Christmas for Joshua - A Novel (33 page)

Rabbi Rachel’s exit left a deep silence. Had she departed for the evening or was she coming back? I wasn’t sure, but it didn’t matter. In my heart, I knew she was wrong. History didn’t have to control the future of Jewish-Christian relationships. What had happened in the past, painful as it had been, must not be allowed to perpetuate hate. And wasn’t my life, like many other successful interfaith marriages, the best proof that the acrimonious past could be set aside?

But it was unfair for me to put all our guests through any more of this. I turned to Debra and Mordechai, who seemed paralyzed with discomfort. “I’m sorry,” I said quietly, “it was supposed to be a special night. I screwed up.”

“
Yes, you did,” Rebecca said.

But Debra smiled, leaned over, and kissed my cheek. “It’s okay, Daddy. Good intentions count more than anything else, remember?”

“
It’s pretty weird,” Mordechai said, “but this night will make a great story back in Brooklyn.” He grinned and pressed my hand, and I felt optimistic for the first time since Father Donne had finished singing “O Come, All Ye Faithful” with the punch line “
Christ the Lord!”
My efforts had not been in vain.

Aaron came over and took the microphone. “Let us fill our wine glasses and begin with the first blessing.”

Everyone was a bit dazed, but the clinking of bottles on glasses indicated that they were going along with Aaron’s invitation. He beckoned Cantor Bentov, who came over to our table, filled a glass and cleared his throat while waiting for silence. Our eyes met, and the cantor stepped closer and whispered in my ear, “I tried to convince her to go home from the hospital. They gave her a lot of pain medications, but she insisted on coming here.”

“
Is it the Warnick donation?”

He hesitated.

“
Why is she so angry? It can’t be the name change.”

The cantor started to move away from me, but changed his mind and put his lips back near my ear. “She thinks you’ll fire her. And me also.”

In the midst of all the chatting around us, I thought I didn’t hear him well. “What?”

“
She’s afraid you’ll hire a better clergy team.” He gestured at himself. “We’re not exactly multi-million-dollar material, right?”

Now that I had heard clearly what he said, I couldn’t believe it. “Where’s this nonsense coming from?”

“
It makes sense,” Cantor Bentov said. “The rabbi is convinced people already blame her for the synagogue’s decline, so when all this money comes in, what’s the next logical step? She’s desperate.”

“
But even if someone pushed for that, your contracts run for another two years. You’re safe!”

He nodded, but I could tell he wasn’t convinced, that he genuinely believed that Rabbi Rachel was right, that once the King Solomon Synagogue became the very wealthy Golda and Leo Warnick Synagogue, we would get rid of the rabbi and the cantor in order to hire a more glitzy duo.

“
I’m deeply hurt,” I said, “that you think it’s something I would do. But I understand the concern, and it’s your livelihood. We’ll discuss it after the Sheva Brachot, okay?”

“
Of course.” Cantor Bentov returned to the podium and waited.

The guests were busy chatting, probably about the dramatic argument that had taken place before them. I sat with my family and we had a few minutes of peace. Rebecca brought me a plate of food, and I nibbled, feeling deflated. The whole evening had taken a wrong turn, gone in a direction I hadn’t expected and didn’t like. I was ready for it to be over.

Aaron again stood and asked for silence. Cantor Bentov filled his lungs, and bellowed, “
Blessed be He, Master of the Universe, creator of the fruit of the vine.
”

Everyone chanted, “Amen.”

He turned to Debra and Mordechai and continued, “
May God rejoice this beloved pair as He once rejoiced the first couple who lived in Eden; blessed be He, Hashem, who rejoices bride and groom.
”

Again everyone responded, “Amen.”

Cantor Bentov opened his mouth to begin the third blessing, but a loud pop sounded, a window high near the ceiling exploded, and a white object flew across the hall, hit our table, and bounced into Debra’s chest. She flipped backward with her chair, falling to the floor, and we all screamed.

Run, Rudolph, Run!

