Acts of Faith (49 page)

There is no priest in the world who would not be euphoric at being granted the royal robes of the episcopate.

And yet not everyone would pay for it by serving the … Inquisition.

W
ithin a month of accepting Dr. Harris’s offer, I sold my New York apartment and bought an A-frame chalet in Lisbon, New Hampshire, putting the remainder of the money into Treasury bonds. I had lost all desire to deal with Wall Street, and in truth, I had always known that making money did not make me happy.

I chose Lisbon not just for its exotic name, but because it was central to the five-village cluster in which I was now serving as unofficial spiritual adviser. Also it was a snowball’s throw from the Vermont skiing areas of Stowe and Sugarbush. I had intended to take up the sport, not out of any athletic urge but because I had always heard it was a great place to meet single girls from New York. It was probably true—but who had time to find out?

In due time I had expanded my operation—most importantly by taking one or two young congregants over to Israel each summer. While I visited Deborah and Eli, members of my scattered flock could take courses in Hebrew and generally drink in their heritage. This produced instant Sunday School teachers. Gradually I built up a strong team.

I had so completely thrown myself into my work, driving from town to town, leaping from festival to festival, I
could scarcely believe that nearly four years had passed since I had become what I chose to call “a rabbi without portfolio.”

Only once did I actually realize how quickly sand was passing through the hourglass: in Israel in May for Eli’s thirteenth birthday—and that most important landmark in his spiritual life—his
bar mitzvah.

The kibbutz had no chapel, so Deborah made arrangements with the rabbi of
Or Chadash
in Haifa—one of the first Reform synagogues in Israel—an attractive little building halfway up Mount Carmel.

The rabbi even invited Deborah to share the pulpit with him for that occasion—and especially to sing all the Torah portions preceding Eli’s.

Yet an unexpected shadow of melancholy fell on what should have been a completely joyous occasion. For in addition to the kibbutzniks who came in a stately convoy of asthmatic buses, there were six men in their early forties who had made the journey from various parts of the country. They turned out to have been pilots from the same squadron as the “father” of the
bar mitzvah
boy.

Boaz and Zipporah were deeply touched—and Eli was almost speechless with emotion when he heard who these men were. Deborah quickly arranged to have Colonel Sassoon, Avi’s wing commander, called to the Torah, just preceding me, Boaz, and herself.

Eli’s eyes were riveted on these men, as if he were trying to pierce their memories in hopes of getting a glimpse of his father.

And I couldn’t keep from noticing, both during the service and at the party back at the kibbutz, that Avi’s comrades kept staring at Eli, no doubt wondering how the hell olive-skinned Deborah and even darker-skinned Avi could have produced such a
blondini.

The only trouble was, Eli noticed, too.

That night, while the adults celebrated in the refectory, Eli had a party for his classmates from the Regional High School—male and female—at the sports hall. They were having a good time, judging from the giggles I overheard
when passing by on the way to my guest room to pick up a sweater.

Suddenly, I heard Eli’s voice.

“Hi, Uncle Danny.”

“Hi, you were great today, kiddo,” I hailed him.

“Thanks, Danny,” he answered, with something less than euphoria. “But would you tell me the truth?”

“Sure,” I answered, my preoccupations making me a little anxious about just what he wanted told with candor.

“Did my voice break during the
Haftorah
?”

“Not at all,” I assured him avuncularly. “It was all in splendid baritone.”

“Gila says my voice broke.”

“Who’s Gila?” I asked ingenuously.

“Oh, nobody,” he replied. This time, his voice did break.

“Aha, so she’s the woman in your life I’ve heard Boaz talk about.”

“Don’t be stupid, Uncle Danny, I’m too young for girls,” he protested too much.

My years as a woodsman-rabbi had indeed given me acumen in the judging of human relationships, even among adolescents.

“She’s a real winner,” I commented.

“Gila and I are both going to serve in the Air Force,” he said proudly.

“Hey, that’s five years down the road. You shouldn’t be thinking of that stuff on the night of your
bar mitzvah.
”

His voice suddenly became somber. “Uncle Danny, in Israel, the minute your
bar mitzvah
’s over that’s
all
you think about.”

