by Roger Herst
"Oh," Gabby eye's lit with a gleeful fire, "so you do stand up to your man on occasion. I see they haven't sucked your female brain from you."
The defensive anger from a previous battle with her mother returned to Carey's voice. "I don't say such things directly to Baruch's face. That would be disrespectful; besides, he doesn't like to argue with women."
"As long as you receive the same respect," Gabby added without a hitch.
Roland Sylerman arrived home for the evening and caught up with the trio in the kitchen where he seemed embarrassed that his wife had not offered Gabby something to drink. Nobody accepted his invitation.
"How about a little jog with your old rabbi?" Gabby asked Carey. "We could go as far as you wish. I know what a jock you were in high school and college."
The invitation caught Carey unprepared. For a brief instant, her eyes widened with enthusiasm, but faded rapidly. "I'm afraid I'm out of condition. We don't have time for such things at Sh'erit ha-Pletah."
"Let's go very easy. We can talk as we run. I won't tell you how good it feels when you're finished because you already know that."
Carey avoided her mother and looked to her father, her voice tinged with accusation. "Have you thrown out my old clothes?"
Gabby noticed how the question put him on the defensive. "Absolutely not. When we converted your old bedroom into a home office, we moved all your old clothes to a chest of drawers in the guest room."
"I must find my old sweat pants to cover my legs and a hat for my head," Carey said to Gabby. "I feel like an inflated tire and will probably run like one, too."
"That's not important. Do what you can. If you get tired, we'll walk."
When Carey went upstairs to change, Norma's eyes became teary and she sniffled repeatedly, refusing the box of tissues that Roland passed in her direction. She kept shaking her head from side to side to indicate what Gabby already perceived – that the reunion was not going well.
"The gap is getting wider," Roland said in a whisper for fear his voice might carry to the upstairs guestroom. "I feel the common ground beneath us is crumbling away. Those terrible people at Sh'erit ha-Pletah have poisoned her brain. They've stolen my baby's heart."
"Not yet," Gabby was forceful and unwilling to conspire with them in a whisper. "Remember what Lincoln said about bamboozling the electorate. You can do it to a few for a short while, but you can't bamboozle everybody for any length of time. That's true with individuals too. Facts rule. A person can ignore and distort them for a short while, but they always, always, always come home to rule. Sh'erit ha-Pletah cannot extinguish the love you've extended to Carey for all these years and it cannot trample on the bonds that bind children with their parents for a lifetime. But it's going to take some patience. Carey will have to travel with her new companions for a while to size them up."
"You can help us, can't you, Rabbi?" Norma sniffled.
"Carey came home to see you, didn't she? Isn't that telling you that she wants you healthy and out of the hospital?" Gabby said.
Roland stepped over to his wife and wrapped his arms around her with a supportive embrace, then planted a kiss upon her cheek.
"I know, I know," Norma whispered.
Gabby said, "In some ways, I know her more objectively than you do. She's smart and extremely perceptive. Give her time to see and think things out. It may be that Orthodoxy fulfills the dream she has for herself. But it may also turn out that it won't. Only Carey will know."
A touch of relief softened Norma's face as she observed her daughter dressed in familiar sweat pants and shirt retrieved from her high school keepsakes. A feeling of envy for the ease with which Gabby conversed with Carey reversed this relief. She remembered the long and wonderful walks she used to take with Carey and chastised herself for not offering her daughter a walk before the rabbi offered a jog.
Gabby watched Carey shift forward on the balls of her feet in anticipation. Gone from her face was the stern distance she was determined to place on her past life. "If I don't come back in a half-hour, call an ambulance," Carey smiled at her father as she stepped toward the front door. Roland, who was never ill at ease by touching others affectionately, caught Carey's shoulder and administered a loving squeeze. "Have a good one…" he said and nodded happily to his wife as the pair moved through the doorway onto the brick pavers outside.
It was impossible to find a level running area in the hilly Cleveland Park neighborhood, so Gabby headed uphill at a slow place, calculating that the downhill return would be easier. Carey, a natural athlete but now overweight and under-exercised, tailed behind, gasping for air. Knowing that Carey would have difficulty talking, Gabby said nothing. On Quebec Street where the pavement was broken, they were forced into the roadway, occasionally dancing with motorists navigating a narrow path between rows of parked vehicles.
