Joshua: A Brooklyn Tale

by Andrew Kane

  News travels quickly in the Hasidic world, so it wasn’t long before Paul Sims learned that the Weissmans had enlisted the services of Reb Nachum Blesofsky. Just two hours after the shodchin had left the Weissmans’ home, the yeshiva was charged with gossip.

  “What do you think, Sims, will it be you?” one of his classmates jested, while several others stood around chuckling.

  “Well, I can assure you, Novitsky, it won’t be you,” Paul responded.

  It bothered him that his feelings for Rachel had become public knowledge, but it was his own fault. In his efforts to make friends, he had confided in one or two of the boys, believing his secret would be safe. He chided himself for not having known better, then quickly turned his attention to the more pressing issue of how to become the one.

  He considered talking to the rabbi directly, but deemed it a bad idea. He was certain that the rabbi had long known of his feelings for Rachel; thus, the hiring of Reb Blesofsky could only mean that the rabbi had already dismissed him as a prospect. It was a painful realization, but he wasn’t going to let it deter him. He would somehow convince Reb Blesofsky, and let the shodchin deal with the rabbi.

  And that was what he set out to do.

  It was a cold afternoon, overcast and gloomy. Paul waited on the corner of President Street and Kingston Avenue, within eyesight of Reb Blesofsky’s home. It was unusual for a shodchin to live in such an elaborate house, on the most affluent street in the neighborhood, but rumor had it that Blesofsky had married into money, an excellent way to gain credibility in his chosen profession.

  Paul didn’t have much of a plan, and didn’t know whether Blesofsky was already in for the evening, on his way home, or on his way out. He also didn’t know if Blesofsky would give him the time of day. None of this mattered, however, for he was on the mission of his life and had to succeed.

  He had considered requesting an appointment with the shodchin, but was certain he wouldn’t have gotten one. He was a nobody in the community. So here he was, standing in the frigid air, hoping to trap Blesofsky into talking to him. What he would ultimately accomplish by this, he had no idea.

  Almost an hour passed. Paul began walking in little circles to keep from freezing. A few passersby gave him strange looks, but he didn’t care. He would remain there as long as necessary.

  His determination eventually paid off, as the shodchin emerged from the house. He’d seen Blesofsky a few times in the yeshiva, and recognized him immediately, walking tall, marching down the path from the front door of the house to the sidewalk.

  Paul’s anxiety heightened as Blesofsky walked toward him. It was now or never. He had rehearsed this moment a thousand times in his mind.

  “Uh, excuse me, sir, are you Reb Blesofsky?”

  “Pardon me?” The shodchin peered into Paul’s eyes.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, but are you Reb Blesofsky?”

  “I think so.” He looked himself over to make sure. Humorous.

  “I was wondering, sir, if I might just have a brief moment of your time?”

  Blesofsky wore a curious expression that said, Well, get on with it!

  “My name is Pinchus Sims…”

  “Is this about arranging a match?” Blesofsky interrupted curtly. “I don’t deal with yeshiva students, only their parents. If you want something from me, your parents must phone my office for an appointment. That is how it is done.” He turned on his heel and began to walk away.

  “But that’s impossible,” Paul asserted.

  Blesofsky stopped, impatiently glanced at his watch, and decided to grant Paul a few more seconds.

  “You see, my parents aren’t from around here.”

  “I know that, otherwise I would have recognized your family name.”

  “They’re not Lubavitchers.”

  “What else is new?”

  “They’re not even Hasidic,” Paul said, feeling humiliated.

  “Are they Jewish?” Sardonic.

  Paul hesitated, then answered, “They’re Reform.”

  Blesofsky reacted impassively, as if he wasn’t the least bit surprised. “Look, young man, this is not intended as an insult, but I don’t arrange matches for Ba’alei T’shuvah. If you’re interested in finding a wife, the rabbis in the yeshiva can help you meet someone from a background similar to yours. Things always work best that way. I hope you understand.”

  “I do, but I’m not interested in marrying just any girl.”

