Acts of Faith

  The taxi pulled up near the corner of Shmuel Salant Street and they got out.

  Mrs. Schiffman fumbled with some keys, the door creaked open, and they entered, Deborah bringing up the rear.

  A corpulent man with a gray-flecked beard was seated at a table. Its oilcloth cover suggested that it was the dining room by day.

  He rose and looked at Deborah. “Ah, so you’re the daughter of Rav Moses. You seem a healthy girl. God shield you from the evil eye.”

  Physically tired, jet-lagged, and emotionally exhausted, Deborah did not know what she should say. The best she could offer was, “Thank you, Rebbe Schiffman—I mean, thanks for having me.”

  “It’s late,” her host replied, turning to his wife. “Show her where she sleeps.”

  Leah eyed Deborah, nodded, and then started to the back of the house where several doors led off a narrow corridor.

  She opened one of them and said, “In here. I gave you the bed by the window.”

  It was only then that Deborah heard the sounds. There were other people in this little room, sleeping soundly and breathing audibly. In the dim light from the hallway she could barely discern three narrow beds crowded into the room. Two of them were occupied by small forms huddled under grayish-looking blankets.

  “Maybe it’s best you use the bathroom to change clothes. We shouldn’t wake the children, they have school tomorrow.”

  Deborah nodded mutely. She opened her valise, pulled out a bathrobe, and left her bags inside what she could now see was a very crowded room. Relieved at the thought of being alone, albeit for only a minute, she went down the hall to the bathroom.

  As she scrubbed her face, she glanced in the streaky mirror. It reflected the pale image of the young girl she once had known, a girl who was now totally transformed. Dark rings circled her eyes, which seemed dim and lifeless.

  Didn’t you used to be Deborah Luria? she asked her reflection.

  And the exhausted face said, Yes—I used to be.

  14

  Timothy

  In the month that followed Deborah’s departure, Timothy was torn between guilt and anger. He could not forgive himself for being the cause of Deborah’s banishment. He had even dared to write to the Rav reasserting his responsibility for the incident and insisting that whatever punishment it involved should be meted out to him.

  And yet he could not bear the strictures of his confessor. For the priest continually reminded him of what the Lord said in the Sermon on the Mount: that anyone who even looks at a woman lustfully has committed adultery in his heart.

  He was wounded by the implication that his feelings for Deborah Luria could be described as in any way impure.

  And he missed her terribly.

  Yet he reluctantly accepted that if he was to become a priest he had to do penance. Among the texts and prayers assigned for him to memorize were the words of the Apostle Paul:

  I am persuaded, that neither death, nor life, nor angels … shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.

  But no matter how often he recited the passage, it could not obliterate the verses from the Song of Songs, which he had read because he knew how much they meant to Deborah: “Love is strong as death.”

  He tried to drown himself in prayer. For three weeks in succession he even went off to a cursillo, an intensive Jesuit-organized retreat tailored for people like himself. It offered him a chance to look inward and confront himself, and then upward to discover what God meant to him.

  Unbeknownst to his family, he fasted. On many weeknights he meditated in church for several hours.

  This extraordinary behavior could not go unnoticed—especially in so small a parish. Late one evening Father Hanrahan came up to him as he was kneeling, head in hands, and whispered, “Timothy, Bishop Mulroney wants to see you at eleven tomorrow.”

  Tim was thunderstruck, certain this was a call to judgment.

  Surely, despite the seal of confession, word of his offenses had somehow reached the prelate’s ear.

  He spent a sleepless night. And then, dressed in his only suit, he walked the two miles from St. Gregory’s to diocesan headquarters just to slow his racing heart.

  His legs were unsteady as he mounted the steps of the large brownstone which served as the bishop’s chancery.

  “Hogan, I’ve heard a great deal about you,” Bishop Mulroney said cryptically as Timothy kissed his ring. A corpulent man, he was imposing in his black suit and large pectoral cross. “Sit down, my son,” he continued, “we’ve things to talk about.”

