That Day the Rabbi Left Town (8 page)

“Uh-huh.”

“Without benefit of clergy.”

She giggled. “What an old-fashioned phrase.”

“Yes, I suppose it is,” he said with a sigh. “And after a while you decided to get married?”

“That's right. See, we'd been living together for about a year, and everything was fine. So we decided to get married. But it's not the same. In a relationship, both parties are free. One doesn't have a claim on the other, so each tends to be considerate of the other. But when you're married, you do have a claim, and when it's exercised, the other party is apt to feel aggrieved.”

“I don't understand.”

“Well, take the matter of living quarters. Lew is a lawyer and he practices in Salem, where he was born and raised. And he lives in your town, in Barnard's Crossing. He bought a house there. I have a studio apartment here in Boston, within walking distance of the school. Well, when we were in a relationship, sometimes I'd go to Barnard's Crossing—weekends mostly, and of course, for the summer. And a couple of times a week he'd come into town to go to dinner and a movie afterwards. Then he'd stay over at my place, of course. And if I was busy, say at exam time, we didn't see each other at all for a couple of days. I mean, it was like falling in love each time we came together. But when we married, he thought we ought to be together all the time. He wants me to give up my apartment and live in Barnard's Crossing.”

“It's a very nice place to live,” the rabbi remarked.

“Oh sure, but it's no longer fun; it's habit and convenience.”

“And you prefer something inconvenient?”

“Well, it's not so convenient for me. I'd have to get up an hour earlier to get to school. We tried it for a while, but it meant that we were together a lot, and when two people are together a lot, they're apt to get on each other's nerves.”

“And he began to get on your nerves?”

“Well, the difference in our backgrounds had something to do with it, too. See, when we were in this relationship, I was aware that I was sinning, and when I went to Confession, I mentioned it and did penance for it. But this was different. The other could be considered a momentary urge, a sudden lapse from rectitude. But, marrying Lew was making a commitment. It bothered me, and I stopped going to Confession. It was as though in undergoing a secular marriage, I had turned my back on the church.”

“And you think he might have felt the same way?”

“Not at all. I would have felt better if he had. But at the most he was a little bothered by what some of his relatives might be thinking. And this—this easygoing attitude of his used to infuriate me. When I had a wicked or evil thought, I felt I had sinned. But not he. He felt he had not sinned unless he had actually done something wrong. He said that's what Jews believe. Is that right?”

The rabbi nodded slowly, judiciously. “Yes, I suppose it is. We realize that the mind has a will of its own. When it is not focused on some particular idea, it wanders off in all directions. That's a fact of the human condition, and we don't beat our heads against reality. We don't try to censor thought any more than we censor books. Was that the only difference?”

“Oh no, it was all sorts of things, even food. I mean, he wasn't observant or anything like that. I mean he didn't go in for all that kosher stuff, like two sets of dishes, but there were things he'd never eaten. When we went out for dinner and I'd order oysters on the half shell as an appetizer, he'd look away. He couldn't watch me eating them. And after we were married and I'd make a ham steak for dinner, or pork chops, he wouldn't be able to eat. He'd say he wasn't hungry.”

“Early food habits are hard to overcome, I suppose,” said the rabbi.

“Yes, but curiously, he likes lobster. But only in a restaurant. He won't let me buy them and cook them at home.”

“So what happened?”

“So I kept my flat, and during the week I stay there, sometimes with Lew, and sometimes alone.”

“I see, and because sometimes you don't get along with your husband, you became anti-Semitic?”

She laughed. “Oh, that was just to get a rise out of you. I thought you might get kind of stuffy if I upset you.”

“I see. And if I had, you wouldn't want to audit my course?”

“Oh, I guess I would. I really do want to know what—what makes you people tick.”

“Tick?”

“Yes, you know, what makes you different. I think maybe it's because you people don't believe things, and we do.”

“I'm afraid I don't understand.”

