Acts of Faith

  I nodded.

  “And you’ll stay at the house tonight.”

  “No!” Malka objected.

  Mama looked at her sternly. “Excuse me, while Moses is … ill, I make the rules,” she said.

  They arranged for my mother to sleep at the hospital. My sisters and their husbands could walk there after morning services.

  Both couples left before night fell, so they could at least ride home on the bus.

  I waited with my mother, shared a partly defrosted kosher dinner provided by the hospital through which we barely spoke, and finally, when she had been given a sedative, left for home.

  As I wandered through the darkened streets, something in me prayed I would be mugged.

  Because I wanted to be physically assaulted for the unspeakable crime I had committed.

  Though she was exhausted from the flight, and fraught with worry, Deborah looked healthier and prettier than I had ever seen her. Tanned and slender, she was totally unlike the pale, slightly overweight teenager I remembered.

  We hugged each other tightly, in a moment of both joy and sadness. I had been at the hospital earlier and could reassure her that Papa had regained consciousness at six A.M., spoken briefly with Mama, and then gone to sleep.

  “When can I see him?” she asked urgently.

  “So far they’re only allowing Mama to go in. They may let him have more visitors this evening.”

  “Danny, what exactly happened?”

  I told her of my Great Betrayal and Malka’s accusation of attempted patricide.

  “Listen, Danny,” she said affectionately, “no law says we have to live out our parents’ fantasies.”

  I looked at her. A lot more had changed than her appearance.

  Understandably, Deborah felt pretty grimy from the plane trip and wanted to wash and change. While she was showering, I sat on the bed, happy to be in her room again.

  A small overnight case was flipped open, and underneath two paperbacks I noticed a photograph of a radiant woman holding a handsome blond baby. The background clearly was the kibbutz.

  The woman was Deborah.

  And it did not look like someone else’s child.

  I was in such mental disarray that I couldn’t find the words to broach the subject with Deborah on our ride to the hospital. The focus of all my anxiety was my father’s health.

  When we arrived my half sisters and their husbands were all crowded around Papa’s door, keeping impatient vigil.

  Naturally, Malka greeted me with another reproach. “You didn’t come to services yesterday.”

  I protested that what I did with my life was none of her business. I did not feel I owed her the whole truth, which was that I had felt too guilty to appear in public. I had spent the entire morning up in my room praying on my own. But she continued haranguing me, arguing that if I had come to shul they could have called me to the Torah and then said a special prayer for Father’s recovery.

  I retorted that if she felt so strongly, she could have gone to Beth El, the new Reform synagogue on Ocean Parkway, where women are called to the Torah.

  “They’re not real Jews,” Malka retorted. “They have organ music—like a church.”

  “They had all kinds of music in the Holy Temple,” Deborah said. “Read Jeremiah 33:11, and you’ll find an allusion to Psalm One hundred being performed by the Levitical chorus and orchestra.”

  This stupid debate would have become even more acrimonious had Mama not appeared from inside the room. None of us dared ask how he was. We merely gazed at her.

  “He talks—a little fuzzy, but he talks,” she began quietly. “The doctor said the girls can see him one at a time—”

  “Thank God,” Malka muttered and started to go in.

  “No.” My mother stopped her. “He wants to see Deborah first.”

  My eldest sister froze in her tracks. “Why?”

  “Because that’s what he wants,” Mama asserted.

  I could see that Deborah was herself unsettled by this curious disregard of family hierarchy. Scarcely daring to breathe, she tentatively opened the door and entered.

  She was in with him for about ten minutes, after which he spoke with the other sisters. As we stood outside, I asked Deborah how he was. She shrugged “Okay”—and had to bite her lip to keep from crying.

  “What’s wrong? Is he still angry with you?”

  She shook her head. “He … he asked me to forgive him.”

  In the ensuing moments, I allowed myself a scintilla of hope. Perhaps he and I might also have a miraculous reconciliation.

