One American Dream

by Bernard Beck

  “You wish.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that they are sleeping together. I looked in their night table, and I found a box of condoms. There were only four left in the box.”

  “Did that surprise you?”

  “Not really,” Rose laughed. “How about you?”

  “I guess if it was OK for her parents, it’s OK for her.”

  Rose put her head on my shoulder and squeezed my hand.

  “We can just continue to pretend that we don’t know,” she said. “They can get married in the spring, just like we planned. At least they’re being careful that she doesn’t get pregnant.”

  “America,” I said with a smile. “Welcome to the new world.”

  Chapter 19

  That November, just weeks before Thanksgiving, my father had another stroke—a setback. He had been making good progress in his efforts to walk, but this new infarction affected both his legs and his heart. He was now experiencing difficulty breathing, an irregular heartbeat, and some dizziness, but, even though Jack and I urged him to, he fought against returning to the hospital. He insisted on remaining in the rehabilitation center at least until he was mobile again. Secretly, though, my father and I both suspected that the end of his life was approaching, and neither he nor I wanted him to spend those remaining days in a hospital. He was lucid most of the time when I was with him, but he complained that more and more he found his mind wandering—uncontrolled.

  We continued our dinners together, but there was a new urgency. He told me that his days were now increasingly occupied by fears, dreams, memories, and frustrations. He had lived his life, however well or poorly, and now that he was preparing to join his fathers, he yearned to give his life meaning—to tie up all the loose ends.

  “In the end,” he told me, “before the pain or the drugs take over, in those last few days or hours of rational thought that I have left, I would like to pass something on—a message, a hope, a dream. Something learned. I want to make an impact, even now. Especially now.”

  He had learned a lot, he told me, but he had passed on very little. This he now painfully regretted. As a young man he had hoped to write a book—a biography of his hero, Rabbi Nachman of Breslov, the great grandson of the Baal Shem Tov. He had read so much about him and studied so much about him and had never written a word. Not one word.

  Maybe one day, he said, Ruthie would write it.

  He told me that he was especially concerned about Ruthie. She had so much potential, he said, but he felt that it had been wasted. He said that Jack had destroyed her—destroyed her creativity and her curiosity. He resented, he said, that Jack had control—control of everything—even him.

  “I should have tried harder,” he said bitterly. “I could have freed her. That’s what grandfathers do, but Jack stood in my way. I tried. At least I got her out of the house, away from his tyranny. Harry is nearly a goy, but he has a good soul—he means well. I got Ruthie out from under Jack’s thumb, but she needs direction.”

  I didn’t argue with him; I didn’t tell him that it had been my decision for Ruthie to leave our house. He was so frail, fading so fast, that I just sat there and listened. I regret that now.

  There are so many things that I regret now. There are things I knew—things I should have done. Things I should have reported. I knew that what he was doing was wrong. But he was my father—my only parent.

  He told me how he was planning to influence Ruthie’s life through Harry. I listened to him, and I did nothing. Nothing to protect Harry. Nothing to protect Ruthie. Nothing. I could have done something. I could have stopped it right at the beginning. But I didn’t.

  I thought that Harry would reject it—reject it all. But Harry was a schlemiel, a naive fool. It is easy now, in retrospect, to see that it was wrong not to say anything. But it didn’t seem all that wrong while it was happening. And then, it was too late, and then it didn’t matter.

  My father told me that he knew that Ruthie and Harry were living together as man and wife. He boasted that he had been the catalyst for that union. When I expressed shock, he told me not to worry, that he had a plan, and that in his final days, he planned to influence Ruthie through Harry. He told me that, when his plan was completed, Ruthie would be a naarah besulah, a virgin maiden. I should have protested that this was not possible, but I didn’t. I just assumed that it was the morphine talking.

