Joshua: A Brooklyn Tale (27 page)

Joshua drifted off to sleep, only to be awakened by his mother’s alarm clock less than an hour later. He opened the door to his bedroom quietly so as not to awaken Celeste. He might as well have been blowing a bugle because she wasn’t there.

Loretta stood behind him. “Well, I’ll be,” she said. “Seems our guest sneaked out while we were sleeping.”

“Seems so,” he said, still looking at the bed.

“What are you gonna do now?”

He thought for a moment. “I don’t know.”

“Maybe it’s best. That girl don’t want help, Joshua, or else she would’ve stayed. There ain’t nothing you can do for someone who don’t want help!”

He knew his mother was right. Celeste was gone, and this time she would make sure he wouldn’t find her. Suddenly, he felt himself unraveling. He couldn’t stop the tears. Loretta took him in her arms.

“It’s okay, Joshua. You did all you could. It’s in God’s hands now.”

With all he’d been through, he couldn’t remember ever having cried until now. And here he was, in his mother’s arms, weeping like a helpless infant. He cried for Celeste, but also for himself, his leg, and his anguish over Rachel. For all the things he would never have.

CHAPTER 29
 

Rachel Weissman’s engagement came as no surprise to Paul Sims. The blow was softened by the fact that things had been progressing well with Chava Feuerstein. He was trying to convince himself, and others, that he was okay, though he sensed that Chava had her own conflicts about him because of his background.

They had recently begun to discuss marriage themselves. In keeping with the custom of consulting the
Rebbe
on all major life decisions, they had sent a letter asking his advice, and had received a prompt reply with his blessing.

The most difficult part would be selling the idea to Alfred and Evelyn. While Paul had long forsaken any hope of gaining their approval, he and Chava would definitely need financial help. There was also the matter of Reb Blesofsky’s fee, which in this case would not be able to be paid by the bride’s parents.

Paul knew he would need assistance in confronting his father, but he had no idea where to turn. In the past, Rabbi Weissman had proven an effective ally in dealing with Alfred, but Paul’s relationship with the rabbi had become strained by the situation with Rachel. He consulted Chava, and she suggested Rav Schachter.

“He is a great leader in the community, and has tremendous influence,” she said.

“But I’ve heard he’s a fanatic, that he doesn’t accept people from backgrounds like mine. He would
never
approve of our engagement!”

“Those are just rumors from those who fear his influence. He has many followers, you know.”

“Are you one of them?” Puzzled.

“Well, my father is.”

Paul found this strange, considering her own predicament.

“Rav Schachter didn’t make my mother ill,” she explained, reading his mind. “He didn’t create the prejudices that people have toward me because of that, either. In fact, he was the one who convinced Reb Blesofsky to help me. That’s why I’m certain he’ll help you.”

Paul considered her point. “You think a man as important as Rav Schachter would take the time to speak with my father?”

“I believe that a man like Rav Schachter would seize any and every opportunity to do a mitzvah.”

Rav Nachum Schachter’s sanctum was a limestone house on the South side of Eastern Parkway, half a block down from the yeshiva dormitory. It was an impressive, three story building, in which the elder rabbi lived and worked, a shrine and gathering place for his followers, and a site surpassed in eminence only by the
Rebbe’s
residence.

Paul arrived on time for his appointment, but still had to wait a good hour. When his turn finally came, one of the rabbi’s assistants escorted him up three flights to the rabbi’s study on the top floor. Paul traipsed up the stairs behind the assistant, failing to keep pace, and was more than a mite winded when he got to the top. The assistant, obviously accustomed to the stairs, offered a quizzical look, which Paul ignored.

Paul was led into the Rabbi’s study, a small but well adorned room with bookcases, a large desk, and several hand carved wooden chairs, all of burnished oak. The assistant instructed him to take a seat.

Rav Schachter sat behind the desk, stroking his beard, scrutinizing his visitor. The rabbi was an imposing man, stout, with grievous brown eyes, bushy reddish-brown hair, and touches of gray at his temples and in his beard. The desk was orderly, except for a few open religious texts which the rabbi was working on. The rabbi closed the books, slowly and deliberately, and signaled for his assistant to shelve them. The disciple did as commanded, then left the room.

It was dark, and Paul felt like he was in one of those interrogation rooms he used to see in spy movies. The only light came from a dim reading lamp on the desk. Another, more substantial lamp, sat behind the rabbi on a small table, but for some reason, it wasn’t on. Paul wondered about this as he waited to be addressed, apprehensive of what he might be asked and how to respond. He was tempted to get up and leave, but he froze.
This
was
a
bad
idea
, he told himself, though it was too late.

Rabbi Nachum Schachter was a keen observer of human nature, and understood that the less men saw the more they feared. Routinely darkening his study before meetings, even with his closest colleagues, was one of many ways in which he maintained his edge, augmenting the mystique of his already revered presence. It was a necessary, albeit manipulative ruse to inspire fidelity among his followers. And most effective.

“So you are the one who is to marry Chava Feuerstein,” the rabbi said.

“Yes, I am.” Tremulous.

“Her father tells me you are a fine young man.”

“I am honored to be entering his family.”

“That is
gut
. The Feuerstein name is a worthy one. A pity it has been marred by such tragedy.”

“Yes, it is. I hope to bring joy and honor to the family.”

“
Gut
. Then what can
I
do for you?” The rabbi glanced at his watch.

“There is a problem, at least I believe there will be a problem, when I tell my parents of my intentions.”

“You mean you have
not
told them?” Feigned consternation, for the rabbi had already been briefed on the purpose of the meeting.

“Yes.”

“How does one become engaged without informing his parents?”

