Acts of Faith (40 page)

D
uring the traditional seven days of mourning we all sat in our torn garments on boxes or low stools, enduring a million attempts at consolation.

It was a kind of limbo in our lives, punctuated only by the thrice-daily prayer sessions, during which we—the men—recited the
Kaddish.

In accordance with an ancient custom, all mirrors in our house were either covered or turned to the wall. No one really knows the origin of this practice, but I personally think it is to keep the mourners from seeing their own reflections and dying of guilt for being alive.

The dignitaries who came from all over to pay their respects could say nothing to assuage my grief. The only thing that might have helped me was solitude. And that, ironically, became the only thing denied me.

By contrast, Mama seemed to take solace from the many women friends who flocked around her, sustaining a stream of sighs and syllables that—at least to her wounded soul—seemed to pass for conversation.

My heart went out to little Eli. Barely seven years old, he was not only traumatized by the event itself, but also upset by the sight of his grown-up relatives crying, and frightened by the crowds of black-coated strangers milling in the house and murmuring prayers at all hours.

Still worse, there was no one to pay adequate attention to his special needs. Too blinded by our own sorrow, Deborah and I simply failed him.

Yes, Eli understood death in the abstract. He had learned in school that Abraham was “gathered to his people” at the age of one hundred seventy-five, and though Methuselah’s life extended an amazing nine hundred and sixty-nine years, even he ultimately left the earth. When it came to his grandfather, however, the phenomenon was too overwhelming to grasp. After all, his books were still set neatly on his shelves. There was even a faint smell of pipe smoke in his office. Eli was unable to believe that “Grampa” was not coming back.

I held him at my side during evening prayers, letting him know at least that the
Kaddish
was a special prayer for his grandfather.

Everyone remarked how well Eli was taking it all. But of course, anyone with an ounce of understanding would realize that it was quite the opposite.

When my older sisters were not receiving visitors, they had their husbands to fill the void. But for most of the time Deborah had no one—except me when I could liberate myself from my well-intended comforters.

She was waiting desperately for the Sabbath. Not because our ritual of mourning would then be suspended. She had a more urgent reason: It would give her an opportunity to say
Kaddish
aloud—in the heathen precincts of Steve Goldman’s Temple Beth El.

I was astonished to learn that my father’s will had revived me from the dead. His final testament revealed what he had never said in life: that he had not totally despaired of my repentance.

The document expressed hope that I would be moved by the Father of the Universe to accept my destiny and follow in his footsteps. And if this should come to pass, he offered his fondest blessings.

But he was also pragmatic. In the event that the person he referred to as “my son Daniel” (the simple word
“son” made my heart stir) was unable to serve, he decreed that his mantle be placed upon the shoulders of his beloved grandson, Elisha Ben-Ami, who, he believed, would become a great leader.

Furthermore, should he die before Eli was of age, Papa requested that Rebbe Saul Luria be appointed to guide Eli until he was old enough to take on the full responsibility.

Deborah was cast into an unbearable turmoil. Ironically, she who loved my father most had been the one most hurt by him. She had not gone through the trauma of her uncompromising rebellion to—in a symbolic sense at least—have her son taken from her. She had not bravely borne a son to sacrifice him to dogmas of the past.

She sat with clenched fists, twisting her tear-stained handkerchief, and poured out her thoughts to me.

She still could not suppress her consternation. Strangely, I found myself defending Papa.

“Deb, try to understand. He meant this as an
honor.
”

“No,” she answered bitterly. “It was his own special way of punishing me. I can’t believe that somewhere in his consciousness he didn’t know what I was doing. He couldn’t stop it when he was alive, but he … he’s done it now.”

“No,”
I insisted, gripping her by her shoulders, “I refused and you can refuse on Eli’s behalf.”

And yet, she had pangs of ambivalence. “But then they’ll have no leader. The
B’nai Simcha
will just dissolve.…”

“Look,” I insisted, “if there’s one thing our people have that sets them apart from all others, it is their ability to survive. I promise you, Deb, they’ll manage. In the meanwhile, thank God, Saul is strong and healthy and they respect him. Look how willing they were to take him as their leader until Eli is old enough to answer for himself.”

“But they’ll ask him then,” Deborah protested.

“Right,” I replied. “And then he can say no in his own voice.”

The expression on her face suggested that she wanted to believe what I was telling her.

“Trust me, Deborah. Remember the words of Hillel: ‘Be true to yourself and don’t feel guilty.’ ”

At this point she looked at me, her face pale, her eyes reddened. “Don’t you feel guilty, too?” she asked.

I glanced for a moment over to the door that led to our living room where about a dozen visitors were chanting psalms.

Many of them had been in the group of elders led by Dr. Cohen who had cornered me the night before and tried to pressure me into succeeding my father. I had protested, telling them how I had strayed from the path of righteousness, that I was morally unworthy and spiritually dead.

They seemed not to listen, believing as they did that a full repentance would cleanse me in the eyes of God. They would have persisted forever had not Uncle Saul intervened, insisting, “Give him time to find himself.”

Meanwhile, as our ritual mourning came to an end, Saul—who had been a widower for nearly ten years—moved into our house. Though I knew his presence would be a comfort to my mother, it was still distressing to see him seated at Father’s desk. Especially when he called me in to ask the most painful of existential questions.

“Tell me, Danny, what are you going to do with your life?”

I merely shrugged, unable to confess even to this profoundly good man that I now lived in a golden jungle, and I had hopelessly lost my way.

“Y
ou’re spitting on your father’s grave!” Malka shouted.

