Part 4: Based in New York

10. I Change my Name to Loeb Zohar

When I think today, as an aged retiree, about my returning to the status of a student, I feel I took a leap into the dark. In reality, my positions, at the ITV and before it at Tichon, were good. To change course at such a late stage involved courage and an optimistic outlook. I am glad I had them and have no regrets.

My course of studies in the Yeshiva was demanding; but I was able to take it in my stride. A great deal of time was devoted to studying the Talmud. The approach differed from the one I knew. The object was not so much to place the argumentation in the context of historical events but rather to come to grips with the highly skilled method of debating used throughout. The study of the Talmud itself did not, however, throw light on the prevailing principles to be used in daily life: the Halacha. These as well as Judaic philosophy were illuminated in medieval writings.

Foremost were Maimonides’ monumental books: the Mishneh Torah (colloquially called The Strong Hand) and the Guide for the Perplexed. The former sets out detailed principles respecting modes of daily conduct and all rituals respecting Jewish festivals. As Maimonides did not include in his tome references to sources, his work was subjected to criticism. A particular reason for this was that Maimonides was a Sephardic Jew, who lived most of his life in Egypt. The rites spelt out by him did not always correspond with the Halacha of European, viz. Ashkenazi, Jews. Still, the Mishneh Torah continues to be taught both in universities and in Yeshivot in Israel and overseas. Although the work was written in the 12th century, its clear Hebrew style remains a landmark.

Maimonides’ other great work, the Guide for the Perplexed, was a philosophical tract seeking to reconcile Judaism with Aristotelian philosophy, showing that our religious tenets did not conflict with the philosophical teaching of the time. As might have been expected, the work became the subject of controversy. One school of thought asserted that in the course of writing Maimonides departed from the straight dogmas of Judaism. The book was, however, popular in Christianity and influenced many philosophers, such as Thomas Aquinas, who (about a century after Maimonides’ lifetime) sought to harmonize Aristotelian philosophy with the doctrines of the church.

The Guide for the Perplexed was not included in our syllabus. You could cover it on an autodidactic basis or as part of a course devoted to the sage’s writings. I tackled the work on my own, using the original, written in 1190 in Judeo-Arabic. In this instance, my command of Arabic stood me in good stead. I also made use of Hebrew translations.

I was immersed in this tract, when Uri came over on a business trip. As we dined in a Kosher restaurant in Brooklyn, he came up with an interesting point.

“Chayim, why did Maimonides write this book? The interests of his community were well served by his Mishneh Torah. It clarified the applicable principles.”

“I suspect he wanted to reconcile our religious tenets with Greek philosophy.”

“Doubtless,” agreed Uri, “but why was it not adequate for him to clarify the norms and rituals?”

“Well, what do you think, Uri?”

“Perhaps he wanted to show his disciples that our religion was compatible with Greek philosophy, which ruled supreme in his era. Actually, we face the very same problem today. Science has established that our planet is just a dot in a vast universe. Further, Darwin has elaborated and explained the principles of evolution. Modern scholars have accepted his theory as a sine qua non. And what have we done to harmonize these scientific findings with our religion?”

“Actually, we haven’t done a thing,” I conceded. “We have taught observant Jews to stick to our rituals. Very few find the way to the core. And the vast majority of Jews are secular, except when they attend a service in the synagogue.”

“Don’t you think this is an undesirable state of affairs? I know that reformists have done away with some antiquated laws. For instance, in a reform service men and women sit together. But some principles – like our dietary laws – are adhered to rigorously.”

“Well, what do you suggest?”

“The best way would be to reform our antiquated laws so as to harmonize them with the milieu of our modern world,” Uri spoke firmly.

“The danger is that, if you go down this road, you assail not only the ritual but also the core.”

“I am prepared to take the risk; but I know that the mainstream of Judaic learning won’t. As time passes, observant Jews are becoming a minority.”

Uri’s observation gave me food for thought. Were our Rabbis too rigorous? For instance, if you followed the prescribed rules, pressing the button summoning a lift was considered ‘work’. Accordingly, doing so on the Shabbat was proscribed. The only option was to walk up the stairs, unless you programmed the lift before Shabbat Eve to proceed on the basis of regular intervals. I suspected that elderly people found climbing the stairs more tiring (and hence harder ‘work’) than pressing a button. Still, the principle had not been amended.

To my surprise, Uri also brought me news respecting my brother, David. Uri had met him in London, had dinner in his place and was charmed by David’s English wife. I knew David and his wife had two sons and that one of them was in his first Form in school. Uri’s positive account firmed my decision to call on the family when I was next in the United Kingdom.

Later in the year I studied Joseph Karo’s Shulchan Aruch, a book published in 1565. It had been referred to during my secondary school studies, but was a pivot of the studies in the Yeshiva. The book, which sets force all the ritualistic prescriptions of our faith, is regarded one of the most comprehensive codification of all relevant norms of Judaism. Like Maimonides, Karo was a Sephardic Jew. He wrote the book in Safed (Zfat) some two years prior to its publication. Unsurprisingly, sages in the European Diaspora, the Ashkenazim, took issue with some of the principles set out in it. However, one of the major Jewish schools of thought, namely Chabad (also known as Chabad-Lubavitch) came up with its own edited version of the book, which has thus remained one of the foremost guides to Judaism.

Karo was not the only sage who resided in Safed. The eerie town in the Galilee was the centre of the Kabbala, which is the philosophic even if mystic exposition of the faith. Its most influential Rabbi, Isaac Luria Ashkenzi (commonly known as Ha’Ari), settled in Safed in 1570 and injected new life into the leading book of the movement: the Zohar (meaning ‘brightness’).

I was deeply impressed by the Zohar and spent much time on it. In the course of doing so, it dawned on me that the role of an enlightened Rabbi was to maintain the ethnic unity of his flock, whilst adapting some peripheral norms to the needs of the day. I noticed with satisfaction that Rabbi Margalioth, who was well-versed in the vast volume of medieval Jewish writings, would allow frail members of his community to say their prayers whilst sitting although the norm was to recite some of them in a standing position.

When I completed my reading of the great works, I decided to have a frank chat with my mentor. I knew that, in general, he had the reputation of strictly adhering to our principles and that he expected all his disciples to do likewise. At the same time, and as already mentioned, he often made allowance for members of the congregation. For instance, as some members lived far away from his Schul, he approved their driving to the synagogue. It was unrealistic to expect them to rent a room for the weekend in an adjacent hotel.

“I know it appears inconsistent,” he told me when I raised these points with him, “but don’t forget that one of our cardinal principles is that ‘risk of soul overrides Shabbat’. I consider it important to see our members in our weekly services. It’s a matter of the ‘soul’. So I sanction their driving to the synagogue.”

“In that case, why don’t we reform our religion altogether? What is the point of sticking to dietary laws, which most members do not observe outside the Schul?”

“Some core values may not be altered, Chayim. Sha’ul of Tarsos, known to the world as St. Paul, strived to reform the basics; and you know that in the end he supported a break-away sect. He was lucky to survive the stoning to which our people condemned him.”

Moshe Margalioth’s words left their impact. When I discussed this conversation with Yentl and added that many major tracts had been written in Safed she suggested that we spend a week there during our next visit to Israel.

We were, in any event, bound to travel before long. Although I was living in Brooklyn I had not given up my Israeli residence and, accordingly, was still bound to serve in the military if called up. I was aware of means used to avoid the duty but decided not to resort to them. Instead I undertook to serve in the Entertainment Corps a few weeks every year. Bennie Ornan helped me to formalize this arrangement.

Yentl and I flew to Tel Aviv in early July. It was warm and pleasant. Yentl arranged to stay with relatives during the time I spent in the army. I was free during weekends and so we were able to spend three days in Ramat Gan, with its splendid beaches. When I finished my militia service, we traveled to Safed.

Nowadays, when I am writing my autobiography as an aged retiree, Safed has become a tourist attraction. When Yentl and I arrived there in the seventies, Safed was a dreamy and aloof town, hiding behind its special mystic and long history. Still, even then it was the centre of the Kabbala; and many other sects had synagogues in the Old Jewish Quarter. It was also the abode of some Israeli artists and writers.

By the end of our week in town Yentl came up with an unexpected proposition. I was aware that before I met her, she had worked as a secretary in a charitable foundation. Telling me she had saved a fair amount of money during that time, she suggested that we buy a house in Safed.

“But Yentl, you could invest that sum in profitable stocks or bonds. Do you really want to tie it down in a property?’

“I do. You see, Chayim, bonds and shares have a speculative element. I am not a gambler; and – you know – our income is adequate for our needs. A holiday home in this lovely town is an extra asset and both of us love the place.”

“So you don’t contemplate letting it out?”

“I don’t! I want to spend our breaks here. And one day it may be our retirement residence.”

My initial idea was to find a house in the Old Jewish Quarter. Yentl thought that this part of Safed might, in due course, become the main tourists’ attraction. A house on the outskirts would be preferable and, in addition, less expensive. Today, when I live in this very cottage as an old retiree, I realise that Yentl’s prediction was realistic. Our house is close to amenities but far from the hustle and bustle of the centre.

The visit to Safed cleared yet a further question that arose in my mind. It struck me as odd that some traditional orthodox Jewish writers as well as those who embraced the Kabbala found in Safed a haven that spurred on their creative work. In effect, the two types of writing were worlds apart. Writers like Karo sought to elucidate and standardize the ritual principles of our faith. Their strength lay in the hard work involved in compiling and in arranging matters methodically and clearly. The Cabbalists, in contrast, were driven by the mystical wish to clarify the abstract core of our faith. Notably, one of their beliefs was that the deity had both a masculine and a feminine side: Ha’Shem and Ha’Schechina.

During our visit to this charming town it dawned on me that the reclusive ambience and the mild climate enabled scholars to concentrate on their work without taking note of what transpired elsewhere. I, too, felt the pull. In the course of just four weeks I managed to re-read the leading work of the Kabbala, the Zohar, from cover to cover. I was affected by the poetic beauty and by the eerie nature of its thought pattern. Still, all in all, I continued to adhere to the traditional orthodoxy familiar to me.

Back in New York, Yentl told me she was pregnant. Her genealogist thought she had conceived during our break in Israel. I was overwhelmed with joy: I was going to be a father. My line was not going to end with me.

“Is it going to be a boy or a girl?” I asked Yentl.

“They will tell me later on. And, you know, I have the feeling that I’ll bring a boy into the world. But does it really matter?”

“Not in the slightest,” I assured her. “But Yentl, we must think about the name to be given to the baby.”

“Well, what do you suggest?”

“If we have a baby-boy, I’d like to call him Ami (‘My Nation’ in Hebrew). If you bear a baby-girl let us call her Ruth!”

“Why Ruth?”

“I hope she will be as devoted to you as the Biblical Ruth was to her stepmother Naomi. Also ‘Ruth’ is cute: I like the sound of it. But Yentl: you couldn’t have given me a nicer gift. So I shall be a parent! Wonderful!”

“You mean: we shall be parents. So our marriage is fruitful!”

When I reflect about that episode, I am satisfied that it was the happiest moment in my long life. It also clarified Yentl’s role. She felt that her task was to build up a happy and harmonious Jewish family. Unlike my first wife, Galya, Yentl put my well being above her own desires. She realised that by keeping me happy and satisfied she would achieve her goal in life.

A few weeks later, it was confirmed that Yentl was carrying a boy. In due course, she gave birth. Labour and childbirth could be traumatic. Fortunately, Yentl remained positive. I suspect that my nervous tension, as I was pacing the corridor of the hospital after her admission, contrasted with her calm demeanour.

A week after his birth, our son, Ami, was circumcised. The traditional ceremony was protracted. Usually, a new born was handed by the father to the medically trained Rabbi, who peeled off the newborn’s foreskin. Noting my nervousness, Rabbi Margalioth took over from me and showed the newborn around. He then handed him to the surgeon. Ami cried but calmed down when a towel soaked in wine was placed on his mouth.

After that we followed the custom of drinking a glass of wine. Yentl looked at me with concern as my face darkened when all gathered yelled LeChayim (‘bottoms up’ in Hebrew) as they emptied their glasses.

“Why were you displeased when people chanted ‘LeChayim’?” Yentl asked after the guests had left.

“I don’t like the idea of being ‘Mr. Bottoms Up’!”

“Aren’t you being too sensitive?”

“Probably,” I agreed. “Still, I find such an occasion irritating.”

“Then why not change your name?”

“I’ve lived with it since my childhood. Still, what do you suggest?”

“How about ‘Loeb’?”

“Why Loeb? What do you like about it?”

“If you change the pronunciation it means ‘heart’ (‘Lev’); it can also be construed as ‘lion’ (‘Lavie’). It suits you!”

“I’ll think about it.”

“And how about your surname? ‘Rosenne’ is becoming a common surname in Israel. You better change it to Zohar. You love the book; and ‘brightness’ describes our marriage.”

After a few weeks I changed my name to ‘Loeb Zohar’ by deed poll, signed before an attorney in Brooklyn. I have kept this new name ever since. Naturally, I had to advise the Israeli authorities as well as the army. Initially, a bureaucratically minded clerk opined that, as I had remained an Israeli resident, the change of name should be effected locally. To avoid argument, I executed another deed poll before a lawyer in Tel Aviv.

