More Wandering Stars

by Jack Dann (ed)

  “Why?”

  “Because, Mr. Interesting Discussion, if it is true and I believe it, I die. It is written that a man who is a lamed wufnik must never know it. Who would take care of my Sylvia then and keep her from being lonely? And if it’s not true, why should I believe and be a fool?”

  “You’re too reasonable.”

  “I have been accused of worse things. And by less mysterious acquaintances than you.”

  “The rest of your life will not be pleasant.”

  “You’re a regular tummeler, aren’t you?”

  The man shrugged again. “I just don’t want you to expect too much.”

  “Expecting is also for fools. I work. I hope. That’s enough.”

  “You’ll die anyway.”

  “So when I get to heaven, God will explain to me what’s going on here with your discussions.”

  The man cocked his head to one side and thought for a moment. He said, “You’re a worthy man, Sol Gosnik. A good choice.”

  “Thank you for your analysis, Mr. Cronkite.”

  While they walked back to the apartment building, Sol thought about the crazy person next to him. Was be dangerous? With crazy people it was hard to tell. Sol only hoped he and his wife with the vocal cords would be quiet once they got settled.

  They walked upstairs and parted at Sol’s door. Sol said, “By the way, mister, you have a name?”

  “Yes. You can call me Sholstein.”

  “A good name. Good day, Mr. Sholstein.”

  “Good day, Mr. Gosnik.”

  Sol told Sylvia about the discussion he’d had with Mr. Sholstein, the new next-door neighbor. Sylvia called the fellow a real joker, and she made Sol laugh about him while she helped set up the sewing machine.

  There was no noise from the Sholstein apartment that next week. “You see,” Sylvia said, “I told you nothing was to worry about.” The week after that, when the ad was in The Reporter, they got only three calls for tailoring.

  “Barely enough for rent,” Sol said. His legs were two icicles.

  “It’ll get better.”

  “What if not?”

  “We’ll get along. I’ll get a job at Rexall.”

  Sol didn’t answer.

  Sylvia said, “You’re thinking again, Sol. That’s not good.”

  “I’m thinking about how I got thirty-six chances out of billions of people to be poor through life and holy forever.”

  “Not very good odds. Wait till the money starts pouring in.”

  “I’m waiting.”

  Sol turned his head suddenly as if he’d heard something. He said quietly, “You hear how empty it sounds next door? I haven’t seen Sholstein since that first day. Maybe he and his loud-mouthed wife are gone. Very strange the way they came and went like that.”

  He looked at his wife with tears in his eyes. “Help me, Sylvia,” he said. “It is such a temptation to believe too much!”

  BARRY N. MALZBERG

  Isaiah

  In the Torah the prophet Isaiah reveals God’s words to Israel: “I have set you as a covenant people, a light to the nations, to open the eyes that are blind, to bring out the prisoners from the dungeon, those who sit in darkness from the prison.”

  If Isaiah were to visit a Jewish congregation in Brooklyn, or Teaneck, New Jersey, whom would he find to open the eyes that are blind?

  *

  SO I TAKE MYSELF to the Lubavitcher Congregation in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. Williamsburg is still the largest reservoir of Chasidism in the Western world although things have hardly been so brisk since the Lubavitcher rabbi himself died and many in the community, strangulated by urban pressures, moved to bucolic New City or points even farther north. “I need to discuss the issue with someone who speaks a good English,” I say hopefully to the few depressed Chasidim, a bare minyan who are chanting over prayer books in the vestry. My command of Hebrew or Yiddish is really almost nil. It is disgraceful for someone in my position to have almost no grasp of tongues but what can I do? It is all that I can manage to keep up with the research aspects.

  “My English is acceptable,” a middle-aged Chasid says, standing and beckoning me into the room. “What do you want?” He gestures toward a rack in the corner on which tallises are hung, prayer books perched. “You may join us, certainly.”

  “I don’t want to join you,” I say and then realizing that this sounds discourteous add, “I’m not a practicing Jew.”

