No one in the classroom breathed. We were overwhelmed by his speech, not merely for its content but because Rabbi Schumann, normally a stern taskmaster, was now sobbing helplessly.
Then, still weeping, he continued. “Listen—we are sitting here today to show the Christians that we’re still alive. We were here before them, and we shall endure until the Messiah comes.”
He paused, regained his breath, and some of his composure.
“Now let us rise.”
I always dreaded this moment when we had to sing the slender verses chanted by so many of our brethren as they entered the gas chambers:
I believe with all my heart
In the coming of The Messiah,
And though He may tarry on the way
I nonetheless believe. I still believe.
The afternoon sky was a gray shroud as I walked home, shaken. Once again, I passed all the Christmas lights. But this time what I saw in them were the shining, indestructible atoms of six million souls.
6
Timothy
On a hot afternoon in the summer of 1963, fourteen-year-old Tim, Ed McGee, and their perpetual cheering section, Jared Fitzpatrick, were passing through alien territory—the neighborhood adjacent to St. Gregory’s, which was the center of the B’nai Simcha community.
When they passed the home of Rav Moses Luria, Ed sneered, “Look, that’s where the head Hebe lives. Why don’t we ring his doorbell or something?”
“Good idea,” Tim agreed, but Fitzpatrick had qualms.
“Suppose he answers? He might put a curse on us.…”
“Aw, c’mon, Fitzy,” McGee jibed. “You’re just a lily-livered chicken.”
“The hell I am,” he protested. “It’s just that ringin’ bells is kids’ stuff. Couldn’t we do something more interesting?”
“Like what?” Ed countered. “We ain’t got a hand grenade.”
“How about a rock through his window?” Tim suggested, pointing to a Con Edison excavation a few dozen feet down the road. The workmen had gone for the day, leaving potential missiles of all sizes.
Fitzy rushed over to the site and selected a stone slab roughly the size of a baseball.
“Okay, guys,” Ed challenged, “who’s gonna be the first-string pitcher?” He fixed Tim with a stare. “I’d do it for sure, but I’ve still got a kinda sprain in my arm from beating up those niggers last Thursday.”
Before Tim had time to protest, Ed and Fitzy had elected him. “C’mon, chickenshit, throw the goddamn thing!”
In one furious motion he snatched it from Ed’s hand, cocked his arm, and hurled the stone at the rabbi’s largest window.
The noise was deafening. Tim turned toward his companions.
They were already halfway down the street.
Three hours later, the Lurias’ doorbell rang.
Deborah answered, still in a state of shock, and was now further taken aback at the sight of the two callers. She immediately went to inform her father.
The Rav had been deeply engrossed in a difficult passage of a legal midrash when the enemy missile had pierced the sanctuary of his household.
Ever since that moment he had been standing immobile, staring through the few angry slices of glass still clinging to the window frame, his mind tortured by images of pogroms and goose-stepping storm troopers.
“Papa,” Deborah said haltingly, “there’s a policeman at the door … he’s got a boy with him.”
“Ah,” he murmured, “perhaps we might receive some justice this time. Ask them to come in.”
Moments later they appeared.
“Good afternoon, Reverend,” the policeman said as he removed his cap. “I’m Officer Delaney. Sorry to disturb you, but I’m here about the damage to your window.”
“Yes,” the Rav acknowledged somberly, “damage has been done.”
“Well, here’s the malefactor,” the policeman answered, pulling at the young boy’s collar as if to hoist him like a trapped animal. “I’m ashamed to say that Tim Hogan here’s my ungrateful nephew. We took him in after his poor mother Margaret fell sick.”
“Oh,” said the Rav. “So this is Margaret Hogan’s son. I should have recognized the eyes.”
“You knew my mother?” Tim asked.
“In a distant way. When my wife died, Sexton Isaacs hired her to come in now and then to keep my house in order.”
“More’s the disgrace.” Tuck glared at Tim. “Now say it. Tell the rabbi what I told you.”