Shortly after Ami’s first birthday, I was due to serve a few weeks in the Entertainment Corps. To my delight, Bennie Ornan advised that my services were not required. In consequence, we remained in Brooklyn. We missed Safed but both of us concluded that Ami was too young to take such a long flight. Fortunately, Yentl had asked one of our neighbours in Safed to look after our cottage while we were overseas.

Yentl turned out to be a typical Jewish Mother. Whenever Ami cried, she rushed over to make sure all was well. She also spent hours by his cot and showed him proudly to every person who came to visit. Occasionally, I felt neglected.

Most of my time was spent on Talmudic tracts and Medieval Rabbinical writings. By the end of the year, I completed my further studies and was ordained. To my delight, Rabbi Margalioth invited me to become his deputy. Apart from my duties as Junior Rabbi, I was also expected to take care of the day-to-day running of the Jewish Wellbeing Foundation. Yentl’s skill as secretary was of major help.

Another talent I developed during this period was faith healing. I was, of course, unable to remedy physical defects like deafness or blindness. Where I was able to lend a hand was when a patient’s sufferings were exacerbated by fear or hallucinations. For instance, when Yentl’s father developed high blood pressure due to the stress experienced in the course of business, I was able to calm him down. His blood pressure thereupon corrected itself. Similarly, when colleagues suffered headaches as a result of being overworked, I was occasionally able to talk them out of it. Stresses incurred due to turmoil of home life were equally treatable. I managed to be of assistance by restoring things to normal.

Ami was an active little boy. When he was about two years old, he walked and ran. Occasionally he tipped over but, once he regained his composure, he would go for another bout of activity. He also started to say a few words. Yentl insisted on breast feeding him. She felt confident that a mother’s milk was a baby’s best nourishment.

Shortly after Ami’s second birthday we flew to Israel. Yentl proceeded directly to Safed and I joined the Entertainment Corps. Altogether I served for four weeks. Bennie Ornan was glad to see me. His contract was renewed although he was due to retire.

I spent one weekend in a hotel in Tel Aviv. My object was to look up Ronnie Eyal and Galya. Initially, I had lunch with Ronnie. To my disappointment, he looked haggard and worn out.

“What’s the matter, Ronnie? Why are you so glum?”

“Between us, Galya is becoming a handful.”

“How?” I asked with concern.

“She wants to play roles that are no longer suitable for her. Recently, she had a shouting match with Nina. Galya wanted the role of Juliet!”

“Juliet – in Romeo and Juliet – is suitable for a rising star in her twenties. Galya is past this age. Haven’t you explained this to her?” I asked

“I tried … and got it between my eyes. In the end we had an argument. I hate scenes, Chayim!”

“I have changed my name to Loeb, Ronnie,” I tried to buy time.

“To me you will always remain Chayim!”

“Look here, Ronnie,” I told him after a few minutes. “Let me talk to her. I may be able to induce her to see sense.”

“It’s worth a try.”

We fixed a second lunch, to be attended by the three of us. Ronnie undertook to be late so that I would have ample time for a chat with Galya. When I arrived, Galya was already there. While waiting for Ronnie, I told her that when I had met him a few days earlier, he looked tired and depressed.

“Is it my fault?” she asked.

“Only you know. He told me that there are some disputes about roles in forthcoming plays. That’s all he told me.”

“Well, I want the role of Juliet; but your Nina is being difficult! She wants to give it to a newcomer!”

“What attracts you to this role? Juliet is insipid! She is a young girl who cannot think clearly!”

“She is the heroine of Shakespeare’s drama; and so I want it.”

“Is Signon putting up another play?”

“We are putting up Macbeth. Nina asked whether I should like to play Lady Macbeth.”

“It is an exciting role. Lady Macbeth is quite a character. Don’t you prefer coming to grips with this challenge rather than playing Juliet?”

“I want both!”

“Don’t try to bite off more than you can chew. Rehearsing Lady Macbeth is not easy. Also, Lady Macbeth is a mature and sedate woman. Give this role a go; and don’t assume Nina is out to get you. She has many mouths to feed!”

“I’ll think it over,” she replied. “But don’t you agree that Nina is just a conniving bitch? Why is she being so difficult?”

Ronnie’s arrival saved me the need to reply. A few days later, he rang to tell me that Galya decided to give a miss to Juliet and was, actually, graceful about it. She had overcome the feeling of persecution – akin to Paranoia – that had engulfed her. I realised that, once again, I had acted as healer, although in reality I helped Galya save face rather than faith.

Yentl, Ami and I enjoyed Safed. Yentl had decorated our cottage gracefully. It became a second home. In many ways I preferred it to our comfortable yet mundane dwelling in Brooklyn. Ami liked the Luria shrine. He walked up to the usually secluded podium, took in the colourful display of the curtain of the shrine housing the Torah scrolls (the ‘Parochet’) and generally made himself at home. Later in the week we went for a long walk and had a pleasant picnic. Ami was by then able to talk and also walked briskly.

I was sad when a few weeks later we returned to Tel Aviv and took a flight to New York. During the journey I was immersed in a part of the Zohar. Yentl looked at me thoughtfully. Did she realise that, one day, Safed would become our abode?

Back in the Yeshiva, I had a long chat with Rabbi Moshe Margalioth. Yentl had told him of my immersion in the Zohar. He wanted to know whether my studies shook my faith in the straight and narrow line of orthodoxy practised by us. Although I was by then his deputy and a Rabbi, I preferred to continue addressing him formally.

“No, Rabbi Margalioth: my faith remains intact. But I wonder what unifies all the sects that have emerged in our religion. Do you know the answer?”

“You too know it. Start by asking yourself: what is the core?”

“Our belief in a single all-mighty creator, who has chosen us from amongst all other nations.”

“Correct answer. This belief unites us. One further norm is common ground: we maintain that the Messiah (the savior) is yet to come. In this regard we differ from the Christians, who believe that Jesus Christ was the Messiah.”

“So festivals and norms – the ritual – are paraphernalia?”

“They are indeed. But they hold us together.”

“In other words, regardless of whether you embrace the Kabbala, Chabad or Traditional Orthodoxy you remain within the fold. Once you accept that Jesus was the Messiah, you have crossed the border.”

“Well spoken,” he agreed.

“But don’t we have to analyze the nature of God? What does the word mean?”

“He is the God of our Torah! As long as you remain in the fold, you need not discuss the matter further.”

“I agree,” I smiled at him. “When Elijah the prophet is privileged to encounter God, we are told: ‘And behold the Lord passed by, and a great and strong wind rent the mountains, and broke the rocks in pieces before the Lord; but the Lord was not in the wind; and after the wind an earthquake; but the Lord was not in the earthquake; and after the earthquake a fire; but the Lord was not in the fire; and after the fire a still small voice.’ (Kings I, 19:11-12): the gentle word of persuasion.”

“The essence of our religion,” agreed Moshe Margalioth.

My next three years as Margalioth’s deputy were smooth and uneventful. My family traveled to Israel once a year. Usually, Yentl and Ami proceeded directly to Safed and I joined them as soon as my militia service was complete. Ami, who mixed with other children in the neighborhood, became fluent in Hebrew.

During that very period I had further experiences in faith healing. Both in Brooklyn and in Safed people asked for my help. Usually I was able to aid them in overcoming fear and nervousness. I also adopted Margalioth’s liberal approach. For instance, I recall how one bright morning our next door neighbour in Safed, Miriam Porat, came over to show me a chicken she was going to roast. To her dismay, she discovered that the bird’s stomach was pierced by a pin. Under our strict principles, such a defect rendered the chicken ‘unclean’ (non Kosher). It would have to be discarded. However, I knew that Miriam’s family was not well-off. I solved the problem by advising her that the chicken’s entrails had to be discarded but that the chicken itself was Kosher.

During the entire period, in which I assumed the role of the Junior Rabbi in Moshe Margalioth’s synagogue, only three events left an impact. The first was the birth of our daughter, Ruth. The second was a lengthy and seminal conversation with my friend Uri. The last occurred during my trip to the United Kingdom; it drove a spanner in my relationship with my brother, David.

Ruth was born in 1979, just two years after Ami’s arrival. Yentl conceived during one of our sojourns in Safed. She injured herself in the course of our bumpy flight to New York and frequently felt ill during the remaining months of her difficult pregnancy. I tried to boost her morale but was unable to help. Our gynecologist wanted to perform an abortion dictated by medical considerations. Yentl would not hear of it. She was determined to bring a newborn into our world.

I recall my panic when Dr. Levi emerged from the hospital theatre in which Yentl went through her labors.

“Rabbi Zohar,” he told me, “we need to perform a caesarian section. We shall do our best to save mother and child. But what do you want us to do if we have an emergency: I mean if we cannot save both?”

“Yentl is … dear to me,” I stammered. “I cannot face losing her. Yentl’s life is the foremost priority.”

For some two hours I tried to immerse myself in the psalms. However, my effort to remain calm was futile. The sun to me was dark; and my blood pressure continued to rise. Before long, I felt palpitations: Yentl had become the centre of my life. The thought of losing her tormented me.

I felt genuine relief when Dr. Levi re-emerged with a smile on his face.

“You have a daughter and your wife is fine, Rabbi. But a further pregnancy is inadvisable for the next four years. We may not be so lucky if she conceives earlier than that.”

“But Yentl is already 36 years old. In four years her child-bearing age will be over,” I told the gynecologist.

“True,” he agreed. “You will have to explain the position to her.”

“I suppose that we shall have to do with just one son and one daughter.”

Initially, Yentl rebelled. Her dream was to have four children. I had to ask Dr. Levi to explain the position to her. I think that his persuasions were effective. I, too, played a role. I told her bluntly that we have to accept the rough with the smooth. Some couples remained childless; we were lucky to have a son and a daughter. We would discharge our duty by bringing them up properly, by giving each a fine education and by directing them on the road leading to a happy existence. In the long run it would be better to concentrate on what God had granted us than ignoring a plain warning and throwing caution aside.

After a few days, Yentl gave way. I believe that a lengthy conversation with Rabbi Margalioth helped her to make up her mind.

Uri visited me shortly after Ruth was born. We went for dinner to the very same restaurant in Brooklyn in which we had lunched years earlier. It was clear to me that Uri had developed from the youth who attended my classes in Tichon to a mature man in his mid-thirties. He was heavy-set, radiated confidence and his keen expression confirmed that he remained intellectually curious.

Shortly after we ordered our dishes, Uri produced a photograph of his family. It displayed Uri with his arm around his attractive wife. Their kids were standing in front of them and smiled into the camera.

“Are you going to have another?”

“I don’t think so. We want to give each of them a good education. Another child has to be ruled out on financial grounds.”

“Aren’t you doing well enough? I thought you became a successful businessman.”

“I’ve done well and my new enterprise is good. But do you know how much it costs to enroll a child in a secondary school and in a university?’

“I thought education was free,” I told him.

“Not if you have my sort of income. If we have another child and want to do the right thing by him or her, Rina will have to start working again. Finding a new job should not be difficult: she is highly qualified. But I really think that, if it is financially possible, a mother’s place is with her children.”

“I agree,” I told him. “Actually, which good wind blew you over to us?”

“I am trying to get some interested parties to take up a stake in my business. They live in Manhattan. I came over to Brooklyn because I wanted to catch up with you. And I want to raise a question that has been bothering me for years.”

“Go ahead, my curious friend!”

“Well, I wanted to discuss a philosophical issue. I keep wondering: what is the core of our faith?”

“Surely, the worship of one God, who has chosen us, and the belief that the Messiah will come at the end of time (the ‘final days’). Isaiah puts it neatly. He tells us to comprehend that ‘I [God] am he: before me there was no God formed, neither shall be after me’ (Isa. 43:10) adding that we are his chosen people.”

“A correct textbook answer. Well, if this is so, why can’t we do away with outdated ritual and with norms such as our dietary laws? Few of us observe them when we are outside the synagogue.”

“They reinforce the core, Uri.”

“You mean that, without them, the ‘core’ cannot stand?”

“Well, let me have your view. It is obvious that you have given much thought to this subject.”

“When Jews attend a service it comprises prayers held in a language which most of them do not comprehend. If they seek to understand what they articulate, they have to consult a translation. Further, they follow norms and ritual blindly. I suspect that these norms and ritual have actually become the core of their faith.”

“But these norms and the ritual keep us united,” I pointed out. “And they reinforce our belief in One God.”

“They do; but don’t forget that monotheism is not unique to us. Christianity and Islam assert the existence of a single God. And long before Judaism proclaimed the faith in one God, Pharaoh Akhenaton did so. In reality, what separates us from other people is the adherence to our norms and ritual. These set us apart as an ethnic group.”

“I don’t agree. I think the norms and ritual complement the core. But even if you are right, the norms and ritual cannot be discarded. In that case, they constitute the essence and we have to embrace them.”

“But, then, if you don’t, you cease to be Jewish!”

“Not as long as long as you adhere to our monotheistic core and accept that we are the chosen ones.”

“And this segregation breeds anti-Semitism, doesn’t it?”

“The rest of the world is inclined to visit the ‘sins’ of the individual on the entire congregation,” I muttered defensively.

For a while both of us were immersed in our thoughts. I realised that Uri’s views were shared by many members of the faith, who had discarded the core and became agnostics. Still, most of them – including Uri – remained in the fold. It was a system even if it was void of reason.

The arrival of the desserts saved the need to discuss the issue any further. Over aromatic black coffees, Uri told me that on his way to New York he had made a stop in London and paid a visit to my brother, David.

“David wrote a short note a while ago to tell me that he was moving to Birmingham,” I told Uri.

