Acts of Faith

  “Friends—this is an hour of great danger. It is so grave that what we do tonight will determine whether we can remain together or will disintegrate into a thousand pieces, scattering into the void. I do not exaggerate. Nor do I fear that any of the words spoken here will go beyond these walls, since in our community brother does not betray brother.”

  He sighed deeply. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have put it that way. Because one of our number has played Cain to the Abel of us all. The guilty party deserves no anonymity, so let me simply say that Rebbe Lazar Schiffman, the chief of our Jerusalem yeshiva, has absconded with money given over the years in good faith to foster the teaching of righteousness.”

  There were murmurs among the huge crowd, and the Rav let them crescendo. He was counting on their feelings of communal desperation to intensify their will to act.

  “Now I could give this matter to the secular authorities and have them deal with it as the theft that it is. But that would rob us of our good name also, which the Torah teaches us is our most valued possession. Instead,” he continued, “I have called you together this evening to make an extraordinary appeal. Our congregation is nearly one thousand in number. Some are teachers, shopkeepers, men of modest means. There are also businessmen whose wealth is considerable. We can clear ourselves of shame by raising the sum of …” He paused to take a breath and could barely pronounce a sum of such magnitude. Finally, he said, “Nearly two million dollars.”

  More murmurs. Fear was palpable in the air.

  “We have already arranged second mortgages on this sanctuary and our school, but this will give us only slightly more than two hundred thousand dollars. The rest must somehow be found from among our brethren. Remember,” the Rav went on, his voice quavering with emotion, “if we don’t succeed, we will all be called criminals.

  “This is not like a Yom Kippur appeal, where there’s time to go home and discuss, to think, to weigh, to balance. You must give the ultimate of your resources—now.”

  As the rabbi spoke, Sexton Isaacs and some of the older boys from the school began to hand each member of the congregation a form mimeographed that afternoon. Upstairs, girls gave copies to the women.

  “After filling these out,” Rav Luria concluded, “I suggest that you rise and begin reciting the psalms.…”

  The buzzing was loudest yet. The crinkle of paper and the creak of shoes on the old wooden floor added to the sound of chaos.

  In a matter of minutes the congregants, having poured forth pledges from their coffers, rose one by one to pour out their souls in prayer.

  Meanwhile, at the pulpit an extraordinary ritual was taking place. Sexton Isaacs was murmuring the contents of the pledge sheets to Dr. Cohen and two other elders of the congregation.

  They had been feverishly engaged in this activity for forty-five minutes, when the Rav gave out so loud a sigh that it immediately silenced the worshipers.

  “I regret to say we’re nowhere near it. Our disgrace is inevitable. I will compose a short statement, trying to dissociate ourselves from Rebbe Schiffman’s actions and pledging restitution though it take a hundred years.”

  Suddenly a voice came from the balcony.

  “Just a minute, Papa.”

  All heads turned and looked up. Normally, the men would have berated a woman who dared to interrupt from behind the mechitza, but these were special circumstances. And this was the Rav’s daughter.

  “Yes, Deborah?” her father asked quietly. “Why are you interrupting?”

  She moved to the very edge of the balcony and stretched out her arm. A pink rectangular paper fluttered in her grasp.

  “Rabbi Luria,” she said in a dignified voice. “With your permission, I’d like to make an announcement.”

  Sensing the anxiety of his congregants to hear what Deborah had to say, he responded with a toneless, “Go ahead.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” she began. Behind her she could feel the women congregants bristle with uneasiness at the priority she had given them. “What I hold in my hand,” she continued, “is a banker’s check made out to the B’nai Simcha in the sum of …” She paused. For she, too, had a sense of the dramatic. She then completed her sentence, “… one million seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

  There were confused gasps. No one, not even Mrs. Herscher on the seat closest to her, could believe that they had heard correctly.

  For all his wisdom, Rav Luria was genuinely baffled. “And is this person not present so we can thank him?”