Timothy screwed up his face as if tasting a bitter pill and mumbled, “I’m—”
“Louder, boy,” the policeman growled. “This is a man of the cloth you’re talking to.”
“I—I’m sorry for what I did, Your Reverence,” Timothy responded, and continued by rote, “I take full responsibility for my actions and I intend to pay for the damage.”
Rav Luria looked quizzically at the young man for a moment, then said, “Sit down, Timothy.”
Tim perched himself obediently on the edge of a chair facing the rabbi’s book-strewn desk, but he could not keep himself from squirming nervously as he watched the bearded Jewish man pace back and forth along the sagging wooden shelves, his hands clasped behind his back.
“Timothy,” the rabbi began slowly, “can you tell me what induced you to perform such a hostile act?”
“I—I didn’t know it was your house, sir.”
“But you knew it was a Jewish home, yes?”
Tim lowered his head. “Yes, sir.”
“Do you feel any special … animosity toward our people?”
“I … well, some of my friends … I mean, we’ve been told …”
He could say no more. By this point his uncle was also beginning to sweat.
“But do you think it’s true?” the Rav said quietly. “I mean, does this house look in any way different from your friends’ homes?”
Tim looked around for a moment, before responding candidly, “Well, there are an awful lot of books …”
“Yes,” the rabbi continued. “But otherwise, do I or any of my family look like demons?”
“No, sir.”
“Then I hope that this unhappy incident gave you a chance to see that Jews are just like other people … with perhaps a few more books.”
He turned to the policeman. “Thank you for giving me the opportunity to converse with your nephew.”
“But we haven’t discussed compensation yet. A big window like that must have cost a pretty penny. And since Tim won’t rat on his accomplices, he’ll have to pay you by himself.”
“But Uncle Tuck—”
The Rav intervened. “How old are you, Timothy?”
“Just turned fourteen, sir.”
“What do you think you can do to earn money?”
Tuck answered for his nephew. “He can run errands or carry groceries for the neighbors and they’ll give him a little something.”
“How little?”
“Oh, a nickel or a dime.”
“But at that rate it would take years to repay the cost of my window.”
The officer merely looked at the rabbi and stated, “I don’t care if it takes a century. He’ll pay you something every week.”
Rav Luria put his hands to his forehead as if grasping for some elusive idea, then raised his head and spoke.
“I think I have a solution that may be of help to both parties,” he declared. “Officer Delaney,” the rabbi went on, “I can see your nephew is basically a good boy. How late is Timothy allowed to stay up?”
“School days till ten.”
“And Friday nights?” asked the Rav.
“Ten-thirty, eleven. If there’s a night game on TV, I let him watch till it’s over.”
“Good.” A smile had taken over the rabbi’s face. Turning to the boy, he announced, “I may have a job for you.…”
“He’ll take it,” his uncle said quickly.
“I’d rather he made up his own mind,” said the Rav gently. “It’s a post of gre
at responsibility. Do you know what a Shabbes goy is?”
Again Officer Delaney interrupted. “Begging your pardon, Rabbi, but isn’t ‘goy’ what you people call Christians?”
“Yes,” Rav Luria answered. “But the word simply means ‘gentile.’ A Shabbes goy is a non-Jew of impeccable morals who comes in on Friday evenings after our Sabbath has begun and performs the functions that are prohibited to us—like lowering the heat, putting out lights, and so forth. The individual in question,” he explained, “usually runs additional errands for us during the week so he can learn something of our laws, since it is a sin for us to tell him to do anything once the Sabbath has begun.” He turned to Timothy.
“It so happens that Lawrence Conroy is about to leave for the College of the Holy Cross to study Medicine. For the past three years he has been assisting us, the Kagans, Mr. Wasserstein, and both Shapiro brothers. Every month each household gives him some money and each Friday they leave out a portion of whatever dessert they’re having that night. If you’re interested, it would take you only a few months to pay your debt.”
Several minutes later, as they were walking homeward, Patrolman Delaney offered his final comment on the unpleasant matter.
