by Bernard Beck
“When will the baby be born?” Harry asked finally.
“I don’t know, probably in August or September.”
Another long pause. Something was not right. I tried to think of something to say, but everything I had prepared now seemed wrong. And Harry didn’t say anything. Nothing at all.
Then finally he asked, “What will you do?”
“Well, I guess we’ll have to get married.”
“Yes,” he said gravely. “We should do that right away.”
Silence again. Painful silence.
And then Harry said, “Ruthie, I have to think about this.”
“What do you mean?” I asked with unintended panic in my voice. “I don’t understand. Why do you have to think about it? This is our child, born out of our love.”
“Love, yes. And I love you, and I will marry you. But there are issues that I have to think about.”
I could feel my body relaxing. It was going to be alright. Images of a home and a child flashed through my mind. It was going to be alright. Harry would marry me, and we would raise the child together, and we would live “happily ever after.”
“What sort of issues?” I asked hopefully. “Maybe we can work on them together.”
“OK,” Harry said as he stood up. “Here’s the problem. This is a child born of sin. Hashem will not accept me if I am the father of a child born of sin.”
He had said “accept me.” I didn’t understand, and now I could feel Harry slipping away. He had been with me for only that brief instant. And now . . .
Harry returned to his desk. He was repeating a phrase over and over again. “Kadosh, Kadosh, Kadosh.” Three times then a pause, and then over and over again.
“Harry! What are you doing?” I asked as calmly as I could manage.
“I’m calling Hashem. It’s the way the angels called Hashem. I need to speak to Hashem now. We need his permission.”
And just like that, Harry was gone. I couldn’t reach him. I called out to him, “Harry, listen to me! Come back! I need you! We are here, now, together, you and me. You and me. We are together!” He didn’t even hear me any more. “I can help you!” I screamed.
Finally, I lowered my voice, walked over to him, and tried to reason with him. I tried to tell him that this child was a blessing from God. That God wanted us to be happy together.
But Harry wouldn’t listen. He was murmuring to himself as if I was no longer in the room. He was manically studying his books, rapidly turning pages and going from one to another while I just stood there, helplessly.
“Harry,” I pleaded. “Talk to me. We’re here together. I can help you if you talk to me.”
Harry finally turned to me, and, in a very patient voice, as if he was speaking to a child, he explained to me, with the certainty of someone who knows absolutely what he is talking about, that the way to God is through suffering—that the Christian martyrs were right—that God demands suffering.
He told me that he had been fasting—one or two days at a time. He said that the longer he fasted, the more he could feel God speak to him, and the more he could feel the spirit of God in his body.
Then suddenly, Harry’s face brightened. “Here,” he said, nearly knocking me down in his enthusiasm, “look at this!” There was blazing fire in his eyes, and it frightened me.
“Here is the lesson,” he nearly shouted with joy, “it’s right here in the Torah. Now I know what we will do.
“Here’s what it says: You know the story. Hashem tests Abraham. He tells Abraham to sacrifice his son. To tie him up and then take a knife and slit his throat. Hashem never gives Abraham a reason for His commandment to sacrifice Isaac, and Abraham never asks for an explanation. That’s the test! Hashem demands complete devotion! Sacrifice your child!
“Well I am ready for the test!” he shouted. “Ein Sof!” he shouted to the ceiling. “Listen to me! I am ready to be tested. I will sacrifice my child. Show me the way!”
“Ruthie,” he said passionately, returning his gaze to me, “thank you. You have finally given me a way to demonstrate my love for Hashem. Soon, you will have a child. Together we will sacrifice that child. And just like Abraham, Hashem will tell me when to stop. We will get married today, Ruthie, I am ready!”
I protested that what Harry said couldn’t be true. But Harry insisted that the only way to feel your true love for God is to dedicate your life, and the lives of your loved ones, to God. He said that the love of God was not intellectual or emotional. He said it was physical. You had to make some sort of sacrifice, give up the things that you valued most. He said that there was an intensity—a devotion—something that could only be experienced through pain and sacrifice. He said that you must never take God’s love for granted, that the more pain you experience and the more you sacrificed, the closer you would be to God’s perfection.
I could feel tears running down my cheeks. I reached out and tried to put my hand on Harry’s arm, but he brushed it away. He said that I was a fool if I thought that we could ever return to the same life that we had had together. He said that I had to accept the yoke of my religion and only then, only then would my heart be open enough to accept God. He said that he prayed every day for me, that I would soon accept the burden of God’s love.
Burden.
I tried to have a conversation with him, to tell him of the joy that this child would give us, but he wouldn’t even look at me. Every time I said something about our relationship, Harry turned it back to his relationship with God.
I was now becoming increasingly frightened. Harry was irrational, and now I was afraid he might hurt me. Slowly, so as not to seem threatening, I inched my way to the door. It was good that I still had my coat on. But Harry rushed to the door, blocking my way. He took my hand in both of his and brought it to his lips, bending his head down to my hand as in a very deep bow.
