by Bernard Beck
“Look, we love each other, and we know a lot about each other in the present, but we know very little about the different worlds that we came from. That’s the problem. Look, I know I love you, I know I want to live with you for the rest of my life. But I don’t know what’s in the blood that runs in your veins and in the air you breathe. And you, you don’t know much about me either.
“After I left your house on Sunday, I was very upset. But then I started to think about what your father said. He was very harsh, but what he said was honest emotion. He told me that I didn’t understand your culture—that you and I come from opposite sides of the spectrum. For you, keeping kosher is natural, for me, it’s unnatural. For you, sending your child to yeshiva is natural, for me it’s unnatural. And there are a million other ways in which we are different. Here’s the thing, Ruthie, your parents are right. We are very very different. But we are in love, and that’s got to balance all the other things.”
“Look,” I said, taking his hand, “my grandfather said that we could become whole—that it’s up to us to decide. He said that we have to have enough love. I think we do, what do you think?”
Harry looked a little bit happier. He could hear the anxiety in my voice, and he smiled at me and squeezed my hand. “I think we do, Ruthie, I think we do. The burden, it seems to me, is mostly on me, and I am willing to give it a try. Look, being a Reform Jew is not so important to me and being Orthodox is really important to you and your family. So I will learn the laws about keeping kosher, and from this moment on I will eat only kosher food according to Orthodox Jewish tradition. And I will rest on the Sabbath and go to services at an Orthodox synagogue. These things are pretty easy because they’re all surface stuff. But I’m willing to do the hard part too: I will find a teacher and begin to study ritual, and Torah, and Talmud so that I can learn what to do and also learn the background of the laws. I want to feel the same passion about Judaism that you and your family feel. I probably won’t be able to do all of this right away, but I promise to start. And once I start, I promise to finish.”
I took Harry’s arm and led him up the library steps, to our usual place, between the two lions. I smiled to myself remembering their names: Patience and Fortitude.
That’s what we need, I thought to myself, patience and fortitude. I held Harry’s hand very tightly, afraid to let go, and we sat there silently, but together, for quite a while, watching the pedestrians on Fifth Avenue. They say that if you sit between the library lions long enough, all the world will pass by.
“I don’t know your family at all,” I said finally. “I have to get to know them. How should I do that?”
“That’s easy. We can just go to the apartment and talk to my mother. She loves to talk.”
“This is so strange. You have met my parents a million times, but I have never met yours.”
“That’s because I always come to your house to work on the book. But we can easily fix that. The only problem is that my mother’s kind of formal, and she likes to invite people rather than have them just drop in. I’ll ask her to invite you next week. Is that OK?”
__________
The following week, on my first visit to Harry’s parents’ apartment, Mrs. Berger was in a chair reading when the maid admitted us. She looked up, hesitated slightly, and then, in one graceful motion, rose from her chair and walked to us with her hand outstretched.
“You must be Ruthie,” she said in her elegant drawl. I made an instant evaluation: she had perfect manners, perfect diction, a perfect face, a perfect body, and perfect clothing, and I immediately felt intimidated. I had never been good at meeting people, but the ultra perfect mother of the man I intended to marry was more than I could handle.
Surprisingly, it was OK. Mrs. Berger did all the talking until I could get over my fright. We had tea and little breads with cream cheese and sliced olives.
I tried to talk with her, but all I could think about were the instructions that I had learned in school. Sit up straight, knees together, ankles crossed, don’t forget the napkin, plate on your lap, and don’t talk with your mouth full. Speak when you’re spoken to. Make eye contact.
Mrs. Berger did all the talking, and Harry didn’t say a word. Soon, surprisingly, I found myself telling Mrs. Berger about my writing and how much Harry had helped me. Mrs. Berger seemed interested in everything I said, and she kept asking questions to encourage me to speak. And eventually, the floodgates opened. I told her about my early stories, and the magazines, and Mr. Davis, and the progress we were making on the book.
Mrs. Berger was a voracious reader. And, like me, she liked to read the same books over and over. We talked about books we enjoyed, authors we preferred, even favorite characters and quotes. I loved her; I loved being there, and I decided that when I got older I would be just like her. I began to relax—the afternoon was wonderful—everything was going to be OK.
And then, Mr. Berger came in. He had been at a meeting, and he apologized for being late. He was a large, impressive man, and he called greetings and apologies from the front door. The maid helped him off with his suit jacket and helped him into another jacket. Mrs. Berger rose to greet him as he came into the room, and she pressed her cheek to his briefly. Harry and I stood as Mrs. Berger introduced me to him. We shook hands and Mr. Berger bowed slightly, and then he went to the large chair.
All conversation had stopped. After the introductions, we had resumed our seats, and we waited for Mr. Berger to initiate a topic for discussion. The room was now uncomfortably silent and expectant. Rather than speak immediately, as my father would have done, Mr. Berger reached into a humidor on the side table, removed a cigar, rolled it briefly between his fingers, smelled it, snipped off the end, and finally lit it.