“Hear me, Timmy,” he said, “and hear me good. Next time you break some Jew window, make sure it isn’t some important rabbi’s.”
7
Deborah
When Deborah was barely fourteen years old, she witnessed a mighty—if unequal—battle between her half sister and her father.
“I won’t marry him—I won’t!”
“Rena, you’re over seventeen,” her father murmured, and then alluded to her older sister. “Malka was married by then. And you’re not even betrothed. Tell me again what’s so bad about Rebbe Epstein’s boy?”
“He’s fat,” Rena said.
Rav Luria addressed his wife. “Did you hear that, Racheleh? Suddenly matchmaking has become a beauty contest! Our daughter believes this fine scholar from a respectable family is unworthy because he’s a little overweight.”
“More than a little,” Rena muttered.
“Rena,” the rabbi pleaded, “he’s a pious boy and he’ll make you a fine husband. Why are you being so obstinate?”
“Because I just don’t want to.”
Good for you, Rena, Deborah thought to herself.
“Don’t want to?” asked the rabbi in a tone of melodramatic astonishment. “How can ‘I don’t want to’ be a valid reason?”
Danny suddenly leapt to Rena’s aid.
“But Father,” he interjected. “What about the Code of Law? Even Ha Ezer 42:12. Doesn’t it say that a marriage must have the woman’s consent?”
Had this come from anyone but his adored son and heir, Moses Luria would have fumed at having any of his statements questioned. Instead, he could not help but smile with pride. His little boy, not yet bar mitzvah, was not afraid to lock scriptural horns with the Silczer Rebbe. For the moment, the discussion was ended.
In the days that followed there was constant tension in the Luria household and whispered phone calls late into the night.
After concluding a particularly lengthy conversation, the Rav marched slowly and deliberately into the living room, where the rest of the family was seated.
He looked at his wife and said wearily, “Epstein’s starting to push. He claims he’s gotten an offer from the Belzer for one of his daughters.” The Rav sighed histrionically. “Ah, what a pity to lose such a fine scholar.” He glanced at Rena. “Of course, I wouldn’t dream of forcing you to do anything you don’t want to, my darling,” he said gently. “It’s still completely up to you.”
In the silence that followed, Deborah could sense the closing of an emotional vise on her sister’s will.
“All right, Papa,” Rena sighed weakly, “I’ll marry him.”
The Rav exploded with joy. “Wonderful! This is wonderful news. Is two weeks enough to have the betrothal ceremony?”
He turned to his wife and asked, “What do you think, Racheleh?”
“It’s fine by me. Will you arrange it with Rebbe Epstein?”
The Rav grinned. “I already have.”
Deborah gritted her teeth and vowed that she would never let them manipulate her this way. She could not keep from wondering—would he be so overbearing with his beloved Danny?
Later, Danny vaguely remembered Rebbe Epstein’s visit to his father’s office to iron out the arrangements for the marriage, among them Rena’s dowry and, most important, the date and place of the wedding.
The next part echoed in Danny’s memory forever. To symbolize the sealing of the bargain, tradition bade the parents break a plate. Sometimes—and this was the case that day—several women came with crockery, and when the agreement was announced, there was a loud cacophony of dishes crashing on the kitchen floor amid effusive shouts. “Mazel tov, mazel tov!”
“Why are they all going crazy breaking plates?” Danny asked his father.
“Well, my son.” The Rav beamed. “There are several explanations. Some say just as a broken glass cannot be fixed, so the agreement between bride and groom cannot be allowed to shatter. There’s also a more colorful tradition. The noise is supposed to scare away the evil spirits that might put a curse on Rena’s marriage.”
Even Deborah, who had been sulking at the prospect of her sister’s unwilling marriage, took part in this and joined the universal laughter that preceded the betrothal feast.
On the Sabbath before the wedding, the rotund Avrom Epstein was honored as groom-to-be by receiving an invitation to the pulpit to read the week’s selection from the Prophets.
