turned, there was laughter and friendship and the throbbing joy of holiday spirit.
Hakafos never started in Shearis Yisroel till Avrumele Koll arrived. Since his family had moved to Brooklyn, it meant an hour's walk for him to be able to celebrate with us, but he always came. He knew that we wouldn't start without him.
The Kolls had come from Israel during the 1929 Arab riots. But though they lived in the U.S., they never stopped talking about returning "home." Avrumele shared that "home" with us every Simchas Torah, when he reenacted what he remembered from his childhood in Jerusalem.
When Avrumele did finally come, he was welcomed with shouts of happiness, and all the children rushed to get to him first. Climbing all over him, they chattered happily, asking questions while dragging him along. Everyone pushed into the shul. The street was suddenly empty.
Avrumele was pale and thin, with dark laughing eyes. It was suddenly very quiet. His voice seemed to come from long ago and far away. It suggested pain and longing. It seemed as though he reached for something from the depths of his soul. If you closed your eyes, you could actually feel yourself alone with him in the ruins of Jerusalem. A glow radiated from his eyes, his face. The poignancy of his tunes sent shivers up your arms. Everyone pressed closer.
Suddenly, with a great shout, he jumped to the top of the pot-bellied stove and started to dance. Avrumele was turning faster and faster. Hands and feet shot out in strange rhythms. He danced in movements so quick that everyone gasped. His body was inseparable from his song and his song was inseparable from his soul. He twisted and sputtered and exploded like a flame before extinction. Then he was silent. His arms fell. His body sagged. A long drawn-out groan escaped him. He collapsed in a heap on the stove.
All eyes were glued to the hypnotic form. Everyone stopped breathing. Slowly, in an agonizing, searching, straining gesture, Avrumele rose to one knee. The tune was now soft and whispered. His throat snagged on the words. But as he got to his feet, a shower of dancing raindrops was released. They tinkled and gurgled. They hopped and skipped with glee. The song welled and thickened, became a swirling sea.
Children climbed to fathers' shoulders and hung onto woodwork to see better. Ladies stood on chairs, pulled down the curtain and leaned over the balcony. Round and round went Avrumele, while everyone stood gasping from the effort to keep up with him, exhausted from the strain not to miss a movement. But Avrumele had no intentions of stopping. On and on he went, taunting us, pulling us after him, daring us to match his holiday joy. His dance and song seemed never to end. Avrumele seemed never to tire.
When he finally did stop he flashed us all an embarrassed smile and jumped down from the stove. Poppa pushed through the crowd to bring Avrumele a glass of foaming beer, and then it was time for everyone to start dancing in the first hakafa.
Reprinted from The Yiddishe Heim
