by Erich Segal
She was waiting desperately for the Sabbath. Not because our ritual of mourning would then be suspended. She had a more urgent reason: It would give her an opportunity to say Kaddish aloud—in the heathen precincts of Steve Goldman’s Temple Beth El.
I was astonished to learn that my father’s will had revived me from the dead. His final testament revealed what he had never said in life: that he had not totally despaired of my repentance.
The document expressed hope that I would be moved by the Father of the Universe to accept my destiny and follow in his footsteps. And if this should come to pass, he offered his fondest blessings.
But he was also pragmatic. In the event that the person he referred to as “my son Daniel” (the simple word “son” made my heart stir) was unable to serve, he decreed that his mantle be placed upon the shoulders of his beloved grandson, Elisha Ben-Ami, who, he believed, would become a great leader.
Furthermore, should he die before Eli was of age, Papa requested that Rebbe Saul Luria be appointed to guide Eli until he was old enough to take on the full responsibility.
Deborah was cast into an unbearable turmoil. Ironically, she who loved my father most had been the one most hurt by him. She had not gone through the trauma of her uncompromising rebellion to—in a symbolic sense at least—have her son taken from her. She had not bravely borne a son to sacrifice him to dogmas of the past.
She sat with clenched fists, twisting her tear-stained handkerchief, and poured out her thoughts to me.
She still could not suppress her consternation. Strangely, I found myself defending Papa.
“Deb, try to understand. He meant this as an honor.”
“No,” she answered bitterly. “It was his own special way of punishing me. I can’t believe that somewhere in his consciousness he didn’t know what I was doing. He couldn’t stop it when he was alive, but he … he’s done it now.”
“No,” I insisted, gripping her by her shoulders, “I refused and you can refuse on Eli’s behalf.”
And yet, she had pangs of ambivalence. “But then they’ll have no leader. The B’nai Simcha will just dissolve.…”
“Look,” I insisted, “if there’s one thing our people have that sets them apart from all others, it is their ability to survive. I promise you, Deb, they’ll manage. In the meanwhile, thank God, Saul is strong and healthy and they respect him. Look how willing they were to take him as their leader until Eli is old enough to answer for himself.”
“But they’ll ask him then,” Deborah protested.
“Right,” I replied. “And then he can say no in his own voice.”
The expression on her face suggested that she wanted to believe what I was telling her.
“Trust me, Deborah. Remember the words of Hillel: ‘Be true to yourself and don’t feel guilty.’ ”
At this point she looked at me, her face pale, her eyes reddened. “Don’t you feel guilty, too?” she asked.
I glanced for a moment over to the door that led to our living room where about a dozen visitors were chanting psalms.
Many of them had been in the group of elders led by Dr. Cohen who had cornered me the night before and tried to pressure me into succeeding my father. I had protested, telling them how I had strayed from the path of righteousness, that I was morally unworthy and spiritually dead.
They seemed not to listen, believing as they did that a full repentance would cleanse me in the eyes of God. They would have persisted forever had not Uncle Saul intervened, insisting, “Give him time to find himself.”
Meanwhile, as our ritual mourning came to an end, Saul—who had been a widower for nearly ten years—moved into our house. Though I knew his presence would be a comfort to my mother, it was still distressing to see him seated at Father’s desk. Especially when he called me in to ask the most painful of existential questions.
“Tell me, Danny, what are you going to do with your life?”
I merely shrugged, unable to confess even to this profoundly good man that I now lived in a golden jungle, and I had hopelessly lost my way.
55
Deborah
“You’re spitting on your father’s grave!” Malka shouted.
The entire Luria family was up in arms. It was the first Sabbath evening after the official seven days of mourning had ended, and at Rachel’s insistence (“I rule this house now.”) Danny was allowed to attend.
Time had not stood still in the outside world, and the moment of Deborah’s ordination was fast approaching. She had therefore chosen this night as the first remotely appropriate occasion for her announcement that she was going to become a rabbi. Her elder sister’s reaction was predictable. Its vehemence was not.
