by Erich Segal
“More friends, Asher?” she playfully chided. Addressing the two women, she explained, “We’ve been here only three days and he must have run into two hundred people he knows.”
“Come on, Channah,” he retorted, “lots of my father’s congregation emigrated here.”
Suddenly it occurred to Leah.
“You don’t mean the Rav Kaplan from Chicago?”
“Yes,” Channah responded proudly.
Asher addressed Deborah with a sheepish smile. “Now do you see why I’m going to be a doctor? At least the first question out of a sick patient’s mouth won’t be ‘Are you Rav Kaplan’s son?’ But you still haven’t told me what you’re doing here.”
Deborah glanced nervously at Leah. “Uh, my father wanted me to … you know … live a little in the Holy City.”
Asher turned to Mrs. Schiffman and politely asked, “May we invite Deborah to lunch with our family at the King David on Saturday? Channah and her mother could come by and walk with her. It’s within the Shabbat limit.”
Deborah looked at Leah, her eyes pleading.
“Well, if your mother-in-law is coming, I don’t think my husband would object. But why don’t you call me this afternoon before Shabbes?”
“Fine,” said Asher. And then to Deborah, “We look forward to it.”
The encounter made Leah more animated than usual. As they lugged their packages past Hacherut Square, she remarked to Deborah, “How do you know this boy?”
“It was a match my father tried to make,” she answered blankly.
“So what happened?” Leah asked, eyebrow raised.
“I turned him down.”
“Are you meshugge in the head?”
“Yes,” Deborah replied, overcome with melancholy.
Deborah had never seen anything as opulent as the dining room at the King David Hotel, with its lofty ceilings buttressed by huge, square, roseate marble pillars. Its Shabbat noon buffet was legendary.
There were endless tables laden with gefilte fish and herrings in a half-dozen sauces, chopped liver, enough cold cuts to feed a cavalry, and multicolored salads of fruits and vegetables, plus a dozen different varieties of eggplant.
And those were only the hors d’oeuvres. Then there was the hot food—cholent, boiled beef, baked chicken, kasha varnishkes, stuffed veal, and kishkes.
Dessert filled two whole tables—cakes and pies, chocolate mousse, rainbows of sherbets and ice cream—all nondairy, of course.
Deborah felt like a prisoner on parole.
While Channah’s parents did not ask why their son-in-law had invited this attractive stranger, Channah knew. As the two young women stood marveling at the dessert table, she whispered, “I feel as if I should thank you, Deborah.”
“What for?”
“Not marrying Asher. I don’t know why you turned him down, but I’m glad you did.”
They had coffee on the hotel terrace. The banquet had been long, and it was nearly four o’clock.
“Why don’t you stay till sundown?” Channah suggested. “Then we could take you home in a taxi.”
“Thanks,” Deborah answered, “I’d like that very much.”
In fact, she had an ulterior motive. Directly across the street from the King David Hotel was the large, pastel stone YMCA building. Deborah saw it as a chance—perhaps her only one—to discover if Timothy had written.
The moment three stars shone in the Jerusalem sky, she telephoned to explain her absence and received grudging approval from Leah.
“Just don’t be too late,” she cautioned. “We have a lot of dishes to wash.”
As she hung up, Deborah could already note the post-Sabbath activity, store lights being switched on, a louder hum of conversation in the lobby, and the noise of traffic in the street which twenty minutes earlier had been silent and deserted.
“Well,” Deborah said to the newlyweds. “This was really nice, but I think I’d better grab a bus and go home.”
“You can’t,” Asher retorted.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, first of all, I know you’re not carrying any money on Shabbes. And besides, we promised the Schiffmans we’d take you in a cab. If you girls wait here, I’ll get my wallet.”
Now there was just one obstacle standing between Deborah and a possible message from Timothy.
“Channah, do you mind if I dash over to the Y? I want to leave a note for some friends of mine who are coming next week.”
“I’ll go with you,” she insisted amiably.
“No … thanks. You wait for Asher and I’ll be back in a sec.”
She sprinted across King David Street, down the corridor of high, thin cypress trees that led to the steps, and finally into the large hall of the YMCA.
She pushed through crowds of polyglot students to the reception desk and asked, breathless, “Is this the place where I could get a letter—I mean, if someone wrote to me?”
“What’s the name?” the pasty-faced clerk responded blandly.
“Luria,” she replied, “Deborah Luria.”
He turned to an overflowing stack of mail in a tray marked “Hold For Arrival,” and began desultorily to sort the multicolored pieces of correspondence.
“I’m in a big rush,” Deborah said nervously.
“I know,” the clerk replied. “Everybody is.”
He went back to searching in what seemed like slow motion and at last said phlegmatically, “I have just one for ‘Deborah Luria.’ Do you have any identification?”
She was stymied. “I’m really sorry,” she stuttered, “I forgot.”
“Then come back tomorrow with your passport.”
“I can’t. I, uh … work tomorrow.”
“We’re open in the evening.”
Less than three feet away was perhaps the most important message of her life, and she could not get her hands on it.
Her eyes brimmed with tears. “Please believe I’m Deborah Luria. Who else could want to be me?”
