Acts of Faith (33 page)

Deborah could tell that her father had carefully choreographed the entire occasion, for no one mentioned her brother’s name.

Had he been killed by a truck instead of exiled, they would at least have referred to him as “Danny, of blessed memory.”

But nothing was said. Nothing.

There was no way she could ascertain whether any of them knew about his golden metamorphosis.

Yet, when the celebration was at its height, Deborah caught sight of her mother sitting in a quiet corner, weeping inwardly for her only son.

No sooner had the last guest departed than the resident Lurias sat down to a late supper.

The Rav smiled at his blue-eyed grandson and, even while the youngster persistently dropped his spoon on the floor to make Deborah retrieve it, said, “
Nu
, my boy, let’s speak a little
mamaloshen.
”

Deborah bristled at her father’s proposal that her son chat in Yiddish. In some ways the old man still lived in the ghetto of Silcz, and the phrase “mother tongue” was reminiscent of an age when Yiddish was the language of second-class citizens—the mothers who were not privileged to learn Hebrew.

She, on the contrary, had just come from a land where Hebrew was the language not only of blessings, but of asking for the nearest bus stop.

Though he was far from being like the abominable Rabbi Schiffman, her father was no longer Deborah’s idea of a modern Jew. Yet he was still her father. She would have to learn to separate ideology and affection.

One of her great consolations in taking her son away from Israel had been that at the very least he would learn English. Now she realized that while she was at school all day, Eli would be hearing less English in Brooklyn than he had on the kibbutz. And she did not want him growing up to read the words of Shakespeare or Thomas Jefferson as a foreign tongue.

Dean Victor Ashkenazy—a broad-shouldered man who looked more like a football coach—stepped up to the podium.

He smiled down at his audience, which consisted of perhaps a dozen men and half as many women, then uttered words that Deborah Luria had never dreamed she would hear spoken to rabbinical students:

“Ladies and gentlemen …”

What a long and arduous road she had traveled to reach this moment.

“Before it became an honorific title,” the dean continued, “the word
rabbi
simply meant ‘teacher.’ Interestingly
enough, it only took on its modern meaning during the age of Hillel, which was of course contemporaneous with the ministry of Christ.…”

Yet another word Deborah never imagined she would hear in a Jewish seminary.

“In the Gospel of Mark, when Peter sees a vision of Jesus talking with Elijah and Moses, he addresses his leader as ‘rabbi.’ And historically speaking, the other two Jewish worthies could not claim the same title.” The dean paused, scanning the faces before him.

“A rabbi has no priestly privileges. He is not an intermediary between God and Man. He cannot grant absolution—that is only in the hands of the Almighty. He can command no one. But he must command respect. For he is first and foremost a teacher. And it is his awesome duty to act as a paragon of earthly behavior and of reverence for the Divine.

“Permit me to repeat a very old joke, which is as painfully true today as it was when I heard it as a child.

“Several matrons are sitting on the beach in Florida bragging about their children’s accomplishments. One says proudly that her son is a surgeon. Another boasts that hers is a successful lawyer, and so on.

“Finally, they get to Mrs. Greenberg. ‘So,
nu
—what about your children?’ they ask. And she replies, ‘Well, my son is a rabbi.’

“At which all the women groan, and one commiserates, ‘
Oy vey
, what a terrible job for a nice Jewish boy.’ ”

His audience smiled, sharing this uncomfortable truth.

“Of course,” the dean quickly added, “today it’s also a terrible job for a nice Jewish
girl.
And I’m afraid that the designation ‘job’ is all too appropriate.

“The near-impossible task of a rabbi is to try to keep his or her fellow Jews from giving in to the exhaustion of maintaining an identity in a non-Jewish world, of being a minority that wishes to remain one. Not to mention the sheer pressure of trying to do good in a world in which evil not only exists, but as God tells Isaiah in chapter forty-five, verse seven, He Himself created it.”

He walked to the front of the lectern to be closer to his listeners, and spoke in softer, almost confidential tones.

“That goes to the heart of the matter, doesn’t it?

“For the rest of your lives, no single day will pass when you are not approached by someone—Jew or gentile—and asked the most challenging existential question a man or woman of God will ever confront: ‘Why did our loving, righteous, merciful God also create evil?’