  Timothy poised himself on the edge of a chair, while the churchman returned to his desk. In a corner, his secretary, a young, scholarly looking priest, sat inconspicuously, pencil and notepad in hand.

  “You know,” His Excellency reflected, “I do believe that God watches over some of us with special diligence. He probes our hearts. He reads the language of our souls.…”

  Tim was certain now of what was to come—an avenging thunderbolt for all his evil thoughts.

  He was wrong.

  “Your activities are not unknown to me,” the bishop continued. “Your zeal in the cursillos, your general demeanor, display a piety that is—especially these days—extraordinary. Father Hanrahan and I both believe that you have a true vocation.…”

  Timothy listened silently, wanting to believe this was God’s way of telling him how to resolve his painful dilemma.

  “Am I right about your feelings?” Bishop Mulroney asked.

  “Yes, Your Excellency,” he answered with alacrity. “If you think I’m worthy, I want to dedicate my life to serving God.”

  The prelate smiled. “I’m pleased. My instinct told me Father Joe was right. So I’ve gone ahead and made some arrangements for you. St. Athanasius’ Seminary has a place right now. So you could either finish out the school year at St. Gregory’s and start this summer, or—”

  “No, no,” Tim interrupted anxiously, “I’d like to go as soon as possible.”

  The bishop laughed. “My goodness, you’re the most devoted lad I’ve ever come across. Why don’t you take a day or two to think about it, talk it over with your family?”

  “I have no family.”

  “I mean, of course, your uncle and your aunt,” the bishop answered.

  Tim thought to himself, I wonder how much more this man knows about me.

  He left the diocesan office more upset than when he had arrived. He knew that what the bishop called his “devoutness” was in reality a frantic desperation. He wanted to escape, renounce the world, and thereby exorcise all thoughts of Deborah Luria.

  He stopped by a lamppost at a busy intersection. He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a folded piece of paper, already frayed from many readings.

  Dear Timothy,

  I know it’s dangerous, but this is my last chance of contacting you.

  They’re sending me to Israel tomorrow. To be honest, I feel guilty for disobeying my religion and my parents. But I feel even worse for what I have done to you.

  You acted with such friendship and pure heart, I hope you don’t get into any trouble on account of me.

  I am sad to think we will probably never see each other again. But I only hope that I will remain somewhere in your thoughts.

  Yours,

  D

  P.S. I’m told that the YMCA in Jerusalem holds letters for people who are traveling around. If you can, please write me there. That is, if you want to.

  A sudden feeling seized him that this was the most important moment of his life, the crossroads of two paths, both leading to a point of no return.

  He sensed that, through his bishop, God was giving him a sign—forsake the world.

  Did he really have a choice?

  He began to tear up the letter.

  As he scattered the fragments in a nearby bin, he burst into tears.

  15

  Deborah

  Deborah could have slept forever. Indeed, that first morning i
n Rebbe Schiffman’s house, she wished she had never awakened.

  At five-thirty in the morning the five-year-old in the next bed began to wail loudly for her mother.

  After a few minutes, Leah entered sleepily in a faded bathrobe, eyed Deborah, and complained, “Couldn’t you keep her quiet?”

  Deborah was astounded. “I don’t even know her name.”

  The rabbi’s wife stared at the little girl. “What is it with you, Rivkah?” she demanded.

  “I wet my bed,” the child murmured fearfully.

  “Again? Sheets don’t grow on trees, you know. Get up and wash.”

  Shamefaced, the little girl docilely obeyed and headed for the door.

  “And be sure to give your clothes to Deborah,” her mother called after her.

  Me? Deborah thought to herself. What am I supposed to do with a kid’s wet pajamas?

  She soon found out.

  “Let her bed air after you strip it,” Mrs. Schiffman commanded matter-of-factly. “And be sure to rinse the sheets before you wash them. But don’t turn on the machine till we have enough to fill it. Electricity costs.”