“All right,” he capitulated. “I shouldn’t do this, but I’ll take your word for it.”
He handed her the letter.
She tore it open as she rushed outside. There was just enough time to see it was indeed from Tim before the Kaplans arrived.
“Take care of everything?” Asher inquired.
Stuffing the letter into her pocket and trying to disguise her great excitement, Deborah answered, “Yes, it’s all fine. I mean—everything’s okay.”
“Good. Now, let’s get you home before the Schiffmans think we’ve kidnapped you.”
“How was it?” Leah inquired.
“What?” Deborah asked, as the two women struggled through the huge accumulation of Sabbath dishes.
“The meal, Deborah,” Leah persisted. “My husband sometimes meets philanthropists from overseas in the King David. He comes back raving about the food.”
“Well, there was certainly a lot, and it was nice,” Deborah allowed. “But I think you’re a better cook.”
Paradoxically, this outrageous bit of flattery won Leah’s heart. Suddenly she almost liked her American servant, and she burst into a torrent of girlish chatter. Deborah could not wait to escape into the refuge of her bedroom.
As usual, the electricity was off, not merely for economy’s sake, but because there was always at least one child sleeping. Groping in the darkened room, she pulled her valise out from under her bed and withdrew what had become her most treasured possession—the tiny flashlight she used to read herself to sleep. Hands shaking, she trained its slender beam on the letter.
Dear Deborah,
I pray this reaches you some day. I share the sentiments you expressed in your letter, and also feel indescribably guilty that I was the cause of your being sent away.
As it is, I, too, am leaving Brooklyn to study at St. Athanasius’, a seminary in upper New York State.
Unlike your journey, this was not a punishment, but rather a reward for my scholarly diligence—a fact that makes me f
eel all the more guilty, since among the things I will be doing is what you always dreamed of—studying the Old Testament in Hebrew.
I tried everything to see your father and explain. But when I called, your mother always said he wasn’t there. And when I camped for hours outside his office at the synagogue, Reb Isaacs, the sexton, refused to let me in. I also wrote to him, but he didn’t answer.
I’m trying to convince myself that what we had between us was a little spark that has been blown out by the winter wind. I’m hoping to take Holy Orders, and it would be naive to think we’ll ever see each other again. And this impossibility gives me courage to say what I never could have otherwise.
I think that what I felt for you was love—whatever earthly love may be. I know that it was tenderness, a longing to be with you and protect you.
I wish you well, Deborah, and I, too, hope that you will let a bit of me live somewhere in your thoughts.
Let’s pray for one another.
Yours affectionately,
Tim
To Deborah it mattered little how tentatively he had said it. There was no longer any doubt. They … loved each other.
And there was nothing on earth that they could do about it.
17
Timothy
The day at St. Athanasius’ Seminary began before dawn. At five-forty-five a bell rang, and a student caller would walk along the rows of beds in the vast dormitory, rousing the young seminarians with the exhortation, “Benedicamus Domino”—Let us bless the Lord. To which they would each reply, “Deo gratias”—Thanks be to God.
They had twenty minutes to shower, tidy their beds, and get down to the chapel. They performed these tasks without speaking to one another. In fact, the entire time span between lights-out at nine-thirty and breakfast was known as the Great Silence.
Then, wearing their black cassocks, they descended to the chapel for meditation. It was, as the Fathers always reminded them, the time for looking inward. To reflect on how to live better for the coming day. And how better to establish a personal relationship with Christ.
After morning meditation, the seminarians would line up in the refectory, each holding a tray, waiting to pass a long, narrow hatch where they could help themselves to a bland but filling breakfast.
The opening was just wide enough for gloved hands to place the food out on the counter. For the only females allowed on the seminary grounds were those who worked in the kitchen, and a strict rule forbade hiring women under the age of forty-five, lest the young men be in any way exposed to what the Fathers referred to as “the temptations of the other sex.”
But then almost everything reminded him of Deborah.
Although the Fathers did so frequently, there was little need to expound upon the evil influence of women, since the only females within the boundaries of the seminary existed as disembodied limbs behind the refectory hatch or in the boys’ nocturnal fantasies.
Still, these were adolescents, ranging in age from fourteen to twenty-one, and even a churchman’s word could not dam the surging tide of hormones. For the pious youths who fell victim to erotic urges, the most urgent order of the day was “hitting the box”—confessing and obtaining absolution.
Sex was everywhere, intensified precisely in proportion to the power of its prohibition.
In the winter, the classrooms were ill-heated—for a purpose, so they said. To teach them how to cope with hardships that would inculcate humility.
Yet however harsh the weather, after lunch they had to go outside for half an hour. A few indulged in sports, making use of a metal rim without a net for basketball, a set of rusty dumbbells, and some wooded paths for walking.
Here they could chat freely—although they were required to remain in threes, and were subject to the closest scrutiny. The priests continually emphasized the regimen of “custody of the eyes” and inveighed against what they called “particular” friendships. Loving thy neighbor was one thing—thy classmate another. The watchword was numquam duo: never in couples.
Every day’s horarium was identical—meditation, prayer, study, thirty minutes’ outdoor recreation. Except for the Sabbath.
