1. Visit to Yentl’s Grave

Earlier today I resolved to write my autobiography. I was mulling the idea over since the day Yentl came up with it. She had just finished reading the memoirs of an American politician. She thought his style was good and had appreciated his anecdotes. But, she asked, why did he presume others had an interest in his mundane manoeuvrings and dull existence on the fringes of Washington D.C.?

“Some people just like to write; and they hope others are fond of reading,” I told her. “If you don’t like the book, put it away.”

“So I shall. But you, Loeb, why don’t you write your autobiography?” It was typical of our relationship that, even after years of a satisfying marriage, Yentl continued to call me Loeb. “Darling” appeared too common and using my nickname – Pilkin – struck her as sacrilege. I, in turn, suppressed the urge to call her “honey” or “my pet”.

“Don’t be silly, Yentl,” I chastised her. “What’s special about my life story?”

“Everything about it.”

“Thus spoke the man’s devoted wife.”

“Do you know anyone else who started life as an odd jobs boy; managed to get into a first class secondary school; finished it with flying colours; then went for a career on the stage in Tel-Aviv and ended up as a Rabbi in Brooklyn?”

“People change their careers. Many do.”

“But you, Loeb, never intended to give up acting. You moved to America with a dream of finding a niche on Broadway. Then, unexpectedly, you ended up as a Rabbi with Schuls in New York and Tel-Aviv. And, Loeb, on top of it, you became a renowned faith healer. Isn’t all this out of the ordinary?”

“Perhaps. But how about your hero’s estranged brother, our son who married out and our daughter, who never writes to her parents, except, of course, on Rosh-Hashanah?”

“All the more interesting, Loeb; and you are a good writer and have an excellent style: in Hebrew, in English and, yes, in Arabic.”

“Stop flattering me; I ain’t dumb.”

“Perhaps not; but you are stubborn and unreasonable!”

“And you want me to write an autobiography? What shall I call it: ‘Life of a Mule’?”

“You’ll find a suitable title when you’ve made up your mind,” she brought the argument to an end.

The subject cropped up from time to time until Yentl’s demise from a heart attack in Safed, where we retired. On each occasion, I declined. Yentl, though, was not deceived: she was too shrewd. Knowing me well, she kept nagging. Did she know I would eventually cave in?

During her life, I kept aloof. My existence was too comfortable to take on a new commitment. But the scene changed when I lost her. After many years beside an active, intelligent and interesting wife, I was – at the wrong time of life – on my own. For a while the long strolls, aided by my walking stick, and the reading sessions by the hearth during the long chilly evenings of Safed, kept me going. But they could not suppress the emptiness engulfing me. All my life, I had been a dynamic operator, a Ganzemacher. The mundane existence that had become my lot since Yentl’s death spelt out stagnation. I had to find something to keep me occupied: to silence the voice whispering that I had become a useless old loafer.

As against this background, Yentl’s idea assumed a new dimension. On the one hand, I retained my doubts about the value of an autobiography and felt trepidation when I reflected on the exposure of my life – my inner self – to the eyes of strangers. On the other hand, here was a new challenge: I had the chance of sharing (with those prepared to listen) the ups and downs of my odyssey. My boyhood friend, Bushi – now Professor Emeritus Dr. Peter Berger – encouraged me to go ahead. To use his words: “You need not be Genghis Khan to have a worthwhile life story.”

My decision firmed this morning, as I took my customary Shabbat morning walk to the cemetery. On the way to the grave I kept dreaming of Yentl’s Shabbat treat – the Cholent. The stripes of smoked beef and the beans tenderised in the slow oven melted in your mouth. Washed down with a glass of Carmel Hock, it was a meal fit for Kings and Princes. Notwithstanding my own skills as a chef, I could not match her master dish. Somehow, I never set the oven right or – worse still – added too much (or too little) Schmaltz. Conceding defeat, I got myself invited to the far inferior Shabbat dinners in my neighbours’ houses. This very evening I had been booked by friends whom Yentl and I had known since our arrival in Safed.

Having experienced meals in my host’s home on previous occasions, I was in a foul mood. A bout of food poisoning was on the cards. On top of it, I should have to listen to Miriam’s book of lamentations; and her darling of a husband – her Tachshit – would keep grinning surreptitiously as she addressed her discourse to poor me.

The weather did little to cheer me up. The skies were cloudy and shortly after I left home it started to drizzle. My broad hat could not shield me from a downpour. Still, it was my only cover. Holding the walking stick (on which I had come to depend) in one hand and balancing an umbrella in the other would have been preposterous: an act befitting a clown or Schlemiel. In any event, calling on Yentl empty-handed was unthinkable; and so I was carrying a bunch of Forget-Me-Nots (pansies) in my free hand.

