And I couldn’t keep from noticing, both during the service and at the party back at the kibbutz, that Avi’s comrades kept staring at Eli, no doubt wondering how the hell olive-skinned Deborah and even darker-skinned Avi could have produced such a blondini.
The only trouble was, Eli noticed, too.
That night, while the adults celebrated in the refectory, Eli had a party for his classmates from the Regional High School—male and female—at the sports hall. They were having a good time, judging from the giggles I overheard when passing by on the way to my guest room to pick up a sweater.
Suddenly, I heard Eli’s voice.
“Hi, Uncle Danny.”
“Hi, you were great today, kiddo,” I hailed him.
“Thanks, Danny,” he answered, with something less than euphoria. “But would you tell me the truth?”
“Sure,” I answered, my preoccupations making me a little anxious about just what he wanted told with candor.
“Did my voice break during the Haftorah?”
“Not at all,” I assured him avuncularly. “It was all in splendid baritone.”
“Gila says my voice broke.”
“Who’s Gila?” I asked ingenuously.
“Oh, nobody,” he replied. This time, his voice did break.
“Aha, so she’s the woman in your life I’ve heard Boaz talk about.”
“Don’t be stupid, Uncle Danny, I’m too young for girls,” he protested too much.
My years as a woodsman-rabbi had indeed given me acumen in the judging of human relationships, even among adolescents.
“She’s a real winner,” I commented.
“Gila and I are both going to serve in the Air Force,” he said proudly.
“Hey, that’s five years down the road. You shouldn’t be thinking of that stuff on the night of your bar mitzvah.”
His voice suddenly became somber. “Uncle Danny, in Israel, the minute your bar mitzvah’s over that’s all you think about.”
At that moment, despite the party wine I’d imbibed and the balmy air, I felt cold sober. How could any kid ever have a normal childhood given this ineluctable fact of life?
Still, my childhood hadn’t been that wonderful. Maybe I’d have been better off knowing exactly where I was going at eighteen—with no option for dropping out.
I tried to put my arms around my handsome nephew. But even at thirteen he had grown too tall for me to do anything but give him a slap on the back.
It was only when I realized that he had no reason to walk all the way to the guest cottages that I knew our encounter had not been a chance one. And that what Eli most wanted from me on this night celebrating his induction into manhood were some plain home truths.
“Uncle Danny,” he began. He was trying to sound calm. “Could we talk, you know, man to man? It’s something really important. You’re the only guy in our whole family that I completely trust.”
Oh, God, I felt as if the sky were going to fall on my head.
“If you’re going to ask me the facts of life,” I said jocularly, “I’ll tell you as soon as I learn them myself.”
“No, Danny. This isn’t funny,” he persisted.
“Okay then,” I capitulated. “Tell me what’s on your mind.”
By this time we had reached my bungalow and we both sat down on the steps.
At first he merely stared in the direction of the lake. Finally he began.
“Uncle Danny, all this week Boaz and Zipporah’s relatives have been coming in from Tel Aviv and even Chicago. They spent hours and hours talking about old times and looking at photographs.”
I had no illusions about where this was leading.
“It’s crazy,” he continued wistfully, “they’ve got millions of pictures. Even some old fading brown ones from Budapest. And there must be a million pictures of Avi as a little boy.”
He lowered his head and murmured painfully, “But there are no pictures of Mom and Avi. Not a single one. Not even at their wedding.” He paused and then confronted me. “What do you think that means?”
My mind raced to find a quip, a diversionary joke—something to get me the hell out of this corner. But I knew my nephew was too smart—and the power of truth stronger than both our wills.
“I never met Avi,” I finally answered, making the only honest claim I could.
“That wasn’t the question,” Eli said somberly.
“Oh?” I responded. “Then what was the question?”
Eli looked at me and said quietly, “Are you sure he was my father?”
Despite the fact that I’d had at least a quarter of an hour to arm myself with evasionary weapons, I was powerless. I just froze. Finally, he put me off the hook.
