Dear Readers,
Please pay heed to the publication of my incredibly talented cousin Ari's first book, "The Path of Names."
A novel of magic set at Zionist summer camp, the book could not escape being compared to a Jewish Harry Potter. Having never read Harry Potter, I cannot say if this is true. But I found I could relate immensely to the setting and the characters in a way that I imagine I could not to characters at some wizard school.
But I decided to try.
Year one
"Max," said Max's father, Leon, "you know, you're going to meet all different kinds of people at school." Max nodded, but didn't look up from his oatmeal.
Please pay heed to the publication of my incredibly talented cousin Ari's first book, "The Path of Names."
A novel of magic set at Zionist summer camp, the book could not escape being compared to a Jewish Harry Potter. Having never read Harry Potter, I cannot say if this is true. But I found I could relate immensely to the setting and the characters in a way that I imagine I could not to characters at some wizard school.
But I decided to try.
Year one
"Max," said Max's father, Leon, "you know, you're going to meet all different kinds of people at school." Max nodded, but didn't look up from his oatmeal.
"What your father means is," said Max's mother, Helen, "you might not be like the other kids over there. But you don't let that bother you." Max nodded again, swallowing more oatmeal.
"You keep your mind on your studies," Max's father said. "You'll be the first Grebler ever to go to a school like that, and you make sure that you make the most of it."
Year two
At the train station, waiting for the magical walls to de-materialize so the students of wizardry could board the sorcerous express train to school, Helen squeezed her boy's shoulder.
"It's a long ride, all right? So there's sandwiches in your bag, Salami. I don't know what they feed you at school, so I thought you might miss it. Anyway, you eat if before it goes bad. But if your stomach doesn't sit right on the train, tell a grownup you need some air. It's okay if you're sick on the ride. Your father does too. Greblers have soft stomachs. Galitzianers."
Year three
Standing in line with the other aspiring Quiddich athletes of House Hufflepuff, Max didn't expect to make the team. But his roommates were all eager, and Max thought trying out would show them he shared some common interest, and maybe they'd stop getting so quiet and polite around him. When he got to the front of the registration line, Pomona Sprout squinted at him and smiled, but placed her hand on the stack of application forms before Max could pick one up. She reached into a black medicine bag on the table and withdrew a note from Max's doctor. And tapped twice where Dr. Melvin Kramer had circled "nosebleeds."
Year four
Crossing the lawn between classes, Max carried his Defense Against the Dark Arts textbook under his arm, paying no mind to the mill of students about him. Suddenly he was facedown, the wind knocked out of him, glasses somewhere in the grass. He groped for them and heard the cruel laughter of the Slytherin studends.
"Mug-blood!" yelled Gregory Goyle.
"Kike!" laughed Draco Malfoy.
Year five
Doloris Umbridge brought her wand down hard on Max's desk, snapping him out of his standard daydream about Luna Lovegood, in which he proves himself a daring and witty journalist recruited right out of school as the star reporter at the Quibbler, where he's groomed to succeed Xenophilious Lovegood and marry his daughter, and they live together in a Chelsea duplex. Instead he was looking into what his father would call Umbridge's trayfe punim, sure that he was about to be expelled for joining up with Dumbledor's Army, for which he'd have to face his parents wrath and explain to them that he'd signed up with a ridiculous student group because his shiksa crush had already done so.
"Eyes on your text, Grebler," Umbridge barked. "I catch you drifting off again and you'll sit in detention instead attending the Christmas Ball," she said. And half turned before snapping back to face him and saying, "Holiday Ball."
Year six
"He's not going back to that school!" Shrieked Helen at Leon. "What kind of a school has a principal die, killed by another teacher! No wonder his grades suffered."
"He's got one year left," said Leon. "Pull him out now and he won't get the references he needs for Cambridge."
Max listened to this from upstairs, dead tired from work. He'd accepted a summer internship at the Quibbler, still thinking about Luna Lovegood, only to later realize that he would spend July and August doing little other than moderating the paper's online comments section and refreshing the top stories every six hours.
"How much does it pay?" Leon asked when Max told him.
"It's more like, for credit," he said.
"This is what they teach you at that school? To get paid with credit?"
Year seven
Max never bothered to write his parents about the constant faculty changes, the siege, or what exactly a Horecrux is, because he knew his mother would get it confused with something she read in the Da Vinci Code. Instead, he went over and over in his head how he planned tell his parents he wasn't going to Cambridge. He'd been accepted to Kings College London, to read English. He'd cushion the blow by telling them that prior to the start of classes, he'd go on Birthright.