“I know. He is being appointed a branch manager. He told me that he fears you are distancing yourself from him. Is that so?”

“I am afraid so. My job and personal life keep me very busy.”

“Is this estrangement due also to his having married out?”

“To a certain extent,” I confirmed.

“Well let me tell you that Clare is charming. David is a lucky man; and he is proud of her. David was never as traditional as you. When he met a woman as splendid as Clare, he fell for her. I am sure he would be glad if you visited them.”

My visit to David took place a few weeks later. Moshe Margalioth asked me to visit our supporters, practically the donors, in Europe. I agreed but felt uneasy when he asked me to put on the typical black silk suit.

“But look here, Loeb,” he told me. “You had no objection to growing a beard. So why are you uneasy about the clothes?”

“Aren’t they anachronistic? Surely, our forefathers in Judea did not wear such attire. These are Turkic clothes, which our European ancestors may have adopted after the Khazars converted to Judaism.”

“Very likely,” he agreed readily. “But by now they have become a sort of a uniform. So what do you have against them?”

“Very well,” I muttered, feeling that all in all his words made sense.

The flight to London took some eight hours. After contacting our followers, I rang David. He was glad to hear from me and invited me to come over for lunch at their place the next day. I was glad to accept.

Clare struck me as a pleasant and homely woman. The meal she cooked was excellent and our dietary laws sanctioned my partaking. David’s children were cute and his house, though modest, was neat and well decorated. After lunch, we had coffee and then I returned to my hotel. Before I left, David suggested that I dine with him in his club.

It was agreed that I should take a taxi from the hotel and pick David up on the way to the club. To my surprise, David had left before my arrival. Clare asked me to come in. I recall our conversation vividly.

“David forgot to refer to the dress code of his club. I tried to contact you but you had already left the hotel. Would you like to use one of David’s suits?”

“What’s wrong with my clothes?”

“You put on orthodox attire,” she explained uneasily. “You may not feel comfortable if you wear it in the club.”

“I see,” I replied when I recovered from my shock. “But, Clare, David and I are of a different build. And in any event, I am what I am.”

“Of course you are. And we are not seeking to influence your orientation. It is only for this occasion. I have taken out David’s best suit; it will fit you. Please try it on.”

“No, thank you. I’ll have my evening meal in a restaurant in Golders Green. And now I have to go. The taxi is waiting for me.”

“You mean you won’t dine with David.”

“Some other time perhaps. And now I must really go.”

“David … will be … very disappointed,” she stammered.

“Give him my regards,” I brought the conversation to its close.

During the first course I still felt hurt and disappointed. I calmed down over an excellent dish of goose. I told myself that David was ascending the social ladder in an alien country. Naturally, we could have arranged to have dinner in the very restaurant in which I had my meal. David’s invitation for dinner in his club had been misguided. Still, it was made in good faith. The dress code, though, should have been mentioned when he invited me.

When I came back to my hotel after watching a play in the West End I was given a message left by David. He asked me to ring him as soon as possible. However, it was too late to ring instantly and I had to leave very early next morning.

“Please ring back and tell them I checked out before the message was delivered,” I asked the receptionist and gave her a handsome tip.

A few days later David sent me an apologetic letter. I sent him a formal reply. Somehow, the incident undermined our family relationship. During my next trips to the United Kingdom I called on our affiliates in London and in Manchester. I could have built in a stop over in Birmingham, where David resided, but decided not to do so.

David kept writing to me sporadically. The only time I met him again was at Mother’s funeral. Years later, Clare wrote to inform me of David’s demise. Pressure of work and chain smoking resulted in a massive stroke, which he did not survive. She asked me whether I would attend the funeral, which was to be held in their church. “David saw light late in his life and joined our congregation,” she explained.

Clare had sent the communication to my address in Brooklyn. It was forwarded to my address in Safed, where I resided as a retiree, but reached me well after the date of the funeral. I sent Clare a letter of condolence and explained that I had received her communication after the burial.

I have not been in contact with David’s family ever since. It continued to grieve me that my late brother had left the fold. Nowadays, I have second thoughts. Was I was too rigid? After all, faith is a personal matter. I have never scolded close friends who became free thinkers. Why then could I not tolerate my brother’s act?

11. A Liberal Rabbi in Brooklyn

My next few years as Moshe Margalioth’s deputy were quiet. A number of events, though, left their impact on me.

One took place shortly after Yentl and I returned to Brooklyn following some six weeks in Israel. Rabbi Margalioth caught a bad cold and lost his voice. This meant that I had to act as cantor. Reciting the weekly Parasha – namely, the section of the Pentateuch read out by the Rabbi after the morning service on Shabbat – did not present a problem. During my studies in the Yeshiva, I had mastered the art of leading a prayer session and of reciting passages from the Bible.

Delivering a sermon (Drasha) was a new task. Initially, I offered to read out a sermon composed by Moshe Margalioth. My mentor would not hear of it.

“You are a Rabbi, Loeb. It is high time that you master the art of preparing the weekly sermon.”

“I did not anticipate this,” I mumbled. “You are the leader of our congregation.”

“But you are my deputy. You must be able to take over whenever I am unavailable. And, you know, I too had to compose sermons when my predecessor was sick.”

The composition of a Drasha is a fine art. It must relate, directly or indirectly, to the Pentateuch passage read out that day. In this regard I was fortunate. That week’s Parasha was Balak (Num. 22-24), which relates how the King of Moab, Balak, asked Balaam the Aramite to travel to Canaan, which the Israelites proposed to conquer. Balak’s object was to induce Balaam to curse the would-be conquerors. Instead, the seer blessed these foes, describing them as a nation which dwells apart from all others (Num. 23:9).

Balaam’s blessings are amongst the finest pieces of poetry in the Old Testament. Further, they were topical in our own time because they underscored the need of keeping ourselves segregated. It was, therefore, easy to relate the passage from Numbers to the problems of our own modern era. By doing so, a Rabbi like me is able to argue forcefully that the words, written down in the remote past, have not lost their relevance.

When working on my sermon, I realised that one further aspect was essential. During my years with Margalioth, I noted that frequently the members of the congregation did not absorb the Drashas. The main reason for this was that the sermon came as an anti-climax: The Rabbi delivered it after the conclusion of the morning prayers and the reading of the Parasha. Further, usually the sermon was heavy. The listeners got tired during its delivery. I concluded that the best remedy was to liven up the address. In the case of Balak this was easy. The text tells us how Balaam saddled his ass and rode to his mission. On his way a sword-brandishing Angel confronted him. The ass saw the angel and sought to avoid it, whereupon Balaam, who did not see the Angel, smote the ass; and then “the Lord opened the mouth of the ass” (Num. 22:28), and it apprised Balaam of the situation.

During my years in Tichon, we often used the paraphrased words when a classmate gave a foolish answer to a question put to him by the teacher. When, years later, I prepared my sermon in Brooklyn, I added that frequently asses opened their mouths without divine stimulation. Those who were listening broke into hilarious laughter. Those who didn’t wanted to know what the Rabbi had said. To accommodate them, I repeated my words.

Nowadays, when I compose my autobiography, I can say with confidence that there is a similarity between the role of an actor and a Rabbi’s. Both endeavor to hold the attention of their audience. An actor seeks to ensure that his spectators follow the plot and appreciate the message. A Rabbi’s object is to draw his congregation’s attention to the manifestation of our Bible’s significance to issues arising in the present era. Yet a further similarity between an actor and a Rabbi is that both need to project themselves. For instance, when an actor bangs the table his purpose is not only to underscore his words but also to impress the viewers with his zeal. Similarly, a Rabbi often draws the congregation’s attention to himself by raising his voice. Adding a lighthearted joke to a serious message had a similar object.

Rabbi Margalioth was puzzled by my approach. He wanted to know whether, in my opinion, the cracking of jokes was appropriate on a serious occasion like the delivery of a sermon. He was mollified when I assured him that my sole object was to keep the congregation interested in the topic covered.

He must have considered the matter because, a few days later, he asked me to take over the short address to be delivered after the evening service. On this occasion I did not crack any jokes and, actually, drew on the works of Maimonides to analyze the meaning of some of our prayers. Margalioth wanted to know why I had been light hearted when delivering the Saturday sermon but remained serious when addressing the believers who attended our daily evening prayer.

“They are different audiences, Rabbi Margalioth,” I replied. “Many of the people who attend our Shabbat services do so in order to affirm their ethnic affiliation with our people. To them an entirely serious oration is overbearing. So I try to enliven the address in order to preserve their interest. The people who come to our evening services are, usually, staunch believers. A lighthearted talk may put them off.”

“I get your point,” he agreed. Thereafter he frequently asked me to deliver the address in our daily prayers and also the Saturday morning sermon. Our ultra-orthodox colleagues took objection to my approach to the Drasha. People, though, started to attend our sessions rather than their synagogue’s. Before long, my addresses became popular. My orthodox colleagues shook their heads sadly and berated me. In their eyes, I attained notoriety rather than fame. My view differed.

Occasionally, it was difficult to lace a sermon with lighthearted reflections. For instance, Rabbi Margalioth asked me to deliver the sermon following the reading of the dull Parashat Shemini (Lev. 9-11), which spells out (Lev. 11-1:31) the dietary laws. We are told that “these you shall not eat of them that chew the cud [regurgitate], or, of them that divide the hoof: the camel, because he chews the cud, but does not part the hoof” (Lev. 11:4). After explaining the nature of this proscription, I added that although the camel invoked my admiration for being able to cross marshes in which a horse driven cart would get stuck, the camel never struck me as a palatable morsel. The audience laughed and, I felt certain, would recall the edict as well as the general principle.

An orthodox visitor from Israel, Rabbi Mendel Schulman, grimaced when I cracked my joke. In contrast, Rabbi Margalioth grinned. I felt satisfied and, the truth be told, was not perturbed by our distinguished visitor’s disapproval. It dawned on me that, if the fate of our creed remained in unbending hands, our congregations would continue to shrink.

Regrettably, the matter was raised after a dinner which Margalioth hosted in our visitor’s honour. As we were served our main courses Rabbi Schulman told me emphatically:

“Our Shabbat service is a solemn occasion. It should not be trivialized by jokes incorporated in the Drasha.”

“I do not detract from the solemnity of the service. I incorporate the jokes so as to hold my audience’s attention; they react favourably to them. In point of fact, our service is becoming popular.”

“I know that,” Schulman replied angrily. “Some of the members of our own Schul in Brooklyn have started to attend your Shabbat service.”

“Surely, Mendel’e, that is up to them,” interjected Rabbi Margalioth. “We welcome all members of our faith.”

For a few minutes our guest continued to fume. Then he shrugged his shoulders. Did he understand that an argument was futile? When our visitor left, Rabbi Margalioth asked me not to judge Rabbi Schulman harshly.

“He had a sad experience, Loeb,” he told me. “His son went to Princeton on a scholarship and, to the surprise of all of us, renounced our faith and embraced Roman Catholicism. Rabbi Schulman took it hard. He severed all contacts with his son and refers to the young man only as ‘that rascal’. I suspect Rabbi Schulman has not recovered from the blow.”

“I understand. I too am experiencing this type of chagrin. My own brother, David, married out. In due course he may convert to his wife’s faith.”

“How do you take it?” he asked me.

“I am trying to tell myself that this type of attrition is unavoidable. Some statistics establish that if all our offspring had remained with us, there would be far more Jews in the world. And I fear that many of our brethren adhere to our traditions only within the precinct of the synagogue.”

“Does this concern you?” he wanted to know.

“We have to live with it. As I have already told you, I try to breathe some light air into our gatherings. Still, our numbers are bound to dwindle. It is sad; but unavoidable. Our reluctance to accept converts is also a factor. Unlike Christianity and Islam we do not proselytize.”

“I fear you are right,” Margalioth groaned. For a few minutes he remained silent. Then he added: “My own son – his name is Isaac – has ceased to follow our traditions. He says that he is a ‘free thinker’ or an ‘agnostic’ and that he ‘cannot be bothered with nonsense’. For years, I had anticipated that one fine day he would be able to take over from me. He has dashed my hopes.”

“I am sorry to hear this,” I told my mentor. “What does he do for a living?”

“He is a successful businessman. I meet him from time to time. Unlike Rabbi Schulman, I am not prepared to break contact with my son.”

“Does Isaac come to any services?”

“He attends Schul on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. He comes so as to please me. I suspect that, when I am gone, he will cease to attend altogether.”

When I think about these events nowadays, as an aging retiree, I have come to realise that Judaism is on the decline. We have too many factions and frequently are not clear about the issues in dispute. What keeps us going is segregation which, in turn, breeds anti-Semitism, which – in its own way – encourages isolation. It is a cul-de-sac. Here in Safed I am no longer a party to the ongoing debate: I have become my own man.

The years kept passing. Both Ami and Ruth were growing. Ami had attended a Jewish kindergarten but, shortly after his sixth birthday, was ready to start his primary school education. I was inclined to enroll him in a traditional school, which emphasises courses on Judaism. Yentl took a different view. She thought that our regular trips to Israel, where Ami mixed with local children, and the idols of the home would instill in him the required traditional approach to life. His general education, she opined, should be broader. We ought to enroll him in an American school of standing so as to prepare him for his odyssey. Our traditional Jewish home would secure his integration in our community in New York.