“That’s okay, Danny,” he said softly. “You don’t have to give me an answer. The look on your face said everything.”
70
Daniel
Two days later I drove Eli to Jerusalem for his “second bar mitzvah.” As the Silczer Rav, Uncle Saul could not for diplomatic reasons attend Saturday’s ceremony. But I agreed with him that we should honor my father’s memory by having Eli called to read the Torah during a Monday morning service at the Wailing Wall.
Deborah could not bring herself to come. There was the legitimate objection that she would be separated from her son and pushed into the crowded women’s section. Then there was the memory of the riot, from which she still felt psychological scars.
And I suppose there were other memories too.
Needless to say, the entire Jerusalem B’nai Simcha community was present, including the yeshiva boys, who were doubly grateful for the half-day holiday. Like myself, Eli could work both sides of the street. He was as much at home among the merrily dancing frummers as he had been among the discoing kibbutzniks.
Afterward, during the wine-and-cake reception back at the school, Saul called me aside to discuss some Silczer business.
In the years since my father’s death, he and the Jerusalem Elders still had not agreed on a site for the yeshiva dormitory.
He had kept me up to date, not because I was one of the clan, but because, despite Doris Greenbaum’s generosity in declining repayment of her gift, Saul regarded the money as my personal contribution, though of course he had no idea of the price I had paid.
This time, he was intent on resolving the question of the dormitory once and for all. A week earlier he had taken me on a tour of the available buildings in Mea Shearim—and even beyond its periphery in the contiguous neighborhoods. The places were cramped and the prices astronomical.
In my opinion, the best we had seen was a three-story building of Jerusalem stone that had nearly turned gray with age. We could probably have converted it to a dorm for about sixty yeshiva boys, who would then have an easy walk to class. But today Rebbe Bernstein, the chipper and scrupulously honest successor to the abominable Schiffman, had a new proposal to put before my uncle, who wanted me to hear it too.
As Eli happily wandered off on his own, his destination Richie’s Pizza on King George Street (for a kibbutz kid he certainly knew where to meet girls in the big city), we sat in the principal’s office drinking glasses of tea as Rebbe Bernstein introduced us to a slender black-coated gentleman named Gordon. After pinning a large map onto the bulletin board he launched into his presentation.
“This, honored rabbis, is the magnificent new township of Armon David—designed with wide streets, the finest materials, and magnificent amenities. And believe me, your neighbors will be strictly the frummest of the frum.”
He paused to let us assimilate these attractions and then continued. “What’s more, on the new road promised by the Ministry of Housing, it will be a mere twenty minutes’ bus ride—thirty at the most—from where we are now sitting.”
Naive visitor that I was, especially feeling that unique elation at being in the Holy City, I was at first captivated by the thought of a place nearby with not only large airy rooms, but even a patch of greenery. The way they worked those kids, it wo
uld certainly do them good to have some fresh air that was really fresh.
Then all of a sudden it occurred to me. Even allowing for the developer’s hyperbole, his township was a good deal farther from Jerusalem than would be appropriate. In fact, it looked suspiciously close to the Arab villages of Dar Moussa and Zeytounia.
This prompted me to ask, “It all looks very impressive, but can you tell me on which side of the Green Line it is?”
Gordon was highly offended.
“Surely the son of the great Rav Moses Luria—may his righteous memory be for a blessing—does not believe in absurd territorial quibbles. All of this land was given to our people by Almighty God.”
I had to keep myself from asking, If the Holy One had given us this territory, how come this guy was selling it again? But I had more important things to say. I turned to Saul but intended my remarks for all those present.
“I have every respect for Mr. Gordon’s talents as a town planner, but I’m afraid the B’nai Simcha have certain responsibilities, don’t you agree, Uncle Saul? I mean, if we should move to Armon David—”
“You would have space for a hundred students.” Gordon interrupted so quickly, a touch of panic showed.
“That’s not the point,” I retorted, still addressing myself only to Saul. “If we were to build our dormitory beyond the Green Line, that would be construed as a political statement. It would suggest that our community approved of confiscating Arab territory.”