“Well, for instance, we're taught to believe in Santa Claus when we're children. And we're four or five years old before we get over it. Do you have anything like that?”

“No, I can't say that we have,” the rabbi answered, his eyes twinkling.

“All right. Then we're taught the Adam and Eve story. That because they sinned by eating the apple, all generations of mankind are born in sin, and if they're not baptized, they'll burn in hell forever when they die. We're usually in our late teens before we begin thinking that it's more symbolic than actual, and some of us go on believing, at least on Sundays. That gives you a head start on the rest of us: you don't have to believe in anything if it doesn't make sense. Life is so easy for you. You don't have to worry about hell all the time. There was a saint or a holy man of some sort in the Middle Ages who never laughed. He said, ‘My Lord is crucified and shall I laugh?' Well, we have the feeling that enjoyment, anything that gives us pleasure, is apt to be sinful and may lead to hell. It wouldn't be so bad if yours was one of those strange Eastern religions like Buddhism, say, but ours derives from yours, and your prophets are also ours. But you can enjoy life while we can't. So we're jealous of you. Maybe that's the reason for anti-Semitism.”

He smiled. “And you think by taking my course you might learn to disbelieve?”

“You're laughing at me,” she said, “but I'm thinking I might get to know Lew better.”

Chapter 12

Three of the four desks and the several tables had been removed, and a large, oblong table had been installed instead. A dozen chairs had been set around the table, and the rabbi wheeled his swivel chair over. A blackboard had been installed in a corner: the rabbi wrote his name on it and announced, “I am Rabbi David Small.”

He glanced at his class list and said, “On the basis of the names on my list, I presume all of you are Jewish.” He smiled. “So we have a minyan.”

“There are only nine of us,” someone objected.

“And I make the necessary ten,” said the rabbi. “Being the tenth man at a minyan has become a function of the American rabbi, I'm afraid.”

“But two are girls,” the same student objected.

“True, but quite acceptable in liberal Judaism,” said the rabbi. “As for those of you who are Orthodox, there is no reason for disapproval since we are not here to
daven
but to study.”

At that point, the door opened and Sarah McBride entered breathless. “I'm sorry,” she said, “but I was detained.”

“Quite all right,” said the rabbi. “This is Ms. McBride, whom some of you may know is in the English Department. She will be auditing the course. And now I shall read off your names, and will you stand or raise your hand when your name is called.”

He noted as a matter of minor interest that some of those who had Jewish first names had not Anglicized them. Mosheh did not become Morris or Maurice as it would have a generation ago, or Moses as it would have several generations earlier, and Yitzchak did not become Isaac or Isadore or Irwin. He thought it might portend a greater interest in Judaism, until it occurred to him that Hispanics tended to remain José and did not become Joseph; and that among Italians, Mario tended to be preferred to Mark.

“I arranged for this blackboard to be brought in so that I can make an occasional note for you to copy—mostly names of books or writers. But right now, I'd rather you didn't take notes. For my own purposes, I would like each of you to write a short account of what religious education you have had. List what Religious Schools or Sunday Schools you may have attended, for how long, and the material that you covered.”

“What if we didn't go to any?” asked one.

“Then you will say so, of course. But you may have received instruction at home. I'd like you to tell me about that.”

“How long?”

“When is it due?”

“Look,” said the rabbi, “let's not make a big thing out of this. I'd like it in by the next meeting. And it can be as long as you like: a dozen pages or a single page, or even a paragraph. I don't want an essay on your personal religion, just some indication of your background in Judaism. And by the way, there is no need to raise your hands when you want to say something or ask a question. We're like a committee meeting here, so the common courtesy that you would naturally observe in a small group should be satisfactory. Now let me explain what I have in mind for this course. I intend to outline basic Jewish ideas that are generally agreed to by informed—not necessarily learned—Jews. Informed, rather than scholarly. The distinction is important.

