According to the magic-men theory, it was remarkable that the Indians could speak at all. Who possibly could have created such men? If the righteous could not create a speaking creature with the Pure Names, what infernal sorcerer conjured a speaking golem with the Impure Names? The thought of such a concentrated evil force made the rebbe shudder. Who was this pharaoh? Neither politics nor business offered a suitable candidate: Americans, even in the highest places, were all so lackluster.
Eventually the rebbe had hit upon a new idea. He posited that, indeed, an incredibly righteous man had created the Indians with the Pure Names, and the creatures, in their natural course of daily growth, had become corrupt and idolatrous. The Indian’s evolution closely paralleled the creation of fragile Adam himself: Adam had been created as a good man with the potential—eventually realized—to do evil. The Indian was the new man, but since, as Ecclesiastes teaches, “There is nothing new under the sun,” the New World creatures turned out to be remarkably similar to the corrupt old ones. With the arrival of the Jews from Krimsk, the New World had been incorporated into the Old World as the new and farthest frontier of exile. The Golem of Prague, too, had become violently dangerous—on the Sabbath, no less—and the holy Maharal had to remove from its forehead the aleph, the first of the three Hebrew letters imprinted there spelling “truth,” thereby removing God’s seal of truth and leaving the two remaining letters to form the word “death.” The golem then collapsed into inert earth at his creator’s feet.
The rebbe had turned his attention to war paint and other ceremonial tribal markings and decorations on the face and forehead. He consulted with Chief Don Eagle, Osage medicine man, but to no avail. The rebbe even went so far as to take bark pigment and paint the Hebrew word “truth” on Little Buffalo’s forehead. Although it seemed to mean nothing to the medicine man and the other chiefs, as the Krimsker Rebbe erased the aleph, Little Buffalo, a most active and energetic brave, fainted. When he regained consciousness, he had a piercing headache that lasted for three months. The rebbe was not surprised and turned his search to paintings and photographs. He even spent two weeks in the museum, examining feather headdresses and Navajo blankets, which he came to find very appealing but devoid of any true kabbalistic markings, much less the overtly displayed Hebrew word “truth.”
After his basic research, the rebbe still remained uncertain as to the Indians’ identity. Although they were no longer a burning interest of his by 1910, he remained in touch with them, danced at their tribal celebrations, and even delivered a eulogy for Chief Don Eagle, in which he compared the late chief to the Master of the Good Name, the founder of hasidism, for the chief’s remarkable combination of strong leadership, deep concern for his tribe’s spiritual welfare, a simple, selfless humility, and a flair for telling a pretty good hunting tale. The rebbe’s remarks were translated from the Osage and printed to some acclaim in the St. Louis Post Dispatch.
Subsequently the rebbe was invited to become curator of the museum’s Indian collection, a position that he accepted, since it permitted him to examine the artifacts in storerooms and gave him access to private collections. He was also asked to join the Governor’s Council on Indian Affairs, which he did not accept, since he once had heard the governor speak. Unlike the Indians, the governor was a man of many words, all foolish; there could be no doubt as to his natural human origins. Nevertheless, the rebbe’s nomination to such a position brought glory to the general Jewish community and to the Krimsker congregation in particular.
Reb Zelig’s seconds business prospered, boosted by the publicity. The community had already admired this example of thrift and commercial creativity, but now, in honor of the rebbe’s noble Mosaic participation in American Indian affairs, even the aristocratic German Reform Jews, owners of the largest department stores, gave Reb Zelig preferential treatment in buying odd lots and closeouts.