  Deborah had naturally intended to pitch in with the household duties. This was starting to look like more than “pitching.”

  As she sleepily removed the dirty bedclothes, another roommate—a girl who looked about three and a half—awoke and asked casually in Yiddish, “Who are you?”

  “My name is Deborah. I’ve come from New York.”

  “Oh,” replied the little girl, unimpressed with Deborah’s transatlantic credentials. The Schiffmans often had visitors from all over the world.

  Shivering and unsteady, Deborah put on her bathrobe, gathered the sheets, and carried them to an alcove at the back of the hallway, where an ancient washing machine was crammed under a louvered window. She filled the small nearby sink, put the laundry in to soak, and retreated toward the bathroom. It was no warmer than the night before, and she began to wonder if the Schiffmans had any heating at all.

  The bathroom was already occupied, and two young boys were waiting in line outside the door.

  The Schiffman sons—pale with dark, deep-set eyes—looked even more tired than their sisters. She bade them “Good morning,” but they seemed not to notice her.

  By the time her turn arrived, the hot water was gone, so she washed with cold as best she could, then quickly dressed and headed for the dining area.

  The Schiffman family was already seated, father studying the morning paper, the various children eating—or loudly refusing to eat—their toasted white bread smeared with jam. Leah had yet another child on her lap.

  Rebbe Schiffman nodded a silent “Good morning” and, in what Deborah optimistically construed as cordial tones, said, “Help yourself. There’s coffee in the kitchen.”

  She attempted a smile, took a slice of bread and, quickly uttering the blessing, wolfed it down.

  As she cut and buttered two more pieces, Rebbitsin Schiffman admonished, “Don’t be such a chazer. Leave some for other people.”

  “Sorry, sorry,” Deborah answered meekly. Then, trying to initiate a dialogue, said to no one in particular, “It was a really long flight.”

  “So?” said the rabbi’s wife. “You didn’t have to drive the plane, did you?”

  Deborah could only interpret their frosty attitude as proof that her infamy had preceded her. Both parents were warm and affectionate to their children, hugging and kissing them before they left for school.

  “You let them go by themselves?” Deborah observed with surprise.

  “This is something special?” asked the Rebbe.

  “Well, back home young kids aren’t allowed …”

  She was jarred by her own utterance of the word “home.” She had left America with the distinct impression that she no longer had one.

  “Things here are not like by you in America,” the patriarch explained. “We are a community. We look after one another. All the children are our children.”

  Deborah continued to sip her coffee in silence, hoping to learn what had been arranged for her own education, but Rebbe Schiffman was too absorbed reading an article about the day’s most burning issue.

  “The chutzpah of these people!” he fulminated. “They want to open the Jerusalem cinemas on Friday nights!”

  “Outrageous,” Leah agreed, clucking her tongue in disapproval. “I hear they already have some in Tel Aviv—but they’re goyim, anyway.”

  Deborah, who came from a background where movie theaters were open for the nonobservant on the Sabbath, saw no wrong in this. Besides, there were no cinemas in Mea Shearim, anyway. But she kept her peace.

  Until she ventured to inquire, “Rebbe Schiffman?”

  “Yes, Deborah?”

  “What about my school?”

  “What about it?”

  “Where is it? What time do I go?”

  “It’s in America and you already went,” he answered curtly.

  Deborah protested, “But I thought I was—”

  “You’re sixteen, no?” Mrs. Schiffman asked.

  “Nearly seventeen.”

  “Well, the law of this so-called State only requires education till sixteen years. You’ve had enough.”

  Deborah was taken aback. “Don’t the sages say …”

  “What kind of talk is this?” Leah scolded. “What does a young girl have to do with sages? You know your Abridged Code of Laws, right?”

  “A lot of it. But there’s so much more I want to learn.”

  “Listen, Deborah,” Rebbe Schiffman interposed with polite finality. “You know what is expected of a wife. More than that is not the business of a woman.”

