by Erich Segal
But—and it’s kind of embarrassing to confess this to my own sister—my favorite part of the evening is waiting in the lobby for the film to break—looking at the Barnard girls, and listening to their laughter.
So as you can tell, I’m getting an education. Not just from books, but from what I see when I close them.
I’d like to hear what’s happening inside you as well. Write soon.
Love,
Danny
19
Deborah
It was the Fast of Esther, the solemn day that precedes Purim, the merriest holiday on the Jewish calendar.
The festival of Purim celebrates the bravery of Queen Esther, who successfully petitioned her husband, King Ahasuerus, to revoke the death sentence he had imposed on all her fellow Jews in Persia. Since Esther spent the preceding day praying and fasting, religious Jews commemorate her piety by doing the same.
Despite the outward sadness of the Fast Day, Deborah always found it a heartening occasion, for no other holiday in her religion celebrated the noble actions of a woman.
To her growing resentment, not once in all the time she had been a captive in Jerusalem had the Schiffmans allowed her to visit the Wailing Wall. So it was not surprising that Deborah chose to grieve over her own exile by praying there.
Perhaps she even hoped to put in a kvitl—one of the tiny slips of paper containing personal pleas to the Father of the Universe—which pilgrims traditionally left in the crevices of what some called “God’s mailbox.”
She knew that Rebbe Schiffman went to the Wailing Wall often, not merely to pray but to communicate with other religious leaders. Yet during all the time that Deborah had been with the Schiffmans, he had never once invited even his wife to come along.
“What’s the point, anyway?” Leah rationalized to Deborah in a rare moment of conversation. “They squash us into a fenced-off corner, and the men pray so loud that you can’t even concentrate.”
“I’ll concentrate,” Deborah insisted.
Rebbe Schiffman capitulated. “All right, Leah. If she wants it so badly, go with her.”
His wife frowned. Exhausted from her household duties, caring for their offspring (and carrying a new one), she did not relish the prospect of walking to the Old City—even for so sacred a purpose. She scowled and muttered, “Very well. I’ll ask Mrs. Unger next door to keep an eye on the children.”
An hour later, the two women were trudging along Hanevi’im Street. The narrow byways of Mea Shearim always seemed in perpetual shadow, and Deborah welcomed the early spring sunshine on her face.
As they entered the walls of the Old City at the Damascus Gate, and walked down the slender cobbled alleys, Deborah was almost dizzy with anticipation. She could feel the immanence of a million pilgrims who had left invisible atoms of their spirit reverberating like silent prayers in a thousand tongues.
They passed the Via Dolorosa, and reached the rampart above the wide expanse of courtyard that had been cleared by Israeli soldiers after the Six Day War.
As a military policeman checked Leah’s purse, she grimaced at him and then remarked to Deborah in Yiddish, “Look at this bunch of storm troopers. Do I look like a terrorist bomber?”
Before Deborah could respond, one of the soldiers replied, also in Yiddish, “Do you think I like this job, Madam? But I’d have to do it even if you were my mother.”
Leah glowered, and again commented to Deborah, “Did you hear how disrespectfully they talk?”
The soldier merely smiled indulgently and waved them through.
As they descended into the forecourt, they could see the multitude of black-garbed worshipers swaying fervently in front of the Wall. Their prayers soared into the air and resounded in a cacophony of melodies in accents as diverse as Damascus, Dresden, and Dallas.
A metal barrier set off a small area in the far right-hand corner for the use of women worshipers. As they headed in that direction, Leah tugged at Deborah’s arm to keep her as far away from the men as possible.
“What are you doing?” Deborah whispered with annoyance. “I’m not disturbing them.”
“Don’t talk,” Leah snapped. “Just do as I say.”
The tiny area of their segregated sanctuary was crowded, but Deborah eagerly pushed her way through the press of other women to reach the front. And felt a shiver as she gently kissed the holy stones.
