The Sacred Blood

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“Today you come with me, Aaron,” Mordecai Cohen whispered, motioning for his son to stand. He gestured at the arched opening of a corridor leading behind the altar.

The thirteen-year-old’s gangly limbs froze. Glancing back over his shoulder, Aaron saw the last of the women coming down from the balcony and funneling out the synagogue’s front door. A hand tugged at his arm.

“Come,” his father repeated. “There’s nothing to fear, I assure you.” “I’m not afraid,” Aaron lied.

Mordecai splayed his hand between his son’s shoulder blades and urged

him up the main aisle of the sanctuary. “This is a very special day for you,

Aaron.”

“You are bringing me inside?”

“That’s right. Grandfather has asked to speak with you.” Aaron slid his trembling hands into the pockets of his black trousers. For as long as he could remember, following Saturday’s Shabbat services,

the ritual had always been the same. Father would send Aaron’s mother and four sisters home to prepare the fish and meats for the traditional Sabbath meal shalosh seudot, and then he’d disappear into a locked room situated behind the main altar. Meanwhile, Aaron would wait in the sanctuary and climb the steps to the balcony, even daringly approach the magnificent walnut cabinet, the Aron Ha-Kodesh, that housed the Torah scrolls and run his fingers along the cabinet’s intricate rosette carvings, stroke the smooth parokhet draped over its doors. An hour later, Father would emerge from the room and they’d discuss the Torah readings during their walk home.

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