  “No,” Deborah replied. “And he demands no thanks whatever. He has only one simple request.”

  Before the Rav could ask what it might be, his congregants had found their voices and were already shouting the same question.

  “Our benefactor simply wants to be called to the Torah on Sabbath morning for the blessing that only Rav Luria can give him.”

  Thoughts like fluttering birds flew among the congregants: What a righteous man this must be. All eyes were focused intently on the Rav. They could tell from his expression that he had finally understood to whom he owed this enormous debt.

  Yet they were thunderstruck by his response.

  “You may tell your brother, Daniel, that however dire our circumstances, we will not compromise our principles. Redemption cannot be bought.”

  “Do you mean you refuse, Papa?” Deborah asked in hoarse astonishment.

  “Yes, absolutely,” said the Rav, pounding his fist on the lectern in an uncontrollable outburst. “I refuse, I refuse, I refuse!”

  The entire congregation was on its feet. Voices shouted, “No, Rav Luria!” and “Bless him, bless him!”

  Above all this din, the fiercest objection came from Deborah. “For the love of God, Papa, don’t be so selfish—”

  “ ‘Selfish’?” the Rav shouted furiously, his face reddening. “How dare you presume—”

  Suddenly, he clutched his chest and staggered backward.

  The congregation was shocked to silence even before the Rav’s collapsing body touched the floor.

  From the balcony Rachel Luria opened her mouth to scream, but no sound emerged.

  Time seemed paralyzed as Dr. Cohen knelt down. Then from the farthest corner they could hear him whisper, “He’s dead. Rav Luria is dead.”

  The moment the congregation heard the doctor’s awesome pronouncement, they acted instinctively, saying almost in unison the prayer required upon hearing of a loved one’s death: “Blessed is the Lord—a righteous judge.”

  The silence that followed was broken by the chilling sound of all those present tearing a portion of their garments as a sign of mourning. It was as if the Heavens themselves were being rent asunder. A great leader had died in public, and they were all obliged to humble themselves.

  Both Deuteronomy and Talmud Sanhedrin ordain that a body be buried on the day of death, if at all possible, even if it be at midnight. Thus for a man as great as Moses Luria no energy would be spared to make arrangements quickly.

  As if by magic, several figures suddenly materialized, members of the Chevra Kaddisha—the Holy Brotherhood.

  No one was sure who had called them. Yet, there they were, a special band of holy men prepared at all times to fulfill their solemn task of honoring the dead.

  They transported Rav Luria’s body back to his home. As his wife and daughters were left to wail and keen with the other women in a lower room, hurriedly the Brotherhood made preparations for a midnight burial.

  Dr. Cohen and Uncle Saul, elders representing the congregation, stood as mute witnesses while the Holy Brotherhood went about their work by candlelight. Mystic tradition ordained that there be twenty-six tapers surrounding the body.

  Their leader recited a prayer so ancient it was dated back to the first century. It implored the Holy One to grant that the deceased may “walk with the righteous in the Garden of Eden.”

  Murmuring psalms and biblical phrases, the Holy Brotherhood placed a sheet on the legs and torso—for someone of the Rav’s
eminence should never have his nakedness exposed. They then washed his head and hair with various liquids, including raw egg, cleansed the rest of the body through the covering, and closed all its orifices with cotton.

  At this point, two members of the society grasped Rav Luria’s corpse and held him upright as others poured vessels of water over the dead man in a continuous stream, chanting, “He is pure. He is pure. He is pure.”

  They then began to wrap the body in a hand-sewn shroud, his prayer shawl, and a cowl for his head.

  But there was a final ceremony to be performed before covering the dead man’s face with a veil.

  The leader of the Brotherhood addressed Dr. Cohen.

  “This act should be done by his son.”

  “We’ve contacted Danny,” the physician explained. “He’s on his way from Manhattan. But who knows how long it will take? We’re pressed for time. Besides, Rebbe Saul here is also a member of the family.”