“This is the problem that Job could not comprehend. Nor can the victims of the Holocaust—or its survivors. Our task as rabbis then is to teach men and women how to live in this imperfect world.

“Your studies for the rabbinate will be twofold. One—looking back and assimilating the heritage of millennia of sages, and passing it like a torch in an ancient relay race to the younger generation.

“The second, perhaps more important, is the pastoral function of a modern clergyman—counseling, comforting. Above all, showing the way—in the words of Micah, ‘To do justly, and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with thy God.’

“I offer you my blessings and good wishes.”

Deborah spent the morning with Moses and the afternoon with Jonah.

Though she had been familiar with the texts from her independent reading, this was the first time she could freely discuss them with a professor and her fellow students.

Their lecturer in Old Testament, Professor Schoenbaum, was an acknowledged hard-liner who had voted against the ordination of women and was known for such gratuitous barbs as, “Even a woman could understand this concept.”

Yet when on the first day it became apparent that Deborah’s knowledge and insight far exceeded her classmates’, Schoenbaum concluded the day’s proceedings with, “I think you could all benefit from following the
scholarly example of Miss Luria, who thinks like a real yeshiva
bocher.
”

In other words, a
man.

As she left the building to go home that first day, she was greeted by her faithful mentor.

“What a nice surprise,” she exclaimed, rushing to embrace him.

“I just wanted to be sure everything went okay,” her brother replied.

“Oh, Danny, I love it. I mean I’ve spent my whole life reading Torah by candlelight. Now, all of a sudden, I’m in the bright sunshine with people who share the same values.”

“Was it tough?” he asked, as he took her heavy book bag and flung it over his shoulder.

“Compared to a slave driver like you, Professor Schoenbaum is a pussycat.”

“Well,” Danny said with mock humility. “That was all part of my plan—to harden you for the real battle. Got time for a cup of coffee?”

“Just a quick one,” she replied.

They sat at an outdoor café and drank cappuccinos, as the reluctant prodigy of Wall Street meekly inquired, “Have you had a chance to talk to him? Papa, I mean.”

“No, not yet. I don’t want to hurry things.”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Danny, trying to mask his disappointment. “I guess that’s the right strategy. It’s just that I’d like to know if he … needs anything.”

“To be frank,” she replied, “I think what he really needs is time. But I’ll work on it, I promise you.”

“And Mama?” he persisted. “Did you find out if there’s anything I could get her?”

“Well,”—Deborah smiled—“I think she daydreams about a toaster oven. But it might look awfully suspicious if it suddenly appeared in the kitchen. Why don’t we wait till her birthday and we can give it to her as a present?”

“Okay … good … sure,” said Danny, who seemed edgy and nervous. “But I wanted to do more. What I really wanted was to buy them that bungalow we
always rented in Spring Valley. You know, so they could use it whenever they want.” He paused and then confessed, “As a matter of fact, I’ve already bought it.”

Deborah took his hand. “Danny,” she said softly, “try to be patient. I don’t think you can buy Father’s love.”

“Yeah,” her brother replied bitterly. “That’s what I was afraid of.”

“Tell me,” she asked, trying to lift his mood, “what do you do with yourself all day?”

“Well,” he replied, “my admirers at McIntyre & Alleyn have set me up with my own desk and secretary, and they’re sponsoring me so I can take the official broker’s test at the Institute of Finance.”

“Ah,” smiled Deborah. “So you’re a student again?”

“Yeah, I’m enjoying that part. Unfortunately, they’re all treating me like the Delphic Oracle—waiting religiously for my next prediction. Hopefully I’ll learn enough to know what I’m doing. In any case, I’ve bought a computer—I need all the intelligence I can get.”

“You must be very busy.”

“I’m not,” he answered morosely. “I don’t enjoy just watching my money earn interest. I’ve got a six-bedroom apartment on Fifth Avenue—and five of them are empty. For some reason I can’t even buy friends.”

“Have you seen Beller?”

“Yeah, I took them to dinner the other night. He fixed me up with a shrink.…”

“And?”

