Acts of Faith (56 page)

“I agree. It’s a very difficult question,” Reb Vidal said. “I’m afraid there are no easy answers.”

We sang and we ate. And then we sang again. I loudly, to be sure that Miriam could hear, and she so shyly and softly that at times I thought she was merely mouthing the words. All through the meal I could not help but notice the relatives—even Uncle Abe—looking at one another and nodding.

A little after ten, I took reluctant leave of the Vidals and walked slowly back with Abe. It would be noon till I would see my Miriam—Oh, God, please make her
mine
—unless I dared to sneak a look up at the ladies’ gallery tomorrow morning, something I knew I would not risk under the circumstances.

Having been a widower for many years, Abe was grateful for my company. We sat in the shadows of his front room and exchanged family histories—though naturally he knew most of mine. He went to great pains to emphasize that their family were direct descendants of Chaim Vital, who had studied in the Holy Land with Isaac Luria in the late sixteenth century.

Their particular branch had settled in southern France, where the medieval popes permitted Jews to live in certain areas, among them Avignon and Aix-en-Provence. The Vidals had been French for more than five hundred years, till the Nazis came and decided they were just another kind of oven fuel. Those who survived the war, knowing no English, chose to emigrate to Quebec. And so here they were.

I hazarded a delicate investigation. “How old is Miriam?” I asked.

“Eighteen, God bless her,” Abe replied.

“How come she’s not married already?” I asked, quickly adding, “Not that I’m complaining.”

“Ah,” said Abe with a smile, “my brother says it’s because he can’t find anyone suitable. But frankly, when your youngest child is your only daughter, and that daughter is a pearl like Miriam, you hesitate to let her go.

“Actually, for the past year or so, he’s been resigning himself to compromise and has been talking with some families. I think he even liked the Dessler boy, but then Miriam objected—”

“On what grounds?” I asked anxiously, hoping it was not because Dessler was an old man like me.

“She said he wasn’t
frum
enough.”

My heart sank, and I began to ache at the irony of it. Had I followed in the footsteps of my father there would have been no question of my orthodoxy. But now—at least in Reb Vidal’s eyes—I was a “cowboy,” almost a creature from another planet.

I spent a sleepless night tossing and turning, wondering whether there was time enough for me to repent. Even a loving, overly possessive father like Miriam’s would not permit himself to let her stay unmarried to the age of
nineteen.
My time was short.

In
shul
the next morning I was given the singular honor of being called to read the portion from the Prophets. While I lacked Deborah’s vocal talents, I still had a good pair of lungs, and I knew that in our tradition loudness can sometimes compensate for being off key. I chanted both the prayers—and the portion itself—at the top of my voice.

As I mounted the podium, I was more nervous than at my own
bar mitzvah.
My heart beat faster, and my palms were even clammier. For on that earlier day I was only becoming a man. Had I faltered or forgotten blessings, I would have had another chance. This time, my goal was to become a husband, and I had no doubt that the pious Miriam, up in the balcony, would be following every syllable in her text.

When my performance ended, I could hear animated
buzzing from every corner of the men’s section. Here and there I even got a snatch of dialogue: “Rav Luria’s son …” “I think Vidal’s made a match.” “If Miriam says her usual ‘no,’ I want him for my daughter.”

A wonderful thing happened during the lunch that followed. As our host was discussing that week’s scriptural portion, and I was quoting Rashi and as many other commentators as I could recall, an angel took my soup plate. That is to say, Miriam—not her mother as would have been appropriate—came within touching distance of me under the pretext of taking my bowl.

Her proximity was almost too much to bear. Though I longed to look more closely at her face, I pretended to be listening to her father’s interpretation, all the while enthralled by the ethereal touch of Miriam’s breath on my cheek.

After we sang grace, I politely asked Reb Vidal’s permission to take his daughter for a walk—accompanied, of course.

“Well,”—he smiled genially—“if my wife feels up to it. I think we could all do with a little sunshine.”

I rejoiced at the opportunity to be alone with Miriam. For in fact alone we were. Reb Vidal and his wife walked deliberately slowly, so that gradually Miriam and I were nearly fifty feet in front of them.

Again I was nervous, not knowing how to start the conversation, though I knew exactly how I planned to end it.