  “No.” The leader gestured imperiously. “It should be the son. We will wait a little longer.” All stood motionless, some quietly reciting prayers, until at last Daniel Luria timidly entered the room, his face nearly as white as his dead father’s.

  “Danny,” his uncle began in a voice which, even as he whispered, was an octave lower than everyone else’s. “I’m glad you’ve come.”

  The new arrival was speechless. His eyes darted about the room, emanating fear.

  53

  Daniel

  What I felt was actually beyond fear. It was kind of a mortal panic—expecting to be directly blamed for his death, and most of all, a dread of looking at my father’s body.

  But the greatest pain I felt was from the hopes that had been shattered by Deborah’s phone call. What an irony. I had been waiting by the phone to hear the happy news that my father had agreed to bless and take me back into his favor. Instead, my sister’s grief-numbed voice informed me that the man whose love I craved with every atom of my being had rejected me even in death.

  During the endless taxi ride from Manhattan, I’d brooded on the event. I simply could not believe that anyone waiting in that room—where my father was lying—would countenance my presence.

  And yet, though a prodigal, I was nonetheless the only son, and as such had a special duty to perform.

  The leader pointed at me. I hesitated. He was standing at the far side of the table, holding a gauze veil, but I did not think I could bear the sight of my father’s uncovered face. I took several paces forward and still could not look down.

  One of the assistants stretched out his fist, clearly wanting me to take what he was clutching.

  “This is the sacred earth—earth from the Holy Land. You must put some on his eyes.” He emptied the grains into my trembling hands.

  At long last I found the courage to steal a look.

  To my amazement, my father looked benign. In fact, he even seemed to smile, the way I still remembered him when I was young and had sat upon his knee. Now, paradoxically, I could not tear my glance away. I stared at Moses Luria, the man I had worshiped, loved—and feared—and was struck by a bizarre, irrational longing.

  Can’t I wake you up, Father? Can’t you give me more time to make you understand? To try to tell you why I acted as I did? And most of all, to beg you to forgive me. Please don’t go to sleep forever with hate for me entombed in your heart.

  Uncle Saul touched me, dispelling my reverie of pain.

  “Go ahead, Danny,” he whispered gently. “It’s getting late.”

  I took some earth and sprinkled it on his closed eyes—and as I did so, accidentally brushed my fingers on his forehead.

  It felt cold but not quite without life. Could he have heard my thoughts? The leader tapped my shoulder, motioning me to step aside. I forced myself to go and stand with Uncle Saul as they placed the cloth over my father’s face and lifted his body into a plain pine coffin.

  Half-hypnotized, I followed as they carried that box down the stairs. I saw Mama and Deborah trying to push closer, hoping to catch a final glimpse of their husband and father.

  I squeezed through the crowd and embraced them. Deborah was mute with grief, but Mama managed to beg me softly, “Tell him I’ll always love him, Danny.”

  It was only when I walked out of the house toward the hearse that the enormity of the moment hit me. The darkened streets were lined with people. Hundreds—perhaps thousands—of them. They jostled me to the head of the procession that was forming.

  And these were not merely the B’nai Simcha. As we continued to follow the hearse, we passed through different neighborhoods where members of other sects stood reverently, paying their ultimate respect. My father’s pious reputation far transcended the small confines of our territory.

  At last, when we had reached the frontier of the outside world, we clambered into cars and began the drive to Sha’aray Tzedek Cemetery. I was now alone again with my thoughts—which turned back to Mama and Deborah. Since our women were forbidden from going to the cemetery, they were forced to stay at home, denied the honor and comfort of seeing Papa laid to rest.

  I think I grieved for them almost as much as for him.

  Suddenly, I saw the fires.

  A second earlier, the window of our car had looked out on a blackness so profound it matched the inside of my soul. And now, flames were everywhere. Dozens of men had surrounded our car brandishing huge torches.

  They removed my father’s coffin from the hearse, and we began the stark convoy to his grave.