Hell could sometimes appear in an instant, a concentrated dose of fierce torture, achieved not by immersion in boiling tar, but by the sight of a terrible accident involving the person you love most. My hellish moment lasted for eternity, between watching the object fly like an evil shooting star across the hall, the unreal splash of the impact, and the unknown extent of her injury. When Debra fell backward, out of my sight, and the Gathering Hall filled with the deafening noise that terrified people make, all my wishes and desires in this world instantly narrowed down to a single, all-consuming plea:
Let her live!

I tried to look over Rebecca’s shoulder, but Debra’s chair had fallen on its side, hiding her from me. Dropping out of my seat to the floor, I reached and grabbed the fallen chair, and there she was, my daughter, lying on her back, her eyes closed. The red cap had come off, and dark hair spread around her white face.

Bending over Debra, I checked the small of her neck for a pulse, praying for that fluttering sensation at the tips of my fingers.

It was there.

Aaron was next to me. He didn’t hesitate. With both hands he clasped the dress under her chin and pulled in opposite directions, tearing the cloth downward almost to her navel. Just above her bra, on the right side, a bruise was forming, about the size of a fist.

I murmured my habitual prayer instinctively, “
Blessed be Adonai, Master of the Universe, healer of the sick and infirm,
” and put my ear to her chest, but the noise in the hall was too great. “Can’t hear a thing!”

Cupping his mouth between his hands, Aaron yelled, “Quiet! Quiet! Quiet!”

Many others began shushing, and soon the hall approached a nervous silence.

My stethoscope was in the car, but there was no time. I pressed my ear to her chest and held my breath.

The heartbeat was normal, a healthy beat that I rarely had a chance to hear in a patient’s chest. I moved to the side, then the other side, searching for the telltale crackling of a collapsed lung, but her breathing was slow and clear.

“
Nothing,” I reported to Aaron. “All normal.” With open hands I felt around the bruise, pressing lightly on the skin, searching for broken bones or irregular tissue formation. Again I said, “All normal.”

Only now I noticed that Rebecca was kneeling next to me, her clenched hands pressed to her chest as she rocked back and forth, murmuring the same few words as a mantra, “Please, God! Please, God! Please, God!”

“She’s okay,” I said, just as Debra’s head moved from side to side, her eyelids trembling.

“Debra?” Aaron shook her shoulder. “Can you hear me?”

She opened her eyes and slowly looked around, searching. Her gaze met mine and continued to Rebecca and beyond, until it stopped, and her lips curled in a faint smile. “Mordechai,” she said and reached for him.

Rebecca cried in my arms while I fought off tears, both for Debra’s survival and for her seeking Mordechai for the comfort she had used to seek from us. But that was the way of the world, and we watched him help Debra up from the floor, wrap her in his suit jacket, and hold her as they sat down at the table, her head on his shoulder.

One of the servers brought a bag of ice. Rebecca packed a few cubes in a cloth napkin, and Debra pressed it to the bruise. I caressed her head, and she looked up, making a brave attempt at smiling to reassure me that she really was fine.

Mordechai said something to her. She nodded, and they began praying together. I could not hear the whispered words they were reciting, but I could read my daughter’s expression, her complete and utter devoutness, her sincere conviction that the words of the prayer were true, and her wholesome faith that God was listening to her and would extend His grace to her and to Mordechai. I saw in my daughter’s face the truth that I had tried to deny since the moment I had seen Mordechai’s black yarmulke on Skype on the eve of Rosh Hashanah. I had been wrong all along. Debra wasn’t playing Orthodox because she was in love with Mordechai. Rather, she chose him because she had become Orthodox and wanted to share her life with a
ba’al
who belonged in that tradition, a husband who shared her faith in the God of strict Halacha, the God of Brooklyn and Rabbi Mintzberg and Rabbi Doctor Yosef Schlumacher, the God of Sabbath observance and kosher food, the God of Orthodox conversions as the only path for a shaygetz like me to become a real Jew.