After a signal that Carey wanted to walk and catch her breath, she remarked, "You see, Rabbi, I told you that my parents don't have a clue. My mother hasn't said much, but I can read her thoughts like a teletype machine. Her eyes transmit disapproval every time she looks at me. I try not to look back, but it hurts inside to think that your parents believe you're a failure."
"I don't believe they think that for one minute, Carey," Gabby said, without censoring herself. She knew intuitively that anything less than full candor would lose Carey altogether. "What kids see and hear as disapproval is something quite different from a parent's point of view. For them, it's just a case of guidance. The problem is that some parents continue the same level of guidance once their babies have grown up. They can't get off the merry-go-round and stop telling their grown-up kids what to do." Gabby saw that Carey's breathing eased a little, so she encouraged more running by hopping forward on her toes. "Two more blocks up, then we'll let gravity take us home."
Near her car parked outside the Sylerman home, Gabby ended the evening run with a comment, "Not bad for a gal out of condition, Carey. You're a natural runner. Clods like me pound the pavement with every bit of our weight in our feet. We're heavy-footed buffaloes, but you're different. There's a gazelle-like airiness in your gait."
"They wouldn't like me jogging around Brooklyn," she replied.
"That's because most of them don't care about being fat. They're doing God's work and He apparently doesn't take notice. Where in the Torah is it written that someone must stay in condition? That's a Greek not a Hebrew concept. And by the way, before I leave, I have something to share with you. If you're willing, I'd love to take you to the Holocaust Museum on the Mall. There's something on exhibit that I think you'd enjoy seeing."
What that could be was a total mystery to Carey. She looked bewildered. "How does one enjoy a museum dedicated to murder?"
"I looked to see what parasha you read for your Bat Mitzvah. It was Va-yikrah, the first chapter of Leviticus. And you read from our Holocaust Scroll that was stolen. Publicity about the theft at Ohav Shalom encouraged the Museum to mount a special exhibit on the other Holocaust scrolls. I haven't see it yet, but I'd love to take you. I was holding some time free tomorrow afternoon with the hope you'd come with me."
Carey looked dubious. On the one hand, she was curious about the Holocaust scrolls. But at the same time, she felt Gabby gently tugging her in the direction she was determined not to revisit.
"The curator and I met to discuss the effect these scrolls have on contemporary Jews in America. She's a dedicated woman who is very sensitive to the role of the Holocaust today. I can't think of anybody I'd rather see this exhibit with than you, Carey."
"I'll have to talk with my mother."
Gabby laughed without mockery. "That sounded like the little girl I once knew. But I've come to believe that now she's a mature woman. Please call me at Ohav Shalom. I'll make myself free any time between one and four o'clock."
With the end of Chanukah approaching and the Christmas season soon to follow, Ohav Shalom scaled back its events to provide families with time to spend together. Since her earliest day
s at the congregation, it was expected that Gabby would take a week off to enjoy the holiday season. As a single woman, she avoided Washington's damp and cold December climate and usually spent her winter vacations in the Caribbean sun playing tennis. But Kye, though an avid outdoorsman, avoided hot blistering sunlight and displayed a visceral dislike of beaches. His tennis game was only a notch above mediocre, certainly not good enough for regular and sustained play with his wife. Like many Asians who played in their work and worked in their play, he seldom deemed it necessary to take formal holidays away from the office. The nine months he spent in Israel learning to be a convert to Judaism were the only time in his adult life that he left his work for more than seven successive days.