  “All Jews must practice,” the middle-aged man says wisely enough. The others nod somnolently, return to their chanting. “In fact,” he whispers, “practice makes perfect.”

  “It’s not that,” I say.

  Very ill at ease I sit convulsively upon a near chair, take out a handkerchief, and wipe my face in little streaks as the Chasid moves over to join me. “Perhaps after the services,” he says, “after the afternoon prayers we can talk.”

  Afternoon prayers. Evening prayers, morning prayers, prayers upon arising and eating. They live their lives within a network of prayer; not, of course, that this can be said to have done them any real good. On the other hand, who am I to judge? The only prayers which I have ever attempted were not within the framework of really organized religion. “Not good enough,” I croak, “we must talk now. I have so little time—”

  The Chasid shrugs. “Time is a contradiction,” he says. “It is selfwilled, self-created.” A bit of a metaphysician. The others have dropped out of our discussion. They are immersed in their prayers, each at a different rate in a different way. Voices mesh and part. This is the essence of Chasidic ritual I am given to understand, the individuality of worship, but actually I know very little of forms. “Perhaps you’re in the wrong place?” the Chasid says kindly. “Are you looking for someone?”

  “No!” I shout convulsively. Faces turn, chairs scatter, eyes look at me with great interest. With a few shattered breaths I regain control of myself. “I am not looking for anyone,” I say. “No person. I am looking for information.”

  “What information?”

  “Judaism is a messianic religion, is that not so? You believe that the Messiah has not yet come to earth but that he will and that when he does, peace and justice will reign. Unlike the Christians who hold that the Messiah already came and went, will return for the second coming, you believe that he has yet to appear. Am I right?”

  “It is slightly more complex than that,” my new friend says, wincing at his prayer book. “There are various levels of meaning.”

  “But is that not so?”

  “You are discussing an entire religion, my friend. It cannot be summed up in a few words. There are some Jews who believe that the Messiah will come but there are others who are not so sure, who believe that Judaism exists only to bear witness that he will never come. Since the great purges and sufferings of the twentieth century, in fact—”

  “All right,” I say breathing excitedly. “That’s true. I understand that part of it. Hitler and the exterminations made it impossible for many Jews to accept a messianic version of religion; the Messiah would not allow such things to come to pass without intervention if he existed. But messianism is built deeply into the religion. All of the rituals, all of the prayers, as far as I know are built upon an acceptance, a belief, a waiting …”

  “I have had enough of this,” the Chasid says, standing. “Doubtless this is of great interest to you but you ought to seek a rabbi, a scholar, perhaps someone at the theological institute with whom you could discuss all of this. This however is a place of worship.”

  “But what are you worshiping if you won’t even talk about the basis?”

  The Chasid as if from a great height gives me a penetrating look and tucks his prayer book under his arm. “If you must equate worship and understanding,” he says, “you are missing the point entirely.” He walks away. The minyan continues to drone but obviously I have been dismissed and after a while I leave the Lubavitcher vestry quietly, trying to hold myself against a scream or an explosion.

/>   So I take myself to a Reform congregation in Teaneck, New Jersey, and there on a dull Monday afternoon meet and speak with the student rabbi, a young man with round eyes and a distracted expression. “Of course it’s a messianic religion,” he says. “Judaism is structured on the coming of the Messiah.” He looks at a wall; actually it is not his office but that of the rabbi himself, who is presently visiting students of the congregation families at northeastern colleges but has no objection to giving his assistant use of the office in his absence and even the opportunity to conduct Friday evening services. “But I’m afraid that I can’t solve your problem otherwise. No one knows when the Messiah will come and this sense of mystery is built deeply into the religion. It is a religion without answers of almost any sort.”

  He is trying hard. Obviously there is no hypocrisy in my student rabbi. Really, he is trying very hard and he is also relatively learned. Nevertheless a sense of woe overtakes me, a feeling of disengaged purposes and weariness, and so I stand, looking over his shoulder at some religious emblem on the wall. “It’s hopeless,” I say, “it’s hopeless.”