As he mounted the podium, a bombardment of tiny missiles suddenly descended all about him. These were raisins, almonds, nuts, and sweet candies thrown from the ladies’ gallery as a gesture of good luck. Most of the women carelessly tossed their handfuls, but Deborah made her own quiet statement, aiming as many nuts as she could at the head of her future brother-in-law.
It remained for Rachel to explain the special Jewish “facts of life” to her stepdaughter. Deborah should not have been present, but she wanted very much to hear, and neither Rachel nor Rena objected.
The essence of her mother’s lecture was a woman’s purity. Or, put another way, impurity. The Rav had been scrupulous in consulting with Rachel to determine Rena’s menstrual cycle, so that on her wedding day she would be ritually pure. Now, in minute detail, Rachel explained to Rena how to examine herself every month to determine the onset of her period and its conclusion. Thereafter she would be required to change her underclothes and bed linen daily, and seven days later sexual intercourse would finally be permitted again.
During the fortnight of her spiritual “pollution,” a wife might not touch her husband in any way. Even their twin beds had to be well separated. The rules were so stringent that a husband could not eat food left over from his wife, unless it had been transferred to another dish.
“Do you understand everything, Rena?” Rachel asked.
Her stepdaughter merely nodded.
Rachel reached over and patted her hand. “I know how you must feel, darling. I also wish it was your own mother telling you all this.”
Rena nodded again and said, “Thank you.”
Deborah could not restrain her feelings of resentment at the notion that some day she, too, would be considered “unclean” in her husband’s eyes. For half a month she would be impure, besmirched, untouchable.
Six weeks later, Rachel took Rena to the mikva, the ritual bath, for her first purification. Deborah remained at home to fantasize.
She knew what would be happening, for Mama had described it all beforehand. Her sister would have to go into a bathroom where she would remove all her clothing, watch, rings—even the Band-Aid covering the cut on her finger.
She would then have to wash, brush her teeth, comb all the hairs of her body, cut and scrub her fingernails. Finally, under the severe scrutiny of the matron in attendance, Rena would walk nake
d down a few stone steps into a large cistern filled with running water and immerse herself completely.
The diligent attendant had to be satisfied that every strand of hair was submerged. If a single hair remained above the water, the procedure would be invalid.
Rena would have to do this every month for the rest of her childbearing years, which could mean a quarter of a century.
For the next forty-eight hours, Rena was taciturn and nervous. Several times, Deborah even thought she heard her weeping softly in her room. Once, hearing a muffled sob, she knocked, but evidently Rena did not want to share her feelings.
“Look, it’s normal,” her mother explained to both girls. “Getting married is the most important event in a woman’s life. But it’s also a terrible wrench—leaving your parents’ house, going to live with someone.…” She stopped herself.
“Someone you hardly know at all,” Deborah bitterly finished the thought.
Rachel shrugged uneasily. “Well, there’s that aspect, too. But do you know something, Deborah? Arranged marriages sometimes work out better than so-called romantic ones. Compared to others, the divorce rate among the Orthodox is like a little grain of sand—it hardly happens.”
Yes, Deborah thought. Because it’s almost impossible to get a divorce.
“Rena darling,” Rachel whispered to her stepdaughter tenderly, “I’ll share a very private truth with you. When my father came to me to propose Rav Luria—I mean Moses—as my potential husband, I was … to be honest … not that enthusiastic.”
She paused, and then, to reassure herself that her confession would not travel, added, “Remember, you can’t tell this to a soul.”
Rena nodded and placed a hand affectionately on Rachel’s.
Rachel continued. “I mean, after all, I was even younger than you. Moses seemed to me more like a parent than what I had dreamed of as a husband. He was older, he had children … and he was the legendary Silczer Rav.”
She closed her eyes as she reminisced. “But then we met alone. And from the first, I knew that he could read my mind. He understood exactly all the qualms I was feeling. And so he told me a simple story. It was one of the Jewish legends of the mystics—that when the soul descends from Heaven it has two parts, one male, the other female. They separate and enter different bodies. But if these people then lead righteous lives, the Father of the Universe will reunite them as a couple.