Because of problems with Cici, Gabby had failed to make out-of-town plans for a annual winter holiday. Kye needed to be in California on business and suggested that she fly out to spend free time with him and recharge their spiritual batteries with a pilgrimage to the redwood forests in Mendocino County, north of San Francisco. One of his new partners in Los Angles owned a second home south of Carmel with a panoramic view of Point Lobos State Park and offered it to Kye for the week. To Gabby's mind, this was not only a welcome suggestion but absolutely necessary. She kept a calendar stored in her palmtop scheduler to chart the days of her menstrual cycle, and Kye's trip west corresponded to the two or three days when she was expected to ovulate. The idea of conceiving a child in her native state had additional appeal. But with Cici Landau missing-in-action, Gabby could not afford to leave Ohav Shalom without rabbinical coverage. Moreover, Rabbi Judah Gould from Providence, Rhode Island, was scheduled to be in Washington to talk about what the congregation expected of him during her upcoming sabbatical. She considered a half-dozen possible solutions to the dilemma with Kye, none proved satisfactory. The ugly thought of having him send his sperm by Federal Express returned to haunt her. Unlike the first time this idea had been launched in angry jest, this time she was dead serious.
When she raised the idea of his returning to Washington long enough to make love, Kye appeared agitated. It was not like him to reject an idea out of hand, especially not one that he knew as sensitive as this. In the end, he remained non-committal, but promised to give it serious consideration.
"I've got to make plans, Kye," she pleaded impatiently. "I must speak with Rabbi Gould during his visit to Washington. Perhaps I can inveigle him into staying an extra week and cover for me."
Kye didn't like to be boxed into anything, but in Gabby's suggestion saw an opening. "If Rabbi Gould will cooperate, that would be spectacular. I know this is important to you. I'll do the best I can, Gabrielle."
She responded with apparent frustration. "I hope it's important to you, too, Kye."
Carey Sylerman was reluctant about going with Gabby to the Holocaust Museum, but she conceded when told that a Bat Mitzvah photo of her reading Ohav Shalom's stolen holocaust scroll was on display in a new exhibition called "Torahs from the Museum of an Extinct People." Gabby picked her up at her parents’ home and drove her through traffic-choked streets to the Independence Avenue bordering the Washington Mall. Carey covered her head with an eastern European bandana and wore a shapeless lose-fitting wool overcoat, reminding Gabby how the Orthodox frowned upon all manifestations of sexuality except in the marriage bed, and did everything possible to see that neither males nor females became sexually attracted to one another. The women always appeared dumpy; the men, to Gabby's taste, total turn-offs. To see such a pretty young woman hiding herself from the view of others seemed inordinately sad. Sh'erit ha-Pletah made it nearly impossible for Carey to attract another suitor.
Gabby had a disarming way of revealing to friends thoughts that a more discreet rabbi might have censored. "I was about to get myself fired from Ohav Shalom over our Holocaust Torah," she said after brushing her eyes over Carey in the passenger seat. "After being bound up for an evening, the Board wanted to make the break-in into a major megilah. They commissioned the construction of a permanent display case in the sanctuary foyer. I envisioned hoards of curious, if not prurient, gawkers coming to see our shame. And mine in particular."
"I don't see what's so bad about that," Carey offered, her eyes following clusters of young tourists tramping down the avenue.
"I'm not suggesting it's a disaster, but why display our shame for the world to see? I'm tired of Jews complaining about how bad we've been treated. If some don't like us, then so be it. How can we expect the entire world to love us? Fortunately, the Holocaust Museum came to my rescue. There was so much publicity about the break-in that the Museum decided to organize an exhibition around the Holocaust Torahs. I liked that idea better than a perpetual display at Ohav Shalom. What seemed wrong for the synagogue seemed perfectly appropriate for the Holocaust Museum. I agreed to send the exhibition's curator, Dr. Shenna Benjamin, whatever we had at Ohav Shalom to show our Sefer Torah in use. I selected three photos of our kids practicing their Bar/Bat Mitzvah portions on our scroll, yours among them. Dr. Benjamin called to tell me that she had included in the exhibition all three photos. She asked to meet you but suggested we postpone our visit for a few days."
Carey appeared puzzled. "What's wrong with today?"
"She was embarrassed that protestors from Truth First and Above All, Inc. are picketing the museum this week. Every other year, Truth First members come to town with their message that only a few hundred, not six million, Jews died during World War II. They target the Holocaust Museum to state their case. It doesn't appear that anybody in Washington takes them seriously, but I can see that from a curator's point of view, they're a bloody nuisance. When I told Shenna Benjamin that you must return to Brooklyn and there was no other time to visit, she reluctantly agreed to keep her schedule open to see us."