  “Harry will listen to what I say,” my father said with a wily smile. “He will make her the kind of Jew my parents in Minsk would have been proud of. She will be frum, and she will be modest according to the laws, and she will raise a proper Jewish family. I will teach her modesty through Harry. I will teach her to be a proper wife and mother. And Jack won’t be in the way.”

  My father suffered sleepless nights planning how to return Ruthie to her formerly chaste condition. He knew that it was physically impossible, but, he said, people can change in the eyes of God, and that would be good enough. He said that if Ruthie was to be the sort of woman that he had hoped for, she would have to have a proper wedding and to have a proper wedding there should be blood on the sheet or at least some sort of celibacy. Otherwise people would talk.

  The very next day, during Harry’s lunchtime visit, my father reached out and took Harry’s hand.

  “I want to talk to you about the quality of your marriage,” he said. “I know that you and Ruthie love each other. That is absolutely certain, and you deserve to have a long and happy life together. But, according to Jewish law, there is something that stands between you and the possibility of a perfect marriage.

  “If I may speak frankly,” my father continued, “Ruthie is not a virgin. And if you want your marriage to be accepted at the highest level in heaven, she should be a virgin.”

  “But you encouraged her,” Harry protested, withdrawing his hand from my father’s grip. “You told her that conjugal relations would confirm the legitimacy of our marriage.”

  “Yes,” my father replied, “and I also told her that it would eventually have to be part of a complete marriage, including a bride payment and a marital contract. But now that I have had time in this bed, I have been thinking about what I told her, and I know now that I was wrong. I was upset for Ruthie, and I was reacting to the terms that Jack had given you for his approval. I think he was unnecessarily harsh and asked too much. Plus, I think that he is lying. I think that even with your Jewish studies, he still will not give you his approval. You don’t know him like I do. He is a very rigid man.”

  “But I love Ruthie, and she loves me. Isn’t that enough?” Harry protested.

  “It’s enough for you. Maybe it’s even enough for me,” my father replied with a sigh. “And if you lived by yourselves somewhere in the woods, it would certainly be fine. But you live in society, and society has certain rules. You both have parents, and they have expectations. And Ruthie is a proper girl, and proper girls don’t have relations without being married.”

  “But we did it all because you said it was the right thing to do!”

  “Yes, I know that. And I still think it was the right thing to do. Jack was being unreasonable, and this was the only way I could see to get you two together. Good marriages are made in heaven, but sometimes they need a push. You are definitely her ‘bashert’—her chosen one—but I am certain that Jack would not have allowed the marriage no matter how much studying you did.

  “But the undeniable truth,” my father continued with a deep sigh, “is that Ruthie is no longer a virgin. In the eyes of the Torah and of the Rabbis and of your family and friends, and even in the eyes of God, she is cheapened. This breaks my heart. When she gets officially married, even to you, she will not be able to say that she is a virgin. She has been somehow ‘soiled.’”

  Harry was now pacing furiously. Shocked. “Ruthie is the most perfect person,” he declared strongly. “She isn’t in the l
east bit soiled.”

  “Yes, I agree completely, but the fact is that she has been damaged . . . by you.”

  “Damaged? Not by me. By you!” Harry shouted leaning over the foot of the bed. “How could you have done this to her?”

  “It is not my fault. It is Jack’s fault,” my father whined. “It was clear to me that Jack would not give you his blessing and that you would not be able to be married. He should have given you his blessing right away, but he always wants to be in control. If he had given his blessing, this never would have happened. Now it is too late. With his arrogant manner he has caused the damaging of his only daughter. Blame it on Jack, not me; I could see from the beginning that you and Ruthie belong together, and I was only trying to help.”

  Harry sank into the chair, his face in his hands. Finally, he looked up at my father. “Sir,” he breathed with an icy snarl, “you have destroyed the lives of two people.” And he stood and stared at my father with unaccustomed hate and left the room.