  “No one is, my friend.” Blesofsky glanced at his watch again. “I’m sorry, but I must be on my way, I have an appointment.”

  “The girl I’m interested in is Rachel Weissman!”

  The shodchin’s pearly white flesh reddened; his eyes became fierce, as if Paul had mentioned his own daughter. “That, young man, is out of the question! I suggest you rid your mind of such nahrishkeit at once!”

  “It is not foolishness,” Paul replied forcefully. “I have known her for a long time, I have become frum and have studied hard to prove myself.”

  Blesofsky was dumbfounded; his world had no tolerance for such behavior. There were traditions to be respected, channels to go through, boundaries to be honored. For a young man like this to expect to marry the daughter of a man of Isaac Weissman’s caliber was unheard of. He was inclined to admonish Paul, but decided on restraint. As one who had been dealing with matters of the heart for over thirty years, he was able to distinguish love from obsession. The way that Paul Sims had waited for him in the cold night, the expression in the young man’s eyes—this was an obsession. Blesofsky knew he was confronting a delicate situation, one of those headaches that—without careful handling—could turn out tragically.

  “Look, young man, what is your name again?”

  “Sims, Pinchus Sims.”

  “Yes, well, excuse me for forgetting.” Blesofsky waited a beat. “I can see that you have become one of us, and I think that is truly wonderful. I will even be willing to break my policy, and help you find a proper wife. If you ask around, you will find that this is an unusual offer.”

  Paul remained silent.

  Blesofsky continued, “But surely you have been with us long enough to understand that in our community we do things a certain way. It is not at all that you are not worthy, or anything like that, but a B’al T’shuvah simply cannot marry someone from a family such as the Weissmans.”

  “And why not?”

  “Because it is not the ways things are done.”

  “And I am just supposed to accept that?”

  “Well,” Blesofsky pondered, stroking his beard. “Why don’t you look at it this way? In the Torah, marriage isn’t always about love. There are many matches that simply cannot be. Like, for example, a Kohen, a priest, cannot marry either a convert or a divorcé. Now, this does not mean that a convert is less of a Jew, God forbid, for Rabbi Akiva—as you must know—was a convert, and he was one of the greatest rabbis of all time.”

  “But Rabbi Akiva would have been allowed to marry anyone he chose, even the daughter of a Kohen, for the marital restrictions of the priesthood do not apply to daughters.” Paul welcomed the opportunity to display his scholarship.

  “I can see that you have learned much while you have been with us.”.

  “Actually, I learned that before I came to Crown Heights. In fact, I learned it from Rabbi Weissman. He was my private tutor back in Hewlett Harbor, that’s where I’m from. And if you’re at all familiar with Hewlett Harbor, then you’ll know that my parents can afford to pay you whatever fee you request.”

  “So you actually do know the Weissman family?”

  “Quite well. I’ve spent many Sabbaths in their home.”

  “Then why haven’t you spoken to Rabbi Weissman directly about your desire?”

  “Because it is obvious he would say no; otherwise, why would he have come to you for assistance?”

  “That is correct,” the shodchin answered, “and that is what you must respect, what we both must respect. We should accept i
t and look for someone else for her, and someone else for you.”

  “I was hoping to convince you to persuade Rabbi Weissman.”

  “And I am convinced, convinced that you are a dedicated young scholar and most deserving of a beautiful, brilliant girl, which I—God willing—will help you find. But I cannot convince Rabbi Weissman, for he has already given us his decision by his behavior, no?” Blesofsky reached out, placed his hand on Paul’s shoulder, and continued, “I am asking you to understand, and to trust me that I will find someone for you, someone so perfect that you will immediately forget Rachel Weissman.”

  Paul realized he was getting nowhere. He had no choice but to back down, for now. “Okay, Reb Blesofsky, I will try to understand. And I will accept your offer to help me find someone. But I must ask one more thing.”

  Blesofsky was pleased with his victory, almost ready to say, Yes, of course, anything you want! But, seasoned negotiator that he was, he held his tongue.