The rebbe waited for the Messiah and the end of exile, but he did not wait idly. Fascinated by the development of flying machines, he suggested that Reb Zelig become a pilot and fly them down to the reservation, but by then the sexton was very busy with the odd lots business, chauffeuring the rebbe, and saying kaddish for Tsar Nicholas II, the last at the rebbe’s uncompromising insistence. The rebbe did not press his sexton, and with his feet on the ground, he continued to sample less elevated products of the American cornucopia, starting each day with two of his favorites, Aunt Jemima pancakes—“I’se in town, Honey!”—and a drink of Postum—“What’s in a cup?” Try as he might, and he tried Spearmint, Doublemint, and Juicy Fruit, he found the American passion for chewing gum a physical and spiritual abomination. It produced nothing but spittle and seemed to represent the most vulgar conspiracy of silence: the chewer’s lips moved as if speaking, but no words emerged, as if mocking the soul of speech. He was equally depressed to discover that Harry Houdini, America’s foremost magician, was a Jew, although he sadly admitted to himself that Houdini (Erich Weiss) did seem to epitomize the Jew in the New World.
Recent political events favored the magic-men theory of the American Indian. During this summer of 1920, the Republican Party had nominated Harding and Coolidge as their candidates for president and vice president. The rebbe saw at a glance that Harding was a pompous blowhard, but Calvin Coolidge, a man of so few words that he was known as Silent Cal, certainly was not. His minimal utterances—“The business of the United States is business” and “The man who builds a factory builds a temple”—revealed the essence of America.
Chief Don Eagle’s death had dispirited the rebbe and left him anxious about America’s leadership, but suddenly Silent Cal had appeared. Might Silent Cal not be the new silent-magic pharaoh? Furthermore, the rebbe perceived another astonishing national development: Prohibition promised to be a national madness. The number of sins in the world remained a constant, and if alcohol were added to the list, something else would be removed in its place, like extortion, or perhaps even murder.
These political and social developments left the rebbe with a powerful sense of expectation. Something was about to happen. The rebbe waited, following his daily schedule: Postum—“What’s in a cup?” Might not the bitter cup of exile have been filled?—and Aunt Jemima pancakes—“I’se in town, Honey!” Might not the Master of Pure Names, the new Moses, be arriving in town any day now?
CHAPTER TWENTY
A SMALL, SHADED DESK LAMP GLOWED IN THE REBBE’S study. Seating Boruch Levi at the table, the rebbe retired to the small couch in the shadows near the door.
“What book do you see on the table?” the rebbe asked.
“The Talmud,” Boruch Levi answered.
“Kiss it,” the rebbe commanded.
In the manner of a supplicant, the junkman leaned over until his lips touched the heavy leather binding in a votive kiss.
“Now you are no longer in St. Louis. Here it is Shabbos. —You were saying?”
“Yes, Rebbe, I knew what Wotek the herdsman was talking about in Krimichak, because that very night, before the Angel of Death synagogue burned, I had a dream about burning cats. Years later, after my mother’s death, the dream returned. In the following dream my mother appeared, requesting me to keep the Sabbath. You see, rebbe, I have not always—”
With a disdainful flick of his hand, the rebbe cut short the confession. “Have you had this dream lately?”
“Of my sainted mother?”
“No, of the burning cats,” the rebbe said brusquely.
“No, I had that only twice.” Boruch Levi sensed that the rebbe knew all about the fiery death of Zloty, the witch’s cat.
“On the eve of the Sabbath the mighty Mississippi was pink?”
“Yes, that’s how it appeared to me.”
“When you are looking at the river, you can believe your eyes, Boruch Levi, because the river reflects the heavens above.”
Boruch Levi understood the implication: the rest of the time he couldn’t believe his eyes.
The rebbe sat in silence. After several
minutes, Boruch Levi mustered the courage to speak.
“The Jews in America seem possessed,” he repeated.
“They are,” the rebbe answered casually.
“To myself, I seem like a madman, a veritable meshug-genner both here and there. I don’t fit in either place.”
“No one does.”
“Then what are we to do?” Boruch Levi cried quietly.
“Observe the Sabbath. Observe the Sabbath,” the rebbe declared.
Boruch Levi nodded. He would certainly continue to observe the Sabbath, but he felt regret, even shame, for the past. He had rebelled against the rebbe and God, both here and in Krimsk.
“I ask the rebbe’s forgiveness—”
The rebbe did not respond.