  Chapter 20

  Thanksgiving that year was a memorable day. Macy’s had announced that it would hold the greatest parade in the history of New York, and there was a community-wide festival in Central Park along the route to celebrate the anniversary of the first colony in America. A spectacular fireworks display along the Hudson River was planned for the evening. President Coolidge made a special radio speech, and New York was ablaze in color in anticipation of the Christmas season. Harry and I went to the parade on Central Park West and then to the community-wide picnic that followed. At night, we went up on our roof to watch the fireworks.

  Our fall had been going well, and I felt that this Thanksgiving was a landmark celebration for us too. Harry was improving in his Jewish studies, and I had received good scores on my mid-term exams. My father’s Chanukah deadline was only a month away, and I was feeling confident.

  I had been looking forward to this evening of fireworks and celebration as a kind of affirmation of our relationship, but Harry seemed slightly withdrawn the whole day. He had been that way for the past couple of days, and I assumed that it was because of the very busy time he was having at work. After all, he was working very hard at his job, and he was still studying evenings with the Rabbi.

  The night was clear, with a strong, chilly breeze blowing in from the Hudson. Other couples were on the roof waiting for the fireworks show to begin. My hair was blowing in the wind, and I instinctively snuggled closer to Harry and took his hand and wrapped it around my waist. But Harry pulled away.

  “Harry, what is it?” I asked, somewhat alarmed.

  “It’s nothing. Just something I was thinking about. Something that has been bothering me,” he said quietly. Too quietly, as if he didn’t want me to hear.

  “I thought you had something on your mind,” I said. “You’ve seemed very distant these past few days.”

  “You’re right. I have been worried about something,” Harry said into the wind. “But it’s too difficult to talk about up here.”

  “Give it a try,” I said nervously.

  “I’m sorry,” he said over the wind. “I’d rather wait for the fireworks, and then we can talk downstairs.”

  He sounded so serious that I immediately took his hand, and we went back down the stairs to our apartment.

  “OK. Here goes,” Harry said ominously, when we were settled. “For the past few months I have been meeting with your grandfather during my lunch hour. It turns out that he speaks English quite well.”

  “Oh,” I breathed a sigh of relief, “is that all?”

  “Actually, no,” Harry said hesitantly. “That was just the easy part. Your grandfather told me that in the eyes of God we, you and I, are sinners, and that when we get married it won’t be a proper wedding. He said that since you are no longer a virgin, the marriage would not be one hundred percent kosher.

  “Now I know that he’s being old fashioned, and that these are modern times and lots of women who get married are not virgins, but, still, he said that according to the Torah and the Talmud, you should be a virgin and that makes me some sort of abuser who took advantage of you.”

  “But that’s total nonsense,” I said.

  “Yes,” Harry said. “On the surface it is total nonsense, but in our hearts—and in the eyes of God—it is the truth. We have sinned, and somehow we must pay the piper.”

  “Harry,” I said softly, taking his hand, “it doesn’t matter. We have each other, and that’s the most important thing.”

  “But it does matter,” he said. “In the eyes of God, it matters.”

  I could hear the rumble of the fireworks in the background, but our apartment was quiet. Too quiet. We sat at our little kitchen table holding hands, teetering on the brink, and unsure of what would happen next.

  “What do you think we should do?” I finally asked.

  “Maybe we should make some sort of symbolic sacrifice to demonstrate our good intentions.”

  “Yes,” I brightened, “we could donate some money to charity.”

  “No, I didn’t mean that sort of sacrifice,” he said. “I was thinking about a personal sacrifice—giving up something that we both highly value.”

  I looked around the room. There wasn’t much there that we could sacrifice. “What did you have in mind?” I finally asked.

  “Maybe we could give up living together for a while,” Harry suggested. “That’s the thing that I value most highly, and that would demonstrate to God and ourselves the depth of our commitment.”

  Surprisingly, I wasn’t shocked by this. We would have had to wait to get married until June anyway, and then we would be together for ever and ever. Besides, I rationalized to myself, if this had happened during the war, Harry would have been drafted into the army, and I wouldn’t have seen him for two years.