Pulling myself up from the dark hole of sadness and resignation, I looked around at my guests, who stood in clusters, conversing quietly. The last thing I wanted to do was to take charge, but I had no choice. As the leader of the congregation and the host of this virtuous event, which had turned ugly, people expected me to act. Should I ignore what had just happened and continue with the seven blessings? Our synagogue had suffered infrequent hostilities in the past, an occasional anti-Semitic graffiti or minor vandalism, but always during the night, when the place was empty. This was the first attack aimed not only at the building, but also at us, the Jews who worshipped the God of Israel. It was my responsibility to calm everyone down and communicate with the police, which must have received a dozen calls already from guests, several of whom were speaking urgently on their phones.

Rebecca gripped my arm and pulled me down so she could speak directly into my ear. “Fix what you broke!”

“
It’s only a window.” My attempted humor earned eye rolling. I scanned the hall for Cantor Bentov, intending to ask him to pick up where we had stopped, but I was too late.

“
God have mercy on us!” Rabbi Rachel held up the flying object, which turned out to be a rock wrapped in paper. She tore off the sheet and showed it to us.

A swastika!

A woman behind me uttered a frightened yelp.

The rabbi turned the paper over. On the back, a message was scrawled crudely:

The Jews are stealing Christmas!

“That’s what you get,” Rabbi Rachel announced, “when you cross civilized boundaries, when you insult other people’s faith, and when you violate their sacred traditions!”

What could I say? She was right. The evidence was irrefutable—the paper in her hand, the rock, the broken glass. Whoever threw it at the window had also exposed me for what I really was: A fool.

“Señor Doctor!” Jose pushed his way through to me. “Me sorry!”

“Don’t worry.” I patted his shoulder. “Everything is okay.”

“
No. No okay.” He pointed at Debra. “Your girl hurt! Me no—”

“
What are you doing here?” Rabbi Rachel rolled over on her wheelchair. “Don’t you have work to do? Go! Out! Do your job!”

Jose stepped back, his hip hitting a table.

The rabbi kept rolling the wheelchair at Jose and uttered a quick sentence in Spanish.

He ran off.

With the mike near my lips, I announced, “Please be seated. There’s no reason for alarm. Let’s continue with the blessings for Debra and Mordechai.”

People stopped talking, but they didn’t sit down, only looked at me in indecision.

“
We have gathered here to honor them,” I said, “and to ask God to bestow upon them the seven blessings for a happy and fruitful life together. Let us complete the remaining five blessings and prove that hate never wins.”

With slowness that told of mixed feelings, our guests returned to their seats. I saw Aaron speak into his phone, his hand covering his mouth. The rabbi was talking with Judy Levy and Cantor Bentov, their heads close together. They stopped abruptly when I approached.

“
Thank you.” The cantor accepted the microphone from me.

When everyone was seated, he held up the glass of wine and recited the next blessing. And the next, and the one after that, making a commendable effort to sing the traditional tune with adequate celebratory spirit. As he finished the last words of the sixth blessing, “
... rejoice the groom and bride
,” we heard a pop, and another window exploded—at the far corner, all the way in the rear where no one was sitting.

The hall filled with shouts of panic. Guests dropped to the floor and crawled under the tables. And then, finally, we heard police sirens approaching.

I began to circle the tables and help people up. Keeping my voice even and free of anxiety, I asked again and again, “Is anyone hurt?” Aaron was doing the same down the opposite side of the hall. Soon everyone was accounted for, and not a single injury.

A group gathered around Judy Levy, who was examining one of her paintings. I went over. She traced a long line with her finger, where the rock had given
Extinct Together
a glancing blow, ripping the canvas and separating the Native American warrior from the buffalo he was riding. Suddenly the whole painting fell off the wall, causing the group to scatter out of the way. The fall broke the wooden frame, and the painting crumpled in a heap. Judy tried to hold it up, but the wood sections had splintered in the fall, and the dry oil paint cracked along the creases. Judy let it go. I recalled her telling me once that her art pieces were as dear to her as her children. The devastation on her face confirmed it.