  “What’s hopeless?” the rabbi says without much interest. Really, they have enough trouble in Teaneck: zoning, taxation, infusion of Orthodox into certain sections draining the public schools, a rising crime rate and great transient population, to say nothing of the student rabbi’s more specific problem, which is to find a congregation somewhere. I feel sympathy for him. Really, this is not his problem.

  “There’s just no clear framework,” I say rather pointlessly and leave him. In the parking lot I have a stab of regret: I really should return and apologize for my abruptness but I decide that it would only be a gesture. Truly now: the young rabbi’s problems, much as my own, would only be unduly complicated by the coming of the Messiah on top of everything else and now I feel a blade of panic. My options are running out.

  So I take myself to a Thursday night discussion meeting of the Ethical Culture Society, a large proportion of which is composed of intellectual, questioning, alienated Jews. There is some problem filling in the gaps between these encounters but I do the best I can and limbo is not particularly unpleasant if one keeps expectations low. “I think we have to discard the messianic approach in toto,” the discussion leader says when I politely raise my question. People stare: a newcomer, particularly a conversational newcomer, is always interesting. “It is best to think of messianism as a metaphor for that mysterious exaltation which can come from keeping ritual. Ritual equals religion equals ecstasy in some sects. The vitality of the Chasids demonstrates this, I’d think.”

  I see little vitality in the Chasids but politely say instead, “Then you say there is no messianic underlay anymore.”

  “Not any more than there are physiological reasons for the dietary laws,” the discussion leader says. “I think we should get off this topic, however. Judaism is of marginal interest to most of us and we try to look at the world more eclectically, bonding together many religions, many ways of life. Not that Judaism isn’t a worthy subject of discussion, of course,” he concludes, perhaps reacting to some felt disapproval, “but we try to take the best from the best and reassemble. Messianism is deleterious since we know in post-technological America that the solution to our problems must lie within ourselves, that we must change the world as we see it and that our lives consist of what is known on this earth and nowhere else.”

  He nods somewhat emphatically and the faces turn from me back toward the podium. There are several unescorted girls for whom I feel a certain distant attraction but it would be rankest hypocrisy to stay, my business now concluded, on that basis. I leave the lecture hall quietly and try to get to a neighborhood synagogue for meditation and prayer but neighborhood synagogues are closed and locked (vandalism abounds) on Thursday nights and Williamsburg too far to travel on the dangerous underground.

  So I return and explain the situation as best I can and apologize for my lapses and make clear my efforts and he listens quietly, hearing me through to the end patiently as is his wont, smoking a cigarette down to the end and then putting it absently underneath the throne, unextinguished, the faint residue of smoke surrounding like incense. “I don’t know what to say,” I conclude. “There are no easy answers.”

  “That is true,” he says. He shrugs. He lights another cigarette. He sits back. After waiting for so long he has cultivated nothing if not patience and his attitude betrays no restlessness. “Still, we have to come to some kind of a decision on this.”

  “It’s not my decision,” I say quietly, not in an offensive or disagreeable way but firmly enough so that my position is clear. “I just can’t make that decision; it isn’t my right.”

  “I understand,” he says. He sighs, shrugs again, extinguishes his cigarette under his foot and stands heavily, using his hands to wedge himself from the throne. He grunts. He has, after all, been inert for so long. “I might as well,” he says finally. “I’ve been waiting for so long hoping that things would just work themselves out but our Ethical Culture man was quite right, wasn’t he? You have to make your own way.” He ventures a signal and from the haze where they have been waiting for seven thousand years the Ten Priests emerge, whispering.

  “I should have accepted that a long time ago,” he says and gestures again. The birds are free now, the Great Snake itself, muttering, wraps in a coil around the heavens and dimly the darkness and the light descend.

