Therefore, instead of drowning myself, or my sorrows, I went up to the little shtibel in the Bronx where I was now a regular. I knew that even late at night there would be one or two people studying the Bible and I could join them. Still, one of the scholars, Reb Schlomo, could sense that something was on my mind.
“You got troubles, Danileh?” I merely shrugged, but he took the response as being affirmative. “Trouble with your wife?” I shook my head. “Your health?”
“No.”
“Money troubles?” he pressed on.
Rather than be impolite, I answered, “Sort of.”
“Listen, Danileh,” the old man said compassionately. “I’m not exactly Rothschild, but if you need a few dollars, I could maybe tide you over.”
“That’s very kind, Reb Schlomo,” I replied. “But all I need is your companionship. Why don’t we read some Isaiah?”
“Fine, then, Isaiah it is.”
Three or four of us stayed up through the night, pausing only for glasses of tea. After morning prayers I finally found the courage to go home and face the rest of my life.
The lamp on my Ansafone was blinking. There was one message: “Will you please call Dean Ashkenazy at HUC.”
Five minutes later I was on the line with the head of Deborah’s old seminary. “Danny, I hope you don’t mind but I got your number from your sister,” he said. “I wouldn’t bother you if it wasn’t really serious, but I need your help.”
“How can I possibly help?”
“You know that ‘nonexistent’ synagogue up north where Deborah cut her teeth?”
“Sure, how could I forget those people?”
“Well, you’ll be happy to hear they haven’t forgotten you, either. Which is especially fortuitous since the man I was sending up this year has decided to play semipro football instead of becoming a rabbi. So I’m stuck. Will you do it, Danny?”
“By myself?”
“You mean you’ve forgotten how to read Hebrew?” the dean quipped.
I did not laugh. “With due respect, sir,” I protested, “I’m not … legitimate.”
“Come on, Danny,” he chided, “You know perfectly well that any Jew can run a service. Those people up north are counting on you to lead prayers—and especially to blow the shofar.”
“Will I have to give a sermon, too?” I asked nervously.
“Absolutely,” Ashkenazy replied. “And I know you’ll really enjoy going back to the books and preparing some good ones.”
I don’t have to tell you he was right.
I began to haunt the library at HUC and grew increasingly stimulated by the sort of avant-garde theology that was emanating from a whole new generation of scholars. In fact I loved so many of the books that I threw caution to the winds and actually went out and bought most of them.
I had not been so intellectually ignited since I had taken Beller’s course. When I revealed my new enthusiasm, Aaron even joked that I was “defecting to God,” but curiously I sensed that something in him was pleased.
I found myself studying till three or four A.M., unable to tear myself away from the excitement of putting new perceptions onto paper.
Finally, two days before the New Year I set out, my rented station wagon loaded with books, my head filled with ideas.
I was no Deborah, but I think what I had come to call the “freeze-dried” congregation (add water once a year, and it fills the hall) responded to my enthusiasm.
Paradoxically, it was an initiation for me. Though I had read from the pulpit hundreds of times in my life, I had never given a sermon. Even my bar mitzvah speech, as is customary among the Orthodox, was merely an interpretation of the text to show my learning. This time I was expressing my own ideas and personal feelings, which I wanted to share with the congregation.
About our traditions. Our heritage. About what it meant to be a Jew in the year 1980. This was especially meaningful for them, since for the remainder of the year they were awash in a sea of Christians who, however tolerant, were unaware that we were their spiritual ancestors.
I tried to make everything relevant. During the Prayer For Our Country’s Leader, I referred to President Carter’s achievement in effecting the peace treaty between Israel and Egypt, and expressed our hope that it would ultimately bring harmony to that entire troubled region.
At first, I was embarrassed by the fact that they hung on my every word. But gradually my superego permitted me to take some pleasure, and by the closing prayer on Yom Kippur, I actually felt pride.