“We are an ancient people with a continuous history covering several thousand years, and since we have never discouraged, much less forbidden, discussion and disagreement, it is inevitable that there should be many, many different views of what Jews should believe. But the fundamental character of the belief cuts across lines of disagreement, and our basic beliefs are fundamentally the same.

“Our religion starts with Chapter Twenty in Exodus, and—”

“Doesn't it start with Genesis, with Adam and Eve?”

The rabbi smiled. “No, those are myths and fables attempting to explain our origins on earth. All people wonder about two things: how they got here, that is, how mankind got here on earth, and how evil came about. For example, the ancient Greeks attributed the origin of man to Prometheus and explained the presence of evil by the legend of Pandora's box. Characteristically, perhaps, we explain it by disobedience to God's commandment. The stories of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, and later Joseph, however, probably have some historical validity. And I say this because all have faults. If they were purely legendary, if they were merely thought up, I don't think we would have included their faults.

“In any case, we believe that we derive from them, the so-called Fathers, just as we believe that we were chosen by God to be a light unto the nations.”

“Do you believe that?”

The rabbi shrugged. “It's a common enough belief among nations that they have a special mission with respect to the rest of the world. The Greeks thought they alone were civilized and all other people were barbarians or savages. The Romans thought it was their duty to spread the benefits of Roman law and order to the rest of the world. The Spaniards thought their function was to spread Catholicism, and the English felt that they were conferring the benefits of Victorian England on India and Africa. Our own country feels a mission to spread democracy, just as, until very recently, the Russians thought it was their function to spread communism. And then there is Islam, which once again feels it has a special mission. The big difference is that we were enjoined to do it by force of example rather than by the sword. You may ridicule the idea that an Almighty God would select one group of people from all the rest, but the fact is that that group believed it, and more or less acted accordingly.”

A student ventured, “Is that the official view?”

“How do you mean ‘official'?” asked the rabbi.

“Well, you know, the accepted version of the Jewish church or synagogue, or whatever you call it?”

“If you're thinking of an official creed,” said the rabbi, “we don't have one. Every synagogue is autonomous. And every Jew tends to interpret the Law as he sees fit, as it applies to himself. We have laws governing our dealings with others, but we are free to use our minds without restraint or censorship. Someone else, another rabbi, or any other Jew, might find my interpretation entirely unacceptable, but he would not repudiate my right to my opinion.”

“And women, do they have the right to interpret the Law?” asked one of the female students.

“That's not really a question, is it, Ms. Goldman? I mean, it wasn't asked to elicit a definite answer. It was asked in order to point out discrimination against women in Judaism. Wasn't it? This discrimination is apt to refer to such things as the separation of the sexes in the synagogue—”

“The women have to sit in a balcony, behind a curtain yet,” said Ms. Goldman with indignation.

“Only in Orthodox synagogues,” the rabbi pointed out, “and old-fashioned ones at that. The idea is that the sight of the women might distract the men from their prayers. You could argue that it is complimentary to women. It was not so long ago that practically all colleges were either for men or for women; only state colleges were coeducational.”

“My grandfather said the public schools were segregated by sex, too,” a student volunteered. “Girls sat on one side of the room and boys on the other.”

“Yeah, there was a picture in the textbook we used in Education 101 last year,” said another.

The rabbi nodded. “Does that explain it for you, Ms. Goldman? If you look into the matter in depth, I think you'll find that women have what many would regard as a preferred position in Judaism. The center of our religion is not the synagogue, but the home, and there the woman is obviously in command. And then there is the matter of the Ketubah.
What
is a Ketubah, anyone?”

“It's the marriage contract, isn't it?” said a student.

“That's right, Mr.—er—”

“Ritter. Asher Ritter.”

“You're quite right, Mr. Ritter. But it's a one-way contract. It gives the duties of the groom and the promises he makes to the bride, but there is no corresponding list of obligations and promises of the bride to the groom.”