Gordon misunderstood my criticism, or chose to. “In other words,” he trumpeted, “you would not just be gaining a magnificent living complex, you would be striking a blow in favor of Greater Israel.”
All eyes were on Uncle Saul, who stroked his beard and answered quietly, “I don’t believe in striking blows, metaphorical or physical. Danny is right.”
Gordon was sizzling. Studiously avoiding me, he addressed his remarks to what he sensed might be the weak link in our chain, the diminutive Rebbe Bernstein. “Think of the skandal if people should hear that the current Silczer Rebbe renounces our nation’s claim to even a millimeter of sacred land.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Gordon,” Saul said quietly but firmly. “I don’t recall using the word ‘renounce.’ But while we’re making accusations, let me tell you that the primary rule by which a Jew must live is Pikuach Nefesh—the respect for human life.”
Good for Uncle Saul! I followed him into the fray.
“Surely, Mr. Gordon, you remember Leviticus 19:16. ‘Neither shalt thou stand idly by the blood of thy neighbor.’ On those grounds alone your proposal is out of the question.”
It may seem hard to believe, but all the developer said in the time it took him to fold up his map and make an infuriated exit was a single, “Hmph!”
Which I took to mean that the B’nai Simcha are spiritually bankrupt, they’re not real Jews, let them go back to Brooklyn, the whole bunch of them. All spiced with choice epithets.
We all sat quietly in the room for a moment. A smile of relief crossed Rebbe Bernstein’s face as he looked at my uncle.
“Thank you, Rav Luria,” he murmured.
My uncle beamed at me. “I was very proud of the way you acted, Rebbe Daniel,” he said affectionately.
With some embarrassment, I reminded him that I was not really a rabbi.
But he responded, “You are, Danileh. You are.”
As Eli and I were driving back to the kibbutz, he seemed curiously carefree for someone who had experienced such a serious identity crisis only forty-eight hours earlier. He was even humming the latest tunes from the Israeli hit parade.
I didn’t have the guts to ask him how he had come to weather his existential crisis with such aplomb—not to mention speed. Happily, as darkness began to fall, he took the initiative.
“Remember that talk we had the other night, Uncle Danny?”
“Yeah,” I answered laconically. How the hell could I forget it?
“Well, I confronted Mama and she told me the truth.”
She did?
“I suppose you knew about it all the time,” he generously allowed.
To which I replied with a noncommittal, “Mmm.”
“So what?” he said.
“So what, what?” I asked.
“So my father and mother weren’t married. What difference does it make?”
“You’re right,” I assented. “By Jewish law you’re kosher enough to marry the Chief Rabbi’s daughter.”
We drove for about a kilometer and then he asked me with a mischievous smile, “Is she cute?”
“Who?” I asked, a bit confused.
“The Chief Rabbi’s daughter,” he replied. “I might be interested.”
So Deborah had postponed the inevitable. But sooner or later, somebody would have to come up with the guts to tell Eli the truth. Meanwhile, as the saying goes, “We should thank God and take each day as it comes.”
We arrived at Kfar Ha-Sharon just after dinner. Eli with his youthful vigor was willing to forgo a meal in exchange for permission to hitchhike to Gila’s kibbutz, so I had a quick bite with Deborah in her srif.
She was pleased to hear about all the events in Jerusalem that day, and even went as far as to comment, “That was a very gutsy stand for Saul to take.”
“What about me?” I protested, wanting my share of kudos. “I started the whole argument about the Green Line.”
“Granted, that took courage,” Deborah commented. “But the difference is you’re going to go back to the woods, and Saul’s going back to Brooklyn where he’ll have to face the wrath of God knows how many frummers.”
71
Timothy
Fifty days after the Resurrection, the eleven apostles had gathered in a room in Jerusalem during the Jewish Festival of Weeks. Suddenly, they heard the rushing of a mighty wind from Heaven and the Holy Spirit appeared before them as tongues of fire.
