by Erich Segal
The course had no final exam. The only requirement was a single five-thousand-word term paper. Since the class was too large for Beller to read the essays personally, four graduate assistants helped do the grading. But I was desperate to have him see my paper, and racked my brain to find a way to arrange it.
His lectures ended at one. Rather than sprinting back to the seminary to make lunch, I would grab a salad at the student cafeteria at John Jay Hall.
One Thursday after I had gone through the line and was looking for a place to sit, I spied Professor Beller eating alone. He was leafing through some learned journal, and I wondered if I dared disturb him. But it was now or never.
“Excuse me, Professor Beller. Would you mind if I joined you?”
He looked up with a friendly smile. “I’d be happy to have company. Please call me Aaron.”
“Thank you. My name is Luria—uh, Danny. I’m in your class.”
“Really?” he remarked, visibly pleased, as he noted my skullcap and black attire. “I guess you’re aptly named, Daniel. You were the only frummer brave enough to remain in the lion’s den.”
I wanted to tell him how much his course meant to me, but he kept asking all kinds of questions about my background. I was surprised and proud when he said he knew my father. That is, he knew of the Silczer Rebbe.
“The Silczers have a splendid tradition of scholarship. Do you intend to follow in his footsteps?” he inquired.
“Yes,” I acknowledged, “although my feet aren’t as big.”
“That shows true Socratic humility,” he remarked.
“Well, I’m no Socrates.”
“And I’m no Plato,” he rejoined. “But that doesn’t keep us from pursuing all the elusive truths. Tell me—what good books have you read lately?”
I answered, cravenly seeking his approval, that I had bought a few of his—in hardback—and was intending to read them during the upcoming vacation.
“Please,” he protested. “Don’t waste your money. Buy Martin Buber or A. J. Heschel—God in Search of Man. They’re original minds. I’m just a synthesizer.” His eyes twinkled, and he added, “And professional troublemaker.”
“On the contrary,” I replied as bravely as I could. “You’ve lit fires in a lot of dark places. Certainly for me.”
I could tell that he was genuinely touched.
“Thank you,” he said warmly. “That’s the nicest thing a teacher can hear. Perhaps you’ll write something some day that’ll bring me back to the fold.”
This surprised me. “Do you actually want to believe?” I asked.
“Of course,” he answered candidly. “Don’t you know that agnostics are people who are really the most desperate to find proof that God’s in Heaven? Perhaps you’ll make the case for existential Judaism, Daniel.”
Suddenly, he glanced at his watch and stood up.
“Excuse me, but I see my first patient at two. I enjoyed our little talk. Let’s do it again some time.”
I stared unblinking as he wandered off.
As I pondered our conversation, it dawned on me that the most important thing he’d said was his farewell. That he was actually going out into the real world to treat anguished souls, no doubt people for whom faith was not enough.
And I began to think, Could I, too, be one of them?
21
Deborah
Now it was Rebbe Schiffman’s turn to dine at the King David, and he dressed for the occasion—fresh white shirt, black suit and tie. His wife even brushed his best black hat.
But there was an air of mystery about the luncheon. His host was referred to only as “Philadelphia.”
He had spent the morning reading a dog-eared manila file with cryptic markings, which to Deborah—who had dared to peek when he was out of the room—had looked like Japanese.
“Okay.” He sighed, closed the file, and rose to go. Half to himself and half to Leah, as she was helping him on with his black coat, he said, “When it comes to ‘Philadelphia,’ the wife makes the decisions.”
Leah squeezed her husband’s hand. “Good luck, Lazar.”
He smiled gratefully and left to catch the bus.
Deborah did her best to pry the secret out of the rebbitsin.
“This must be a very high-level meeting—what sort of business?”
“None of yours, so mind your own,” Leah cut her off firmly. “Besides, Rav Luria—may his name be for a blessing—must do the same sort of thing.”
Deborah was swimming in confusion. She could not recall an instance when her father had to attend a luncheon meeting at the Waldorf-Astoria with “Philadelphia” or any other city.