At that moment, despite the party wine I’d imbibed and the balmy air, I felt cold sober. How could any kid ever have a normal childhood given this ineluctable fact of life?

Still, my childhood hadn’t been that wonderful. Maybe I’d have been better off knowing exactly where I was going at eighteen—with no option for dropping out.

I tried to put my arms around my handsome nephew.
But even at thirteen he had grown too tall for me to do anything but give him a slap on the back.

It was only when I realized that he had no reason to walk all the way to the guest cottages that I knew our encounter had not been a chance one. And that what Eli most wanted from me on this night celebrating his induction into manhood were some plain home truths.

“Uncle Danny,” he began. He was trying to sound calm. “Could we talk, you know, man to man? It’s something really important. You’re the only guy in our whole family that I completely trust.”

Oh, God, I felt as if the sky were going to fall on my head.

“If you’re going to ask me the facts of life,” I said jocularly, “I’ll tell you as soon as I learn them myself.”

“No, Danny. This isn’t funny,” he persisted.

“Okay then,” I capitulated. “Tell me what’s on your mind.”

By this time we had reached my bungalow and we both sat down on the steps.

At first he merely stared in the direction of the lake. Finally he began.

“Uncle Danny, all this week Boaz and Zipporah’s relatives have been coming in from Tel Aviv and even Chicago. They spent hours and hours talking about old times and looking at photographs.”

I had no illusions about where this was leading.

“It’s crazy,” he continued wistfully, “they’ve got millions of pictures. Even some old fading brown ones from Budapest. And there must be a million pictures of Avi as a little boy.”

He lowered his head and murmured painfully, “But there are
no
pictures of Mom and Avi. Not a single one. Not even at their wedding.” He paused and then confronted me. “What do you think that means?”

My mind raced to find a quip, a diversionary joke—something to get me the hell out of this corner. But I knew my nephew was too smart—and the power of truth stronger than both our wills.

“I never met Avi,” I finally answered, making the only honest claim I could.

“That wasn’t the question,” Eli said somberly.

“Oh?” I responded. “Then what was the question?”

Eli looked at me and said quietly, “Are you sure he was my father?”

Despite the fact that I’d had at least a quarter of an hour to arm myself with evasionary weapons, I was powerless. I just froze. Finally, he put me off the hook.

“That’s okay, Danny,” he said softly. “You don’t have to give me an answer. The look on your face said everything.”

T
wo days later I drove Eli to Jerusalem for his “second
bar mitzvah.
” As the Silczer Rav, Uncle Saul could not for diplomatic reasons attend Saturday’s ceremony. But I agreed with him that we should honor my father’s memory by having Eli called to read the Torah during a Monday morning service at the Wailing Wall.

Deborah could not bring herself to come. There was the legitimate objection that she would be separated from her son and pushed into the crowded women’s section. Then there was the memory of the riot, from which she still felt psychological scars.

And I suppose there were other memories too.

Needless to say, the entire Jerusalem
B’nai Simcha
community was present, including the yeshiva boys, who were doubly grateful for the half-day holiday. Like myself, Eli could work both sides of the street. He was as much at home among the merrily dancing
frummers
as he had been among the discoing kibbutzniks.

Afterward, during the wine-and-cake reception back at the school, Saul called me aside to discuss some Silczer business.

In the years since my father’s death, he and the Jerusalem Elders still had not agreed on a site for the yeshiva dormitory.

He had kept me up to date, not because I was one of the clan, but because, despite Doris Greenbaum’s generosity in declining repayment of her gift, Saul regarded the money as my personal contribution, though of course he had no idea of the price I had paid.

This time, he was intent on resolving the question of the dormitory once and for all. A week earlier he had taken me on a tour of the available buildings in Mea Shearim—and even beyond its periphery in the contiguous neighborhoods. The places were cramped and the prices astronomical.