Without opening her book, she joined in the morning prayer. By the time they had reached ashrey—“Happy are they that dwell in Thy House”—Deborah’s glorious voice had grown in volume and fervor, inspiring the others to follow her example.
Praise the Lord, O my soul:
I will praise the Lord while I live:
I will sing my praises unto my God
While I have my being.…
Then came the attack.
From across the barrier angry shouts began to bombard them: “Shah! Zoll zein shah!” Shut up! Keep your voices down!
But the women were so caught up in Deborah’s zeal that they sang their prayers even more loudly—except for Leah Schiffman, who kept trying to quiet them.
The men continued to shout, and the women continued to chant. Suddenly, a wooden chair was hurled over the barrier, striking a grandmotherly woman and knocking her to the ground.
Then, as Deborah bent down to help her, a metal object was lobbed into the air. As it struck the ground, it split open, and began to hiss.
“My God—it’s tear gas!”
Outraged beyond fear, she snatched up the canister and hurled it at the men with all her might. There was an outcry of indignation. As more missiles began to fly over the barrier, the women followed Deborah’s lead and threw them back.
Deborah shouted frantically to the policemen ringing the area above, “Why the hell don’t you do something?”
But the guards were uncertain how to act. They had strict orders not to interfere with the worshipers except by express permission of the Religious Ministry. (Who had thrown the tear gas was anybody’s guess.)
Captain Yosef Nahum arrived at the only solution that would prevent further injury.
“Get the women out of here,” he barked. “And try to keep the men away.”
Some of the officers hurried to help the frightened women retreat. A dozen others locked arms to restrain the rioting male zealots from chasing after them.
Ten minutes later the women were allowed to regroup and finish their prayers elsewhere.
Though Deborah was in shock, the irony was not lost on her. They had been banished to the Dung Gate—the door of the Old City, which for thousands of years had been used to expel the garbage.
They reached home to find Rebbe Schiffman incensed.
“You mean you’ve heard about it already?” Leah asked her husband.
“In Mea Shearim you don’t need newspapers to know what’s happening.”
Pointing an accusatory finger at Deborah, he growled, “It’s all because of this devil. I knew we shouldn’t have let her go to the Wall.”
“Me?” Deborah asked in a stunned voice.
“Of course you,” the rabbi shouted. “Your father didn’t tell me you were such a harlot.”
“Harlot?”
“You sang,” he shouted accusingly.
“I was praying,” Deborah protested angrily.
“But loudly,” snapped the rabbi. “The men could hear your voices. Don’t you know the Talmud says ‘the voice of a woman is a lascivious temptation’?”
He turned to his wife. “I tell you, Leah, I’m ashamed this girl is staying in our house. I’ve half a mind to ask Rav Luria to take her off our hands.”
Oh, thought Deborah to herself, inwardly wounded and grieving, If he only would.
20
Daniel
Ours was a twentieth-century university.
Unlike some of the ultraorthodox seminaries that act as if Jewish scholarship has scarcely evolved since the Babylonian Talmud, Hebrew University was a “modern” institution. It
believed in such liberal intellectual activities as secular philosophy, the arts, and nuclear physics. It even allowed an occasional lecture by conservative rabbis.
In keeping with this progressive outlook, we future rabbis were required to take courses for “distribution.” That is, something outside the realm of our majors. This could be Math, Chemistry, English Literature, or any of a vast number of disciplines. But most of us were pragmatic enough to choose classes that somehow related to our future calling, and so opted for things like Philosophy.
While H.U. offered a splendid course in the History of Ideas from Plato to Sartre, we were not obliged to limit ourselves to the four walls of our own school. Thanks to a reciprocal arrangement with nearby Columbia University, we could choose from courses taught by that world-renowned institution’s roster of academic giants. Simply leafing through the enormous Columbia catalog was like reading a vast menu for a banquet of knowledge.
But I think I knew what I would choose even before I perused the catalog.