Initially, I objected, arguing that Jewish schools had a sufficiently broad curriculum. In my opinion his future would best be served by a traditional upbringing augmented by his being given the opportunity to study French or Spanish. I was – and have remained satisfied – that English literature and a command of Hebrew culture were narrow. France had a rich literature as indeed did Spain. Further, I wanted to prepare Ami for a career in Europe or in South America.

In the end, we compromised. Ami was to attend a fine general school but, in addition, was to study Hebrew and our literature. We also enrolled him in French language classes.

Some two years later, Ruth was enrolled in a traditional Jewish school in Brooklyn. On this occasion Yentl and I were at one. Yentl took the view that, unlike a boy, whose role would be to earn an income adequate for the needs of his family, a woman’s function was to have a family and guard its harmony and happiness. Further, if the girl was of our faith, she would normally build up a traditional home. A conventional upbringing would stand her in good stead. I agreed but thought it important that Ruth acquire a second language. As in Ami’s case, we settled on French. As we spoke Hebrew at home at least two days a week, our children became trilingual.

Today, when I am thinking about the discussions that took place, I regret that neither Yentl nor I appreciated the importance of encouraging the children to study Chinese. In our era, the importance of China had not yet dawned on the Western world. I am glad to tell that Ruth’s two children – my grandchildren – are conversant in Mandarin.

Another dent in our approach has to be conceded. Yentl and I assumed that children would follow in the steps of their parents. Nowadays I have come to accept that each generation deviates from the path trodden by its predecessor.

This generation gap is universal. For instance, today everybody with a basic education appreciates that the earth is not flat and that the heavens – the cosmos – is vast. We know that our own planet (the earth) is just a tiny dot in a universe that keeps expanding. People with an orthodox orientation like mine believe that, regardless of its size, the universe was created by God. People like my friends Uri and Bushi regard our Bible as passé. They appreciate that it is a literary masterpiece but do not accept it as a reliable historical source. Still, although they boast of having become agnostics, ethnic affiliation induces them to remain within the fold.

Yentl and I aged whilst our children were growing. I was by now in my fifties and Mother, too, had aged. For decades she stayed quite comfortably in the very flat in which I grew up in the south of Tel Aviv. Occasionally, David and I sent her extras so as to ensure that she did not want. Her needs were often the subject discussed in the sporadic correspondence I maintained with him.

Then, in 1984, Mother had a stroke. One of her neighbours, a Good Samaritan, rang to advise me. As I was in any event due for a stretch of militia service, I flew over within two days. Yentl and the children accompanied me. We arrived just after David had left. Before his departure, he found a good nursing home. We transferred Mother to it after she was discharged from the hospital.

The in-house physician advised me that Mother’s stroke did not endanger her life. Regrettably, she lost the command of her limbs and became incontinent. He thought that the prognosis for full recovery was negative. Mother was bound to remain an invalid for the rest of her life. However, her cognitive functions remained intact. Provided she was given good care, she would remain around for a few more years. He also assured me that a second stroke was unlikely.

“But look here Rabbi Zohar. Your Mother needs a focus so as to support her will to live. This must not be impaired.”

“We can install a television set in her room,” I assured him.

“In my opinion, you should also be in touch with her regularly and, if possible, encourage your children to write to her. Letters and telephone calls will make her feel wanted and relevant.”

“I’ll bear this in mind,” I agreed.

In the next exchange of letters I communicated this advice to David. Thereafter, we took turns in ringing her up and in writing. I am satisfied that we did all we could to keep her mind occupied. She remained with us for another four years. She then caught an attack of pneumonia and passed away. I was is Israel at the time and so was able to attend her funeral. David managed to fly over in time but had to return to his position in Birmingham after two days.

I recall the dire funeral. Only six acquaintances attended. A few students of a nearby seminary came over so as to make up a Minyan, that is, the compulsory ten Jewish males to be present when prayers are recited. The service was led by the Rabbi of the community. My role, as her oldest son, was confined to saying the Kaddish (the blessing).

A brief address followed. The Rabbi chose a well-known passage from the Bible about a ‘woman of worth’ (Prov. 31:11-end), praising my Mother’s thrift and ability to manage her family’s affairs after she had lost her husband. My own thoughts drifted in another direction. All in all, my Mother was born, got married early in her life and looked after her offspring till they matured. But would she be remembered after David and I met our appointed days? The vainglory involved pained me. Was this the lot of all human beings? Few of us would be as much as mentioned after we perished, except if we achieved fame or notoriety. I felt sad and disheartened. Was this then the fate of all human beings?

Yentl, who was standing beside me, watched my face intently: “A penny for your thoughts, Loeb.”

“I disagree,” she said firmly after she had listened to my reflections. “Your late Mother achieved a great deal. She was proud of you, the Rabbi, and of David, who became a Branch Manager in Birmingham. Your success was hers. I don’t think she sought to be remembered by posterity. She performed to the best of her ability and was pleased with the outcome. And she lived to see her grandchildren. What more, do you think, did she aspire to?”

“You may very well be right,” I conceded after a few minutes.

David, who stood beside us, expressed his agreement with Yentl. I sensed that he wanted to have a heart to heart chat with me. Regrettably, I was not in a talkative mood. Nowadays, when I am living as a retiree in Safed and have outlived David, I believe I missed an opportunity for a full reconciliation with my brother.

Our visits to my Mother had usually taken place just before I went for my militia service. Before she succumbed to the stroke, we used to stay with her in the old apartment. She had turned one of the bedrooms in the apartment into a guest room. David and his family stayed there when he visited her; our family took over when we came to Israel.

These sojourns led to an involvement with the synagogue in the south of Tel Aviv, which David and I had frequented years earlier. To my disappointment I found that the synagogue had not been looked after properly; it was dilapidated and the ark boasted few Torah scrolls. The Rabbi-in-Charge told me that many members of the community had left. Occasionally, the congregation had to wait for the arrival of the last person needed to form a Minyan. He was glad to hear that, whenever I was in Tel Aviv, I would attend the daily morning and evening services.

Our prayer meetings, though, were lackluster. The Ashkenazi intonation of the prayers, a sing song which led to the muffling of the words spoken, meant that some of the attendants were unable to follow, and waited eagerly for the body language which indicated that it was time for each worshipper to recite the Amidah (also known as ‘18’) that is, the dedication prayer said by individuals in undertone whilst standing and then repeated vocally by the cantor.

Yentl and I attended the communal luncheons held after the Shabbat morning service. At the Rabbi-in-Charge’s suggestion I delivered the address given following the second course. As I laced my speech with jokes; all in attendance applauded. Before long, I became a popular speaker.

A year later, the Rabbi invited me to convey the Shabbat morning sermon which followed the reading of the Parasha. Here, too, people liked my lightheartedness. I do believe they listened eagerly to my words. The main topical message of my sermons was the praise of tolerance and moderation. It left its mark.

A discussion with the Rabbi-in-Charge revealed that lack of funds was a major problem faced by his synagogue. When I related this to Rabbi Margalioth in New York, he suggested that we step in and provide funding. In due course, this synagogue in Tel Aviv became affiliated to our institution in Brooklyn. Thereafter, sponsored support for this synagogue kept growing as indeed did the number of participants.

Problems emerged when Mother had to be moved to the sanatorium in the north of Tel Aviv. Yentl and I rented a small flat close to it, which gave me the luxury of being near a beach. Frequently I went for a swim before breakfast. The flat, though, was far from the synagogue in the south of Tel Aviv. On religious grounds, the taking of a cab was out of question. Walking so far away from the centre (Te’chum) was equally proscribed. We solved our problem by residing in the old flat in the south end of Allenby Street, visiting Mother only after Shabbat was over. It meant that, on Saturdays, we did not see her during daytime.

Quite a separate issue related to our cottage in Safed. Frequently, we could spend only two or three weeks in it. A reprieve came when I was notified that my militia service in the Entertainment Corps was no longer required. I might still be summoned once in three years but, in point of fact, I ceased to be called up. In a sense, this was a relief. As Bennie Ornan had retired and settled in Tiberias, I no longer felt the need to volunteer. Thereafter, we usually managed to spend about four weeks in our second home. All four of us – that is, Yentl, Ami, Ruth and I – loved it. We often felt pangs when we flew back to the United States.

During the time I spent in Tel Aviv, I frequently called on Ronnie Eyal. He told me that Nina had opted for early retirement. She and her companion, Miri, settled in Nahariya, in the north of Israel, in a small house close to the beach. Ronnie believed they were happy. Nina had told him, in so many words, that she was glad to ‘have seen the last of Signon’. She thought that ‘a younger and hungrier person’ ought to take over her post.

“I am glad they were able to afford a house in Nahariya,” I told Ronnie.

“Well, their flat in Tel Aviv fetched a good price. Property prices outside Tel Aviv and Jerusalem remain affordable.”

“Did they have a pension?”

“They did; and both of them are thrifty. They live on the pensions and on their savings. Further, I believe Miri, who has a good head, spotted excellent investments.”

“Is Leo Shalev still with Signon?”

“No, Loeb, he became a heavy drinker. A few years ago he died from liver cancer”.

“Aren’t you going to retire?” I asked my friend.

“They have extended me for the second time. And they won’t find a light expert as good as I,” he grinned, adding after a moment: “Galya needs me there. I have become a real caregiver: she consults me on every move.”

“What are they putting on next season?”

“They have decided on An Inspector Calls. It is bound to be a box office success.”

“I’m surprised they are not staging an Israeli drama.”

“A play by Amos Oz is going to be shown later in the year.”

“Is Galya playing a role?”

“She is playing Mrs. Berling in Priestley’s play. She no longer tries to play roles appropriate for younger actresses. Mrs. Berling is just suitable.”

“I am glad that I managed to help you smooth out that issue,” I grinned.

For a few minutes Ronnie kept his silence. I sensed that he wanted to tell me something but was hesitant. It seemed best to wait. I knew that Ronnie trusted me but that, usually, he was tightlipped. Many Holocaust survivors had this trait: a craving for privacy that overcame their inclination to relate their personal experiences.

When at long last he decided to talk, he reminded me that Galya was his second wife.

“I recall that your first wife’s name was Hilda. The Nazis annulled marriages of Aryans to Jews. You managed to escape and ended up in Tel Aviv.”

“So I did; and I changed my name and started afresh.”

“I remember, Ronnie. And you re-married after Hilda was presumed dead. You had not heard from her for seven years following the end of WWII.”

“Well, Chayim: two years ago she reappeared.”

“What??? … What took her so long?” I exclaimed, without reminding Ronnie that I had changed my name to Loeb.

“It is a complex story. I think I told you that Hilda joined the Red Cross. Her entire team was hit by one of the bombs dropped on Dresden. She said she was shell-shocked, lost her memory and was hospitalized. After recovering she started to look for me and for her son.”

“Amnesia of this type is rare. Is it possible that, for a while, she focused on someone else? And as to looking for you: wasn’t this easy? Neither of you hid his tracks.”

“I can only relate what she told me. And looking for us was not easy. You see, both of us had changed our surnames. Also, she didn’t know I had migrated to Palestine. It took her some time to locate us.”

“Actually, how did she?”

“She searched for Ronald Hirsh. Fortunately, there was a record of Ronald Hirsh’s sea voyage to Haifa. She knew I had a flare for light effects. So she looked up photographs of the staff members of theatres. By sheer luck she got a collective photo of Signon’s team.”

“How did she contact you?”

“One bright morning I received a letter, in which she announced her intention to come over.”

“And you replied? I thought she jilted you when Adolf Hitler seized power?”

“She did rather; but Chayim I had been deeply in love with her. I adored her. Emotions of this sort leave their mark. I had re-married but, nevertheless, wanted to see her again. You see, Chayim, my first union was one of mutual love.”

“I understand; but how about your marriage to Galya?”

“My marriage to her was based on understanding. It was not a romance. Galya needed a caregiver; and I was available. You could say that she married me.”

For a while Ronnie remained silent. Then he told me about his escape from Germany. He had been desperate when a group of young Germans offered to smuggle him across the Swiss border. They were conscientious objectors of the Nazi regime.

From Basel he fled via Zürich to Paris and from there took a train to Marseilles. For a while he worked as a waiter. Before the defeat of France, he was lucky to get a berth in a vessel sailing to Haifa. After a while he moved to Tel Aviv and was engaged by Signon.

“What became of these decent German?”

“I don’t really know. But bear in mind that Adolf, may his name be cursed, did not tolerate dissenters. I suspect that my saviours ended up in concentration camps.”

“I still fail to understand why you agreed to meet Hilda,” I told him. “She should have remained with you when the Nazis seized power.”

“From her letter, I gleaned that she played a part in saving me. And, Chayim, one of those German fellows had mentioned her name and told me she had been working with them.”

Usually, Ronnie’s face was composed; it became distorted. He was breathing hard and I knew he was fighting for self-control. When he calmed down, he told me that when he met Hilda his old emotions were rekindled. I suspected that, in reality, he had never freed himself from them. His first marriage was romantic. His second marriage was down to earth.

“Chayim, Chayim, what did Hitler and his followers want from me? I was a good German citizen of the Jewish faith. I adored Goethe, Schiller and artists like Dürer. I loved to listen to Beethoven, Brahms and, yes, Wagner. And where was He? Why didn’t He step in; or couldn’t He care less?”

“You know more than I about the rise and collapse of the Third Reich, Ronnie. And, please, leave God out of it. He has left our affairs to ourselves. The mess is ours; not His!”