The rabbi returned just before evening prayers, flushed with excitement.
“So nu?” Leah asked impatiently.
“Thanks be to God,” her husband answered, “ ‘Mrs. Philadelphia’ liked the idea. They’re in for half a million.”
Deborah, who was beginning to fear that the Schiffmans were involved in some illegal practice, was eavesdropping intently but could hide no longer.
She entered the front room and asked ingenuously, “Did I hear someone say half a million dollars?”
And then an astonishing thing happened: Rebbe Schiffman did not get angry. Instead, he smiled broadly and replied, “This is a wonderful day. The Greenbaums from Philadelphia have given us the funds to build a dormitory for our yeshiva. Now we can take in more students.”
“Wonderful,” Deborah said. “That means you’ll be able to afford a larger house.” And a warmer one, she thought to herself. “Maybe with a garden so the children can get sun—”
The Rebbe scowled, cutting her off with a wave of his hand. “Bite your tongue. God forbid that I should use a penny of this money for myself. This isn’t America, where congregations give their rabbis Cadillacs.”
Her chagrin at Rebbe Schiffman’s scolding was overwhelmed by a momentary respect for his altruism. But that did not prevent her from detesting him.
He was still allowing his own family to live in squalor, not to mention treating her as the pharaohs did her forebears when they were slaves in Egypt.
Deborah knew she had to break free. She could no longer bear the condescension of Rebbe Schiffman, or the tyranny of his wife, who regarded her as a mere extension of the washing machine.
Had her father really known where he was sending her? Could he have told Rebbe Schiffman to combine the penalty of exile with the rigors of a labor camp?
She could not know for certain, for he never wrote. Her mother did—to say that she was pressing Moses to be reasonable and set a limit to their daughter’s punishment.
Moreover, as she had secretly promised, Rachel sent money with each letter. Clearly, she was sacrificing, for it was always at least ten dollars—and occasionally more.
Deborah kept the bills in an empty Elite coffee tin in the single drawer she was accorded in the girls’ dormitory.
On the morning of her eighteenth birthday, there was no celebration. Not that she expected a fanfare or a cake. But what would it have cost the Schiffmans to offer congratulations, or at least a smile?
At least her mother had remembered. And her affectionate letter was accompanied by a lavish gift of money—a ten and a twenty!
Deborah’s coffee can was full to overflowing, with nowhere to put her new largess. Leah had already advised her that, although there were—God forbid—no thieves in Mea Shearim, a person shouldn’t leave that kind of money in a drawer. Why didn’t she open a savings account?
It seemed a sensible idea. Early the next morning, Deborah left the house to walk to the Bank Discount on Hanevi’im Street.
Though it was the height of summer, the men wore heavy caftans and fur hats. Whenever she came close to any of them, they averted their gaze as if she were the Medusa.
She herself was overdressed for the season. Even if she had not known from her upbringing to wear long sleeves and a closed neckline, she could not have missed the omnipresent posters exhorting w
omen to sartorial modesty.
Still, she felt a modicum of happiness just to be free of the stifling Schiffman household.
A block from the bank, while waiting to cross the road, she glanced up at the sign and realized that she was on the corner of Rechov Devora Hanevia—the street of Deborah the Prophetess. It seemed amazing that the Orthodox male residents would countenance even the mention of a woman in public, yet here was a street sign honoring her biblical namesake: Deborah, the Jewish Joan of Arc who had led forth the army of Israelites to confront the nine hundred iron chariots of mighty Canaan.
Could Deborah Luria not muster a scintilla of the same courage? Here she stood on a Thursday morning, several hundred yards from her dungeon, with ninety dollars—and her passport—in her pocket!
Afraid of losing her nerve, she broke into a run, racing by startled pedestrians, past the bank, down the Jaffa Road, across Nordau into the Central Bus Station.
Deborah stopped, breathless but exhilarated. She had escaped—almost.
Now the only problem was—where to go?
The signboards offered her a dizzying array of destinations: Jericho—the oldest city in the world, Tel Aviv—the most gaudy and nouveau. Or the Galilee.