There was a famous course on the Psychology of Religion, taught by an eminent maverick named Professor Aaron Beller, himself descended from a line of distinguished rabbis.
Beller was what we disparagingly call an epikoros—a learned Jew who has left the fold. The Orthodox believe that when the Messiah comes, such moral libertines will burn in Hell.
Why, then, did I deliberately elect to confront a serpent who might tempt me with the apple of apostasy?
Perhaps since I believed that throughout my life as a rabbi I would encounter ever stronger arguments against religion, and thought I might as well be armed. And what better way than hearing the devil himself—the most revolutionary, rebellious notions put forth by a brilliant rebel.
Every Tuesday and Thursday morning, I walked the eight blocks from my dorm to Columbia’s Hamilton Hall, the largest lecture room on campus, which Aaron Beller filled to overflow.
That first morning not many of my fellow seminarians were in evidence, although I did notice a small enclave of other skullcaps. Perhaps the rest were too scared, but Columbia students and dozens of faculty auditors flocked to Beller as moths to a flame—to see how close they could fly without setting fire to their own beliefs.
Scattered among the young, tweed-jacketed Columbia preppies and the scruffy graduate students were a number of middle-aged clean-shaven gentlemen with clerical collars—obviously visitors from Union Theological Seminary across the road.
There was a murmur in the classroom, and then a sudden hush as a tall, angular, silver-haired form glided through the door and up to the podium.
Professor Aaron Beller, M.D., Ph.D., eyed his potential victims with a Mephistophelian grin—especially those of us in the back row, those who by sitting as distant from him as possible had betrayed ourselves as the most afraid of his ideas.
“In order to avoid harming the more susceptible among you,” he began, “perhaps I should explain the philosophy of the course. I think my course should carry a warning analogous to the one on a package of cigarettes. It can be dangerous to your mental health. My psychiatric training has confirmed my opinion that man created God—not vice versa.”
He leaned forward on the podium and gave us all a conspiratorial glance.
“Now to the unspoken secret of all religions.” He paused. “In one way or another, man reaches out to God through sexuality.”
The class started to percolate.
“Even during the reign of King David,” Beller continued, “a full five centuries after Moses received the Ten Commandments, Jews still worshiped an ‘Earth Mother,’ as well as Baal, her phallic consort. These were religions whose rites included sacred prostitution.”
At this point the members of the small Orthodox platoon rose to their feet. I recognized their leader as my stocky, full-bearded classmate Wolf Lifshitz, who began to stamp angrily out of the room.
“Hold it!” Beller commanded.
They stopped in their tracks.
He addressed them calmly. “My aim is to inform, not offend. Can you tell me what I’ve said that you find so unacceptable?”
The students exchanged looks, each hoping the other would act as spokesman. Finally, Lifshitz inflated his barrel chest and replied, “You’re blaspheming our religion.”
“Am I?” Beller asked. “Does your religion regard truth as blasphemous?”
“What you’re saying isn’t true,” Lifshitz protested.
“Can you be more specific?”
Wolfs whole face went crimson. “What you said about … sacred prostitution.”
“I’m sure your Hebrew’s far better than mine,” Beller replied. “But would you translate the word kodesh for the benefit of some of the others present?”
Wolf answered warily. “It means … ‘holiness,’ ‘sanctity.’ It can even refer to the holy Temple.”
“Very good,” Beller commented. “And do you know what the obviously related words kadesh and kedeshah mean?”
A look of worry passed over Lifshitz’s face. He murmured something to one of his companions, then turned back and answered, “Well, obviously, it’s something to do with holiness.”
“Indeed it is.” Beller smiled triumphantly. “They are the Hebrew words for sacred prostitutes—male and female—in the worship of Baal and Astarte.”
Rage flushed his face as Lifshitz again took the initiative. “Where do you find such words in the Bible?”
“Well,” said Beller, “they are unambiguously present in Deuteronomy 23:18. I can quote it verbatim if you’d like.”