“So,” he finally began, “Harry tells me that you are from Brooklyn. What synagogue do your parents belong to?”
It was such an abrupt and direct question that I was shocked. “Shomrei Emunah,” I replied, without trying to put the name into a sentence as I had been taught.
“Guardians of the faith. Orthodox, I suppose.”
“Yes.”
“And your parents, do they speak English”?
“Yes.”
“And your father, in the garment industry?”
“No, he owns houses.”
“Owns houses? Really! What sort of houses?”
“He owns some apartment houses on Parkside Avenue in Brooklyn.”
I could feel the tension in the room; no one spoke. It seemed to me that Mr. Berger somehow did not approve of me. The friendliness that I had felt just moments before seemed to have turned to hostility once Mr. Berger had entered the room, and I wondered to myself why he was being so aggressive. Was this his natural tone? Or was there something particularly objectionable about me?
And then, before I could even explore these doubts, Mr. Berger changed his tone. To me, it was like a sudden thunderstorm that was followed by beautiful clearing skies.
“So, Harry tells me that you are a writer,” Mr. Berger continued in a noticeably warmer tone. “Fiction, eh? I don’t read much fiction—not enough time. It’s a pity you’re not a reporter. You could write something about the politics in our temple; there is such controversy.” And with that, he turned to Mrs. Berger.
“They sold the building today. That’s where I was. It’s going to be the end of Temple Emanu-El.”
“Yes, I heard. It’s a sad day. But the new location is very nice, it’s still Fifth Avenue, after all, and it’s even closer to us. It’ll be all right. Times change, we’re growing so fast; we need more space. I just hope they make it as beautiful as the sketches.”
“That’s going to be our job: making sure that they stick to the plans. But how will you feel worshiping at Beth-El while the building’s being built? It’s going to take years before we have our own synagogue again.”
I was trying hard to fo
llow the conversation, and I was relieved that Mr. Berger seemed to have forgotten about me. I knew that both Temple Emanu-El and Temple Beth-El were Reform synagogues, and I didn’t understand why they would consider one preferable to the other. In my mind, they were both the same. Even though I didn’t understand the differences, I definitely got the feeling of a subtle prejudice—first against my parents and then against Temple Beth-El.
The conversation eventually settled into a surface discussion of current events, which I participated in only when asked and only in the most neutral way. I was wary of Mr. Berger’s volatility, and wanted to make a good impression on him. I felt that I was succeeding when, all of a sudden and without warning, Mrs. Berger stood up, and Harry stood up too.
“Come Ruthie, let me show you the apartment,” Mrs. Berger said, and without waiting to see if I was following, she started across the room toward the dining room. We did a quick tour, with me struggling to keep up. And then, just as quickly as it had begun, the tour ended at the front door, and Mrs. Berger was holding out her hand to me.
She thanked me for my visit, thanked Harry for bringing me, and said she was looking forward to talking with me again soon. And then she opened the door and Harry and I found ourselves out in the hall ringing for the elevator.
I was confused. Had I done or said something to offend Mr. or Mrs. Berger? But when I looked at Harry, he was beaming.
Out on Fifth Avenue, after our visit with Harry’s parents, I breathed a sigh of relief. Harry was overjoyed. He said that his parents had obviously liked me, and that I had overcome a major hurdle. He said that I had done my part, and that the rest, now, would be up to him.
As soon as we were out of the doorman’s vision, I stopped and confronted him. “Are you sure you want to do this?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said with intense conviction. “My moment has come, and I am ready. It is definitely going to be a challenge, but rather than feeling anxious, I feel euphoric. I finally have something and someone that I care about enough to make a change. Let’s face it,” he said introspectively, “I have been a passive observer all my life. I have been the audience rather than the player, the editor rather than the author. But now, for really the first time in my life, I am making a commitment to a cause.”
He said he could feel the adrenaline rush, that he would do this for me, and that he would show me and my father and my grandfather. He told me that we would see how powerful his drive could be once he set his mind to a task. And most of all, he said, stopping mid-block and taking me by the arm, he had finally found someone who would encourage him and stay with him and reward him through his struggle. The burden, he said, was on him, and he welcomed the challenge.
“I have always felt like an outsider,” he said sincerely, “an observer. But now, I can devote myself to my new religion. I plan to learn as much as I can until I can feel Judaism in my soul. The truth is,” he said, “that I like the dedication of the Orthodox Jews. I like that they pray so often, and that they fast so many times throughout the year, and that there are so many controls and restrictions on their behavior, and that the weight of the world sometimes seems to rest on their shoulders. I plan to start slowly, to learn all the rules, and all the rituals, and then as I learn to do them, they will become part of my life pattern, just like you.”
I went to speak to my father to ask if Harry and I could meet with him, and we set a time for the following Sunday.
This time I did most of the talking. I explained to my parents that I understood their concerns, and that I understood and appreciated that they had those concerns only out of love for me. I confessed that I had been very upset, and that I was surprised that when I had discussed it with Harry, he had agreed with my father.
My father turned to Harry and focused all his concentration on him.