  “I can see already why she got herself into such trouble,” Leah remarked to her husband.

  Deborah felt both hurt and relieved. Now at least she knew they had been told of her transgression.

  Still, she would not go down without a fight.

  “My father told me I’d be finishing my education here,” she protested as politely as she could.

  “Education can mean many things,” Rebbe Schiffman answered. “Your father asked me to—how can I put it?”

  “Set me on the right track?” Deborah offered.

  The rabbi nodded. “Yes, that’s more or less the concept. He trusts me to treat you like my own daughter. And, believe me, come sixteen for my little Rivkah, she’ll be married like a shot. That way we won’t have tsores and skandal.”

  Trouble and scandal, Deborah thought to herself. What on earth do they think I did?

  “Well, if I’m not going to school, what am I supposed to do all day?” she asked, a sinking feeling in her stomach.

  “Tell me, child,” Rebbe Schiffman answered, “have you looked around the house? Is it the Hilton here? Don’t you think my wife could use a little help?”

  Until that moment, Deborah merely had felt lost, disoriented, and tired from the change of time. Now she could find room for anger.

  “This isn’t what I want co do, Rebbe Schiffman,” she said firmly.

  The rabbi raised an eyebrow, stared at her, and then spoke slowly. “Listen, Madam Luria, I’m the head of the household here. What I say goes.”

  Heartsick, Deborah sat silently at the center of the table, as husband and wife glared at her from either side.

  “Now what?” she asked.

  “Now we clear the dishes,” answered Leah.

  And that was that.

  16

  Deborah

  To Deborah, the days and the nights were a monochrome gray. Curiously, the only burst of color was not the Sabbath itself—for though she was permitted to go to the synagogue, she was denied access to Rebbe Schiffman’s afternoon study group—but the three hours she spent with Leah each Friday morning shopping in Machaneh Yehudah, the noisy, bustling outdoor market off the Jaffa Road.

  Her eyes, glazed by the mist of melancholy, would react to the sight of a huge pile of oranges as if sunlight were dazzling her.

&nbsp
; Even the normally phlegmatic Leah sprang to life, cheerfully bargaining with merchants for delicacies her family could afford only on this special night.

  To Deborah, this little taste of liberty made her long for more. It did not escape her attention that the street that gave the Mea Shearim quarter its name ran only one way—in.

  It was here in the market on a bright April Friday that she had what she first thought was a hallucination. No more than ten yards away, she caught sight of a girl about her own age—wearing a sheitel, but an attractive one—handing packages to a tall, athletic, red-haired man in a skullcap.

  He saw her and called out, “Deborah! Deborah Luria, is it really you?”

  She waved in recognition just as Leah whirled around and asked suspiciously, “What’s going on? This is somebody you know?”

  “Oh, yes. It’s Asher Kaplan.”

  “Never heard of him.” Leah frowned. “He isn’t one of us.”

  “He’s from Chicago,” Deborah began to explain, just as Asher approached.

  “Hello.” He smiled. “Small world, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” she replied, thinking, Asher, you’ve just enlarged mine more than you know.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “I’m staying with some friends,” she answered. Then introducing Leah, continued, “This is Rebbitsin Schiffman. We live in Mea Shearim.”

  “ ‘We’? You mean you’re married to her son?”

  “What are you saying?” Leah replied with annoyance. “My oldest boy is not even bar mitzvah.”

  She did not like this brash American. True, he was wearing a skullcap, but he was also sporting a T-shirt that said, in Hebrew, Koka-Kola.

  “What are you doing here, Asher?”

  “I’m on my honeymoon,” he replied with a touch of shyness.

  Trying to muster the appropriate enthusiasm, Deborah responded, “Mazel tov.”

  “Thank you,” Asher replied. “So you must be studying at the university, huh? I remember you had big academic plans. Mount Scopus is so beautiful—Channah’s father is a professor at the Medical School.”

  Just then his wife caught up with them. She was attractive even in her wig—tanned, with sparkling brown eyes.