“Now that I have returned, I would like to serve the rebbe. If I can help the rebbe in any way—”
To his disappointment, the Krimsker Rebbe realized that Boruch Levi was a follower, not a leader. No, this was not Moses before him.
The rebbe stood up, terminating the interview. He motioned for Boruch Levi to return with him to the kitchen, and then he turned back to the junkman. “You must come to me with your problems. As for prayer, you will remain with Rabbi Max.”
Boruch Levi was stunned by the decree that he must continue with the bootlegging rabbi.
“There I no longer feel that I am in the House of God,” he pleaded.
“Then you must pray harder. This isn’t Krimsk,” the rebbe said and opened the study door.
As the rebbe entered the kitchen, Reb Zelig stood up and motioned for the boy to rise as well, but the rebbetzin put her hand on his knee and kept him seated next to her.
“Reb Boruch Levi, you have a very wonderful son,” the rebbetzin said. “He’s a pleasure to be with. And now you may stand for the rebbe.” Laughing, she released Sammy’s knee, and he stood up, flushing red with embarrassment.
“Sammy, I need a pilot,” the rebbe announced. “Do you like wings? Do birds and bugs interest you?”
Tongue-tied, the boy blushed and looked down at the table.
“Sammy!” his father said sternly.
The rebbetzin took his hand gently in hers.
“Do such things interest you?” she asked.
Sammy looked at her hesitantly, then turned to the rebbe and said firmly, “Yes, birds and bugs do interest me very much.”
“In what way?” the rebbe asked.
“Well,” said Sammy, thinking about the bird’s nest and the bugs in the hedge, “birds, because they fly. That’s almost magical. Flying bugs are interesting, but in a different way. Bugs are so small and seem worthless, but they all work well together and seem to know just what they should do without any problem.”
After this veritable speech, which had surprised even Sammy himself, he self-consciously turned back to the rebbetzin, who squeezed his hand in gentle congratulation.
The rebbe nodded in agreement, then said abruptly, “Gut Shabbos.”
Reb Zelig was ushering them down the steps when the rebbe appeared in the doorway and called after them, “Boruch Levi, this time you will remember what I told you.”
Ashamed of his earlier failure, he responded earnestly, “Yes, rebbe, of course. I give you my word.”
“And, Boruch Levi, send Sammy to pray with us on the Sabbath. He belongs here. Do you understand?”
Before Boruch Levi could reply, the rebbe had disappeared. Smiling, Sammy continued down the steps after his father.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
WITH SAMMY SMILING AT HIS SIDE, BORUCH LEVI pensively strolled home. He was pondering his encounter with the Krimsker Rebbe. The rebbe had received him, had even brought him into the family quarters to hear kiddush, and the rebbe certainly had understood his problem. That he didn’t understand the rebbe’s answers did not distress him; if he ever would be privileged to understand, it would take him a very long time. It was enough that the rebbe knew.
How did the rebbe know about the burning cats? Well, that was why he was a miraculous rebbe—even in St. Louis. But St. Louis wasn’t Krimsk—the rebbe had stressed that several times—and one of tonight’s surprises was that religion in America, although very weak, was not so simple. If everyone really was possessed, then why should things be simple?
Boruch Levi had wanted to confess his sins and to return to the rebbe’s beis midrash as a humble, faithful servant. The rebbe had ignored both these needs and had decreed that he continue to pray with Rabbi Max. The decree stuck in his throat like a jagged bone. How was he to continue with that sassy bootlegger? Now Boruch Levi could no longer take away the synagogue building and humble the disloyal rabbi as he so richly deserved. If Boruch Levi didn’t discipline him, Rabbi Max would become intolerable.
At least Sammy wouldn’t have to grow up around Rabbi Max. That was some consolation, but indeed, very little. The rebbe seemed to prefer the delicate, almost feminine boy to his robust self. Still, shouldn’t he feel honored that the Krimsker Rebbe had personally invited his son to attend the beis midrash?