Once again both of us remained silent. I knew how much my friend had suffered. I sympathized but was unable to comfort him. After a while I asked how he had felt when they met. Ronnie’s reply was muffled and incoherent. I noticed that he did not blame Hilda. In his eyes she, too, was a victim. She had done her utmost to save Ronnie and her son and throughout the war was employed by the Red Cross. She got their son’s details from Ronnie and intended to look him up.

“Have your remained in contact with her?” I wanted to know.

“Hilda decided against it,” Ronnie sobbed.

“How did Galya react?”

“She refused to meet Hilda; and I could understand her. She was aware that our marriage was a companionship. My marriage to Hilda was a romance. I knew that, like me, Hilda had aged. She was no longer the pretty young girl I had met in my university days; but she had retained her effervescent and caring personality.”

“I wish I could be of help but, candidly, I am nonplussed.”

“You could have a word with Galya. I fear she is going through a personality crisis. We go together to Signon every morning. Why don’t your call on her? I’ll pick you up for lunch.”

“Tell her that I shall come tomorrow.”

Galya looked calm. Behind this façade she was nervous and bewildered. She knew that Ronnie, her husband, kept thinking of Hilda. What was she to do? Before long she told me that she no longer required Ronnie’s assistance in rehearsing roles. In any event, she wanted to opt for early retirement as soon as Ronnie’s current contract expired.

“I want to help him; but I don’t know how,” she told me. “He is an expert in his field and needs no assistance.”

“I know, Galya. Ronnie is a born caregiver. He is not a caretaker and he might confuse assistance with condescension. Don’t you have any interest apart from acting?”

“I would like to learn cooking. My skills are poor. Don’t you remember?”

“I do. But look here: why don’t you learn cooking and ask Ronnie to help you to perfect the recipes. He would love that!”

“It’s worth a try. It might induce him to think less about Hilda.”

A few days later our family proceeded to Safed. When I told Yentl about Ronnie’s experience, she pointed out that episodes of this type were quite common. The Nazis had broken families and had separated children from their parents. In many cases it was difficult to find out whether a given individual had survived or perished.

“We Jews resemble the Phoenix. Notwithstanding slaughters, pogroms, exiles and attempted genocides we remain an ethnic group. Families like my grandfather’s were driven out from Russia. Life there became intolerable. So they moved to the New World. And look how successful many of us have been.”

“I take your point, Yentl. I only hope that our luck will not run out.”

“He Himself makes sure our candle will burn forever!”

“I agree,” I replied. “Still, many of us wonder why He hasn’t chosen some other people.”

After some four weeks we returned to Brooklyn. During the next few years Rabbi Margalioth continued to delegate tasks to me. After a while I conducted not only our popular services of Shabbat morning but also the Kabalat-Shabbat conducted on Friday evenings. A year or two later Margalioth asked me to be in charge of the daily morning and evening services. He himself took a back seat.

Initially, his moves puzzled me. Spiritually, he remained the leader and main organiser. It then dawned on me that for him too time did not stand still. He was now in his seventies and acting as cantor every day tired him out. I, too, was getting on. I was no longer the eager young man who had aspired for a role on the stage.

In due course, and at Rabbi Margalioth’s encouragement, I applied for and was granted American citizenship. The motivation was realistic. Travelling with an American passport was easier than with an Israeli one. In my heart of hearts, though, I remained an Israeli living in Brooklyn.

Both Ami and Ruth were growing. Shortly before we celebrated Ami’s sixteenth birthday, we had a lengthy chat about his future. My hope was that Ami, my only son, would join a Yeshiva. To my disappointment he wanted to go to college. He took the view that the curriculum in a Yeshiva was too narrow.

“You’ll see me through Dad, won’t you?”

“Of course, Ami. But don’t you want to dedicate your life to our religion?”

“I don’t think so, Dad. My real interest is in computer technology. This sector is embryonic at this stage; but it is bound to prosper. I want to be with it.”

“What are the achievements of this technology to date?”

“A personal computer is already on the market; and two companies have developed a dedicated word processor. At present an instrument is costly. But, in due course, the personal computer will take over.”

“Many innovators, Ami, go bust although their systems are good. An element of luck and of speculation is invariably involved.”

“I hope to back the right horses, Dad. I really do; and I hope that Fortuna will smile.”

“You do not refer to a ‘Guiding Hand’, son. Have you lost your faith?”

“I haven’t. But religion and matters spiritual are not my vocation. I adhere to our tenets; and I do not think that any religion is superior to ours. Still, I am not mesmerized by it. My future lies in another, secular, domain. I have told you what it is.”

“Every person has to chart his own course,” I told him, camouflaging my disappointment and speaking supportively. “You have made your decision and it goes without saying that you can rely on me. But tell me, Ami: are you an American Jew or an Israeli living in Brooklyn?”

“I am an American, Dad. I grew up in this country. I enjoyed some splendid breaks in Safed and I am conversant in Hebrew. However, my real home is here.”

Some two years later I had a similar conversation with my precocious daughter, Ruth. She told me that after finishing her secondary education she intended to spend a year or two in an Orthodox Kibbutz. One of her objects was to develop her Hebrew vocabulary.

“After the spell in the Kibbutz, I want to enroll in a teachers’ training course, return to New York and find a teaching job in a Jewish school.”

“Don’t you want to go to college?”

“No, Dad, I am not the studious type. College is for youngsters who have set their heart on a professional career like law or medicine. I don’t have such aspirations. A teaching job is what I want.”

I realised that she had made up her mind. Further, I sympathised and felt confident that, in due course, she would find a suitable spouse. The issue of building up a happy family was best discussed between mother and daughter.

In the years that followed, both Ami and Ruth spent their breaks with friends from their own respective age group. Yentl and I flew to Tel Aviv and proceeded to Safed on our own. On the first occasion our cottage appeared empty and lacking in life. Thereafter, we started to appreciate the ensuing privacy and, like many parents before us, realised that our children had grown up and were ready to embark on their own odysseys.

Two events that took place in those days remain fresh in my mind. The first occurred when we stopped for about a week in Tel Aviv. To my delight Ronnie Eyal and Galya invited us for dinner in their home. It was the first time Yentl met Galya and, I think, they liked one another. Galya prepared an excellent meal and Ronnie kept fussing over the dishes and took a lively interest in the cooking. It pleased me that both were happy and that harmony had been restored to their married life.

The second episode took place after we had proceeded to Safed. A middle-aged man I did not recognise approached me just as I was about to enter a synagogue.

“Sir, you look like Chayim Rosenne: the officer in charge of my army unit.”

“I’ve changed my name to Loeb Zohar and, yes, I am that very person. But I cannot really remember you.”

“All of us have aged since then. I am Joseph Barad (nicknamed Yossi). A year ago I retired from practice. I was a psychiatrist.”

We proceeded to a nearby coffee house. It turned out that Yossi was familiar with my work as a faith healer. Smilingly, he confided that, in reality, he too had to resort to faith healing when a patient’s disorder was due to stress or edgy nerves.

He listened eagerly to some of the cases I had handled in Brooklyn. Then, spontaneously, I told him all about Ronnie, Galya and Hilda. Naturally, I used fictitious names but, by and large, adhered to the facts.

“That shell shock and loss of memory business sounds odd,” he said after reflecting for a few minutes.

“Why?”

“It was a fashionable diagnosis after WWI. After WWII and the Vietnam War medicine postulated ‘temporary amnesia’. Today we know that a shock or an injury can lead to a partial loss of memory. Recovery from absolute amnesia, which can be occasioned by a stroke, is hard to cure; and I am unaware of successful cases.”

“What do you think might have happened in this case?”

“It is possible that Hilda met a ‘Mr. Right’ and then split.”

“What, then, would induce her to reappear – to ‘rise from the grave’?”

“I cannot come up with a definite answer. One possibility is that she wanted to meet her ex once again and see that he had not forgotten her. Another is a simple wish to re-visit the past with a view to regaining strength for her current existence.”

“Both would also explain what made her decide to withdraw and veto further communications,” I agreed.

Yossi and I remained in touch ever since. Nowadays we often spend an evening together and reminiscence about our respective pasts.

12. My Heydays as Rabbi

My remaining years as Rabbi Margalioth’s second-in-command were pleasant. Our relationship was harmonious and usually we saw eye to eye. When we did not, I tended to bow to his authority unless I managed to convert him to my view. As time passed he became increasingly inclined to concede. It was also apparent that he was tiring easily. In due course, I became the main cantor, coordinator and, effectively, the lead person. Margalioth continued to attend all our functions but assumed the role of a supervisor, who governs from far afield.

In due course he told me that he felt the need to retire and asked me to become the new head of the congregation. I had my doubts. I knew that he was in his seventies but, even so, felt that that he could remain in office for a few more years.

“I am happy the way things are,” I told him.

“Many leaders make the mistake of outliving their utility. You are ready and have the ability. At this stage a changeover will be smooth. If we wait too long, you may see in-fighting and contention. I abhor these. I have made my choice a few years ago. I do not want to see it frustrated.”

“Your advice is still needed, Rabbi. As you know, I often turn to you. It’s a privilege.”

“You could still consult me if you felt the need. I intend to retire here: in Brooklyn.”

“Don’t you want to settle in a place with a better climate?”

“I prefer to remain in a town I know. We thought about Motza near Jerusalem. But my spoken Hebrew is not too fluent. Brooklyn is just right for me. Also, my family is here or in other districts of New York.”

I agreed to take over. For about one year Moshe Margalioth continued as chairman of the Jewish Wellbeing Foundation. He then told me that Yentl was running it efficiently and that I was a suitable emissary. I had established sound contacts with our sponsors. On this basis, he concluded that it would be reasonable for him to step down. Reluctantly, I agreed. Before long the Foundation became known as the Loeb Zohar Foundation. However, Yentl and I adhered to the policies laid down by Moshe Margalioth. The Foundation remained a tolerant and, I believe, well managed organization.

Shortly after I took the Congregation over, the members of the Jewish and Israeli Culture Club invited me to become the chairman. They were familiar with the attainments of Uri’s club in Tel Aviv and with my contributions to it. I sensed that I ought to concentrate on the responsibilities involved in the Congregation. These did not leave me the time needed to guide and supervise the activities of any other body. However, I agreed to join the Club as a member and advisor.

One of the issues that arose related to the choice of a play to be performed under the Club’s auspices. King Solomon and Shalmai the Cobbler, Tevyeh the Milkman and some dramas by Israeli playwrights were considered. Then one member referred to an English piece entitled A Pack of Lies. I had actually seen it in the Lyric in London’s West End in 1983. The play deals with a middle-class couple who befriend their neighbours, assuming them to be run of the mill characters. The couple is upset when a plain clothes detective asks them to observe the activities of these neighbours because they are members of a spy ring that passes confidential military secrets to a foreign government. The couple, played by Judy Dench and Michael Williams, face the dilemma of split loyalties. On the one hand, they are fond of their neighbours but, on the other hand, are good citizens. In the event, the couple enables the squad to use their house for counter espionage. The play ends with the arrest of the spies, whose real surname is Cohen.

“Why is this play topical?” asked another member.

“It is actually reminiscent of the 1951 episode involving Julius and Ethel Rosenberg, who disclosed American privileged information to the Soviet Union. They were apprehended and executed. President Eisenhower refused to grant a pardon.”

“But the Rosenberg’s were motivated by their ideology,” I stepped in.

“True. But suppose they had to choose between loyalty to family members who had remained in the Soviet Union and the welfare of their new home: the United States?”

“This is not a new issue,” interceded a third member. “During WWI German Jews were directed to enlist and fight French armies comprising Jews …”

“ … and vice versa,” pointed out another. “And during WWII Japanese migrants had to decide whether they owed loyalty to their new abode or side with their original homeland.”

“And let us not forget the despicable Lavon Affair of 1954 in which Egyptian Jews were induced to support an Israeli scheme that was counter to Egypt’s interests,” added yet another member. “The problem of split loyalties is always current. In WWII ethnic Australians of Italian origin fought against Italian troops in North Africa.”

“I agree. But A Pack of Lies would have to be adapted. We need a modified version. In reality, we have to write a new play with a different emphasis,” I averred.

Two members of the Club volunteered to give the project a try. After some four months, they produced a drama set in the United States. It dealt with an American Jewish couple who faced the Hobson’s choice of either acting as spies for the country from which they had migrated or remain loyal to their new home. The authorities in their erstwhile home pressurized them to cooperate by means of threats as to what would be done to their relatives who had stayed behind. The motto of the drama was that, when a new country opens its doors to migrants, the newcomers’ loyalty is owed to their new host.

The play was well attended but the critique was lukewarm. The reviewers were disappointed with the performance. It has to be conceded that the staging and acting were mediocre. A good director had been required but, regrettably, was not found.

In contrast, most critics saw the relevance of the issue elaborated, namely the well-known problems faced by migrants. The drama did not purport to provide an answer. The audience had to decide how people ought to conduct themselves when facing such a predicament.

Only one critic took the view that this question should not be raised in a play. I disagreed. The mass immigration to Europe and North America from China and Middle Eastern countries had exacerbated this issue in our own era, especially as migrants had tended to congregate in select places and were inclined to adhere to their ethnic norms. Undoubtedly, the issue furnished a proper topic for research papers and theses authored by anthropologists. For the common person, a play was more accessible. Further, I was convinced that our presentation was unbiased. On this point I was reassured by my friend, Uri Barsel, who attended one of the performances.