“In this situation, the circumstances are such…”

“Yes, I am aware of the circumstances. But when a young man leaves his home, for whatever reason, he does not forget to honor his parents, does he?”

“No.” Sheepish.

“Then, you must tell them immediately.”

“What if they object?”

“So they object. That is not the issue. You are an adult. If you want to marry, you should marry. But you owe your parents the honor of telling them, that is all.”

“But I would prefer if they didn’t object.”

“And how do you think you can control that?”

“With the rabbi’s assistance.” Paul spoke to the rabbi in the third-person, as he had been taught in the yeshiva, not unlike the way a loyal subject addresses his king.

Rav Schachter reflected for a moment. “And what is it that you would like
me
to do?”

“Talk to my father, if it wouldn’t be too much of a burden.”

“You think that would help?”

“My father is a difficult man to deal with. He doesn’t listen much to what I have to say, but he has always listened to Rabbi Weissman. He frequently disagreed with the rabbi, but he listened.”

“So why don’t you have Rabbi Weissman talk to him?”

“I don’t speak to Rabbi Weissman that often these days.” Faltering.

“Oh, I see.” Hands stroking his beard. “And why, if I may ask, is that?”

Paul didn’t want to go into this. He was surprised by how uninformed Rav Schachter was, surprised
and
fooled
. He dismissed the issue, answering, “Rabbi Weissman and I have been having some differences.”

“Your father, I am told, owns many buildings in our neighborhood.”

“Three or four I think.”

“Yes, I’ve heard his name.” The rabbi stopped, and stared into space, calculating something in his mind.
This
young
man
could
be
useful
in
the
future
. “Yes, perhaps I will speak with him.”

CHAPTER 30
 

Rachel’s wedding was in June, and Joshua had the dubious distinction of being the only black guest among several hundred. He attended and held his head high. The ceremony was outdoors, under the stars, and the reception was in a catering hall next to the synagogue. There was a lot of food, music, and religious dancing. He couldn’t dance because of his leg, not that he was inclined to dance with a bunch of men. But he drank, more than enough to help him forget his sadness.

During the months prior to the wedding, Rachel and he had continued seeing one another, though not as often as before her engagement. She’d visit him at home, call, or meet him in the park every few weeks. They always had much to talk about, though she never stayed for more than an hour.

Joshua hadn’t met Binny until the wedding. Rachel had rarely mentioned him, and Joshua couldn’t tell what she truly felt. She had always managed to avoid the topic, leaving Joshua to wonder if she simply didn’t want to hurt him, or if she couldn’t betray her own disappointment. He had hoped for the latter, had prayed that she would come to her senses and regain her old self, but now his hopes were gone.

Paul Sims also married, just a few months after Rachel. Joshua wasn’t invited, but Loretta was. The night that she came home from the affair, she blabbed incessantly about the food, the music, and the way the guests dressed. Joshua wondered if his mother would ever cease to be impressed by white folks.

Loretta continued working for the Simses. She was growing tired, and it showed. But she never complained; she did what she had to do.

And Joshua forged ahead, keeping his mind on school despite all the things eating at him. He had given up on ever finding Celeste again, though she never left his thoughts. In his heart, he believed that things were not yet over for them, that someday, somehow, their paths would cross again.

Rachel phoned every few weeks, but always on the sly, when Binny wasn’t around. Once, in the middle of a conversation, she heard Binny coming through the front door, and hung up abruptly, without even saying “good-by.” Another time, she called in the middle of night, whispering that she needed to see him. It never came to be.

In December, 1967, Joshua applied and was accepted to Brooklyn College. His guidance counselor claimed his grades were good enough for him to consider better schools, like NYU or Columbia, but he wasn’t interested. He didn’t mention any of that to his mother, knowing she would have loved the idea and would have gone to Alfred Sims for help.

The following spring, on the fourth of April, the TV, newspapers, and radio were filled with news of the assassination of Reverend Martin Luther King Jr. That night, when Joshua came home, he found his mother sitting in the living room, her eyes misty, glued to the television as the reports came in. “Oh my God, Oh Lord,” she chanted over and over again.

“Mama, you okay?” He asked several times.

“I’m fine,” she finally answered. Unconvincing. Lost.

“Do you want me to get you anything? Some water or coffee?”

She didn’t hear him.

He sat quietly beside her, for what seemed an eternity.

Finally, she turned to him and said, “I
do
want you to do something for me. I want you to promise that you won’t leave the house for a few days.”

He looked at her curiously.

“There’s going to be trouble in the streets, rioting, I just know it. I want you to stay put for a couple of days.”

“Rioting?”

She looked at him as if he should have understood this on his own. “There are people out there who’ve just been waiting for a chance like this to riot.” She pointed to the TV. “Now they’ve got one.”

He considered her point, but felt she was overreacting. He remembered having heard about riots in Harlem and Bedford Stuyvesant four years earlier, after a fifteen year old black kid was killed by a cop, and again last year in Harlem and the South Bronx, after an Hispanic man was also killed by a cop. He hadn’t paid much attention to such things, for they only seemed to happen in places ridden with crime and poverty.
Nothing
like
that
could
happen
in
Crown
Heights
, he thought.

Joshua obeyed his mother’s wishes, though in the end he was right. While there were reports of sporadic violence, rock throwing, looting, and arson for a few days in Harlem and Bedford-Stuyvesant, things remained peaceful in Crown Heights.

“See, Mama, I told you there was nothing to worry about,” he said, sitting with her in front of the TV, listening to a news report three days after the assassination.

“Don’t get too pleased with yourself, Joshua,” she answered. “We were just lucky, that’s all.
Lucky
.” She stared off into space, contemplating her own words. “Luck don’t last forever,” she added, seemingly talking to herself. “Sooner or later, it’s got to run out.”