I was aware that orthodox friends frowned on my weekly Shabbat walk. To start with, it was a sin to walk beyond the “Thechum” (the area adjacent to your dwelling) although some smart fictive steps could have cured this defect. In addition, a walk to the graveyard on the day of rest was inappropriate for a Rabbi. I should have been in the Schul or at home engrossed in the Holy Book. Worse still, the carrying of any secular objects – such as flowers or even books other than the scriptures – is in itself a breach of the commandments. Punctilious critics might, further, mumble that bringing flowers to the dead is contrary to Jewish traditions. “What has Reb Zohar come to?” they would sigh.

Ignoring their subtle voices, I persisted. We are told that “a man looks on the outward appearance but God looks on the heart” (Sam. I, 16:7). Can my twenty-minute walk to the remains of my late Yentl – a good observant Jewish wife of the old stock – defy His will? Does it derogate from the awe, love and respect I feel for Him? Can He be petty enough to take a jaundiced view of my weekly walk down memory lane?

I feel even less sympathy for the jibes about my breach of tradition. Yentl loved flowers. She admired roses because they were majestic; carnations because they were cute; dahlias because of their rich petals and gladiolas for the variety and the depth of their colours. So now I bring flowers to her place of rest; and, quite regardless of tradition, I have the right to do so.

Whenever possible, the flowers I bring her are Forget-Me-Nots. Yentl adored their expressive leaves – reminiscent of human faces – and was fascinated by the variety of the names given to them in different languages, for instance, Stiffmutterchen in German (meaning ‘Dear Mother-in-Law’) and Amnon ve’Tamar in Hebrew (based on the sad tale of the offspring of King David). She also believed that any husband, who brought Forget-Me-Nots to his chosen one, was a faithful lover.

The bunch I carried with me this morning was splendid. The leaves were fresh and the branches had been nicely trimmed. Yentl would be cheered up by my gift; and an insipid drizzle was not going to stop me from delivering it. To protect the flowers from the thickening drops, I pressed the bunch close to my chest just under the brim of my hat.

By the time I arrived in the cemetery, it was raining hard. My clothes were wet; but the Forget-Me-Nots were still looking fresh and inviting. Placing them at the foot of the tombstone, I sat down to regain my breath.

“Loeb,” I heard her voice, “Loeb: how silly of you to come over on such a day. You’re as wet as a poodle!”

“Poodles aren’t wet; and if I hadn’t come you would have scolded me because I didn’t. So how can a poor Schlemiel like me do the right thing – eh?”

“You are ridiculous!”

“Sure,” I conceded.

“But why didn’t you take an umbrella?”

“And do a balancing act with one hand holding my cane and the other an umbrella – eh? I’m not Coco the Clown; and we’re not in a circus.”

“And my flowers will now get wet.”

“But if I hadn’t come you wouldn’t have them!”

“You’ve got a point there; and they are lovely. So thanks. But you better get home real fast, Loeb; or you’ll catch your death.”

“I never catch colds,” I soothed her; “so don’t you worry. And I’ll take a hot shower as soon as I’m back. But I want to stay just for a short while; so don’t you nag.”

“All right then; and also – Loeb – we need to have talk.”

“Oh?”

“Stop this ‘Eh’ and ‘Oh’ nonsense!”

“Alright; alright!”

For a while I kept staring at Yentl’s grave. On all scores, she had been a good and devoted wife. I missed her and, of course, her splendid meals. Odd to say, I even missed the lashes of her tongue. In reality, her bark had been but a poor camouflage of the warm heart that guided her through life. Over the years, I had got used to her company and had come to depend on her. Without her, life was dull and void of meaning: tranquillity without an aim.

“Loeb,” I heard her again; “you are slowly but surely becoming an impossible old man.”

“Now what makes you say that?”

“You, Loeb! Look at you! Tonight you are going to Miriam’s place; but you are looking around you with a crying face like a man sent to Siberia. Also, last week you got a letter from Ami. But it’s still on the mantle piece; you haven’t even opened the envelope. And when Ruth rang, you bit her head off. The poor girl burst into tears after she slammed the receiver; and she’s your own flesh and blood.”

“But Miriam’s a lousy cook; and I’m sure Ami only writes to ask for money; that’s all he is after – that rotten son of yours. And Ruth is a pain. Why did she have to marry that Reform Jew? I suppose one of the boys in her own father’s Schul wasn’t good enough for her?”

“Stop acting your role of Tevyeh, Loeb. Fiddler on the Roof is old hat. Let me tell you: we are in the twenty-first century: not in 1887. So grow up. Miriam may not be a brilliant cook but she has a heart of gold. So be glad somebody still cares enough to ask you for dinner. And why do you think our son is only after money? Can’t you – in the very least – read his letter? Perhaps he only wants to say ‘hello’; and stop disowning Ruth. You love her; so stop pretending.”

“Maybe you are right,” I caved in.

“So go home and be a Mensch. And, Loeb, you must find something to do; and I still think you better write that autobiography. It’ll give you a focus: and you need one.”

“I’ll give it a thought!”

On my way back, the rain turned into a deluge. When I got home I was drenched; even my shirt was soaking wet. Having discarded my clothes, I immersed myself in a hot bath. After some ten minutes, I was once again myself: grumpy, disenchanted but fit. By the time I climbed out of the tub, my face was no longer pale and drawn.