  Watching this I do not know if I am happy or sad but it is good after so long to see him back at work again, doing what he always did best. The Chasids would be gratified. Teaneck is another story.

  HARVEY JACOBS

  Dress Rehearsal

  In his witty and informative book The Joys of Yiddish (Mc-Graw-Hill, 1968), Leo Rosten describes the words and phrases and linguistic devices of Yiddish as invasionary forces sent “into the hallowed terrain of English.”

  Oy vay, if he only knew what a mouthful he said.

  You think maybe he knows about “Dress Rehearsal” …?

  *

  SAM DERBY FELT OLD, even up there when time was an ice cube. He tried a knee bend and gave it up when his knees cracked like dice. Xarix appeared on the wall screen just as Sam Derby recovered his posture and let out a grunt.

  “Are you stable?” Xarix said.

  “I’m fine!” Sam said. “How are you?”

  “It’s time for the dress rehearsal,” Xarix said. “Will you transport to the Green Theater?”

  “You mean the Blue Theater, don’t you?”

  “The Green Theater. The children are performing in the Blue Theater.”

  “Ah, the kiddies, yes.”

  Some kiddies, Sam Derby thought to himself. He once knew a man named Louie who carried pictures of two apes in his wallet. When somebody asked him about his family, he showed the pictures of the young apes and beamed when the somebody told him what a lovely family he had. Up there the apes would look like gods. What they called kiddies wouldn’t serve for bait back home. Sam Derby often wondered about the kind of sex that produced such results. Yuch. Still, they loved their offspring. Chip off the old block, like that. To each his own.

  The capsule came to Sam Derby’s door. He got in and pressed the circular button marked The Green Theater. The capsule hummed and moved. It was a nice feeling to be inside, warm, vibrated, moving, and no meter ticking off a dime every few seconds to remind you of time and your own heartbeat.

  Sam Derby, a senior citizen, with a First Indulgence classification, had the right to be gently lifted from the capsule and aimed at the door of the Green Theater. Xarix waited for him. As the doors of the Green Theater slid apart, Xarix appeared like a developing photograph.

  “So, Professor,” Xarix said, “how do you feel about the approach of Minus Hour.”

  “Not Minus Hour,” Sam Derby said. “Zero Hour. You’re the one who should set an example.”

  “God yes,” Xarix said. “If one of my students said that, I would have him boiled in … oi
l?”

  “Oil is correct,” Sam Derby said. “Where is everybody?”

  “Supply,” Xarix said. “They’ll be here at the drop of a hat.”

  “Good. Well said,” Sam Derby said.

  “Thank you. I like that expression, at the drop of a hat. I have this vision of hats dropping. It amuses me.”

  “You have a nice sense of humor.”

  “I think so. Yes. I could have been a schpritzer.”

  “Not exactly a hundred percent,” Sam Derby said. “A man who gives a schpritz is a comic. A comic is a schpritzer. Say, ‘I could have been a comic.’ It’s a lot better.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  Xarix and Sam Derby went to the podium at the front of the Green Theater.

  “What do you want from me today?” Sam Derby said. “I can’t tell them much more.”

  “I thought a kind of pep talk was in order. Good luck, go get ’em, half time in the locker room. Do it for the old Prof. You know what I’m after.”

  “I’ll do that. When does the next class start?”

  “Not for a week. You have yourself a vacation, a well-deserved holiday, Sam.”

  “Sam? What happened to Professor?”

  “Under the circumstances I felt justified in using the familiar. We’ve worked together twelve solstices.”

  “Use what you want,” Sam Derby said. “I wasn’t complaining. In fact, I’m flattered. I was just surprised. I began to feel disposable.”

  “Disposable?”

  “Like a tissue. I finished my work. The class is graduating, in a manner of speaking. How do I know there’s another class? How do I know you won’t dispose of me?”

  “But that’s ridiculous. You’re one of us.”

  “It’s nice of you to say so.”

  “Tell me,” Xarix said, “are you sorry you came?”