  When she came out, Malka answered the question before I could even pose it. “He doesn’t want to see you, Daniel—not at all.”

  “But why?” I pleaded.

  “He says his son must become a rabbi. The Master of the Universe demands it.”

  At that moment, Deborah—bless her—gripped my arm and squeezed it hard. It kept my heart from stopping.

  It was strange. During the bus ride home from the hospital Deborah and I scarcely exchanged a word. I assumed she was silent out of concern for Father. I later discovered she had been thinking the same about me. And yet we had so many things to share. So many thoughts that could only be our secret property. Despite the distance and the lapses in communication, we knew that we were still the best friends that we had or would ever have.

  By the time we got home, I could no longer bear the suspense. I made us both some lemon tea and sat down across from her.

  “Deb,” I started tentatively, “can we have one of those heart-to-hearts we used to have when we were kids?”

  “I’d like that, too.”

  I then asked her straight out, “Deborah, do you have a child?”

  She answered without blinking, “Yes.”

  “How come you didn’t tell me you were married?”

  She hesitated for a moment and then said, “Because I’m not.”

  I was too shocked to say any more and assumed she would interpret my silence as a subtle question mark, a delicate demand for more information. But she vouchsafed none.

  “Hey look,” I remarked at last, “I’m not making a moral judgment …”

  Her mouth was closed so tightly that her lips were white.

  “Okay,” I said in defeat, “if you don’t want to tell me—”

  “No, no,” she cut me off. “I do, I want to. But it’s just so hard.”

  “Fine,” I answered, “drink your tea. I’m in no hurry.” In truth I was burning with curiosity and could not keep myself from asking, “Was he somebody from the kibbutz?”

  She held back for a moment, then answered softly. “Yes, someone at the kibbutz.”

  “Oh, I guess those stories about ‘free love’ aren’t apocryphal.”

  What an unthinking shmuck I was. That really hurt her.

  “It wasn’t just an affair,” she protested, tears welling in her eyes. “He was in the Air Force.” She added softly, “He was killed.”

  “Oh, God,” I said, desperately groping for words. “That’s terrible. I’m so sorry.”

  I put my arms around her. We held each other tightly for a moment, then wept together.

  Ironically, she tried to comfort me. “Danny, Danny, it’s okay. The baby’s got grandparents on the kibbutz—and about a dozen brothers and sisters.”

  “Does Papa know?”

  She shook her head.

  “Mama?”

  She shook her head again.

  “But why? It would still bring them some joy to know about the baby. By the way, is it my nephew or my niece?”

  “A boy,” she answered tonelessly. “His name’s Elisha.”

  “Elisha—‘God is my Salvation,’ ” I translated as a reflex. “That’s lovely. What made you choose it?”

  For some reason she was unable to answer this straightforward question.

  “Hey, Deb,” I said as cheerfully as possible. “This is still something we should celebrate. Mazel tov. He looks like a sweet
kid. I wish you’d brought him along.”

  I couldn’t keep from adding, “He might even have consoled Papa for my premature death.”

  “C’mon, Danny.” came her rejoinder, “don’t talk that way. You two will work it out.”

  “No,” I shook my head. “He swore he’d never speak to me again unless I’m Rabbi Luria. And that means never.”

  “I still don’t understand why you couldn’t go through with it,” she said. “What difference would a few more weeks have made? That might have pacified him—and bought you time.”

  “That’s just it,” I answered, growing angry. “I wanted to stand up to him, to show him that he couldn’t push me around anymore.” Her face seemed frozen as I murmured, “Yes, I know I’ll burn in Hell for this.”

  “I thought we Jews didn’t believe in Hell,” she said.

  “Sorry, Deb,” I pedantically corrected her. “We do—it’s called Gehinnom. So if you want my future address, better write on asbestos.”