A few days after the last performance, Uri took me out for lunch. It saddened me to see that the young lad, who had looked so fresh and full of life in Tichon, appeared haggard and lacklustre and, to my dismay, was bloated and overweight.

Initially we spoke about the play. Uri told me he sensed that the performance was not up to my standard. The topic, though, was relevant. He took the view that the drama should be translated to Hebrew and performed in Tel Aviv. I voiced my consent.

When we were served the main courses, I asked why he looked so glum. He told me that his medical tests suggested that he was a latent diabetic. He could prevent the onset of the disease by watching his diet. Regrettably, his occupation rendered this impossible.

“You see, Loeb,” he explained, “when I attend a business lunch or dinner I have to partake. I eat and drink too much in the course of business. Sooner or later I’ll have to start taking tablets. The very idea is hateful!”

“In the very least you could exercise.”

“That’s more easily said than done. I simply don’t have the time.”

I looked at him with dismay. He was paying dearly for his successful career. I knew it was futile to suggest early retirement. His offspring were in their late teens and so he still had to cope with the expenditure of their education. If he had been a believer, he might have found solace in faith. His agnosticism denied him such comfort.

“But look here, Uri,” I ventured, “couldn’t Rina, your wife, work for a few years so that you build up a handsome package for early retirement?”

“She got used to her role as housewife. I do not want to bring pressure on her.”

“Is she aware of your quandary?”

“I haven’t told her about it. You see, Loeb, her happiness and comfort are my first priority. I’ll have to continue to try to control my eating and drinking. It is the only sensible solution.”

“So here is your own issue of split loyalty or, rather, interests. Her happiness overrides your health issue.”

“I know,” he sighed.

“All I can do is to wish you good luck and say a blessing.”

When I met Uri again after some two years he had lost weight and regained his vigor. He appeared positive notwithstanding his having to take a tablet before the dishes arrived.

“You see, Loeb, when I told Rina about my sticky situation, she decided to join the working force. She also encouraged me to take pills and be open about my condition. Nowadays I take less starch and drink very little. I do feel better. Further, we are now a two-income family and so I shall be able to opt for early retirement.”

“Oh well,” I told him, “it appears that Rina too has her priorities. Your well-being is more important to her than her own comforts. She is a good wife; and you are a lucky man.”

“I know,” he consented.

Once again, I have jumped the gun and so turn back to our play in Brooklyn. A few weeks after the last performance, Rabbi Margalioth invited Yentl and me for a Shabbat Eve meal. Usually, I hosted such a meal in the synagogue every Friday evening but, on this occasion, my recently appointed deputy took over and so Yentl and I went over to Margalioth’s home.

To my surprise Rabbi Mendel Schulman was also a guest. When we finished saying our prayers, our conversation turned to the drama. Schulman was critical of the staging and the acting but, to my surprise, praised our choice of subject. He thought that the ad-hoc playwrights had done well and induced the audience to think about the question of split loyalties.

“But you know this type of problem crops up in our personal lives more often than we expect.”

“What to do you mean, Mendel’e?” asked Rabbi Margalioth.

“I had to face this type of problem a few years ago, Moyshe. As you know, my only son left the fold and became a Roman Catholic!”

“I know, Mendel’e,” replied my mentor. “But how does this involve the split loyalty issue?”

“That rascal had to decide whether to respect his father’s orientation or follow the commands of his own religious conviction. And I, Mendel Schulman, had to decide whether to adhere to strict dogma and sever relations with him or close my eyes. My strict adherence to our tenets prevailed over my paternal commitment to my son.”

“I wouldn’t have disowned him,” observed Margalioth.

“Neither would I,” I voiced my agreement. “My own brother married out; but I have remained in touch with him notwithstanding my mortification.”

“I am not surprised, Loeb,” countered Schulman. “Your motto is tolerance; mine is strict observance. When all is said and done, I had no choice.”

“What is the correct course if the split loyalty arises with respect of political or secular ideological matters, for instance, if you have to decide whether or not to enlist in an army that may fight another one, which also comprises brothers in faith?”

“Actually, our tradition provides an answer: ‘the law of the Kingdom is binding’. Usually this principle furnishes a clear answer.”

“Is this principle easy to apply?” asked Margalioth. I, in turn, thought it best to keep silent.

“It is not,” conceded Schulman. “Still, it speaks for itself.”

For the remaining half hour or so, we sang the appropriate Shabbat songs. After the occasion came to its close, I offered to give Rabbi Schulman a lift to his hotel. Initially, he looked perturbed and so I explained that the taxi ride had been prepaid before Shabbat Eve and that the driver was a gentile.

“A Shabbat Goy,” smiled Mendel Schulman and accepted.

“Indeed,” I assured him. “Neither Rabbi Margalioth nor I would call a taxi and pay the fare on a Shabbat; nor would we accept a ride from a fellow Jew, who is not allowed to carry out any work on Shabbat.”

When we arrived at home, after dropping Rabbi Schulman in front of his hotel, Yentl expressed support for his unease. As Schulman was familiar with my tolerant approach, his foreboding was understandable.

“You, Loeb, are closer to tolerant agnostics than to narrow-minded disciplinarians like Mendel Schulman.”

“You may be right, Yentl,” I replied after thinking her words over, “but in certain situations every person has to take a stand. For instance, if I saw a person attacking a hapless child, I would step in and save the victim. In certain cases, there is no room for tolerance: it becomes callousness. You say to yourself: ‘I couldn’t care less’ but, at the very same time, you know that you ought to mind. The difference between Mendel Schulman’s orientation and mine is in that he is rigid even in instances in which I would shrug my shoulders. The difference relates to the borderline; not to the essence.”

Another difficult issue came to my attention on one of my visits to Tel Aviv. After looking up Ronnie and Galya, who were by then semi-retired, I called on Shosh. I knew that her marriage was problematic but that neither she nor Uzi sought a divorce. Shosh was aware that Uzi had been unfaithful and opted for sweet revenge, except that, in her case, this did not involve affairs. She simply ate to her heart’s delight. In the process, she became obese and developed a triple chin. From a heavy-set yet attractive young girl, she metamorphosed into a middle-aged matron void of any physical charm. Odd to say, she took Uzi’s escapade in her stride and did not speak ill of him.

Shosh had made a habit of taking ‘a small bite’ of the dishes ordered by her hosts. I, in turn, came early when we had a lunch or dinner appointment and took the precaution of ordering a dish before her arrival. On the occasion I am going to relate, Shosh was in poor spirit and hardly touched her own food.

“Why are you so glum today, Shosh?”

“I don’t feel like eating. I have bad news; and I don’t know what to do. I need your advice, Pilkin,” she wailed, using my old nickname instead of ‘Loeb’.

“Well, what is the matter? I’ll do my best to help you sort things out.”

“I am not sure you can this time!”

She then told me that her first born, Avner, was going steady with Dina, Uzi’s daughter by the other woman. The affair had been going on for a while and Shosh was at a loss. She simply did not know what to do.

“Do they know that they are half-brother and sister?” I asked when the enormity of the situation dawned on me.

“I am not sure,” she conceded. “You see, my Avner knows that his father sees another woman but I suspect no further facts.”

“Is it certain that Avner’s girl-friend, Dina, is Uzi daughter?”

“It is. You see, Uzi met Dina’s mother some two years after her divorce.”

“Does Uzi know about the relationship of Avner and Dina? Have you discussed the situation with him?”

“It is not easy for me. Uzi is aware of my knowledge of his second family; but we have never discussed this openly. He has gleaned that I do not care!”

“But this is a serious matter. In our religion, a union of Avner and Dina is proscribed. The principle is clear (Lev. 18:9; 20:17) and, of course, a Rabbi cannot celebrate a marriage which is incestuous. You have to apprise Avner of the facts.”

“I don’t know how to tackle the subject,” said Shosh and, out of habit, gobbled a ‘small bite’ of my goose.

For a while both of us were immersed in thoughts. Shosh deliberated on the possible approaches to the crisis. The full details would come to Avner as a shock.

“It is a thorny problem,” explained Shosh. “You see, Uzi’s girl friend – or ‘second wife’ – is, as I told you, a divorcee. Her ex-husband pays her alimony. However, under the terms of their separation agreement, his obligation terminates if she re-marries or enters into a ‘permanent union’. This motivated Uzi and me not to talk about it openly. We did not even mention it to offspring. You do understand?”

“I do. It explains your silence. If the ‘ex’ ceases to pay alimony, the burden falls on Uzi.”

The situation was now clear. My real problem, though, related to a different question, which centred on the treatment of a child born from a consanguineous union. The hapless newborn would be deemed a ‘mamzer’. Whilst the parents’ penalty was ‘expiration at the hands of heaven’ the child was precluded from celebrating a Jewish marriage. In a sense, the sin of the parents was visited on their offspring. Observing me intently and having read my thoughts, Shosh asked:

“Surely, the child is blameless. Why should he or she be penalized?”

“Under our tradition the child is a mamzer!”

“I thought the word refers to an illegitimate child?”

“In modern Hebrew it does. In Hebrew slang it may also refer to a tricky or unscrupulous individual. I recall how a chap in Tichon, who invariably reneged on promises, was called ‘that mamzer’.”

“And isn’t such a person a pariah?”

“In Jewish law a mamzer is an outcast. He (or she) ‘shall not enter the congregation of the Lord’ (Deut. 23:3). His parents, in contrast, are not excommunicated, although they are the transgressors. And, as you know, in our modern world an illegitimate child, whom we often call a ‘bastard’, is not an outsider. I can think about a number of celebrities who were highly regarded for their achievements notwithstanding their illegitimacy.”

“So why this harsh treatment of a mamzer in our law?”

“I am not sure; but look, Shosh, incest is proscribed in many societies and religions (including Christianity). I suspect that the danger of consanguineous unions was noted in antiquity and confirmed by instances that occurred in later periods. Just think about Henry de Toulouse-Lautrec, whose parents were first cousins: his legs did not mend after he broke them as a child. And think what intermarriage did to the royal families: the defective Habsburg chin and the horrors of hereditary hemophilia. Perhaps a mamzer was made an outcast in order to prevent his defective heredity-features, known as genes today, from spreading. It is also possible that the main object was to deter people from engaging in incest.”

“I know,” Shosh retorted. While she remained immersed in her thoughts, I managed to finish my meal without her gulping the tastiest morsels. As I wiped my mouth, she finally addressed me again:

“You are right: I know. But what on earth should I do?”

“You or your Uzi – that ‘worthy’ – must apprise Avner or Dina. There is no other way out!”

When I lunched with Shosh during my next visit to Israel, she was again her good old self: ravenously she devoured the lion share of my meal and looked as happy as ever. I, in turn, had filled my stomach largely by consuming bread rolls. After gossiping about old friends and relatives, I assumed the courage to ask about Avner and Dina. To my relief she told me that, in the end, Uzi disclosed the relevant facts to Avner. The latter, who had been unaware that Dina was his half-sister, was distraught. When he recovered, he advised Dina.

“They were deeply in love,” observed Shosh. “Initially, Dina suggested that they live together, practice birth control and consider adopting a child. Later on Dina concluded that it would be best if they split but remained good platonic friends. She wanted to have children.”

“Where had they met originally?”

“Both are keen on classical music; they inherited this passion from Uzi. They attended a conservatory and actually played chamber music together. I believe they still do. Surely, this is not proscribed by our sages?!”

A few years later I discussed this issue with Bushi, my agnostic boyhood friend, when we reunited in Zermatt. To my surprise he doubted that the consanguinity laws applied during the period covered in the Old Testament. In his opinion the proscription was post exilic, which means that it was instituted after the destruction of Jerusalem by the King Nebuchadnezzar in 587 BC. So were most texts illuminating Jewish Law. In contrast, in the ancient Song of Solomon (Song. 4:9,12) the lover refers to his beloved as “my sister, my bride”. She, in turn, says to him: “Oh that you wert as my brother, that sucked the breasts of my Mother” (Song. 8:1). Bushi also referred to the illicit affair of Amnon and Tamar (Sam.II. 13:1-12), both of whom were fathered by King David. I had to agree that, in reality, many Jewish laws ante-dated the Babylonian exile. Still, I believed in our faith and traditions.

“Look here, Bushi, you use information selectively. You cast doubts on the historicity of the Pentateuch (the Torah) and then use select texts of the very same source – the Masoretic Text of the Old Testament – to cast doubts on a law prescribed in it. Surely, this is inconsistent!”

“I am simply trying to read between the lines,” he retorted defensively.

“I understand; but, then, don’t you realise that your glasses are tainted?”

Bushi was not the only person with whom I discussed this thorny issue. During my life as a retiree in Safed I talked about it with Yossi (Joseph Barad) who had spent most of his life as a psychiatrist. His analysis of the laws in point related to the psychological and sociological issues involved. He took the view that once society learnt from experience the hazards of in-breeding, it developed the prohibition of incestuous unions. He further opined that our draconian laws in point were triggered by the customary taboos of the day. He may, of course, be right. From my perspective, though, the existence of the law in point was an adequate basis for its binding effect. A view similar to mine was taken by Rabbi Moshe Margalioth, with whom I discussed the issue in Brooklyn. He insisted that this was one of the instances in which it was necessary to apply the law even if you disapproved of it.

Margalioth guided me also in respect of an issue that arose in our congregation in Brooklyn. After Margalioth’s retirement, when the mantle of leadership rested on my shoulders, I sensed the need of grooming a successor. Time had not stood still and slowly but surely the daily occupation entailed by my office became burdensome. Frequently I asked one of our students to lead some of the prayers and delegated duties arising in respect of the services.