The last seemed most attractive, not only because of its fabled beauty, but because it was as far from the Schiffmans as she could get.
Suddenly she had second thoughts. I’m a woman. No, be honest—I’m a girl. I can’t go traveling around on my own. I need … other people.
She paced the station anxiously, ransacking her mind for ideas and trying to bolster her faltering resolve.
Then she saw the little sign marked Egged Tours.
Two hours and fifty-six dollars later, she joined a busload of pilgrim-sightseers from Atlanta, Georgia, for a three-day guided trip through Haifa, Nazareth, and northward into the Galilee. She had seventy-two hours—and thirty-four dollars—to decide her fate.
They stopped for lunch in a tourist restaurant atop Mount Carmel in Haifa, and were seated at long tables by the picture window. Several hundred feet below, the shoreline looked like a huge sapphire on a white marble table.
As the tourists snapped photographs, Deborah went to the cashier and bought three tokens for the telephone.
She glanced at her watch as she began to dial. It had been nearly five hours since she had left for the bank. Had the Schiffmans begun to worry? Had they called the police?
Not likely, she assured herself. She was so insignificant they might not even have noticed she was gone.
“Hello?”
“Leah—it’s me, Deborah.”
“Nu, Madam Princess—where are you? I had to serve lunch all by myself.”
The reference to her servitude only strengthened Deborah’s resolve. “Listen, Leah, I’m not coming back. I can’t stand it anymore.”
“What craziness is this? Besides, who gave you permission?”
“I don’t need it anymore. I know you didn’t notice, but I’ve turned eighteen. That means I’m free to go anywhere I want.”
Suddenly Leah shifted gears. “Listen, darling,” she implored, her tone betraying panic. “I know you’re upset. Just tell me where you are, and I’ll get Mendel to drive and we’ll pick you up.”
“It’s no business of yours anymore. But I’ll make a deal with you.”
“Anything—anything.”
“Don’t tell my father, and I’ll call you in three days at this same time.”
“From where, Deborah?”
“From wherever I am,” she answered and hung up, herself wondering where that would be.
When she returned to the table, there was only a single empty seat. Her neighbor—a portly woman who introduced herself as Marge—clucked, “You’ve missed the soup, honey. You should tell the waiter.”
“That’s okay,” Deborah answered blankly, reaching hungrily for the bread.
“No,” her new friend insisted, “you paid for it. Waiter!”
As a bowl of soup was placed before her, Deborah was pleased that Marge had been a stickler for her “rights.” With less than forty dollars in her pocket, she would need every calorie to which she was entitled.
Indeed, as they were getting up at the end of the meal, she took an apple from the center of the table and stuffed it into her pocket.
The bus then proceeded to Nazareth. Here, oblivious to the commercialism that seemed to Deborah to have paganized the city of Christ’s childhood, the pilgrims prayed. They sat in the newly built Basilica of the Annunciation, gazing at the spectacular mosaics gathered from the four corners of the Christian world.
Much to their tour leader’s irritation, they overstayed their schedule, and it was nine P.M. when they finally reached the Roman Villa Hotel in Tiberias on the shores of the Sea of Galilee.
The hotel was merely a glorified four-storied concrete bunker, with no elevator or air conditioning. In the dining room, old-fashioned ceiling fans stirred the heavy air, keeping most of the flies at bay.
“I was really moved today,” Marge sighed at the dinner table. “It was one of the great moments in my life. How about you, Debbie dear?”
Deborah replied simply, “Yes … it was fascinating.”
“Are you here on your own?” Marge inquired.
“Sort of,” Deborah temporized. “Uh, I’ll be joining my parents later on.”
The dining room was airless, and the prevarication only made her sweat more profusely.
“Why, I think that’s wonderful,” the older woman remarked. “Most young girls nowadays are hippies, travelin’ with their boyfriends—if you know what I mean.”
Unsure of how to respond, Deborah pretended to concentrate on their dessert of canned fruit salad—incongruous in this land of Jaffa oranges and abundant fruit trees.