Dr. Harris insisted that I remain after the final blast of the shofar so I could have dinner and a chat with him and several of the officers.
I thought at first they were trying to fix me up.
“Are you married, Rabbi Luria?”
“No,” I replied, “I don’t seem to have gotten around to it. And by the way, I’m not an official rabbi.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Mr. Newman interposed, with a kind of quiet passion. “You are to us. And our reason for asking is simply to find out if you have any ties in New York.”
“Only striped ones,” I jested. By now I sensed where this was leading.
They went on to tell me that during the previous year they had regularly talked about getting a permanent wandering rabbi for their scattered community.
“I think of us as a lot of loose beads,” Dr. Harris put it metaphorically, “and we need someone to make us into a necklace. We were hoping you’d be interested.”
“So you’d like me to be your piece of string.” Although I said it lightly, I was genuinely touched.
“Look at it any way you want,” said Mr. Newman. “We’ve canvassed the members. If you could visit each of five towns on a different day of the week you’d just about cover all of us. We think we could afford to offer you twenty-five thousand a year—we might be able to stretch a little more, but not much. Of course we’d take care of your travel expenses.” He added diffidently, “Do you think you could manage on that?”
Little did he realize how momentous his words were to me. If they were asking me whether a modest salary would be adequate, then they knew nothing of my other life … my peculation. To them I was still pure. And the thought of leaving my sins behind me made his offer seem like a gift from Heaven.
“Dr. Harris,” I said softly, “I feel honored.”
There was a universal sigh of joyful relief. “Danny,” Mr. Newman said with emotion, “we’re all grateful. You can’t imagine what you’re doing.”
And I, for my part, was unable to say that they could not imagine what I was doing, either. They could never know that I had just discovered what I wanted to do with the rest of my life.
Not be a big rabbinical heavyweight, being bowed and scraped to. Or sit in judgment over other people’s behavior before I arrogated to myself the right to render a judicial verdict.
Nor bow before the golden calf, either.
The New Testament may not be my Bible, but I found it to contain some important thoughts. For example, “the love of money is the root of all evil.” This had all the more effect upon me since it comes from the First Epistle of Paul to Timothy, and the whole phrase concludes that while some have coveted it, “they have erred from the faith and pierced themselves through with many sorrows.”
As far as I was concerned, I had erred right back to the faith. For the simple reason that I felt needed.
67
Deborah
It was early spring in the third year of Deborah’s ministry. She was conducting a seminar on the upcoming Passover festival when her secretary politely interrupted to say that Stanford Larkin, Eli’s headmaster, was on the telephone. At first she feared that her son had been hurt. She was right, but did not realize the nature of the injury. Mr. Larkin wanted to set up an appointment. She implored him to see her right away, and he agreed.
“He’s a really lively boy,” the headmaster began.
Herself a counselor, Deborah knew full well this was a euphemism for r
owdy.
“He’s also extremely energetic.”
She knew this meant belligerent. She only wondered how far Eli had gone.
“In one sense, I have to admire his courage,” Larkin continued. “I mean, he’s not afraid to take on boys twice his size. The only problem, Rabbi, is that he’s always the one who starts the fights.”
The headmaster continued. “It’s been my experience that when children act like this they are calling to us, signaling for our attention.”
Consumed with guilt, Deborah nodded. “What do you suggest we do, Mr. Larkin?”
“Well, I’d strongly urge that Eli be evaluated by a child psychologist.”
Her heart fell, but Deborah managed to respond, “Yes, yes, you’re quite right. If there’s someone you can recommend …”
Larkin took a piece of paper from his desk and handed it to her. Written on it was the name Marco Wilding, Ph.D. Lest Deborah think the conversation could have ended otherwise, included at the bottom was the exact date and time Dr. Wilding had agreed to see her son.
After three one-hour sessions with Eli, the psychologist arranged a fourth with Deborah herself.