Then, to my disappointment, the very fellow I had been grooming, Gideon Harris, advised me that he decided to leave us and accepted a post offered to him by a bank in Manhattan.

“Is it tenure?” I wanted to know.

“Not really. It is a probationary contract. If they are pleased with my services it will be followed by a permanent posting. I have decided to take the risk.”

“You have a bright future with us! Don’t you know this?”

“I do. But think about the salary offered by Wall Street banks. What I get here is less than one half of it.”

“I can imagine this. But how about job satisfaction? Aren’t you proud to be a guide to members of our congregation?”

“It is a question of priorities.”

“So you prefer the sixpence to the moon,” I muttered. “Still the matter is up to you. All I can do is to wish you success and happiness.”

“One day I may become a sponsor. Surely you won’t turn me down.”

When I told Margalioth about this unfortunate development, he took a relaxed attitude. He thought that, all in all, it was better if a student left before his ordination and the assumption of a religious career.

“He did not leave us in a lurch. All you have to do is to find a substitute. Many of our students would be happy to take his place. Ours is a moderate and tolerant organisation; and it is a renowned Yeshiva. Every year the number of applicants goes up. So does the number of our sponsors.

“But what shall I do if I have to retire before a suitable candidate emerges?”

“How old are you, Loeb?”

“I’ll soon be 63 years of age.”

“Quite young. You ought to carry on until you find a replacement. Actually, you don’t have to pick just one chap. Keep an open mind.”

Gideon’s departure was followed by another disappointment. Ami, who had finished college and was looking for a suitable niche, rang to tell me that he was coming over for a visit. I raised my eyebrows. Usually, Ami turned up unannounced. Placing a call to ensure I would be available suggested that something was on his mind. Yentl, too, was surprised. She wondered whether Ami needed money.

It turned out that Ami came over to talk about a very different matter: he had decided to marry Mary, a girl he knew from college. He told us that she was not of our creed. Initially, I felt chagrin. Then I managed to overcome this reaction. Ami was a grown up man and had the right to plan his future.

Ami added that they had decided to have their wedding in Chicago, where Mary’s parents lived. Yentl nodded supportively but came to a halt when Ami announced the date they had fixed. It was two days before Yom Kippur – the holiest day in our religion, which takes place ten days after the Jewish New Year Eve. I had agreed to fly over so as to lead the prayers in the Schul in Tel Aviv.

“I am flying to Israel a few days before Rosh Hashanah and do not intend to return to Brooklyn until well after the day you have chosen,” I told him.

“Do you really have to fly to Tel Aviv every year?”

“Even if I stayed here, I would spend the days preceding the high holidays in the synagogue. Can’t you postpone you wedding ceremony until they are over?”

“I am afraid I cannot. You see, Mary is pregnant and so we want to get married as early as possible.”

“Why don’t you get married before we leave Brooklyn?” asked Yentl.

“Mary’s father is away on a business trip. The ceremony it to take place one day after he returns to the States. Please understand me.”

“We do,” I told him and, ignoring Yentl’s anxious expression, added: “To us the high holidays, especially Yom Kippur, matter. You know this, Ami!”

“I know,” he conceded. “But, then, what can I do?”

“Ask Mary’s father to change his travelling schedule!”

“I’ll ask Mary to talk to him.”

Mary’s father was amenable and so the wedding date was brought forward. Mary and Ami opted for a civil marriage to be followed by a festive gathering. Her parents and we undertook to share the expense involved. To avoid embarrassment, I wore an ordinary suit and, at Yentl’s prompting, a colourful skullcap instead of a hat.

It was a pleasant function. Yentl and Mary had a lengthy chat during the party and I sensed that they would get on. I shook the newlyweds’ hands but had little to say. Unlike Yentl, I was unable to hide my disappointment. Ami sensed it.

“Have I hurt you by marrying out, Dad?”

“No, Ami, you are of age; and so you are entitled to plan your own future.”

“So you do not propose to disown me?”

“Of course not. You are my only son.”

“Mary and I have paid a deposit on a house in Los Angeles. We intend to go into business there. Mom and you will visit us; won’t you?”

“Whenever work permits. And, as you know, we hope to retire in Safed. By then the newborn will be able to take a long flight. We should be pleased if you came to visit us there.”

During our trip back to New York, Yentl looked at me thoughtfully. She knew I was gloomy. Seeking to cheer me up, she observed:

“I do intend to visit them frequently. Their baby will be our first grandchild. His birth means a lot to me. And how about you? Aren’t you pleased?”

“I would have been happier if my grandchild was Jewish.”

“Tevyeh’s world is no longer authentic. Stop playing his role in real life. Ami is bringing our grandchildren into the world. We should feel privileged and elated.”

“You may be right, but it makes me sad to think that the number of American Jews is dwindling. I hope Ami and Mary will have two or perhaps even four children. Still, none of them will speak Hebrew or attend a synagogue!”

“Doesn’t this apply to many secular Jews?”

“Perhaps it does; but, then, ethnically they remain within the fold. My grandchildren will be brought up in a milieu alien to me,” I grumbled.

“True! All the same, they will be your descendants!”

When we returned to New York after the Jewish high holiday season, I started to look for a replacement for Gideon. None of our existing Yeshiva students appeared suitable. There were a number of promising applications for admission but I was aware that the financial world would, in due course, snap up the best graduates. We were not in a position to compete.

As usual, we had a number of applications from traditional Israeli boys. But in their case, too, experience dictated caution. Some were likely to use their entrance to the Yeshiva as a stepping stone to Wall Street. My object was to spot a candidate who would remain with us and eventually might take over.

As was my practice, I examined each application carefully. In the course of this perusal I saw that one hopeful’s name was Avner Shamir, Shosh’s son. Having short listed him, I arranged an interview during my next trip to Israel (just before the Passover Week, which fell at the beginning of April).

All in all, our shortlist comprised three applicants. The first turned out to have an interest in computers. It soon dawned on me that after spending some time in our Yeshiva he would in all probability join a commercial firm. I had to rule him out. The second was not just observant but also a fanatic. I concluded that a Yeshiva associated with Rabbi Schulman would be more suitable and directed him to it.

I then interviewed Avner. He was a tall, well-built, broad-shouldered and intelligent-looking youth. His bright and keen looking eyes spoke for themselves. From the very start I liked him. His replies too were to the point:

“I can, of course, continue to study law. I am about to complete my third year in the Hebrew University,” he told me.

“What then do we have to offer you? Why are you interested in a religious career?”

“A platform for forming my ideas about religion.”

“With a view to reform?”

“Not necessarily. I’ll have to start studying the background and the philosophical writings of Judaism.”

“How good is your knowledge of the Tanakh (the ‘Old Testament’) and the Talmud?”

“Not too bad. We studied the Old Testament in my secondary school – TA.1 – and I covered Talmud and Family Law in the University.”

“Why didn’t you enroll in a Yeshiva straight after TA.1? Incidentally, I too went to this school. I attended the same Form as your mother.”

“I know. My personal experience awakened my interest in our religion; this is latent.”

“Your mother told me all about your dilemma. But, look: our course takes five years. And why did you opt for our Yeshiva?”

“Yours has the reputation of being liberal. And I hope I’ll be given some cross credits for the relevant courses.”

“I’ll do my best; you’ll hear from me.”

Back in New York, I consulted Rabbi Margalioth. He listened attentively and, after some reflection, expressed his support. He added that from his point of view the Hidden Hand of the Almighty directed Avner to our Yeshiva.

“Rabbi, don’t you think all this could be a chain of coincidences?”

“This is one possible explanation. Many agnostics resort to it when they face what we consider a miracle. There is, of course, no clear-cut answer: you have to pick a choice. As you know, I have done so years ago. And you?”

“I am not as confident as you.”

“So you have your doubts!”

To my consternation, Margalioth broke into a fit of coughing. Looking him over carefully, I noted that he had lost weight and appeared tired and frail. In response to my enquiry, he assured me that he was well and fit.

“I am just not as young and as active as I used to be. Time does not stand still for anybody. The main thing is: I have found a successor!”

“I only hope he is of the right calibre,” I replied.

“Time will tell,” he concluded.

Avner was a real asset. Initially, he was asked to study for four years. His impressive results and amicable orientation enabled us to ‘jump’ him one year. Then, after three years with us, he was ready to be ordained. Shortly thereafter I asked him to become my deputy.

In reality, I was aging and getting ready to retire. The lengthy prayer sessions and the endless meetings with our sponsors took their toll. I was beginning to find my routine cumbersome and dull. Still, it was important for me to leave our Yeshiva in good hands. Accordingly, I started to delegate to Avner some of my functions. Yentl cooperated by getting him involved with the daily running of the Foundation. I believe that she, too, was looking forward to moving to our cottage in Safed.

Nowadays, when I live in Safed on my own, I dare to believe that He sent Avner to us. I knew that Avner’s new career gave him satisfaction. To me, his arrival provided the opportunity to leave the scene before I outstayed my welcome.

Shortly before his ordination, I asked Avner to accompany me to a meeting of the Jewish and Israeli Culture Club, which proposed to organise the performance of a further play.

Different dramas were considered but dismissed either as too difficult or as not being topical. Then one of the girls suggested we stage Saint-Saën’s Samson and Delilah. The opera, based on the biblical narrative (Judges, 16:4-30), tells how Samson, the Danite Chieftain, was betrayed by the enticing Delilah. At the request of the Rulers of the Philistines she nagged him to disclose to her the secret of his prowess and revealed this secret information for a reward. Samson was defeated, captured and blinded; but, when he regained his strength, he took hold of the two central pillars of the palace in which he was displayed for the mockery of those in attendance. He pressed these apart with all his strength and so the building collapsed on him and on his tormentors. The Bible tells us that, in this manner, Samson killed more of his enemies when he died than during his lifetime.

The opera was topical because Delilah has to make a choice between her love for Samson and her loyalty to her people. Further, although Saint-Saën’s libretto depicts her as a beguiling woman, she declines the reward.

I sensed that, notwithstanding the relevance of the play, many of those in attendance felt uncertain. Before long, all eyes focused on me.

“Can we really manage to put it on?” I wanted to know.

“Why ever not?” asked the Chairman, a middle-aged and portly banker.

“Staging it is ambitious! Do we have good singers?” I asked.

“And the performance requires the participation of a substantial choir!” added Avner.

“Can’t we replace it by a single singer?” asked the Chairman.

“Not in the case of this opera,” opined another girl. “And we must avoid getting negative reviews.”

“True,” agreed the Chairman. “May some other play be more suitable?”

“Why don’t we revive Lessing’s Nathan the Wise? It is easier to stage and I find it topical,” I told them. Noting that many looked bewildered, I queried: “Is anybody familiar with it?”

“I’ve skimmed through it some time ago,” volunteered Marit, a widely read and intellectually curious journalist.

“Why don’t you enlighten people like me, who have never heard of it?” asked the Chairman.

“Lessing wrote the play at the end of 18th century. It relates how, after having defeated the Crusaders, Saladin sets one knight free. He, in turn, saves Rachel – Nathan’s daughter – when the family’s house burns down. When Nathan returns from his business trip, he wants to reward the hero. The latter falls in love with Rachel … and so on.”

“Why is this drama relevant in our era?” asked one of the members.

“The climax of the drama is the allegory of the rings, which Nathan relates to Saladin when asked which of the three monotheistic religions is the true one. The parable tells the story of a father, who has in his possession a ring which is the family’s heirloom and which he ought to leave to the son he loves most. As he loves his three sons equally, he asks a goldsmith to make two replicas of the original. Each heir believes he has the original. In reality, the rings have an equal value.”

“But why is this tale relevant nowadays?” queried the Chairman.

“Lessing’s object was to suggest that each of the three religions is valid.”

“I am still in the dark,” insisted the Chairman.

“It is topical,” I insisted. “While we are not concerned with the validity of other religions, our faith – Judaism – has many sects. Nathan tells us that the genuine motto is tolerance. We have to agree to disagree in a peaceful – and hence non-fanatical – manner.”

“We may have to update the text so as to clarify this maxim. And we have to do so without treading on any toes. I think we should go ahead,” concluded the Chairman. All present nodded their approval.

The Chairman volunteered to take on the role of Nathan. One of our girls was persuaded to play the daughter and a young lad took on the mantle of the good Samaritan. As nobody was keen to play Saladin, I suggested to the Chairman that we invite Avner.

As we departed, Avner told me that he and Dina had contemplated composing an opera based on Nathan the Wise. The project was abandoned when they had to part.

“You must put the past behind you, Avner.”

“It will be difficult for me to find another girl. Dina and I were just right for one another.

“I understand. The two of you came from strikingly similar backgrounds. And both of you inherited a passion for classical music. But the time has come to look elsewhere!”

“I hear you, Rabbi Zohar; and thanks for your concern.”

Our performance of Nathan the Wise was praised by everybody. It had a favourable review in Jewish periodicals and, actually, our team was invited to stage it in Philadelphia and Chicago. There too it was lauded. Our motto of tolerance was, I believe, in accord with contemporary sentiment.

13. The End of my Brooklyn Days

My remaining years as a Rabbi in Brooklyn were unadventurous. I was, of course, no longer part of the militia in Israel and so was able to spend at least six weeks per year in Safed and another two or three in Tel Aviv, where I attended our synagogue. Many doors that were closed to me in my youth opened themselves. In a sense, all I had to say was: ‘open Sesame’. As Chayim Rosenberg (or Rosenne) I was a mere (and often unwanted) supplicant; as Rabbi Zohar my name became well-known.