Attired in a comfortable track suit and stretching my legs under our old eiderdown – on the bed I used to share with Yentl – I let our recent conversation run through my mind. I was, of course, aware that I had been talking to myself: my own conscience was admonishing my oversized ego. There had been no Witch of Ein-Dor to raise Yentl from the dead; and spirits are unable to communicate. Yet the inner voice that had addressed me so peremptorily displayed Yentl’s robust common sense that had helped her diagnose problems and come up with solutions. The dialogue by her grave had had the same effect.

So the resolve to write had been made. But what literary form ought I to chose? Although many authors call their autobiography “memoirs” – and vice versa – the two are distinct types of compositions. An autobiography is centrifugal. The author, who is also the hero, narrates his odyssey. The landmarks are facets of his life. Political or global events are relevant only to the extent that they had a bearing on him. In contrast, memoirs are centripetal. The author covers significant events of his era. Undoubtedly, his orientation and outlook – his life philosophy or plain bias – colour his analysis. Yet the author’s personal role and his influence on the episodes related by him are of secondary importance. In theory, his identity may remain undisclosed.

For a self-centred individual like me, an autobiography constituted the natural vehicle. My preference was further dictated by my having lived most of my life in a niche of my own, away from the public arena. I observed episodes from outside – not together with those that triggered them off.

Another choice, too, was readily made. I had to write my tome in English. The circle of readers of Hebrew was too narrow. Rather than use my mother-tongue as a medium and leave the task of translation to others, it made sense to proceed directly in my acquired second language. After all, most of my sermons (Drashas) were delivered in English even if – out of necessity – they were laced with Yiddish and Hebrew words.

The narration of my story presented no problems: there are no blanks. My recollections commence in a period of deprivation, occasioned by Father’s sudden death. His demise overcast my childhood and my years in primary school. By the time I turned eleven, I had become the family’s principal breadwinner, hiring out my services as an ‘odd jobs boy’. In the process, I matured prematurely. In my last years in primary, I started to dream of becoming a great actor.

My early boyhood culminated by my admission to the model secondary school of Tel Aviv: Tichon Ironi A. My four years in “TA.1” (or “Tichon”) and the succeeding two and a half years in the Entertainment Corps of the Israeli army were followed by my studies at the Hebrew University in Jerusalem. During this lengthy epoch the boy grew into a young man, whose great expectations centred on his aspiration to become a famous actor. All in all it was a happy even if tense period. The only cloud was a heart attack, which cast a shadow on my future.

The days of awakening (of sobering up) started after my graduation with a B.A. When the doors to the leading stages in Israel refused to open, I joined a less prominent theatre and then accepted a teaching post in TA.1, albeit insisting that I be allowed to conduct a course on drama. In addition, I appeared in secondary theatres, frequently as the lead role in Tevyeh the Milkman and from time-to-time in comedies such as the Malade Imaginaire. Eventually I became one of the employees of Israel’s Educational Television. One stabilising influence during this period was my marriage to Galya Hadar, a starlet of the Signon Theatre. Through her, I realised that in many ways a teacher’s life was more comfortable than an actor’s. Still, my ultimate goal in life remained a career on the stage. The dream was extant.

One of my appearances as Tevyeh led to a major change in my life. An American Rabbi, Moshe Margalioth, who was impressed by my performance, invited me to come to his hometown. During my first few years in New York, I was once again aspiring for a career as a performer. But although invitations kept coming from some ensembles, Broadway remained beyond my horizon.

Eventually Rabbi Margalioth persuaded me to enrol in a Yeshiva – a Jewish seminary. It was a crucial turn but I have had no reason to regret it. Upon my graduation, I was ordained and took up a post in my mentor’s own Schul in Brooklyn. Shortly thereafter, Galya, who had no wish to migrate, demanded a Get (a divorce). On the dissolution of our marriage, I was once again on my own.

Moshe Margalioth had my future at heart. He secured it by introducing me to Yentl Jacobs. My marriage to her led me from strength to strength. The disorientated drifter, Chayim Rosenberg (who had changed his surname to Rosenne in the army) became a member of the Jewish establishment. As Loeb Zohar – Bright Lion – I developed into a leading American Rabbi, an acclaimed healer and a man of substance. During my years with the Jewish Wellbeing Foundation (originally referred to as the Moshe Margalioth Foundation) I was able to support deserving causes. It was one of the truly blissful periods in my long life.

Retirement in Safed was meant to be the happy ending of a satisfying journey. Yentl’s sudden demise upset the scales: the downhill trip had started. Ten months on my own transformed me into a misanthropic old man. Nothing seemed to please me any longer.

It is my hope that the writing of my autobiography will reverse the trend by giving me a new objective. When I am back on track I shall – once again – have a focus. Even if my effort is not crowned with literary or scholastic success it ought to serve its purpose. In any event, an expedition is frequently more rewarding than the arrival at the destination. So tomorrow I start; that is, if I do not succumb to food poisoning tonight.