The air smelled of hairspray and makeup. We were all transformed. Dancers, actresses, musicians, props coordinators, choir members. Each of us was dressed in our special costumes and painted with stage makeup that just enhanced our collective glow. I was in a suit and hat with a painted beard that looked eerily real, especially from afar. I looked like Shmuli!

The dining hall was transformed, too. One performance was scheduled for a real theater in another neighborhood, but we also had three in-house performances scheduled. A stage was erected out of wooden planks and metal beams, and the scenery girls outdid themselves with different intricate canvases that were now draped gracefully across the back wall, waiting. Girls bustled every which way, greeting their friends and family and basking in the surrealism of it all.

My heart hammered in my chest. This was it. This was real. The hours and hours of work, the writing and the translating and the practicing, the perfecting, the coordinating, the laughter and stress and crazy hours and blissful companionship — it all raced before my eyes until it came to a stop, right here, right now, at this moment, when the world seemed to hold its breath and the spotlight cast its ethereal shine on the stage that would produce its own form of magic.

The lights dimmed. The audience hushed. And production began.

It took my breath away. There were glitches, of course; it was the first night. By the fourth time around, things were so smoothly oiled that we wished we could do it another ten times because it had become almost second nature. But even on that glorious first night, the show was a hit. Things ran on time, the audience was engaged, actresses played their parts beautifully, and the choirs and dances performed with exuberant smiles on their faces. You could tell that everyone was having a grand time on stage, and that, above everything else, was what counted.

When it was time for my part, I was sort of caught off guard. I was enjoying watching everyone else shine so much that I had almost forgotten to be nervous about my own time on stage! I got up there and got into position — feet spread apart, not crossed and ladylike, confident posture, imposing stare.

Suddenly there was a squeak from the audience that sounded suspiciously like my name.

“Ga-ya! Ga-ya!”

I squinted into the spotlight, trying not to be too obvious. The squeaking continued. “Ga-ya, why you wearin’ a hat?”

There was a shuffle in the fifth row, some shushing. A woman hoisted the babbling toddler up on her hip and hurried to the back of the room.

Comic relief. It was little Frumi Baruchov.

to be continued…

(Originally featured in Mishpacha Jr., Issue 844)