I soon discovered that though she looked demure, Miriam was far from shy. In some ways her attitude reminded me of Deborah. She took the initiative.

“Tell me, Daniel,” she said in the first words she was officially sanctioned to address to me, “what exactly do you do?”

“Well, a whole lot of things,” I answered awkwardly. “But mostly I teach. You see there are a lot of Jews scattered in upper New England who needed organizing. It’s very hard to preserve your religious identity when you’re outnumbered by the trees.”

“Are they Orthodox?” she inquired.

“No, not exactly,” I said hesitantly, not intending to avoid her question yet not wanting to disparage my own congregation either. “Before people can study, they need the light to read by. I view my job as kindling their souls so they can pursue their religion to whatever extent they desire. Can you understand that?”

“Yes. It’s a new idea, I guess,” she answered. “You might say you’re helping them to repent.”

Desperate with love as I was, I couldn’t let this veiled criticism pass.

“I’m sorry, Miriam. They’re guilty of nothing but ignorance. And for that you don’t have to repent. When I started six years ago, the only word all these people knew was ‘Amen.’ Now all of them have reached at least ‘The Lord our God, the Lord is One.’ Now don’t you think that’s marvelous?”

She thought for a moment, perhaps wondering what her teachers might say about my radical philosophy. She then braved an answer. “That sounds very idealistic, Danny. But is that what you want to devote your life to?”

A crucial question. One with a veritable minefield of dangers.

“To be honest with you, Miriam,” I said and looked straight into her beautiful brown eyes, “because I always want to be honest with you—I’m not really sure. I mean my father obviously wanted me to succeed him. But I had so many doubts.”

“You mean of living up to the responsibility?”

“Yes, Miriam, I was very frightened. What about you?” I asked her. “What are your ambitions?”

“I have no ambitions,” she replied. “I only have dreams.”

“Well then, what do you dream of?”

“Being a good wife—an
eshes chayil
—to a pious, learned man.”

“And you’ve found no one ‘pious’ enough yet?” I asked with no small amount of trepidation.

“I suppose so,” she said with what seemed a touch of
embarrassment. “But then there was that dream I spoke of …”

“Yes?” I encouraged her to speak her heart.

She lowered her eyes. “I dared to think that I could find a scholar like my father. One who knew not only how to pray …” She hesitated, and then said as if about to voice a daring thought, “But one who knew how to laugh as well. Because there’s so much joy in our religion.”

I did an inward somersault. “Well, I think I know how to laugh,” I said.

“I know,” she answered with a tiny smile. “From the minute I saw you singing in the bookshop, I knew that the Father of the Universe had sent you there for a reason. You have such joy, Daniel. It shimmers all around you like candlelight.”

She stopped herself, blushing. “But I’m talking too much.”

“No, no,” I pleaded. “Go on, say more. Say anything you like.”

She smiled self-consciously and, her voice nearly in a whisper, answered, “The rest is not for me to say.”

First I requested a private meeting with Reb Vidal and formally asked for his daughter’s hand. I think he would have said yes, but he was so overcome with emotion he merely threw his arms around me. Even in the depths of my insecurity I took this to be a positive sign.

Then, after proudly announcing it to the rest of the family, he proposed we wait another hour to be absolutely certain the stars were shining in New York too, so he could call my uncle to discuss the wedding contract.

My fingers fairly shook as I dialed the number. The minute I heard our phone picked up, I shouted, “It’s me, Danny. I’ve got wonderful news!

I was shocked by the overwhelming silence at the other end. I lowered my voice and said, “Mama, is that you? Is anything wrong?”

All around me I could hear the Vidals murmur with anxiety.

“Oh,” they heard me say with what was left of my voice. “I’ll get on the first plane.”

Totally in shock, I slowly put down the receiver and addressed my hosts. “I’m afraid this conversation will have to wait. Something terrible has happened.”

“What is it, Danny?” Miriam asked anxiously.

“My Uncle Saul …,” I mumbled. “They’ve been trying to find me in New Hampshire … My Uncle Saul’s been shot.”