Rav Moses’s death revealed a well of strength in Rachel that none of them had ever seen. It became clear that, despite the difference in their ages, her husband had held her in high esteem and relied greatly on her opinion.
The succession to the Silczer throne might still have been in dispute, but there was no question about who now held the authority in the Luria family. That night Danny saw Rachel grow from Mama to matriarch. She stood up and addressed her children.
“Listen to me, all of you, and listen good. There will be no words of hatred expressed in this house.”
Deborah leapt to her own defense. “Malka, I’ll bet that you didn’t know that we’re all descended from a female rabbi—”
“There’s no such thing!”
“Don’t flaunt your ignorance in public. Her name was Miriam Spira and she’s a glory to our heritage. All right, so maybe they didn’t call her ‘Rav Miriam.’ But she did teach the Law and now, five hundred years later, the Lurias are still known everywhere as scholars.”
“She’s right,” Danny interposed quietly but firmly. “She’s absolutely right.”
“You,” Malka shouted, “you and your sister. You’re both a disgrace to our family!”
At this point, still traumatized by his grandfather’s death and frightened by this new outburst of emotion, young Eli burst into tears. Danny picked him up to comfort him. “I don’t understand, Uncle Danny,” the little boy sobbed.
“You will some day,” Danny reassured his nephew, secretly relieved that he did not have to explain why some people would regard his mother’s wonderful accomplishment as a slap in the face to Almighty God.
The reaction of her sisters was so fierce that Deborah saw no point in informing them that she had all but accepted an out-of-town pulpit for the following year. The task she had taken on was especially challenging. The majority of her classmates did not feel they had the confidence to lead congregations on their own and were all seeking positions as copilots. They could thereby continue their education on the job—and learn from the senior rabbis’ mistakes.
With her superb credentials, Deborah could set near-impossible criteria and fill them all. Having faced the daunting assignment of ministering to the New England Diaspora—not to mention having watched her father nearly all her life—she did not hesitate to present herself for the post of Senior Rabbi in a relatively young and growing community.
She wanted to stay within driving distance of New York so Eli could see his grandmother and visit the favorite sites of his childhood—the park, the zoo, the botanical gardens.
There was no shortage of possibilities to do this, and Deborah found a pulpit that offered the luxury of living in sylvan Connecticut and yet an easy journey to New York City.
Congregation Beth Shalom in Old Saybrook was relatively new. Moreover, because of its proximity to Yale, the percentage of intellectuals was high. There were no religious day schools like the one Eli had been attending in New York; but Fairchild Academy, with its reputation for high academic standards and liberal philosophy, was only a fifteen-minute drive from the gray saltbox house Deborah rented on the placid shores of Long Island Sound.
The night she officially accepted the appointment, Deborah was so excited that she took Eli to their neighbor Uncle Danny’s to open a bottle o
f champagne. Somehow, her brother was far less enthusiastic than she had expected.
As soon as they were alone, Deborah confronted him.
“You’re right, Deborah, I’m not crazy about the idea,” he admitted. “I know there’s a famous song, ‘I Talk to the Trees,’ but I never heard of anybody who got an answer. You won’t like my saying this, but I think Old Saybrook is a picturesque cop-out.”
“From what?”
“From eligible men. Did you ever think of that when you applied?”
“Yes,” she answered candidly.
“So you want to be the first rabbi in history to take a vow of celibacy, huh?”
“Come on, Danny,” she protested, knowing in her heart he was right. “I haven’t done anything of the sort.”
“But you have,” said her brother shrewdly. “By choosing Old Saybrook you’re ipso facto putting yourself out of circulation.” He added in a wistful tone, “Besides, I’m gonna miss our heart-to-heart talks. You’re not just my sister, you’re my spiritual adviser.”
“There’s still the telephone.”
“C’mon, Deb, you know that’s not the same.”
“Well, you can come up for weekends,” she assured her brother affectionately. “And anyway, we’ve got two whole months of summer nights for you to unburden your heart.”