  “I ask,” Paul continued, “that you tell no one of our conversation, and that it remain strictly confidential so as not to embarrass me.” Embarrassing someone was a cardinal sin in Jewish law, equivalent to shedding one’s blood. Paul knew that a subtle reminder of this to Blesofsky was more than enough to insure secrecy.

  “Certainly.” Blesofsky was actually relieved by the request. He, too, wanted this entire matter to go away.

  “Thank you,” Paul said, extending his hand.

  “You’re welcome.” Blesofsky shook hands with him. “And I will contact you shortly. One with a mind such as yours should be devoting all his time to his studies, while an expert like me finds you a suitable wife.”

  “Yes, I suppose you’re right,” Paul responded.

  Blesofsky finally, and thankfully, went on his way.

  Paul started walking back to the yeshiva, pondering the encounter. Blesofsky was smart all right, but not very likeable. Yet, in the end, Paul had to admit, the shodchin did have a point: the rabbi had spoken by his behavior.

  Paul knew Blesofsky would keep his word about finding another girl, and he would try to have an open mind about it. It couldn’t hurt. But he also knew that there was one thing about which Blesofsky had been sorely mistaken: no one on this earth would ever make him forget about Rachel Weissman.

  No one, ever!

  CHAPTER 26

  Loretta Eubanks didn’t recognize the garbled voice on the intercom, but she’d become accustomed to buzzing people in, so long as they simply responded. She figured, if they answered her, they weren’t thieves. Thus far, the building hadn’t had any trouble. There was no reason to be paranoid.

  A few minutes later, the door bell rang. She asked who it was, again, and quickly turned the latch the moment she heard Rachel’s voice. An enormous smile came to her as the two women faced one another. “Well, this is a surprise!” she said.

  “Hello Miss. Eubanks,” Rachel said nervously.

  Loretta invited Rachel in, and showed her to the living room. Rachel looked around, wondering where Joshua was.

  “He’s in his room, where he always is these days,” Loretta said mournfully. “I just don’t know what to do for that boy. He goes to school, comes home, stays in that room all day, and only comes out for supper. Then he goes right back. Doesn’t say much, either. I told him, ‘Joshua, you have to talk to someone, you can’t be carrying around all that pain by yourself.’ But he doesn’t say anything; he just goes back to that room.”

  “I came to see if I can help,” Rachel said. “I want to see him.”

  “Well,” Loretta said, contemplating, “if he’ll talk to anyone, it’s you. He’s got a special liking for you all right. I saw it the first time I watched him look at you.” She stopped herself; she was saying too much. She pointed to Joshua’s door. “He probably already knows you’re here. These walls are paper thin.”

  Overhearing the conversation in the living room, Joshua felt that he was ready to see Rachel, though he wasn’t sure why. Nothing had changed these past few months; if anything, his depression had worsened. He still used a cane to get around, and he knew he would need it for the rest of his life, which—at times—he’d hoped wouldn’t be very long.

  He hadn’t been talking to anyone, in or out of school, and his afternoons had all been spent in his room, studying, sleeping, or listening to the radio. He had even given up on finding Celeste. Yet, he had to admit that there hadn’t been a single day in which he hadn’t thought about Rachel. When he heard the knock on his bedroom door, his depression quickly turned to fear.

  “Come in,” he said.

  The hinges squeaked as the door opened. He was sitting at his desk, facing the window, not quite ready to look at her.

  “Hi,” she said.

  “Hi.” Lifeless.

  From the corner of his eye, he watched her walk across the room and sit on his bed.

  “How’ve you been?” she asked softly.

  “Okay, I suppose. You didn’t have to come.”

  “I wanted to.”

  Silence.

  He turned to look at her. “Why?”

  “Because I missed you.”

  “I don’t need anyone feeling sorry for me.”

  “I know.”

  “But you do.”

  “I do. But that’s not why I’m here. I’m here because I like you.” She faltered a moment. “I want you to be part of my life.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that I want to be able to see you, spend time with you, be friends, that sort of thing.”

  “That sort of thing?”