And then he held me by my shoulders at arms length. He told me that I was God’s vessel. That I was his angel. That God had sent me to bring him into the light. That someday, when our souls were pure enough to be accepted by God, we would walk together in the path of righteousness and accept God’s burden. Desperately, I twisted away from his grasp and rushed out the door.
Back outside in the street, I collapsed on the top step, drained. I sat waiting for my tears to stop and for my breathing to return to normal. Where had my love gone? What had happened to my life? Where could I turn?
When I got home, I called Harry’s parents. His mother answered the phone.
“I went to see Harry today,” I told her, “and he was not well. I think he needs medical attention.”
“He doesn’t need medical attention,” she said. “He just needs to stop seeing you! My husband was right: you fanatical people with your old world superstitions. Look what you’ve done to my son!”
“Mrs. Berger,” I interjected, “I haven’t seen Harry in two months. He was fine when I saw him, but he isn’t fine now. He needs help!”
“Yes, I know all about it. I spoke to his neighbor. Harry won’t talk to me; he says I’m an apostate, and I have you and your father and your grandfather and all of you lunatic religious maniacs to thank for it. Don’t you worry,” she said with conviction, “my son Harry is a strong man. He’ll get a hold of his senses and realize what nonsense you have filled his head with.”
“Mrs. Berger,” I said desperately, “he needs medical help. Maybe you should call the police.”
“And maybe you should just stay away from him.”
And with a final, uncharacteristic expletive, Mrs. Berger hung up.
I almost went back to Harry. But I didn’t. I almost called Harry’s mother back. But I didn’t.
And I should have.
I sat in my apartment blankly staring at the wall. My world, the world that I had so carefully constructed, was collapsing, and I was helpless to stop it.
>
Finally, late in the night, I called my father.
“The baby,” my father asked after we had discussed my grandfather’s condition and after I had told him about my experience at Harry’s apartment, “is it his?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Do you want to marry him?” he asked, matter-of-factly.
“I’m not sure. I think so, but he will have to get a lot of therapy before we would be able to get married, and then we would have to start all over.”
“So when the baby is born you won’t be married?”
“No.”
He paused, and I could imagine him at his desk taking out a paper to write notes. “So,” he said, “we have three problems. First, we have to decide what to do about the baby. Second, we have to decide what to do about Harry. And third, we have to decide what to do about you. So let’s talk about you first. Do you want to move back home?”
“No.”
“You’re sure about that.”
“Yes.”
“OK. Next, do you want to continue in school?”
“Yes.”
“OK. Now let’s talk about the baby. There are three options as I see it: One, you go to a doctor and end the pregnancy. Two, you have the baby and give it up for adoption. Three, you have the baby and you raise it with, or possibly without, Harry. Obviously, the third option will be the most difficult.”
“That’s easy,” I said. “I plan to have the baby and to raise it myself with or without Harry.”
“I am not sure that that is a good choice, but the decision is entirely up to you. I’m sure you are aware of the consequences both socially and financially.”
“Yes.”
“OK. So now let’s talk about Harry. What would you like me to do?”
“If you could go over there and talk to him, maybe he’d listen to you.”
“What makes you think he would want to talk to me?”
“He said he’s doing all this stuff to satisfy you!”
“Satisfy me? I don’t know the first thing about Kabbalah. Here’s what I think we should do. It’s too late now, but first thing in the morning I’ll call my friends at the Henry Street Settlement and ask them to send a social worker. Those people will know how to deal with this better than I ever could.”
“But he’s so sick. He looks like he hasn’t had a good meal in weeks. And he said he’s fasting. I’m worried about him. What if he doesn’t let the social worker in?”
“I’ll tell them what the situation is and ask them to send their best person.”
“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea. The person they send might do more harm than good. Couldn’t you just go over there yourself?”
“Ruthie,” my father said with a deep sigh, “I’d just make things worse. These people are professionals. Don’t worry, they’ll do whatever is necessary.”
When I hung up the phone I finally thought to myself, perhaps for the first time ever, how lucky I was to have Jack Rubin for a father.
__________
When the social worker arrived, she found Harry in an aggressively deranged attitude. She immediately called the police, who put him in a straitjacket and called an ambulance. Harry stopped breathing in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. Efforts to revive him were futile. I was probably the last person to see him rationally alive.
Chapter 23
Sitting shiva is the week-long mourning period in Judaism for first-degree relatives: father, mother, son, daughter, brother, sister, and spouse. The ritual begins immediately after burial, and lasts for seven days, during which the mourners rend an outer garment, sit on a low seat, and receive visitors. I now thought of myself as Harry’s widow, and, although I had not gone to the funeral, I sat shiva by myself for the full seven-day mourning period. During this time, I didn’t go out of my apartment, I didn’t listen to the radio, I didn’t answer the phone, and I had no visitors.