Yet Boruch Levi hadn’t liked all the attention that the rebbetzin had showered on his son. Sammy needed a firm hand. His wife Golda was too gentle with their son, and look what was happening. He was forever dreaming and eating caramels. But Golda herself didn’t eat caramels. Maybe Sammy would be better off spending time with one who did. After all, the rebbetzin was no less than the daughter of the Grand Rabbi of Bezin and the wife of the Krimsker Rebbe. Sammy’s answers had been very intelligent. He didn’t say things like that at home. Perhaps he could develop very nicely at the rebbe’s.
“Tomorrow morning, Sammy, after you have some juice, you will go straight to the rebbe’s beis midrash for services. So pay careful attention to how we are walking, and you won’t get lost.”
Sammy was delighted at the thought of returning to the rebbe’s intimate beis midrash. The rebbetzin was so pleasant; she spoke to him as if he were someone worth talking to. The rebbe was a little strange, but he was a very great man, and even he had spoken seriously to Sammy, although he had ended the conversation rather suddenly. The only other great man Sammy had met was the chief of police. But the chief wasn’t really interested in Sammy, although he made a great show of asking the same silly question—What’s a big boy like you want to do when he grows up?—every time they met. The only answer that the chief valued was “a policeman,” and even when Sammy fibbed to please his father and gave the right answer, the chief never thought to ask Sammy to explain himself the way the rebbe had.
Sammy had never given much thought to what he wanted to do when he grew up—it seemed so impossibly distant—but piloting an airplane certainly appealed to him more than pounding a beat with a nightstick in his hand. It was uncanny that the rebbe had asked him about birds and flying insects, as if the holy man knew precisely that on the eve of the Sabbath, Sammy had been staring into the hedge. Most of all, Sammy liked the effect the Krimsker Rebbe had on his father. He was gentler, softer, and more affectionate than Sammy had ever seen him. At Rabbi Max’s his father was all gruff churlishness, scrapping with people, barking at Rabbi Max, and grunting instructions at Sammy. He had hoped that tomorrow morning they would return together to the beis midrash.
“I know the way and won’t get lost. Because I am new there, I would like to go with you again if we can.”
His father’s previous gentle tone had encouraged Sammy to risk the request. When his father didn’t snap at him, Sammy hoped for the best, but when he didn’t receive any answer, he didn’t know what to think.
“No, Sammy, you will be going alone. He wants you there; you heard what he said about that.”
Sammy felt tears spring to his eyes. He blinked rapidly, trying to stop the tears before his father noticed. Although the idea of praying next to his sturdy father always frightened him, for some strange reason he felt guilty at the thought of being alone with the childless rebbe and rebbetzin. Scared by the impending loss of his intimidating father and confused by such st
range feelings, he gave in to his tears.
“That’s not right,” he sobbed.
His father looked down at him through his own distress.
“Sammy, quit acting like your mother,” he said with a gentle tone that belied his words. “It’s the rebbe’s will. We must trust him, for he is a very holy man.”
They walked on in silence under the soft glowing gas streetlamps.
“The rebbe seems to like you very much. It’s a great privilege and honor. If you need any help, you can always turn to Reb Zelig. He will be glad to help you. There’s nothing to cry about,” Boruch Levi said, thinking that if there were, it was his having to pray with the detestable Rabbi Max and not Sammy’s having to pray with the saintly rebbe.
As they approached their home, Boruch Levi noticed the hedge that had so fascinated his dreamy son earlier in the day and felt immediately that he was once again on more solid ground.
“Everyone seems to think you’re such a good boy,” he said gruffly, implying that unlike everyone else, he was not so easily misled.
Sammy’s hand went slack in his father’s, although his father’s familiar, deprecating tone ended the melancholy confusion of tears. They had returned home.
“I hope they’re right.” His father’s voice trailed off in a faint note of censure that was much milder than Sammy had expected. This good fortune, too, he attributed to their visit to the holy man.
“Come, we’re late,” his father said as he opened the front door.
Sammy raced up the stairs behind his father and finished only two steps behind him.
Golda, her narrow face pursed anxiously, met her family at the top of the stairs.
Big League Dreams (Small Worlds) Page 11