As Dr. Wilding leaned his forearms on his desk, emphasizing the muscular shoulders of the football lineman he had been in college, he pronounced a clinical, incisive diagnosis to a woman he was clearly at the same time sizing up. This did not make it any easier for Deborah to accept his opinion.
“You’ve got to get on his wavelength,” he began. “You still think of him as a kid, but even boys of nine are becoming aware of their gender. And psychologically at least, he’s on the horizon of manhood. Does that make sense, Deborah?”
“I think so, Doctor,” she replied in a tone intended as a subtle reprimand for his cavalier use of her first name.
“I mean, tell me,” the psychologist continued, “are there any men in his life?”
“He’s got my brother, Danny.”
“And how often does he see him?”
“Every few months. On vacations mostly.”
“Well that scarcely counts, wouldn’t you say? When Eli gets up in the morning there’s no one shaving in the bathroom. No one tossing a football with him on the weekends. No one showing him how to box—”
“He fights enough during the week, thank you,” Deborah interrupted coolly.
“Ah,” said Wilding, with a knowing smile. “That’s precisely it, Deborah. He fights because nobody teaches him to box. Does that seem paradoxical?”
“No, Doctor,” Deborah confessed.
“How about you?” he inquired. “Are there no men in your life? I assume as a rabbi you would come into contact with many.”
“Yes. But precisely because I am a rabbi, the relationship has to be strictly pastoral. Do you get my point, Doctor?”
“Loud and clear,” he answered. “But don’t you think your problem’s quite germane?”
“My problem?”
“Deborah, you’re young, attractive—and unattached. I assure you—and I’m speaking now with total objectivity—that if you had a stable relationship, it would do wonders for your son. Now, when do you think you’ll be ready to remarry?”
Deborah was offended but inwardly she had to concede that the question was legitimate. She replied with quiet candor, “Never. I don’t intend to.”
“What makes you so adamant?”
“That is none of your business. Now, if you’ll stop grinning at me like a toothpaste commercial and tell me what I can do to help my son, I’ll leave and let you upset your other parents. By the way, are you as blunt as this with the fathers?”
“Absolutely.” Wilding smiled. “And you’d be amazed how passively they take it. You’ve got a lot of spunk, Deborah. If you’re as brave as you’re coming on now, you’ll do what’s right for the kid.”
“And what in your opinion is ‘right’?”
Wilding looked her in the eye and said two words: “Military school.”
“What?”
“All right, call me a fascist reactionary. But Eli needs discipline. And yes, call me a sexist—but he needs some paradigms of masculinity to emulate.”
“Oh, come on, Doctor. Can you actually see my son marching around in a uniform saluting people all day long?”
“Yes,” the psychologist answered, pounding his desk for emphasis. “And I can see it doing him a world of good. Of course, if you object to that much regimentation, there are always the traditional boarding schools—”
Deborah could tolerate no more.
“You’re bent on taking him away from me, aren’t you?”
“I’m just trying to help him, Deborah,” Wilding replied with the first hint of compassion he had displayed that afternoon. “And I’m telling you what I believe he needs.”
“Then perhaps you can give me one alternative that doesn’t get me out of the picture.”
Marco Wilding rested his square jaw in his hand, reflected for a moment, and then spoke. “Okay, I should’ve thought of this before.…”
“Yes?” Deborah asked impatiently.
“Your kibbutz—he loves it there. He lives for the summers and dies at the thought of having to leave. Have you ever thought of going back with him permanently?”
“You mean just give up everything—my job, all my responsibilities?”
Suddenly Dr. Wilding’s face grew somber. He looked the mother of his patient squarely in the eye.
“I would think your first responsibility would be your son. And that, Ms. Luria, is all I have to say.”
For once her brother refused to discuss it with her.
“But, Danny, you’re the only friend I have. Just put yourself in my place for a minute. What would you do?”
“I’d go right out and marry the first remotely eligible girl I could find.”
“You’re not serious. You mean ‘love’ wouldn’t come into it?”
