May We Be Forgiven

ha’olam borei p’ri hagafen.”
    The service is turned over to Nate. “Since I was here two years ago, I have been through a lot. It is our tradition after a death for the immediate family to grieve for a year, and so, since my mother was killed this past year, I have gone every Friday evening to the chapel at my school and I have spoken to my mother. I have prayed for my mother, for my family, and for all of us. And while this may not be the traditional way, I always conclude with this prayer, which I think works well whether one is Christian or Jewish:
    “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. …”
    As Nate begins to recite, the whole village joins in—those who don’t know it by heart have cheat sheets. Goose bumps run up and down my spine.
    “And in the Jewish religion there is a special memorial prayer we say, Av Harachamim—and I would like to ask Ashley and Ricardo, who also lost his family this year, to join me.” The children solemnly recite the prayer in English. And when they are done Nate says, “We would now like to invite you to come and taste the challah bread and have a sip of wine—grape juice for the children.” Ashley and Ricardo break the challah, and the village children each come forward for a piece of the bread.
    “Like candy floss,” one of the children says, and Ricardo laughs, and the ice is broken. And as children can do so effortlessly, we instantly go from the most solemn to joyous.
    There are small cups of wine for each of the adults. “Good stuff,” one of the men says to me as he waits to get another cup. “Thela iwayini.”
    “One per customer,” Nate says.
    “Ubani iugama lakho?” the man asks me—I don’t have a clue.
    “He wants to know your name,” Nate says, translating for me.
    “My name is Harold.”
    “Igama lami ngiungu, Harold,” Nate translates.
    “Harry,” the man says, “I thank you for the wine.”
    “When did you guys pull this together?” I ask Ashley and Ricardo.
    “Sofia is very bossy,” Ricardo says. “Whatever she tells you—you do.” In the main oom of the school, long tables have been set up. “We have some things from your world and some from ours,” Sakhile says, motioning that I should sit next to him. The women of the village carry out bowls of matzoh-ball soup. I recognize the plates—they are ones that Sofia picked out, melamine, which the school will be able to keep and use for years to come. There is also fish in cream sauce and chopped liver from the caterer in Durban, with pieces of hard-boiled egg diced in just like my great-aunt Lena’s. And for the children there is plain pasta with red sauce and grated cheese on the side; they seem deeply relieved to be eating something familiar. I am feeling very grateful to Sofia.
    The broth is warm, and salty—the elixir of the ages. The matzoh ball is plump, soft on the outside, hard in the center. If George were here he’d make a crack about how Jewish women love to serve a man his balls. Either the fleeting thought of George or my sudden awareness that it is now completely dark outside floods me with anxiety. When it was still light, I could see my way out, but now we are trapped for the night, and I must surrender to the experience.
    “And we have a traditional stew— inyama yenkomo, ” Sakhile says, capturing my attention. “My wife made it, you must have some.” I taste the stew; the meat has a stringy texture, the sauce is spicy and sweet. At first I do not like it, but then it grows on me. “And this,” he says, filling my glass, “is homemade beer— tshwala. ”
    While we are still eating, the teacher stands up. “Nathaniel, I had not yet arrived when you visited two years ago, but we speak often of your generosity. The children have prepared a song for you.” Each child pulls out a bright plastic recorder. Weee-dee de de deee dee de deee dee dee weeamumuawahhhh. The notes climbing and falling—wee—ummm mummm awah …
    Sakhile leans over and says, “ Eem boo beh means ‘lion.’ It is an old South African song. Sofia suggested it—I did not know it was so popular for you.”
    “It’s a classic,” I say, singing along, “… mighty jungle, the lion sleeps tonight.”
    After dinner there is dancing with music from a boom box, and then some drum playing. One by one the villagers leave; Nate wants to stay up with his friends.
    “No,” I say. “Tomorrow is a big day, it’s time for bed.”
    “You must listen to your father,”