“Instead of exploring my psyche, the guy kept asking me for stock tips.”

“Is that a joke?” she asked.

“Am I laughing?”

He studied her with a wan smile and asked, “It’s such a schlep from here to Brooklyn. Won’t you and Eli come and live with me in Manhattan? I mean, I’d hire a housekeeper—or anything you wanted.”

Deborah wanted very much to say yes, but she needed time to think about leaving the parental embrace she had just regained.

“Danny … Eli’s in a nice play group run by two Israeli girls. I don’t want to uproot him again. I’d like to live at home a little while longer.”

Danny’s tone became more assertive. “Hey, big sister, can’t you manage to break your newfound umbilical cord? You don’t really think I believe it’s Eli’s play group that’s keeping you at home, do you?”

“No,” she said, lowering her eyes. “I’m kind of embarrassed to admit it, but something in me still hungers for Papa’s approval.”

Danny nodded and confessed in a whisper, “I understand. That makes two of us.” Suddenly self-conscious, he glanced at his watch. “Hey, it’s getting late. I’ll walk you to your car.”

“I don’t have one,” she replied.

“Oh yes you do.” He took her arm as they left the café.

Deborah sensed extravagance in the air. “No,” she pleaded, “not another of your block-long limos.”

Danny smiled. “I only wish it were. But I don’t want them to know that we’re even seeing each other. That would create too much tension at home. So I’ve made a compromise. He’s called Moe.”

“What?”

From afar she could see a yellow cab parked near the corner, with its corpulent driver, in a flat leather cap, leaning against it.

“Getta move on, youse guys. We’re gonna hit all the traffic at the tunnel.”

“Who’s that?” Deborah inquired.

“That’s Moe, your friendly driver—and believe me I interviewed plenty before I chose him. He’ll pick you up after school every day and take you home—so you don’t have to hang from a strap, and you can either study or rest.”

Deborah was touched. “Danny, you don’t have to spoil me.”

“But I’m dying to do
something
for you, Deb. At least let me give you Moe.”

Deborah hugged her brother affectionately and whispered, “Thank you, Dan.”

“Hey, c’mon,” Moe urged. “Another five minutes, we’ll need a helicopter.”

He held the door open and tipped his hat. As Deborah stepped inside, she thought to herself, If Danny had only heard Dean Ashkenazy’s speech, he’d know that he was acting as a paragon himself—of goodness, generosity, and love.

Deborah would think about her brother standing alone on his balcony, watching the carnival of activities in Central Park—lovers sitting on the grassy meadows, old people strolling, young people jogging, middle-aged people moving at a gait somewhere between the two—and being a part of none of them.

Why was he so lonely? she wondered. Surely, a boy—she could not think of him as a full-grown man—who had once had such
joie de vivre
could have found friends if he really wanted to. Why had he exiled himself from normal life?

A
s wise as he is, even my father cannot make history repeat itself.

For two years I had been pleading with Deborah to live on her own in Manhattan. During this time I had made a number of lucky calls in the market, predicting the devaluation of the dollar in ’73 and the rise in orange juice futures in ’74, and I was now so wretchedly rich that I had a twelve-room duplex to house my loneliness.

I had even proposed to Deborah that I divide my apartment so that we could be at once close but independent. Still, she stubbornly chose to remain in Brooklyn and commute to HUC each day.

But an incident one Sunday finally forced her to confront the conflicts she felt about living as a grown woman in her parents’ home.

She had been upstairs working on a term paper and was on her way to retrieve a book from Papa’s immense Talmudic library, when just outside his study she heard the sound of a young boy reciting,
“In Ershten hut Got gemacht Himmel un Erd.”

It was my father teaching his grandson the immortal words of Genesis in the medieval language of Yiddish.

Deborah peeked in, at once touched and dismayed to
see her own son seated on Papa’s knees—as I had once been—learning Torah.

For a moment she was gratified that her son was enjoying a privilege that she had never had. Then she suddenly realized that our father was obsessed with having Eli relive Papa’s experience with me.

The moment Papa left for his usual Sunday tour of the yeshiva classes and she was sure she could not be overheard, Deborah called me to say she would be moving into my place that, night—at least until she could find something of her own.