“I think I know the passage,” Wolf rejoined. “But isn’t the Bible saying these are things you shouldn’t do?”
“Absolutely,” agreed Beller. “But the fact remains that however abhorrent it may be to our current sense of morality, our ancestors were attracted by this practice, which was widespread in the ancient Near East. I refer you to the Code of Hammurabi,” he continued, “and the word qadištu—obviously cognate with kedeshah. In other words, like it or not, early Jewish priests had to put up with these practices. They were, I can imagine, quite an incentive to visit the Temple.”
At this point the class broke into laughter.
I confess to being a bit upset myself. But I was also fascinated. Lifshitz and company stood rigidly in place as Beller expatiated.
“You see, the rabbis who wrote and codified the Laws were astute enough to recognize that the most potent driving force in man is Yetzer Hara—literally the ‘evil inclination,’ but nowadays commonly rendered, especially in psychoanalytic literature, as libido.”
Beller eyed the dissenters, who were still closely huddled by the exit door, then turned again to us.
“As our departing scholars will confirm, Jewish Law requires a man to pleasure his wife on the Sabbath.”
Quickly glancing at the opposition, he quoted the original Hebrew: “Lesameach et ishto. Am I correct, gentlemen?”
Wolf Lifshitz was not cowed. “You are talking about a mitzvah, Dr. Beller—a commandment from the Torah. We should all be proud of the fact that we treat marital relations with respect.”
“Quite right,” the professor acknowledged. “But do you also know what the midrash enjoins a man to do as he approaches orgasm?”
His adversary glowered angrily but did not answer.
Beller quoted the passage from Volume Four of the Abridged Code, chapter one-fifty: “ ‘When having intercourse, a man should think of some subject of the Torah or other sacred subject.’ ”
He then asked the rest of us, “Do we not find a contradiction here? If a pious Jew is enjoined to have sex, why is he commanded not to think about it when approaching his climax? Indeed, why is he specifically told that the sexual act is ‘not to satisfy his personal desire’?”
The crowd murmured for a moment, as Beller turned to them and remarked, “There’s nothing like sex to bring out the Armageddon of ambivalence in a man’s psyche.”
He waited for the laughter to subside before continui
ng.
“It doesn’t matter whether the doctrine is ‘Thou shalt have intercourse,’ or ‘Thou shalt not think about it.’ The real significance is that either way sex is in the forefront.”
He looked once again at his young antagonists and said without sarcasm, “I’m sorry if you find this offensive.”
Wolf spoke once again on their behalf. “Professor Beller, I find you offensive.”
With this, they all marched out of the room.
Beller turned back to us. “Well, now at least I know that whoever has stayed will keep an open mind.”
He then surveyed religious practices of both East and West to demonstrate how in each one of them sex plays a central role.
“Many cults encourage pleasure without remorse. Hinduism, for example, sees the union of a man and woman as reflecting and reaffirming the coherence of the universe.
“In India today there are literally thousands of altars to the erect linga, the phallus, symbol of the god Shiva. In ancient Chinese Taoism, making love was a solemn action, a ‘joyful necessity,’ which brought paradise on earth. And early Christianity,” he continued, “was anything but celibate. More than one holy man reached sanctity only after a detour of compulsive sexuality—St. Anthony and St. Jerome, for example, freely admit they were sexual libertines before espousing celibacy. And we recall the youthful St. Augustine’s fervent plea to God: ‘Give me chastity and self-control—but not too soon.’ ”
As laughter again rippled across the lecture room, I could not keep from glancing at the churchmen among us. Unlike the rebellious students, they were respectfully listening to Beller, some even nodding their heads—perhaps because most of them were older and knew he was merely marshaling evidence, not concocting it.
Beller’s approach was that of the Freudian psychiatrist, dismissing blind faith as irrational, neurotic, or a sublimation of erotic impulse.
I actually read everything on the syllabus, plunging deep into the torrent of religious conflict and soon wondering if I would resurface with my faith intact.