The entire Luria family was up in arms. It was the first Sabbath evening after the official seven days of mourning had ended, and at Rachel’s insistence (“I rule this house now.”) Danny was allowed to attend.

Time had not stood still in the outside world, and the moment of Deborah’s ordination was fast approaching. She had therefore chosen this night as the first remotely appropriate occasion for her announcement that she was going to become a rabbi. Her elder sister’s reaction was predictable. Its vehemence was not.

Rav Moses’s death revealed a well of strength in Rachel that none of them had ever seen. It became clear that, despite the difference in their ages, her husband had held her in high esteem and relied greatly on her opinion.

The succession to the Silczer throne might still have been in dispute, but there was no question about who now held the authority in the Luria family. That night Danny saw Rachel grow from Mama to matriarch. She stood up and addressed her children.

“Listen to me, all of you, and listen good. There will be no words of hatred expressed in this house.”

Deborah leapt to her own defense. “Malka, I’ll bet
that you didn’t know that we’re all descended from a female rabbi—”

“There’s no such thing!”

“Don’t flaunt your ignorance in public. Her name was Miriam Spira and she’s a glory to our heritage. All right, so maybe they didn’t call her ‘Rav Miriam.’ But she did teach the Law and now, five hundred years later, the Lurias are still known everywhere as scholars.”

“She’s right,” Danny interposed quietly but firmly. “She’s absolutely right.”

“You,”
Malka shouted, “you and your sister. You’re both a disgrace to our family!”

At this point, still traumatized by his grandfather’s death and frightened by this new outburst of emotion, young Eli burst into tears. Danny picked him up to comfort him. “I don’t understand, Uncle Danny,” the little boy sobbed.

“You will some day,” Danny reassured his nephew, secretly relieved that he did not have to explain why some people would regard his mother’s wonderful accomplishment as a slap in the face to Almighty God.

The reaction of her sisters was so fierce that Deborah saw no point in informing them that she had all but accepted an out-of-town pulpit for the following year. The task she had taken on was especially challenging. The majority of her classmates did not feel they had the confidence to lead congregations on their own and were all seeking positions as copilots. They could thereby continue their education on the job—and learn from the senior rabbis’ mistakes.

With her superb credentials, Deborah could set near-impossible criteria and fill them all. Having faced the daunting assignment of ministering to the New England Diaspora—not to mention having watched her father nearly all her life—she did not hesitate to present herself for the post of Senior Rabbi in a relatively young and growing community.

She wanted to stay within driving distance of New
York so Eli could see his grandmother and visit the favorite sites of his childhood—the park, the zoo, the botanical gardens.

There was no shortage of possibilities to do this, and Deborah found a pulpit that offered the luxury of living in sylvan Connecticut and yet an easy journey to New York City.

Congregation Beth Shalom in Old Saybrook was relatively new. Moreover, because of its proximity to Yale, the percentage of intellectuals was high. There were no religious day schools like the one Eli had been attending in New York; but Fairchild Academy, with its reputation for high academic standards and liberal philosophy, was only a fifteen-minute drive from the gray saltbox house Deborah rented on the placid shores of Long Island Sound.

The night she officially accepted the appointment, Deborah was so excited that she took Eli to their neighbor Uncle Danny’s to open a bottle of champagne. Somehow, her brother was far less enthusiastic than she had expected.

As soon as they were alone, Deborah confronted him.

“You’re right, Deborah, I’m not crazy about the idea,” he admitted. “I know there’s a famous song, ‘I Talk to the Trees,’ but I never heard of anybody who got an answer. You won’t like my saying this, but I think Old Saybrook is a picturesque cop-out.”

“From what?”

“From eligible men. Did you ever think of that when you applied?”

“Yes,” she answered candidly.

“So you want to be the first rabbi in history to take a vow of celibacy, huh?”

“Come on, Danny,” she protested, knowing in her heart he was right. “I haven’t done anything of the sort.”

“But you have,” said her brother shrewdly. “By choosing Old Saybrook you’re
ipso facto
putting yourself out of circulation.” He added in a wistful tone, “Besides, I’m gonna miss our heart-to-heart talks. You’re not just my sister, you’re my spiritual adviser.”

“There’s still the telephone.”

“C’mon, Deb, you know that’s not the same.”

“Well, you can come up for weekends,” she assured her brother affectionately. “And anyway, we’ve got two whole months of summer nights for you to unburden your heart.”

Unfortunately, in the ensuing weeks Danny somehow could still not summon the courage to confide in his sister what was preying on his mind and gnawing at his conscience.

For when the grateful congregation had cashed the check that had been their salvation, they were accepting money that was not really his to give.

Since he’d had less than a day to come up with such a vast sum, he had been unable to convert his own assets in time. Hence, he had, with an act of desperate computerized legerdemain, temporarily “borrowed” the amount from the coffers of McIntyre & Alleyn. To be sure, he’d paid it back in less than a week—with interest: But there was no escaping the fact that by the letter of the law the noble end did not justify the dishonest means.

And some day—sooner or later—there would be no escaping the consequences.

PART V

F
ather Joe Hanrahan was waiting by the gate at JFK Airport when Timothy’s jumbo began to disgorge its passengers. They caught sight of each other at once. Taken by surprise, Tim stopped in his tracks. “How did you get past Customs?” he asked.

“It was easy, my boy.” His old parish priest winked. “It only cost me a half-dozen blessings. The immigration fellas are God-fearing lads.”

They embraced. “Tim, my lad,” his first pastor said with deep affection. “It’s good to see you again, especially with that collar. Actually that’s the only change. You still look like the same schoolboy who threw a rock through the rabbi’s window.”