  So we decided to live apart for six months. Harry would move back to his apartment, and I would stay in mine. Just to make it that much more meaningful, we also agreed not to telephone, write, or date for the entire time either.

  At first, I found the forced celibacy OK, even a little exotic. But then it got to be a strain. But knowing that marriage was in the near future, and that we would then be together for the rest of our lives, made it tolerable.

  I continued my routine at City College, which made the time pass faster. My days were measured by the coming end of the semester and finals. My classes had turned out to be more challenging and demanding than I had anticipated. My classes in English literature, which I had expected to be the easiest, now occupied most of my time, and I spent many hours reading. Preparation for my finals was all consuming, and my anxiety level was high. I missed the reassurance of Harry’s presence, but I quietly admitted to myself that I was happy to have some time alone.

  But Harry, as I was to learn later, was much more concerned about what my grandfather had said than I was. He didn’t have the anchor of a family steeped in Jewish tradition, and he didn’t understand that there would be no punishment where there was no victim. He had been studying too hard, trying to absorb centuries of culture too quickly, and as a result, he had become too rigid—too absolute. He had not yet achieved the security and confidence that was part of my upbringing, and that now enabled me to move past my grandfather’s meddlesome nonsense. It had come so easily to me, but it had never even occurred to Harry.

  Now, irrationally, he was worried that he and I had committed a “mortal sin” by cohabiting, and that we would be condemned to Hell after death—he was clearly confusing Catholic and Jewish theology. I wish I had been there to calm him.

  __________

  My Search for God

  Harry Berger

  They have told me—warned me—that I might not survive this quest. I am, therefore, writing this brief account of where I started, why I took the route that I have chosen, and where I hope to end up. Hopefully, I will survive. If not, please consid
er the following as an account of a broken heart and a lost soul.

  I am writing this to record my quest to speak with God. I am not sure where this journey will take me, but this is the moment when I can prove myself, and my love for Ruthie. The time has come in my life when I must make the effort. I believe that it is possible, provided I am able to maintain the will, stamina, and dedication.

  Ruthie’s grandfather, Ben-Zion Perlman, has deceived us greatly, and he has led us down a sinful path. He has taken immoral advantage of our love and naiveté. We can no longer trust his advice. He has ruined my life, and especially the life of his only granddaughter. I cannot forgive him for this.

  Ruthie and I are doing what we can to undo this horrible situation, but I fear that our sacrifice will not be sufficient. I believe that the only way that I can undo the damage that we have done is for me to speak directly with God and to ask for his cleansing forgiveness. The rest is up to God. I plan to learn how to enter God’s presence, how to speak directly to Him and how to appeal for his kindness and mercy to forgive us for our carnal sin.

  I did not know where to start so I returned to the bookstore on the Lower East Side where I had gotten my tefillin, hoping for guidance. The proprietor, who called himself Reb Shmuel, had seemed to be both friendly and knowledgeable, and I hoped that he could assist me in my journey, or at least point me in the right direction.

  He greeted me warmly as soon as I entered the store, but he became immediately evasive when I told him that I wanted to communicate directly with God through the study of Kabbalah, and he suggested that I try to increase the intensity of my prayers instead.

  When I insisted, he told me that Kabbalah was too dangerous for the uninitiated and should only be pursued by experienced scholars. I asked him if that meant that it was impossible for me to study Kabbalah and eventually talk with God, and he replied that it was not impossible, but very difficult and dangerous.

  I asked him where to start, and he reluctantly offered me some books to read, but he again cautioned me that it was dangerous. When I insisted, he gave me the books and a room in the back of the store to read them. He warned me that I could lose my way, and, as a result, possibly lose my mind. He begged me once again not to do it, but when I insisted, he asked me to do all my reading in his store where he could watch me.