Unfortunately, in the ensuing weeks Danny somehow could still not summon the courage to confide in his sister what was preying on his mind and gnawing at his conscience.
For when the grateful congregation had cashed the check that had been their salvation, they were accepting money that was not really his to give.
Since he’d had less than a day to come up with such a vast sum, he had been unable to convert his own assets in time. Hence, he had, with an act of desperate computerized legerdemain, temporarily “borrowed” the amount from the coffers of McIntyre & Alleyn. To be sure, he’d paid it back in less than a week—with interest: But there was no escaping the fact that by the letter of the law the noble end did not justify the dishonest means.
And some day—sooner or later—there would be no escaping the consequences.
PART V
56
Timothy
Father Joe Hanrahan was waiting by the gate at JFK Airport when Timothy’s jumbo began to disgorge its passengers. They caught sight of each other at once. Taken by surprise, Tim stopped in his tracks. “How did you get past Customs?” he asked.
“It was easy, my boy.” His old parish priest winked. “It only cost me a half-dozen blessings. The immigration fellas are God-fearing lads.”
They embraced. “Tim, my lad,” his first pastor said with deep affection. “It’s good to see you again, especially with that collar. Actually that’s the only change. You still look like the same schoolboy who threw a rock through the rabbi’s window.”
“You haven’t changed either, Father Joe,” said Tim with a flood of emotion, “although I hear that the diocese has.”
“You could certainly say that,” the older man acknowledged as they walked toward Passport Control. “Your aunt and uncle weren’t the only Irish family to move to Queens. All the old faces are gone now. And as you know, we’ve had a tidal wave of Hispanic immigrants.”
“Yo lo sé,” Tim replied haltingly. “Estoy estudiando como un loco.”
Hanrahan smiled. “I should’ve expected you’d be prepared. Anyway, I’ve been limping along, and young Father Díaz has been a real help. He even celebrates one of the Sunday Masses in Spanish. Funny, our newest parishioners may be strangers to some things, but not to the Faith. They’re a very pious lot.”
“So I guess the parish school must still be flourishing,” Tim offered.
“Uh, not exactly,” Hanrahan replied, with a nervous cough. “We still have the kindergarten and first grade, but for the rest the young people have to take a bus to St. Vincent’s. To put it bluntly, most of our faithful seem to have vanished. If it hadn’t been for the Latinos, the church would be completely empty.”
A shadow fell on Tim’s heart at the prospect of seeing the windows of his old school darkened. “It’s a pity,” he remarked. “We shouldn’t have charged tuition in the first place.”
“You should’ve taken that up with your friends in Rome.” The older priest sighed.
Tim did not know how to interpret this comment. Did his pastor know anything of the exalted circles he had lately come to move in? Very likely not. He was just venting his frustration at the prospect of leaving a parish less populous than he had received it.
“Naturally, there’s a room waiting for you at the rectory,” Hanrahan continued. “But if you’ll forgive me, I’ve done a selfish thing.”
“I don’t understand.”
“My mother died three years ago—”
“I’m sorry,” Tim interrupted softly.
“Well, she was ninety-three and almost deaf, so probably it’s better that she be where she can hear the angels sing. In any case, I’m still living in our old apartment, and I’ve taken the liberty of preparing one of our bedrooms for you. Frankly, lad, I’d be most grateful for the company.”
“Of course, Father,” Tim replied.
The skycap who lugged Tim’s suitcases to Hanrahan’s old Pinto refused a tip and merely asked the two clergymen to pray that his pregnant wife would produce a boy this time.
A few minutes later, as they entered the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, the elderly priest commented, “Lord, I’m grateful that I’ll have the pleasure of your company for a little while.”
“You’re not planning on dying?” Tim joked.
“No, no, not for a long while yet. It’s just that, from what I heard …” He paused, and then said wistfully, “They won’t be keeping you here in Brooklyn very long.”