“So, you agree with me! And what do you agree with me about?”
“Mr. Rubin,” Harry said, “you and your family have a long and wonderful history. You have beautiful traditions, which I now realize are very important to Ruthie. She and I talked about them after we met with you, and, frankly, we hadn’t thought about those very important issues until you brought them up. I have made a commitment to Ruthie that since they are so important to her, I will try my best to honor them and follow in your footsteps. I may be somewhat naive in the beginning, and I may do it in my style and in my own way, and it might take longer than you would like, but we will do it. We will do it together—Ruthie and I. You might not agree with every decision we make, but I promise you that we will make every effort to do things right, and we will welcome your guidance whenever it is offered.”
__________
Rose and I had not expected this. We had expected a battle, and we had been prepared to relent. I took my glasses off, slowly folded them, and put them in my breast pocket. I suddenly felt older—tired. I had fought a battle and won, but somehow, I didn’t feel good about it. I felt that there was something missing—that there should be something more—but I couldn’t tell what it was. It had been too easy, something was off kilter, but I couldn’t tell what. I stared at Rose, hoping for inspiration. Something was wrong, very wrong, and Ruthie, I sensed, was at risk. I needed time to think, but they were here now, and they were waiting for my answer, and I had to give it. But still, I needed time to think.
“Ruthie is our pride,” I said aloud. “You must promise to take care of her always. She is a special person with a special gift. You must honor that gift.
“Here,” I said, standing up, “give me your hand. Promise me now.”
I stood and Harry stood and we shook hands. Formally.
“Harry,” I said, still holding his hand, my mind racing for guidance, trying to buy time. “You have pledged to learn the Orthodox way. I don’t expect you to do everything that you promised. But I am a businessman, and I want to make sure that you are going in the right direction, so here is my offer: you study and show me that you are serious, and I will give you and Ruthie my whole-hearted blessing. We should make a deadline. How about Chanukah?”
Harry freed his hand and looked at Ruthie, who was anxiously watching him. “That sounds like a good plan, Mr. Rubin. We can then arrange for a spring wedding, maybe in June.”
“Chanukah, it is,” I said, taking Harry’s hand once more. And then Harry and I embraced, and then we all hugged each other. And Rose began to cry.
Chapter 15
With a song in our hearts, we made our way into New York to celebrate. We had decided to treat ourselves to the best and most expensive kosher restaurant in the city, Lou G. Siegel. On the subway, going to Manhattan, we talked sporadically about the future. The rest of the time on the subway, and on our walk to the restaurant, we just held hands and dreamed.
The restaurant was crowded, and we were finally seated at a small table near the kitchen. Normally, Harry would have complained, but tonight he was too elated. We sat quietly, holding hands, with our fingers intertwined, sipping our cream sodas and waiting for our pastrami sandwiches.
As I sat there, amid the noise and excitement of the Sunday night crowd, holding Harry’s hand, I was thinking about my father’s remarkable change of heart. I just couldn’t believe that he had completely changed his mind on the basis of Harry’s promise to become more Orthodox. It was a kind of miracle, and it was not like him, not at all. He was cautious and methodical in everything. Why this abrupt change of heart?
And then, I understood.
Tears of anger and frustration involuntarily welled up in my eyes, and I freed my hand from Harry’s and searched in my pocketbook for a handkerchief. Harry looked at me with uncomprehending alarm.
“What is it?” he asked.
“I just thought about it,” I said through my tears, “and now I understand what he did.”
“Who?”
“My father. I’m sure that he’s not going to agree to our marriage. He just
said he would agree in order to delay the decision. He’s hoping that in six months we will have parted ways.”
“And if we don’t?”
“He’ll just delay it again.”
“Until we give up.”
“Exactly. Until we give up. That’s his way of doing things.”
Harry reached across the table and took my hand again, but I took it back.
“Why do you think he’ll say no?” Harry asked.
“He’s always interested in maris ayin.”
“What’s that?”
“Appearances. He’s always worried about what other people will say about us. If I marry someone from outside our community, he will look bad.”
“No matter who it is?”
“Well, not absolutely. If I married some famous person or some rich guy from Fifth Avenue, that might make it OK.”
“I’m a rich guy from Fifth Avenue. Doesn’t that count?”
“Yes, but, and don’t take this the wrong way, you’re an editor. You are coaching me. You don’t have the right kind of yichus.”
“Yichus?”
“Unique quality. If you were a published author, for example, that would be yichus, or if you came from a family he heard of, that would be yichus.”
“What if I came from an impressive family that he never heard of?” Harry asked.
“Then the family would have to do something to impress him.”
“That’s the answer then! There is no one more impressive than my parents—especially my father. You said so yourself. Suppose we set up a meeting between my father and your father, or my parents and your parents. You want yichus? I’ll ask my parents to invite your parents to the apartment! That will impress them.”
And suddenly, once again, our mood changed, and our joy returned. This was going to be even better than we had envisioned! We sat, each reveling in our own imaginations of how well such a meeting would go.
