Maestro. The Final Kiddush of the Odessans

Maestro. The Final Kiddush of the Odessans. A Reconsideration in the Third Temple

The Third Temple. Jerusalem. The time of the Messiah.
The Great Shabbat is approaching—the one generations have long awaited.
The table is set, the white tablecloth is laid, the challahs are covered, the cups stand—yet remain empty.
The Kiddush has not yet been recited.
Because everything must be done truthfully. Humanly. In the spirit of Odessa.

Mikhail Mikhailovich Zhvanetsky is already seated at the table.
Accepted. Approved. Honored.
But at the request of the poet—the author of the poem Maestro—the rabbis decide to review his participation once more.
Not out of doubt. But out of love. From a desire to understand him completely.



The poet stands. Speaks quietly, yet clearly:

— Rabbis, I have no doubt about him.
I only want us to hear him not as a performer, but as a Jewish soul.
And here are my words. My poem. My prayer for him:



Maestro

Zhvanetsky and Odessa—
Like a director and his play,
Like a ballerina and her ballet—
Forever inseparable.

Talents do not vanish—
They gaze from the heavens
At their beloved city—
Unfading and youthful.

They shine in the night,
They fly above the sea.
Though years may fly,
Their words and fame are eternal.



Zhvanetsky stands. Without jokes. Speaks simply, looking into their eyes:

— Everything you’ve heard—it’s no legend.
Yes, I wasn’t always exemplary.
I loved women. I didn’t acknowledge all my children.
My last son—I did.
His mother was not Jewish. I do not hide that.
I was not buried in Odessa—but in Moscow.
And here, at this holy table in the Third Temple, someone asked:
“Was there a cross on his grave?”

I shuddered.
But just now I found out:
Rumors. Thankfully—not true.
There is no cross.
And if there had been—it would not have been my will. Not the Jewish way.
I would have wanted it like my grandfather’s.
As they buried people in Moldavanka.
With warmth. Without pomp. With respect.

;

Roman Kartsev stands. Looks at everyone simply, confidently:

— Rebbe, if I, in the realm of Odessa humor, was on the level of Isaac and Jacob,
then Mikhail Mikhaylovich—he is Abraham and Moses.

Because I performed.
But he created.
I spoke.
But he gave voice to an entire people.



And one by one, the rabbis of all generations of Odessa rise.

Rabbi Yitzhak Rabinovich:
— By the letter of the law—not everything is perfect.
But by the spirit—yes. He was with the people. And that means a lot.

Rabbi Reuven from Zhitomir:
— I fought against the Enlightenment.
But if it had been like Zhvanetsky—I would have surrendered at once.

Rabbi Shimon Schwabacher:
— He spoke in the language of the street.
But they listened to him as if he were an ancient prophet.
He knew how to be light—even without knowing he was light.

Rabbi Chaim of Chernivtsi:
— He didn’t walk the rabbinic path.
But he never strayed from the road of Jewish conscience.

Rabbi David Sloush:
— He held Odessa in words, as I held it in prayer.
And if it didn’t fall—it’s also because of him.

Rabbi Yosef Diment:
— In days of silence, he was a voice.
In days of prohibition—a breath.
He was needed then, and he is needed now.

Rabbi Avrum Wolf:
— He didn’t wear a hat, didn’t hold a lulav.
But he held Odessa.
And that alone is already a whole siddur.



Then Rabbi Eliezer from Hadera rises—gray as an Odessa stone, one who has lived through it all.
He looks at everyone. Slowly. Like a judge who does not judge, but listens.

— Everything has been heard.
The poem—recited.
Doubts—removed.
Memory—cleansed.
Mikhail Mikhailovich Zhvanetsky—remains.
His place is confirmed. His honor—restored.
And we say: sit. Do not leave. You are one of us.



And then a pause falls. The light stills.
And the Messiah rises.
He looks at the table. At the rabbis. At the souls. At the empty wine glasses.
And says:

— One question remains…
Who will recite the Final Kiddush of the Odessans?

And silence turns into anticipation.