Had I answered the phone during my mourning period, I would have learned that my grandfather, Ben-Zion Perlman, was now gravely ill and on a respirator. My parents, the maid told me when I called, were at the hospital maintaining a vigil at my grandfather’s bedside. I rushed to the hospital and arrived just minutes before my grandfather died. He had not recovered consciousness, and he passed away peacefully with his family at his side.
Unlike my private mourning, the shiva at my parents’ house was a monumental affair. My mother sat on a low stool and received visitors almost like a queen on a throne. My father acted like the master of ceremonies, greeting each of the visitors, offering them food and a place to sit while they waited to speak with my mother. I oversaw the food situation, making sure that the platters were full and that the soiled plates were quickly removed and washed. This lasted for six days, with the slight exception of the Sabbath and part of the last day.
On that last day, after we had cleaned the house and returned the prayer books and chairs to the funeral parlor, my father asked me to sit with him at the dining room table. It was evening, and we were exhausted. It had been a severely emotional month for me, and I had been eagerly looking forward to returning to my apartment and reestablishing some semblance of normalcy. I had missed nearly three weeks of school, and I was concerned that I might not be able to make up the class assignments. But my father insisted that I sit with him at the dining room table.
“Ruthie,” my father began uncomfortably, taking my hand in both of his, “God has been very good to us, but He has been especially good to you. In the prayers at the start of every new month, we ask God for ‘a life free from shame and reproach, a life of abundance and honor, a life in which the love of Torah and the respect for heaven shall ever be with us, a life in which all the desires of our hearts shall be fulfilled for the good’, but we never ask for a life of challenges and opportunities. That is too much to ask for. But you, Ruthie, you have been given this extra blessing from God.
“Maybe it’s a blessing, and maybe not,” he said quietly. “It all depends on what you do with it. This is what is meant by ‘choices’.
“Choices,” he said with a sigh. “God does not tell us what to do. God only gives us choices. But he gives us a hint about what choices to make.
“When Moses was about to die—remember, he was not permitted to enter the Promised Land—he stood on a hill, and he spoke to the Hebrews. It is the most moving speech in the Torah, because Moses is trying to sum up all the teaching that he has done for the past forty years. He says, ‘I have set before you life and death, the blessing and the curse; therefore choose life that you may live; you, and your children; to love the Lord your God, for that is your life and the length of your days.’
“Choices,” my father repeated. “He tells them to ‘choose life,’ but he doesn’t tell them how to do it. Instead, he tells them that there will always be choices. That’s the lesson. That everyone has to make their own choice—choose their own direction. There is no right way, only what is right for you.
“So now, Ruthie, you have to make a choice. God has given you the skills to be an artist. A writer. To add something to the quality of the world. Tikun Olam—making the world a better place. But you may have to pay a high price for this honor. Moses says ‘choose life,’ but he doesn’t give instructions. And that path is different for everyone.”
I began to cry. I had not cried when Harry died; I had not cried when my grandfather died; I had not cried when my book had been rejected. But now, when my father became a real father, I cried. I had not expected this.
The tears ran down my cheeks, but my father would not let go of my hands.
“When I was a young man,” he said quietly, “when your mother and I were building our life together, it was as if we were on a certain kind of boat on a fast-flowing river. I knew what that boat looked like, and I knew what all the passengers on that boat looked like and how they would behave, and I kn
ew where the river, and I, and your mother were going. And we, your mother and I, knew how to get there. But now there is a strange new river, and when I look up that river there is a new boat coming. And even though I try as hard as possible, I can’t tell where the river is going, and I can’t tell what that boat looks like and I can’t tell what the passengers are like, and I can’t tell where they are going or what they will do when they get there. But you can.”
My father rose from the table and walked over to the window, pulled aside the drape, and glanced out at the street below. After a minute or two he came back and stood, drumming his fingers on the table.
“All my life, Ruthie,” he said, “I have wanted to be a real American, but the harder I have tried, the less I have succeeded. That is the path I chose. It was, perhaps, a foolish dream, but it is my dream. You are old enough, and mature enough, and intelligent enough to choose a path that is right for you. I only want you to know that whatever path you choose, I will support you.”
Chapter 24
Early that spring, the spring of 1927, eighteen months before the stock market crash and a little over a month after Ben-Zion’s death, Ruthie and I met for lunch in a coffee shop near her apartment.
“There are two things I’d like to talk to you about,” I said, a bit too brusquely.
“If you have come to talk to me about my pregnancy,” Ruthie interrupted, “I just want you to know that with God’s help, I am planning to have this baby in a hospital near my apartment, and to raise it myself. It is all I have of Harry.”
“Yes, I understand,” I said. “But here’s the thing, your mother and I would like you to have the baby at a hospital near us, in Borough Park. We would like you to go to a good doctor, and we would like to be with you and take care of you when the time comes.”
“But won’t you be embarrassed about having an unmarried, pregnant daughter in your house?” she asked.
“That’s two questions,” I said with a smile. “As far as embarrassed goes, if you ask me, everyone knows where babies come from, so why do they shield their eyes? A baby is a gift from God, and its arrival should be celebrated, not hidden.