“Bendígame, Padre. He pecado. Hace dos semanas que no he confesado.”
As a pastor, Timothy found it difficult to sit on the other side of the curtain. Part of him still felt unworthy of discharging the duties of a priest, especially the role of confessor.
From beyond the lattice screen, a young husband was requesting absolution for his infidelity.
“I couldn’t help it, Father,” he protested. “This woman where I work was always teasing me.”
The penitent took a deep breath. “I suppose I’m lying to myself. My body wanted her. I simply couldn’t control myself.” He began to sob softly, “Oh, my God, can I ever receive forgiveness for what I’ve done?”
Then came the moment when Tim had to admonish, uphold the law, chastise the sinner. He felt like a hypocrite. “My son, God sometimes puts temptation in our paths to test our true devotion to Him. And these are the times we must be strongest and prove the power of our faith.”
With the aid of Ricardo Díaz, Tim learned to celebrate the Mass in Spanish and immersed himself completely in his pastoral duties. There were times when he did not leave the church until almost midnight. Yet who of his parishioners could have imagined that Father Timothy was afraid to walk the streets by day—for fear of seeing something that might make him think of Deborah Luria.
Finally, the tension became too great. He resolved to explore and hopefully to satisfy his gnawing curiosity.
He picked a rainy Sunday. It suited him because his black hat and black raincoat with its collar pulled up to protect him from the wind would make him less conspicuous when he ventured into the Lurias’ neighborhood.
The downpour soaked him thoroughly. The heavy winds made others on the street pay more attention to their umbrellas than to passersby.
He walked first to the synagogue. It was still there, almost as it had been, though the gilded Hebrew letters on the sign above the door were slightly peeling, and the building seemed to sag with old age.
It was but several dozen yards to where, so many years ago—almost a lifetime in a way—he had on Friday evenings put out lights for pious Jewish families …
And met a pious Jewish girl …
He walked on, though with each s
tep his legs seemed to grow heavier. At last he was in front of Rav Moses Luria’s house, and stood there gazing at it. He looked up at the window he had broken—when was it, an eternity ago?
An elderly white-haired man noticed the unfamiliar figure standing motionless before the rabbi’s home. His ingrained fear of outsiders made him suspicious.
“Excuse me, mister. Can I help you maybe?” he inquired.
To the old Jew’s relief, the stranger replied in Yiddish. “I was just wondering if this was still the Silczer Rebbe’s house?”
“Of course, how could it not be? What are you, from Mars or something?”
“And is the rabbi well?”
“And why should the rabbi not be well?” the man asked. “Rav Saul is in perfect health—may God shield him from the Evil Eye.”
“ ‘Rav Saul’?” Tim asked, confused. “Is not Rav Moses the Silczer Rebbe?”
“Oy Gotenyu, you are out of touch, mister. Weren’t you here when Rav Moses was taken off—may he rest in peace?”
“Rav Luria’s dead?” Tim was rocked. “That’s terrible.”
The bearded man nodded. “Especially under such tragic circumstances.”
“What circumstances?” Tim demanded. “And why isn’t Daniel his successor?”
His elderly interlocutor grew uneasy.
“You know, mister, I think you ask too many questions. Maybe you don’t know these things because they’re none of your business.”
“I—uh, I’m sorry,” Tim stammered. “It’s just that they were all friends of mine … a long time ago.”
“Well, ‘a long time ago’ is a very long time,” the elderly gentleman philosophized. “Anyhow, mister, I wish you a safe journey back to wherever you belong.”
The man was glaring at him. Tim could remain no longer to contemplate the Luria residence, trying to read from silent brick the tragedy that had occurred. Thanking his wizened informant, he started off, wishing him Shalom.
He went to celebrate the evening Mass in Spanish.
Timothy gradually came to realize that his desire to return to St. Gregory’s was, at least partially—perhaps completely—due to his yearning to be near where Deborah once had lived. To walk streets she might have walked. To let himself fantasize that he might see her coming around the corner, even if on someone else’s arm.