“Aren’t you hot in those long sleeves, dear?” Marge continued chattily.
“Yes,” she replied. “In fact, I’m going to take them right off.”
Even at the far end of the table, her fellow tourists were startled at the sound of Deborah ripping off first her right, then her left sleeve.
For Deborah, it was a double liberation. She was not only making herself more comfortable physically, she was also tearing away the past.
Though she would have preferred to be alone, Deborah could not spare the twenty-dollar surcharge for a single room.
Her roommate was a straitlaced teacher from a Baptist college in the South, who knelt by her bed for several minutes, palms together, looking upward.
She shot Deborah a disapproving look, and remarked, “I hope you won’t think I’m impertinent, young lady, but this is the Holy Land. Don’t you think you should say your prayers?”
“I did,” said Deborah to avoid more conversation, “while you were—you know—down the hall.”
The next morning, Deborah said a special inward prayer—blessing Israeli breakfasts, which offered not merely eggs and assorted breads, but yogurt, fruit, and salads.
This time, she appropriated two bananas.
Their tyrannical leader herded them into the bus at eight A.M. sharp to tour the ancient city and the Sea of Galilee—where St. Peter fished, Greeks raced in the stadium, and King Herod built a mint for the Roman emperors.
Afterward, they traveled past the city walls built by twelfth-century Crusaders, and proceeded to the final stop of their explorations: a visit to one of those idiosyncratic, altruistic communities known as a kibbutz.
This one was particularly radical—founded by European Jews of the Ha-Shomer Ha-Tza’ir movement, who had divorced themselves from religion to regain their kinship with the soil.
The pilgrims found Kfar Ha-Sharon interesting if, in Marge’s words, “a teenie bit too communistic.”
But Deborah was smitten. Here were Jews completely different from any she had ever known. If the Torah student was characterized by cadaverous pallor and stoop-shouldered frailty, the kibbutzniks were at the other extreme—bronzed and bursting with vitality.
&n
bsp; Here, men in shorts, working side by side with women in still shorter shorts, tended orchards, planted vast fields of potatoes, and made honey from the hives in their enormous apiary.
The tour’s host was none other than the kibbutz leader, a Falstaffian man named Boaz, who spoke to them in Hungarian-accented English.
“Nowadays, little kibbutzim like ours cannot survive from agriculture alone. If you glance up the hill, you’ll see a building that looks like a small factory. Here we take the produce that we pick, then quickly freeze and pack it to be shipped to foreign markets.”
He paused and then asked, “Would any of you ladies and gentlemen like to observe the freezing of a thinly sliced potato?”
The Americans demurred. They had not traveled five thousand miles to see what Birds Eye showed them nightly on television.
But what did impress them was the idealism of the place—that an entire community could work for mutual benefit and not be paid in money. Yet, as Boaz commented, each member was supplied with everything he or she needed—physically and spiritually.
“For example, when we know we’ll need a doctor in, say, six or seven years’ time, we send a clever boy or girl to university in Jerusalem or Tel Aviv.”
To Deborah this was a revelation. Boaz had said, “We send a clever boy or girl.…” In the kibbutz, whether the fields were agricultural or academic, Jewish men and women were seen as equals.
And there was more. At almost every work site they visited, the young men looked at her—indeed, some even looked her over, and actually smiled.
During the early dinner that concluded the tour, Deborah determined to speak with Boaz. To her surprise, he had intended to do the same thing.
“Tell me,” he asked, “what brings a girl like you on a tour of Christians from the Bible Belt? Are you a convert maybe?”
Deborah smiled. “If I’d stayed another week in Mea Shearim, maybe I would have been.”
Boaz raised his eyebrows. “Mea Shearim—and you ate dinner at our table?”
“Was it pork?” Deborah asked, unable to conceal her distress.
“No,” Boaz answered. “But that was real butter we served with the chicken, not margarine. You’ve mixed milk with meat. By any rebbe’s standards, that’s unkosher.”