Shot.
I could scarcely believe the words as I pronounced them. From what my mother had been able to convey, I gathered that Efraim Himmelfarb, one of the Elders, had been so incensed by my uncle’s political declaration in
The New York Times
, that he’d gone berserk, bought a gun, and fired it at close range during Sabbath morning services.

“How is he?” Reb Vidal asked in a voice echoing my own shock.

“He was hit several times,” I muttered. “One of the bullets lodged in his head. They’re operating on him right now, but the chances of him surviving are …”

“Fifty-fifty?” he asked hopefully.

“No,” I replied, feeling hot coals in my chest. “A million to one.”

In my distracted state, I was unable to cope with the full enormity of it and found myself retreating into an absurd intellectuality, pondering how Himmelfarb could justify dishonoring the Sabbath by
carrying
anything.

I heard Reb Vidal’s compassionate words. “Sit down, Danny. I’ll call and see about the planes.”

I sat there frozen, thinking of my beloved uncle, my wise, courageous uncle, when I saw Miriam’s hand before my face, holding a glass of sparkling water.

“Here, Daniel,” she said gently, “you need it.”

Strange, isn’t it? At that moment, I had all I could do to restrain myself from reaching for her hand—for what I really needed was to touch her.

Reb Vidal slowly reentered the room.

“I’m sorry, Daniel,” he said softly. “There’s no flight till seven in the morning.”

“No!” I blurted out. “He’ll be dead by then. I’ll drive.”

“No, Danny—I forbid you.” His strong hands gripped me by the shoulders. “There are some catastrophes we can’t help and some we can avoid. I won’t allow you to drive in the state you’re in.”

I knew he was right, but I was so desperate that I had to act. I looked at him and he understood.

“Do you want to go to
shul
and pray?”

I nodded.

He addressed his wife and daughter. “We’re going to
daven.
You don’t have to wait up.”

“We’ll wait up, Papa, we will,” Miriam insisted. She glanced at me with affection.

As we were putting on our coats Reb Vidal remarked, “Daniel, I think there are many others of us who would like to pray as well for the Silczer Rav. Would you mind if I call them?”

“No,” I murmured. “No, go right ahead,” thinking perhaps a crowd could somehow help absorb part of my pain.

We remained in that small synagogue, about two dozen of us, saying pslams for several hours. No one left. Once in a while a worshiper went for a glass of water but otherwise they prayed without pause as if the fate of the world was at stake. I was assaulted by grief and guilt.

On the day of Eli’s
bar mitzvah
I had spoken words that shaped the fate of our entire community. I had convinced Saul privately not to build our dormitory in the occupied territories. But he had assumed public responsibility from that moment on. And so received the bullet that was meant for me.

As the others were chanting their prayers I went up to the Holy Ark and fell to my knees.

“O Lord, God of my fathers, I humble myself before you. Let Saul live. Do not let the righteous suffer. Let
your wrath be visited on me. Please grant me this, and I will serve you in faithfulness the rest of my days. Amen.”

We stayed till dawn and after morning prayers walked home slowly, physically and emotionally exhausted. The women, who had clearly kept vigil with us, were waiting with hot rolls and coffee. I was afraid to ask if there were any messages. But Mrs. Vidal took the initiative.

“Danny, your mother called …”

“Yes?” I was barely able to draw breath.

“Your uncle—” she stammered. “They operated. They got the bullet. He’s … alive.”

“What?” I gasped.

“The surgeon himself says it was a miracle.”

I was too shocked to speak. I exchanged glances with Reb Vidal, whose tired eyes seemed to mist over as he murmured, “Sometimes—perhaps even when our faith is at its weakest—the Father of the Universe gives us a sign that he has heard our prayers.”

He was right. It was a sign to me.

I could avoid my destiny no longer.

M
ine was not a simple ordination. My uncle saw to it that I was tested by no fewer than four renowned sages—
Gedolei Hatorah
—from different sects all over the city.

In retrospect, what was most curious about it all was that I didn’t study for my examination. I didn’t stay up memorizing likely passages or anything that could have strengthened my performance in this truly sacred questioning. I went through it like a sleepwalker. I was in double shock. Haunted by the specter of gunshots fired at a rabbi standing near an open Ark—by someone who supposedly was one of us. And counterbalancing this horror was the enormous love and joy that I had found in Miriam.