“Listen,” he retorted. “I’d do it out of love for my kid. In fact, I’d do it if you wanted Eli to live with me. You know, so much of my unofficial rabbinical counseling involves screwed-up parents with screwed-up kids. I’m convinced that a spouse can survive almost anything—but a child can’t.”
Just then the doorbell rang. They made a date for another chat at ten that evening, and Deborah rushed to the door.
There were two people there. But at first Deborah did not even notice Jerry Phillips, Eli’s Phys. Ed. teacher. All she could see was the blood smeared over her son’s small face.
“Oh, my God!” she gasped. “Eli, what’s happened to you?”
The boy lowered his head. The explanation was left up to Jerry.
“He’s okay, Rabbi. Just a bloody nose that’ll clear up with a good wash. Unfortunately it’s the other fellow, Victor Davis.…”
Oh, God, Deborah thought to herself, and a congregant, too.
“He started it!” Eli interrupted in angry self-defense.
Ignoring him, Deborah asked the teacher, “What exactly happened?”
“Before I could separate them, Eli decked the Davis boy, and Vic kind of hit his head on the wooden floor.”
“Is he okay?”
“Let’s hope so,” Phillips answered uneasily. “He’s at Middlesex Hospital being X-rayed right now. Which reminds me, I promised to meet the parents there.” He looked awkward and embarrassed. “I … I’m really sorry about this, Rabbi,” he mumbled.
“Please, Mr. Phillips,” she replied uncomfortably. “Thank you for understanding,” she said, adding, “And thank you for driving him home.”
Deborah closed the door, looked at Eli, and shouted, “You should be ashamed of yourself!”
But the boy persisted in his self-defense. “Mom, I swear he started it. He kept elbowing me in the neck.”
For an instant, Deborah tried to visualize the scene and realized that Eli’s antagonist must have been considerably taller. Still, bravery was no excuse for pugnacity.
“All right, let’s get in the bathroom and clean you up.”<
br />
As she rubbed her son’s cheeks with a cold cloth she could feel him wince. Whatever the outcome, he had obviously taken several hard blows and was manfully trying to disguise his pain. It was all she could do to keep from hugging him.
Ten minutes after she had sent Eli to his room to finish his homework, the phone rang. It was Mr. Davis.
To Deborah’s anxious query regarding his son’s condition, he growled only that there was no concussion but “it could have been a heck of a lot worse.”
“I can’t tell you how sorry I am,” Deborah offered.
“Sorry?” Mr. Davis answered. “I would think you’d feel ashamed. That’s no way for a rabbi’s son to behave.”
She wanted to interject that most nine-year-old boys are prone to aggressiveness—regardless of their parent’s occupation. “The horizon of manhood,” as the good Dr. Wilding put it.
“I mean, really, Rabbi,” he continued his harangue, “you should be setting an example in this community. It’s disgraceful that my so-called spiritual leader’s kid acts like a hooligan. I’m warning you, if I ever see your boy at basketball again, I’m resigning from the Temple.”
Seething, Deborah could manage just one final burst of civility.
“I’m grateful to know your position, Mr. Davis,” she answered coolly. “Good night.”
She put the phone down, buried her face in her hands, and tried to think clearly. If young Davis was anything like his father, it was no wonder Eli had belted him.
She went up to his room. Light still shone under his door.
She knocked softly. There was no reply. She slowly opened the door and saw her son curled up under the blankets, fast asleep. His reading light was still on.
Some instinct made her glance at his bookshelves, and she instantly realized that something was different.
Everywhere they went Eli carried with him, as a kind of holy icon, a framed photograph of his “father” standing proudly by a Phantom jet, the Star of David clearly visible on its side. He always placed it near his bed so he could see it before going to sleep. This was perhaps the most painful of all the lies she had been a party to. Every night when he said his prayers Eli would always conclude with, “Good night, Mama,” and then add in Hebrew, “Good night, Abba.”