This blazing epiphany is commemorated by the Feast of Pentecost, a favorite occasion for the ordination of bishops. The ceremonies are a dizzying explosion of red, a reminder both of the flame and the blood of the apostles, all but one of whom was martyred.
On Sunday, May 26, 1985, in St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome, Timothy Hogan stood face to face with His Holiness the Pope, the Holy Father all in scarlet, except for the white of his skullcap, and flanked by two cardinals, one of whom was the Archbishop of New York. Like the others about to be ordained, Tim wore a pectoral cross—the only addition to his simple priestly garb, which he was wearing for the final time.
Looking at Tim with his piercing eyes, the Pope as Principal Consecrator questioned his readiness to assume the duties of a bishop. “Are you resolved to be faithful in your obedience to the successor of the apostle Peter?”
Tim managed to whisper, “I am.”
He knelt. The warm hands of the Holy Father touched his head. I am as close to God as I ever will be in this life, he told himself.
After the two cardinals also placed their hands on Tim’s head, the Pope anointed him with oil, tracing the sign of the cross with thumb and forefinger.
Such was the silence in the massive basilica that His Holiness could be heard to whisper, “L’anello.” He then said quietly in Italian, “Your hand.” Tim complied and stretched forth his wedding finger as the Holy Father pronounced in solemn tones, “Take this ring, the seal of your fidelity. With faith and love protect the bride of God, His holy Church.”
Tim was engulfed by a wave of sadness. This is my wedding, he thought to himself. The only wedding I will ever know in my entire earthly life.
As Archbishop Timothy Hogan bowed to receive the pontiffs blessing, he glanced swiftly into the crowd of spectators and saw his beaming mentor, Father Ascarelli. His presence only emphasized Tim’s feeling of unworthiness. For someone of Ascarelli’s gifts, the cardinal’s hat would have been an easy prize. Yet, a true Jesuit, he scorned high office.
When Tim had asked years earlier whether scarlet robes attracted him, the old man had shaken his h
ead and murmured, “Sacerdos sum, non hortus.” I’m a priest, not a flower garden.
The pontiff placed the white-and-gold miter on the new archbishop’s head and then handed him as the final symbol of pastoral obligation, the shepherd’s crook.
At the end of the Mass, as the choir was still singing exultant hallelujahs, Tim returned to the sacristy, changed from his regal trappings, and walked out into St. Peter’s Square. The Swiss Guards in their orange-and-black striped uniforms and medieval armor maintained a path through the sea of people.
He was now officially archbishop of the church of Santa Maria delle Lacrime. This was a mere formality since bishops appointed without a specific diocese nonetheless are given a nominal affiliation with a church in Rome.
Santa Maria had been “offered” to Timothy by the principessa as a gesture of affection. In a way, this ethereal association added to the unreality of it all. Could he, Timothy Hogan, onetime incorrigible street-fighter from Brooklyn, actually be endowed with the purple of the episcopate?
Lost in thought, he was about to cross over to the Via della Conciliazione when he heard a nasal cry behind him, “Vostra Grazia, Vostra Grazia.”
He turned as a small middle-aged man in a frayed black corduroy jacket and beret scurried up to him still calling, “Your Grace, Your Grace.”
Timothy stopped and inquired, “Yes?”
“At your service, Your Grace,” the man puffed deferentially. “Here is my card.”
LUCA DONATELLI
VIDEO PHOTOGRAPHER
FOR ALL OCCASIONS
“Please accept my humble congratulations and feel free to call upon me for an indelible memento of this great occasion. Naturally, I can do either VHS or Beta.”
The celebration was at the principessa’s villa.
Nothing seemed to have changed at the Santiori residence—including the hostess herself, who had miraculously retained her youth and vigor by a strict regime of diet, exercise, prayer—and yearly trips to Dr. Niehans’s exclusive clinic in Montreux.
As he entered the villa, Tim impulsively embraced the principessa, almost lifting the petite woman off the ground. “Grazie, Cristina,” he murmured. “Grazie per tutto.”