Placards announcing that United States Holocaust Museum a "TEMPLE OF LIES" and "HOME OF HISTORY'S GRANDEST BUGABOO" greeted Gabby and Carey when they drove by the precast and glass entrance on 14th Street, looking for a parking place. As it turned out, they had to walk four long blocks, fighting a chilling wind. Near the museum's entry doors, a handful of demonstrating picketers sullied forth to tell approaching visitors what historical falsehoods to expect inside. More picketers blocked the entryway to hand out pamphlets documenting their claims. Most visitors were eager to find shelter from the wind and rudely brushed past them without responding. A pang of conscience coursed through Gabby, for it was not in her nature to be discourteous, though she saw no purpose in debating a subject that reputable historians had put to rest more than a half-century before. She could not resist a visceral contempt for those who sought to pervert history and was relieved of responsibility to voice an objection when Carey paused to confront a young man, fashionably dressed in a tailored overcoat with a business shirt and necktie, that he was an ignorant, malicious asshole. She would have pressed her verbal assault further had Gabby not coupled her arm under hers and hauled her through the thick revolving glass door into the museum's cavernous foyer.
The stark, under-lit, factory-like interior immediately engendered visions of a World War II concentration camp. Visitors lowered their voices and raised their eyes to read a large granite inscription in which God speaks to Cain about the Bible's first cold-blooded murder, "The voice of your brother Abel cries out to Me from the earth."
On Gabby's behalf, a receptionist at the visitor's desk placed an in-house call to Dr. Shenna Benjamin's office and reported back that the deputy curator was on the phone. Through an associate, she asked Gabby to proceed immediately to the Sidney Kimmel Exhibition Gallery on a lower floor, where they would rendezvous. Gabby and Carey navigated through parties of school children who were waiting with their teachers to start a sequential tour of the main exhibition, beginning with the rise of fascism in Western Europe.
Gabby was impressed by the alacrity with which Dr. Benjamin had reacted to the fervor over the break-in at Ohav Shalom and mounted Torah's from the Museum of an Extinct People. Since the sad event, she had to plan,
fund, and gather the relevant articles for exhibition. In addition, the gallery required renovation to look like the original warehouse in Offenbach, Germany, where a unit of German-speaking American GIs searching for documentary evidence of Nazi war crimes stumbled into the cache of Torahs expropriated from Jewish communities in Eastern Europe. Temperature in the gallery had been lowered and recorded sounds of rumbling war vehicles were pumped through amplifiers.
At the entrance to a steel warehouse door, an illustrated information board explained that the exhibit was divided into three sections: the first, dealing with the wartime Nazi theft, the second, with discovery of the Torahs in October 1945 in Offenbach, and the third, with their re-distribution to young synagogues throughout the world. A temporary sign informed visitors that the museum had added an exhibit regarding recent thefts of these Holocaust Torahs from congregations in Buffalo, New York, Greensboro, North Carolina, and Washington D.C, and expressing gratitude to the Lilly and Stanley Rosenbaum Family Trust for donating funds for the exhibition.
Carey left Gabby's side to study the initial displays. Military scholars supplied Shenna Benjamin with information about the SS Unit on the Eastern Front responsible for gathering the Torahs. Photo-editors in the Museum's research center discovered in the US Military Archive at the Pentagon captured Wehrmacht pictures, most of which were of non-commissioned officers posing with triumphant grins alongside their loot. One photo showed hundreds of sacred scrolls, their covers and breastplates removed, disrespectfully tossed onto a heap as though ready for burning. Many were allowed to unroll and expose the sacred writing to the elements.
Gabby caught up with Carey, who had remained in front of an exhibit case for several minutes, studying a captured photo in the lower left corner. When she put her hand on Carey's shoulder, Carey pointed to the photo and said, "I can't believe there's a picture of this."
The black-and-white photo showed two bespectacled German soldiers behind an oversized workbench on which two Torahs were unrolled. One showed the text while the other was face down on the bench top. A corporal worked over the latter with a pointed instrument attached to an electric chord. The caption explained that the Nazis tattooed many of their stolen Torahs with identification numbers, much like they did to the hapless prisoners in their death camps.