On Sunday afternoons, the boys would remove their somber cassocks and don special garb—black suit, white shirt, black tie and shoes—for visiting the ordinary world.
They would march down to the village, led and followed by priestly chaperons. The purpose was not wholly clear to them, since they were not allowed to buy a newspaper, or even a chocolate bar. They simply paraded into town and back, under the curious gaze of the villagers, to whom, of course, they were forbidden to speak.
Toward the end of Timothy’s first year, four boys in his dormitory were discovered in a serious breach of conduct.
It was a rule that all correspondence—in and out—had to go through the Rector’s office. But Sean O’Meara had mailed a letter during one of the Sunday promenades. Three other seminarians had seen him, but had not reported his misdemeanor.
In the hearing presided over by the Rector, Sean bravely, though foolishly, tried to defend himself on the grounds that the letter had merely been to his old parish priest and spiritual adviser.
This did not mitigate his offense.
The punishment was harsh. O’Meara was banned from major orders for twelve months, during which time he was to study, pray, and do penance.
The conspirators were sentenced to stay at school in July and August, to work in the gardens—and to pray.
Timothy stayed on as well. The summer months provided an opportunity to receive daily tutorials in Hebrew and Greek and accelerate his journey toward ordination.
Besides, he had nowhere to go.
One hot July afternoon at the end of his daily tutorial, Tim excused himself so he could go to the library and commit to memory what had been taught that day.
Father Sheehan urged him to get some sun instead. “Those boys out there trimming rose bushes aren’t really being punished,” he said with a smile. “It’s a joy to be in the fresh air—the summer sun is God’s reward for suffering the winter.”
And so, unwillingly at first, Tim went into the garden after lunch and joined the penitents in weeding plants.
It was the first occasion in nearly a year that Timothy found himself with others of his age beyond official supervision. At first they were hesitant, wary of each other no less than of him. But as the summer heat intensified, so did the need for fellowship. They began to talk.
All three “prisoners” were saddened by their punishment. It was not the work, for they enjoyed the beauty of the outdoor life. But they had been looking forward to returning to their families.
“What about you, Tim?” asked Jamie MacNaughton, the tallest, leanest, and most nervous of them. “Haven’t you got any family—brothers, sisters—anybody that you miss?”
“No,” he answered blankly.
“Parents not alive?”
He hesitated for a moment, unsure how to answer. Discretion was the wisest course.
“Not really …,” he said evasively, his voice trailing off.
“You’re lucky in a way,” said another of the trio. “Frankly, Hogan, I’ve always admired how self-sufficient you are. Now I can sort of understand. You don’t miss the outside world because you don’t have anybody in it.”
“Yes,” Tim replied.
And—as he had throughout that agonizing year—he tried to suppress all thought of Deborah Luria.
18
Daniel
Dear Deb,
Thanks for your last letter. I hope by now you’ve sort of settled in. I suspect your gloom is just the result of being so far away. I mean, nobody could be as wretched as you describe the Schiffmans.
I’m happy to report the continued broadening of my horizons. My journey across the Bridge to the Hebrew University of New York involved not just the crossing of a river separating Brooklyn and Manhattan. It was the spanning of two cultures. Our childhood was insular, hermetic, and safe. My new world
is filled with all sorts of confusions and temptations.
There are twenty-six of us in the first year of the rabbinical program (as opposed to nearly one hundred future doctors).
More than half my classmates are married and commute from as far away as Staten Island. We share the same turf as Columbia and Union Theological Seminary, so the rents in our neighborhood are extortionate. And since some of the future rabbis’ wives have already begun fulfilling the mitzvah to increase and multiply—the married couples have to live at their parents’ homes and survive on the meager scholarships the seminary affords.
I, on the other hand, with my tuition paid by our community, can live the life of a carefree bachelor in the Hyam Solomon Dormitory for Men, where I have a room all to myself, with plenty of bookshelves for Talmudic volumes.
The competition is absolutely brutal. But at least I don’t get teased for being a crown prince of the Silczer realm. Among my fellow students are the sons of other distinguished rabbis. The only trait we heirs apparent have in common is a fear that we will never be the men our fathers are.
Papa still calls me several times a week to ask how I’m doing. I keep telling him what a great adventure it all is—how Talmud classes are exciting mental duels, using the swords of Scripture to strike home and win a point.
And best of all, unlike most college students in these troubled times—with the war in Vietnam tearing generations apart—our religion makes me feel secure.
Now a few personal secrets I can only share with you.
Here, beyond paternal supervision, I can go out onto Broadway—okay, so it’s only Upper Broadway, but it’s still Broadway enough for me. I can go to a bar for a Coke—or even something stronger, though I haven’t gone that far yet.
And near the campus is a movie theater called the Thalia, which shows all sorts of classic movies. You can’t imagine how many of its West Side devotees know all the dialogue by heart.
Since I’ve been going there, I’m really hooked on films. They transport me to places I’ve never been—and probably never will be. I’ve watched—and practically lived through—the Russian Revolution as seen through the imaginative lens of Sergei Eisenstein.