  She looked at me quizzically. “I don’t get it. You believe in Hell. You believe in the Day of Judgment. Do you believe in God?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why can’t you be a rabbi?”

  “Because,” I answered, pain wrenching me, “I don’t believe in myself.”

  38

  Deborah

  All the world will come and greet Thee

  And praise Thy glorious name.…

  The congregation sang the concluding hymn loudly and fervently. Then, as they bowed their heads, their spiritual leader raised his hands in benediction.

  May the Lord bless you and keep you,

  May He cause the light of His countenance

  to shine upon you and be gracious unto you,

  May He lift his spirit toward you

  and grant you peace.

  As the huge organ pipes began to sound forth with the solemn notes of Albinoni’s “Adagio in G minor,” Rabbi Stephen Goldman, dressed in black robes and a hat that, except for its color, looked like a cardinal’s biretta, strode energetically down the center aisle of Temple Beth El. He stood at the exit, personally extending Sabbath greetings to his congregants as they left.

  Though the Tabernacle was air-conditioned, their numbers were few on this hot June evening. After some three dozen handshakes, the crowd had thinned enough for Rabbi Goldman to notice the deeply tanned young woman standing nervously in the center of a distant pew.

  He caught her eye with a smile and bade her exchange Sabbath greetings. “Shabbat Shalom,” said the rabbi, as he shook her hand. “You’re new, aren’t you?”

  “Actually, I’m only here for a few days.”

  “Oh,” he responded. “And your name?”

  “Deborah,” she replied. Then, self-consciously added, “Deborah Luria.”

  “Not one of the Lurias?” he asked in genuine awe.

  “Yes,” she answered hesitantly.

  “What on earth brought you to worship here? Don’t you people regard us as pagans?”

  “I’m not exactly one of them anymore. I live on a kibbutz.”

  “Wonderful,” he reacted enthusiastically. “Which one?”

  “Kfar Ha-Sharon. Do you know it?”

  “Indeed I do. Several of my classmates in the seminary spent summers there. Don’t you can tomatoes or something?”

  “Not exactly,” Deborah smiled. “We freeze potatoes.”

  “Well, at least I knew it was vegetables,” he joked. “Can you wait a minute while I shake a few more hands? I’d like to chat.”

  She nodded.

  In a matter of moments, Deborah and the young rabbi were seated in adjacent pews, sharing Israeli reminiscences.

  “I enjoyed your sermon, Rabbi.”

  “Thank you,” he replied. “Korah’s rebellion against Moses lends itself to a host of modern analogies—including the Board of Trustees of a Temple.”

  “Will you be speaking again tomorrow morning?” she inquired.

  “Yes, on the special Isaiah portion.”

  “I recall chapter sixty-six,” Deborah said. “I love the image of Jerusalem as a woman in labor. The metaphors are striking.”

  “You certainly know your stuff,” the rabbi commented. “But I would expect no less from the daughter of the Rav. How long will you be here?”

  “I can’t really say. My father’s had a stroke. He’s still in the hospital.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. How serious is it?”

  “Pretty bad,” she replied. “But we hope he’ll come through with a minimum of damage.”

  “With your permission, I’d like to say a prayer for his recovery tomorrow morning. Will you be here?”

  “That’s very kind of you. Yes, of course I’ll come.”

  “Fine,” he answered. “Then we’ll call you up to read the Torah.”

  Until this instant, Deborah had regarded herself as liberated. Now, she suddenly realized she was not.

  “Oh, no—no, I can’t do that,” she stammered.

  “I don’t see why not,” Rabbi Goldman countered. “I’m sure you read Hebrew better than I do. And, besides, all you’ll need to say are the blessings, which—”

  “I know the blessings,” she stopped him. “It’s just the way I was brought up.”

  “You don’t have to spell it out,” he replied sympathetically. “But are you bold enough to defy tradition and taste a little equality?”

  She hesitated. But only for a millisecond. Come on, Deborah, she thought, you’ve waited your whole life for this.

