“Excuse me sir, are you Jewish?”
I’m not, but I did feel a bit honored to be included. During Rosh Hashanah, Hasidic teenage boys in black trousers and thin white colored shirts form a barrier of sorts at the entrance to the park, eager to talk to anyone they suspect may be Jewish.
A couple walking their dog confessed that they were in fact Jewish, but they weren’t interested. The teens locked on.
“No, it’s fine, we’re just trying to get to the park,” the man said.
The couple tried to pretend it wasn’t happening, but the teens wouldn’t take no for an answer. The couple started walking faster. The teens followed, shouting from behind. The couple picked up the pace. The leader of the teens started tooting his shofar at them, long slow blasts followed by short staccato ones. The dog loved the horn, and kept looking back. The man tugged on the leash. The couple picked up the pace again. Their dog was now running to keep up. The couple made a sudden turn into the woods. In a single-file line, the teens jogged into the woods after them. We heard the blasts of the horn slowly fade as they disappeared into the trees.
That afternoon, I saw them on Flatbush Avenue. They were standing in a circle on the sidewalk in front of a Boost Mobile store. Trucks roared only a foot or two away from them as they did their mitzvah and blew the ceremonial horn. Their subject stood solemnly. He seemed into it.