  “Look, Joshua, I’m not going to sit here like this if all you’re going to do is interrogate me. It wasn’t easy for me to come here…”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “I guess I’ve been feeling sorry for myself.”

  “Sure sounds that way.”

  Another silence.

  He looked at his bad leg. “You know, sometimes I think I deserve this.”

  “How can you say that?”

  He thought for a second. “Cause I killed a man.”

  “But you were defending yourself; he was a horrible man.”

  He wasn’t surprised that she knew, he’d suspected her father had told her. “Maybe so,” he said, “but I didn’t have to kill him.”

  “So you think you’re being punished?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Well, maybe God wanted you to kill him. Maybe you were God’s messenger.”

  He looked at her askance.

  “Do you know the story of Pinchas in the Bible?” she asked.

  He shook his head, “No.”

  “Well, Pinchas was a righteous, God-fearing man, who killed another man for having forbidden sexual relations with a woman. And the Torah applauds what he did.”

  “I didn’t see anyone applauding what I did.”

  “If I would have been there, I would have applauded.”

  She probably would have, he thought. It didn’t mollify his guilt, but it was somehow comforting. He managed a smile.

  She smiled back. Then, out of the blue, he laughed.

  “Why are you laughing?” she asked.

  “I can’t tell you, it’s stupid.”

  “No, you have to tell me. If we’re going to be friends, we must tell each other everything.”

  God, she killed him. He just couldn’t help himself in her presence. “It’s the name, Pinchas.” He had trouble pronouncing the ch, it came out more like a k. “I know someone who goes by that name, and he ain’t nothing like that guy in the Bible.”

  “That’s so funny,” she exclaimed. “I do too.”

  “That’s right,” he said, realizing the connection. “You do know him.”

  She appeared bewildered.

  “Pinchas, you do know him,” he repeated.

  She thought for a moment, then figured it out. “Of course, it’s the same Pinchas. That’s how your mother knows my father. They
both worked for his parents.”

  Simultaneous smiles.

  Such a small world.

  CHAPTER 27

  Rabbi Isaac Weissman stood in the doorway, wearing his nervousness. “Please, come in,” the rabbi said, beckoning the young man into his home.

  “Thank you,” Benjamin Frankel responded, appearing equally uncomfortable.

  They shared a clammy handshake and forced smiles. The rabbi took the young man’s coat, and led the way to the living room where Rachel and Hannah were waiting.

  “Hannah, Rucheleh, this is Benjamin Frankel, the young man that Reb Blesofsky has been telling us so much about.”

  A moment of silence loomed as Rachel’s eyes met Benjamin’s. A pleasant looking fellow, she thought. Tall, thin, dark-haired with soft blue eyes, and sharply dressed in a navy pin-striped suit, starched white shirt and burgundy tie. She took special note of the tie, a sign that he wasn’t one of those rigid Hasidic men who refused to wear ties, fearing it made them appear like the gentiles. Seeing that he was more like her father, and some other Lubavitchers who were more liberal about such things, brought a sense of relief.

  “My friends call me Binny,” the young man said, as he and the rabbi took seats.

  A gentle voice, Rachel noted. “My friends call me Rachel,” she said.

  The young man seemed to ease up a bit. Rachel had been told that this was also his first shiddoch, and that he was a shy sort. She had a sense, from the way he looked at her, that he was as pleased with her appearance as she was with his.

  “So, your family is from South Africa?” Hannah asked, trying to make conversation. She had already known almost everything there was to know about the young man.

  “Yes, there is a small Lubavitcher community there. My father is in diamonds.”

  Rabbi Weissman: “And they sent you here to study?”

  Binny: “Yes, to study, and to be closer to the Rebbe.”

  Rachel had to admit she was impressed, though still apprehensive. She’d been told by her parents that he was one of the brightest rabbinical students in the seminary. Should bode well for our children, she thought fleetingly, and then it hit her—children would be what a man like him would want, lots of children, as soon as possible. And her job would be to take care of them, run after them, and keep the home. That, after all, was the Hasidic way.