In my opinion, the best we had seen was a three-story building of Jerusalem stone that had nearly turned gray with age. We could probably have converted it to a dorm for about sixty yeshiva boys, who would then have an easy walk to class. But today Rebbe Bernstein, the chipper and scrupulously honest successor to the abominable Schiffman, had a new proposal to put before my uncle, who wanted me to hear it too.

As Eli happily wandered off on his own, his destination Richie’s Pizza on King George Street (for a kibbutz kid he certainly knew where to meet girls in the big city), we sat in the principal’s office drinking glasses of tea as Rebbe Bernstein introduced us to a slender black-coated gentleman named Gordon. After pinning a large map onto the bulletin board he launched into his presentation.

“This, honored rabbis, is the magnificent new township of Armon David—designed with wide streets, the finest materials, and magnificent amenities. And believe me, your neighbors will be strictly the
frummest
of the
frum.
”

He paused to let us assimilate these attractions and then continued. “What’s more, on the new road promised by the Ministry of Housing, it will be a mere twenty minutes’ bus ride—thirty at the most—from where we are now sitting.”

Naive visitor that I was, especially feeling that unique elation at being in the Holy City, I was at first captivated by the thought of a place nearby with not only large airy
rooms, but even a patch of greenery. The way they worked those kids, it would certainly do them good to have some fresh air that was really fresh.

Then all of a sudden it occurred to me. Even allowing for the developer’s hyperbole, his township was a good deal farther from Jerusalem than would be appropriate. In fact, it looked suspiciously close to the Arab villages of Dar Moussa and Zeytounia.

This prompted me to ask, “It all looks very impressive, but can you tell me on which side of the Green Line it is?”

Gordon was highly offended.

“Surely the son of the great Rav Moses Luria—may his righteous memory be for a blessing—does not believe in absurd territorial quibbles. All of this land was given to our people by Almighty God.”

I had to keep myself from asking, If the Holy One had given us this territory, how come this guy was selling it again? But I had more important things to say. I turned to Saul but intended my remarks for all those present.

“I have every respect for Mr. Gordon’s talents as a town planner, but I’m afraid the
B’nai Simcha
have certain responsibilities, don’t you agree, Uncle Saul? I mean, if we should move to Armon David—”

“You would have space for a hundred students.” Gordon interrupted so quickly, a touch of panic showed.

“That’s not the point,” I retorted, still addressing myself only to Saul. “If we were to build our dormitory beyond the Green Line, that would be construed as a political statement. It would suggest that our community approved of confiscating Arab territory.”

Gordon misunderstood my criticism, or chose to. “In other words,” he trumpeted, “you would not just be gaining a magnificent living complex, you would be striking a blow in favor of Greater Israel.”

All eyes were on Uncle Saul, who stroked his beard and answered quietly, “I don’t believe in striking blows, metaphorical or physical. Danny is right.”

Gordon was sizzling. Studiously avoiding me, he addressed his remarks to what he sensed might be the weak link in our chain, the diminutive Rebbe Bernstein. “Think of the
skandal
if people should hear that the current Silczer Rebbe renounces our nation’s claim to even a millimeter of sacred land.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Gordon,” Saul said quietly but firmly. “I don’t recall using the word ‘renounce.’ But while we’re making accusations, let me tell you that the primary rule by which a Jew must live is
Pikuach Nefesh
—the respect for human life.”

Good for Uncle Saul! I followed him into the fray.

“Surely, Mr. Gordon, you remember Leviticus 19:16. ‘Neither shalt thou stand idly by the blood of thy neighbor.’ On those grounds alone your proposal is out of the question.”

It may seem hard to believe, but all the developer said in the time it took him to fold up his map and make an infuriated exit was a single, “Hmph!”

Which I took to mean that the
B’nai Simcha
are spiritually bankrupt, they’re not real Jews, let them go back to Brooklyn, the whole bunch of them. All spiced with choice epithets.

We all sat quietly in the room for a moment. A smile of relief crossed Rebbe Bernstein’s face as he looked at my uncle.

“Thank you, Rav Luria,” he murmured.

My uncle beamed at me. “I was very proud of the way you acted, Rebbe Daniel,” he said affectionately.