  At one point in the seven stops for prayer, I dared to look quickly behind me. I saw Uncle Saul weeping as he recited one of the psalms in what sounded like a protracted moan. Behind him were my brothers-in-law, Dr. Cohen, the elders, and hundreds of people I did not know at all.

  The frenzy of their mourning turned the event into a kind of ecstasy of grieving, which, illuminated by dancing flames, dizzied me. Now and then I could distinguish a word, a phrase from one of the psalms.

  “Lord, make me to know mine end … how fleeting I am …”

  I should have been praying too. I wanted to. But somehow I was too overwhelmed to make the words come.

  At last we reached the newly hollowed grave. The pallbearers placed the coffin on the ground and waited for me to perform my filial duty—to say the words that every Jew can recite by heart, as if he had rehearsed for moments such as this throughout his life.

  The huge throng hushed as, in a voice that barely escaped the prison of my throat, I started the burial Kaddish: “Extolled and hallowed be the name of the Lord in His world that is to be created anew, for He will revive the dead and raise them unto life eternal.…”

  The congregation joined me: “Praised be His glorious name forever and ever.”

  At this terrible moment I could not forget that this was the prayer my father had recited on my own symbolic death.

  The pallbearers lowered the coffin into the grave as the leader recited: “O Lord and King who art full of compassion … in thy great loving kindness, receive the soul of Rav Moses, son of Rav Daniel Luria, who has been gathered unto his people.…”

  I shuddered when I heard my father referred to as the son of the man whose name I bear. Except, of course, my grandfather had been Rav Daniel Luria.

  At the end of the prayer, the cemetery was so silent that the flickering of torches sounded almost like gunfire. The leader of the society signaled to me. I knew my duty. I took up the waiting spade and shoveled earth upon the coffin.

  Then, as others—countless, countless others—followed suit, I whispered Mama’s message and walked off to drown myself in darkness.

  54

  Daniel

  During the traditional seven days of mourning we all sat in our torn garments on boxes or low stools, enduring a million attempts at consolation.

  It was a kind of limbo in our lives, punctuated only by the thrice-daily prayer sessions, during which we—the men—recited the Kaddish.

  In accordance with an ancient custom, al
l mirrors in our house were either covered or turned to the wall. No one really knows the origin of this practice, but I personally think it is to keep the mourners from seeing their own reflections and dying of guilt for being alive.

  The dignitaries who came from all over to pay their respects could say nothing to assuage my grief. The only thing that might have helped me was solitude. And that, ironically, became the only thing denied me.

  By contrast, Mama seemed to take solace from the many women friends who flocked around her, sustaining a stream of sighs and syllables that—at least to her wounded soul—seemed to pass for conversation.

  My heart went out to little Eli. Barely seven years old, he was not only traumatized by the event itself, but also upset by the sight of his grown-up relatives crying, and frightened by the crowds of black-coated strangers milling in the house and murmuring prayers at all hours.

  Still worse, there was no one to pay adequate attention to his special needs. Too blinded by our own sorrow, Deborah and I simply failed him.

  Yes, Eli understood death in the abstract. He had learned in school that Abraham was “gathered to his people” at the age of one hundred seventy-five, and though Methuselah’s life extended an amazing nine hundred and sixty-nine years, even he ultimately left the earth. When it came to his grandfather, however, the phenomenon was too overwhelming to grasp. After all, his books were still set neatly on his shelves. There was even a faint smell of pipe smoke in his office. Eli was unable to believe that “Grampa” was not coming back.

  I held him at my side during evening prayers, letting him know at least that the Kaddish was a special prayer for his grandfather.

  Everyone remarked how well Eli was taking it all. But of course, anyone with an ounce of understanding would realize that it was quite the opposite.

  When my older sisters were not receiving visitors, they had their husbands to fill the void. But for most of the time Deborah had no one—except me when I could liberate myself from my well-intended comforters.