  “Yes,” she answered bravely. “I’d be honored to read the blessings.”

  “Good,” Rabbi Goldman said. “The honor is mutual. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

  “Thank you, Rabbi,” she said hastily, and darted off.

  Deborah was giddy with a mixture of excitement and fear.

  Tomorrow—except for the day Eli was born—would be the most important moment of her life.

  As Danny had at age thirteen, she would perform the rite of passage marking her full acceptance as an adult in the Jewish world.

  It was a beautiful June morning.

  Perfect beach weather, Deborah thought to herself. With luck, no one will show up in Temple.

  She was not far off the mark. Of the few dozen worshipers sitting in the vast sanctuary, most were senior citizens.

  Deborah sat in the back—but on the aisle so she could get up the instant her name was called. During the early prayers she nervously twisted her handkerchief, hoping Rabbi Goldman would acknowledge her signals of desperation. But from where he sat on the pulpit, he merely smiled reassuringly.

  Finally, at twenty minutes past eleven, the congregation rose. The Holy Ark was opened, and the rabbi and his cantor withdrew the Sacred Scrolls, holding them as lovingly as parents would a precious child.

  Two congregants—one male, one female—helped to remove the breastplate and other finery that decked the Scroll they were to read from, spreading it open to the passage for the day.

  Earlier, as he had entered the sanctuary before the service and passed her row, the rabbi had whispered, “Good morning, Deborah. You’re number four.”

  Now she waited nervously as the cantor sang out successively in Hebrew, “Let the first reader arise. Let the second … Let the third …”

  Deborah sat holding her breath, afraid she would not hear her number, or would stand too soon.

  At last she heard—or thought she heard, “Let the fourth …”

  She took a deep breath. Suddenly, miraculously, she found herself in total command.

  Walking straight-backed, she mounted the carpeted steps to a point less than ten feet from Rabbi Goldman, and even closer to the Torah.

  This was the nearest she had ever been to the sacred parchment.

  Just as she reached the holy words the cantor placed the silken prayer shawl on her shoulders. She shivered.

  This was the garment traditionally worn exclusively by men. Yet now it graced
her shoulders, befitting the honor about to be bestowed on her.

  With silver pointer the cantor indicated where her text was to begin. She took the fringes of her prayer shawl, placed them on the lettering, and then kissed the shawl as she must have seen men do in her father’s synagogue ten thousand times.

  Almost clandestinely, the cantor then slipped a large white index card into her line of sight on the lectern. She glanced downward. They were the Hebrew prayers for the Torah, written out phonetically in English letters.

  But Deborah Luria knew it all by heart:

  Blessed art Thou, O Lord, King of the Universe,

  Who chose us from among the nations

  and honored us with the gift of the Torah …

  She tried to follow the silver pointer, as the cantor sang out her portion, but her eyes were blurred with tears.

  Then it was over, except for her closing prayer of thanksgiving. This time, she sang in a strong voice that acknowledged the momentous significance of the occasion.

  The cantor began to chant the special prayer that was the traditional reward for one who has been called up.

  Again, Deborah could almost have said it with him.

  “May He Who blesses our Fathers—Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob …”

  Then she was startled to hear something new. For the cantor continued, “… and our Mothers—Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel, and Leah—may He bless …”

  Leaning over to Deborah, he asked her Hebrew name.

  She whispered it.

  “… Deborah, daughter of Rav Moses and Rachel, and may He send a full recovery to her honored father.…”

  In her short lifetime, Deborah had known mighty and apocalyptic moments. But this transcended all of them. It was as if lightning had struck her soul, setting it ablaze.

  She had performed her filial duty. And believed with all her heart that God had heard the prayer for her father.

  As she walked down the aisle, various congregants showered her with “Congratulations” and “More power to you.”

  It was almost too much to bear, and she would have continued out of the synagogue had she not spied a figure peering from behind a pillar.