I should have been proud of my success. In reality, though, I was getting fed up. The need of regularly leading a congregation and tending to the needy or unhealthy members of the community became a strain. I was aging. My immune system, which was good during my heydays, became impaired. Occasionally, I picked up an infection when I visited sick parishioners. Often I became impatient when they listed their symptoms or wailed.

From a mere place of rest, our cottage in Safed metamorphosed into a haven. I craved to live there in peace – far away from the issues that were troubling others. Yentl, who kept observing me, encouraged me to prolong the time we spent in Israel.

On one such visit I looked up Shosh. To my surprise, she looked – once again – gloomy and downcast. Worse still, her appetite had vanished and she had lost weight. I realised that something was troubling her. By the time our main courses were served, I asked what was wrong. Initially, she claimed that all was well. Still, her deflated expression gave the lie to her words. I realised that she wanted to clam up. Nevertheless, I decided to prod.

*“Shosh, you are not yourself today. What is wrong? As you know, Avner is now in Brooklyn. I am sure he will soon be ready to take over. You have every reason to be proud of him and of his success. But what shall I tell him when he asks about you?”

“Tell him I am my usual happy self!”

“That would be a lie! I know something is on your mind.”

“Well, it’s about Uzi …”

“… don’t tell me he has started a third household,” I stepped in.

“I wish he could. That won’t bother me!”

“So what is it?”

“Uzi is a very sick man, Pilkin. He has leukemia. I wanted to look after him. It is the least I could do. But he is being nursed by Penina.”

“Penina?”

“The other woman. He is coming over to our place from time to time; but she is the principal caregiver.”

I understood her anxiety. In more than one way, this was a final act of rejection. Shosh had accepted Uzi’s infidelity. She managed to close her eyes and even claimed that his philandering saved her back breaking work. She continued to believe that, all in all, he had remained her man. When he fell ill and sought help elsewhere, she realised that she had lost him once and for all.

“Did you inform Avner? He has the right to know!”

“I couldn’t make myself. You see, Pilkin, Avner always loved Uzi more than me. I had the burden of bringing Avner up. Uzi took him to watch soccer matches and played table tennis with him. I was the one to fret if Avner’s grades in school were lower than we had expected. I spoke to the teachers and, when Avner was unwell, I took him to the doctor. I really think that this last burden – the task of telling Avner that his father is beyond hope – is to be borne by Uzi himself.”

“Are you certain that Uzi’s caretaker is Penina?”

“Yes, I am sure. You see: when I realized that Uzi was ailing, I swallowed my pride and went to his ‘other’ home. Uzi was embarrassed and left the room. I had a long chat with Penina. I think she is, actually, a very nice person. Until Avner met Dina, Penina didn’t realise that Uzi already had a family. The revelation came to her as a shock.”

“Good grief: your Uzi is a real scoundrel! Isn’t he?”

“He is, rather. But, then, what should I do now? What is the proper thing to do?”

“Avner must be told. I am surprised that Dina didn’t tell him. Surely, she knows.”

“She is aware of Uzi’s condition; but she is not in touch with Avner.”

For a while, I was just as lost as Shosh. The position was awkward and Avner’s erstwhile romance with Dina exacerbated the situation. My training and life experience as a religious leader did not provide an answer. Then I recalled the motto that often stood me in good stead in the remote past, when I had hired out my services as an odd jobs boy: if a situation became unacceptable, you had to change the fundamentals. Thus, if you could not stop the leak from a defective pipe, you had to divert the water until you found a spare part and had the time to install it.

“Look here, Shosh: do you think that Penina is able to carry on until the end?”

“I doubt it. When I called on her, she struck me as exhausted.”

“Well, in that case you better convince her that Uzi ought to be moved to a care facility. You can then advise Avner without reopening a wound.”

“It may be the answer. I’ll try.”

A few weeks later Uzi moved to a nursing home. After another six months he passed away. Avner flew to Israel as soon as he was told. To date, I wonder whether he had a heart to heart talk with his father. Avner never discussed Uzi’s demise with me.

Shortly after Avner’s return to Brooklyn following Uzi’s funeral, I decided to fly to Europe so as to keep the rendezvous with Bushi. When we traveled to Zermatt, forty years earlier, both of us were young men. We dreamt about the future, had ambitious plans and were full of hope. We had not met since Bushi left Israel for the pursuit of further studies in Oxford. For me it was easy to keep track of his progress. From mutual friends I gleaned that he had been appointed to a junior post in Singapore but rose through the ranks. He had married a Chinese girl and lived in a house provided by his employers. In 1966, he moved to Wellington to take up an appointment to a full professorship. He and his wife spent eleven years in New Zealand. He then took up a professorship at Monash University in Melbourne. I was aware that, although his marriage was barren and unhappy, he decided to stick it out. In 1986, his wife persuaded him to return to Singapore. There, too, he excelled in his job but his personal life remained awkward. I suspected that, as he had always been a loner, he would have failed to make new friends. Occasionally, he rang one of our classmates, Amnon, who had risen high in Israel’s legal service. I also knew that Bushi was trying to obtain information about my progress. I swore Amnon to secrecy and trusted that my change of name secured my anonymity. Bushi may have heard about the tolerant Rabbi Loeb Zohar. He was not aware that this aging sage was none other than his old bosom pal, Pilkin.

On my flight to Zürich I kept meandering on the vagaries of fate. Bushi would have expected me to be an aging actor residing in Tel Aviv. He knew that I had been engaged by the ITV which was bound to send me on missions. In consequence, the scribbled postcards I sent him as I was travelling on behalf of the Congregation would not have come to him as a surprise or as an eye opener. The absence of an address for return mail might have irked him. Still, I knew my Bushi well and so was certain that he was going to keep our appointment. As a matter of extra caution, I sent him a reminder, emphasizing that, as agreed, I would book a table in his name.

Bushi’s odyssey was remarkable. Despite our seminal conversation during our first trip to Zermatt I hoped that he would eventually settle down as a legal practitioner in Tel Aviv. I was not surprised by his decision to enroll for further studies overseas but thought that, at least for a while, he would return home. His having become yet another Diaspora Jew saddened me. I knew that he could have discarded the wanderer’s staff at any time. Bushi, though, was tenacious. Once he opted for a career in academia, he would be guided by the principle that my home is where I am comfortable. All in all, he had always been an odd man out. So, in effect, he had remained true to character.

I suspected that Bushi had retained his worldly outlook. He was – and had remained – an agnostic. In contrast, I was a moderate and tolerant believer. Whilst he would regard our respective odysseys as vagaries of fate, I continued to sense a Hidden Hand guiding and prompting us. It had driven us apart but made room for a reunion.

During previous trips to Europe, which took place when I traveled on behalf of the Foundation, I came to know Zermatt quite well. The Zermattschein – where Bushi and I had dined on our last day in Zermatt – was still there. Having arrived some two days before the scheduled date, I secured a room overlooking the entrance to the hotel. I felt confident that Bushi would book a room in the pension across the street and keep a lookout. Would he recognise me? He had never seen me wearing orthodox attire or boasting a beard. I, in contrast, had managed to secure his contemporary photograph, taken when he was emerited. In this way, I had an advantage. I would recognise him instantly whilst he might remain in the dark.

I witnessed Bushi’s arrival. Next morning I spotted him sitting by the window of his room and watching all new arrivals to my hotel. I sensed that Bushi had not lost his touch. He had rightly guessed that I would book a room in the Zermattschein. To put Bushi to the test, I walked out of the hotel, dressed in full regalia. Bushi studied me and appeared bemused: he did not recognise me.

For the rest of the day, I shadowed Bushi. I knew he would not travel to lofty plateaus: he used to fear high elevations. On the day agreed by us, I left a message in his pension advising that a table had been booked in his name.

Bushi looked stunned when he came face to face with me in the private room I had managed to secure.

“Which role are you playing today?” he asked after settling down.

“No role: you see me ‘as I am’.”

“So you have become a ‘frummer’ (highly-orthodox Jew). In Tichon you were just moderately orthodox.”

“I haven’t changed my orientation; only my attire!”

“Next you’ll be wearing the emperor’s clothes!”

It dawned on me that, if I had not seen Bushi’s picture, I might have failed to recognize him. His face had changed, his shoulders were sagging and he had put on weight. His expression, though, had remained unaltered. He still looked confused and, to a point, out of place.

“Calm down, Bushi. I won’t bite you!” I assured him.

“I’m sure you won’t: I am not Kosher,” he muttered and started to study the menu.

“Have a glance at the Kosher items. The goose is excellent and I brought with me a bottle of Carmel Hock. We used to drink it when we had enough money. It goes well with the goose.”

Over the starters, we gossiped about old classmates. To my relief, Bushi relaxed, came to life and grinned happily when I reminded him of the practical jokes we used to play in our far-gone formative years. He roared when I reminded him how we had ambushed Tichon’s Principal and pelted him with water bombs.

He became sedate when I told him the depressing developments in Shosh’s life, but was impressed when I confided that Avner, Shosh’s son, would take over my functions in Brooklyn. He was tickled when I related one of my last encounters with Shosh.

“So in the very least she ceased to be a glutton,” he mumbled. “And all-in-all her prospects are good. You are bound to ensure that Avner is a success. Shosh would be thrilled. And, Pilkin, perhaps Uzi’s demise was timely.”

A solemn mood descended when our main courses were served. As agreed, each of us narrated his odyssey. When we were done, Bushi fell into a reverie. As he returned from this far away journey, he observed that both of us had developed trends that had manifested themselves in our youth. I had remained an observant yet tolerant Jew and chose to play a Rabbi’s role. In a sense, Bushi averred, I had remained an actor. His dream of becoming a successful courtroom advocate had failed to materialise. All the same, he pursued an academic career in his chosen area.

“But surely, Bushi, my calling is more than a mere role. I lead a congregation! And you, my old friend, try to teach youngsters how to become great lawyers. It seems to me that both of us have retained the urge to influence others; and both of us brought our respective ships home!”

“Well put,” he conceded, “but our great dreams have not materialised. Don’t you agree?”

“I do, actually. Still, both of us opted for the bird in the hand and not for seven on a tree!”

“You mean: we became realists; don’t you, Pilkin?”

“I do, rather.”

“So both of us followed the path mapped out by Fortuna!”

“I prefer to put it in a different way. We followed the lead prescribed by a Hidden Hand: an imperceptible hand which some of us refuse to acknowledge.”

“You and your personal God, Rabbi Zohar! Where was He during the Holocaust? Fast asleep: wasn’t he?”

“Stop scoffing, Bushi. All in all, you have done well. And please recall that, to you, I shall always remain Pilkin. As to the Holocaust, don’t forget that, in the end, it triggered off the Foundation of Israel.”

“I am aware of the fact, Pilkin. Hitler’s regime also led to mass migration of Jews to the United States,” he told me belligerently.

“Is that an unfavourable development?” I asked genuinely puzzled.

“I am afraid it is. You see, Pilkin, the Jews are a small minority of the American population; but look how vocal they are. And they control the economy: they run Wall Street as well as the Federal Reserve. Surely, you heard some nasty sayings about us?”

“Eh?’

“They say, inter alia, that America ought to change its name from ‘U.S.A.’ to ‘Jews.S.A.’ And this is not the only derogatory proverb.”

“Pfui, Bushi,” I let my chagrin show. “Surely, such pronouncements are false and incorrect.”

“I am not the originator of such filthy remarks. But the very fact that people say them is, in itself, a bad omen!”

“What do you mean?”

“I fear that the United States will be the location of the next calamity. We, the Jews, always migrate to places that appear to be safe havens. Initially, we are welcome. The situation changes when we flex our muscles and take a lead or a powerful position. In a way, our achievements and ghetto mentality – I mean our tendency to congregate in given districts – breed anti-Semitism. Still, we – I mean you and I – are unlikely to be affected. You will retire in your cottage in Safed; and I shall remain in the City of the Lion to my very end.”

“It’s easy for you to foretell quite calmly a calamity in the United States or in the world as a whole. You do not have offspring. How about my son and daughter? How about my grandchildren? If you are right, I ought to be concerned for them.”

“I am not a prophet, Pilkin. And in any event, we cannot control the future. So don’t fret,” he consoled.

“I don’t,” I replied. “Also, you know, our people have survived many tragedies. I believe we are indestructible.”

“We may be: I agree. Still, many individuals will perish, especially if the next madman says that a person is a Jew if one of his ancestors in five generations was of our creed.”

I sensed that it was best to change the subject. Bushi listened carefully as I recounted my very last lunch with Shosh. He did not look surprised when I narrated that, after losing Uzi, Shosh had regained her wolfish appetite.

“Don’t you worry: I won’t gobble up half of your meal, although the goose is exceptionally good,” he grinned. “As you know, some people say that Judaism is a gastronomic religion. But I am not an observant Jew.”

“I know. But look here, Bushi: Shosh is unique.”

“Eh?”

“After she finished her and most of my meal, she ordered a sort of an Irish coffee.”

“Did she really?” he asked with awe.

“She did indeed. Instead of whiskey she asked the waiter to use sweet liquor covered with black coffee and topped with whipped cream.”

“That’s a Viennese Einspänner; I used to have one when father and I went for afternoon coffee. Pilkin, such a delicacy is a meal by itself.”

“So it is! And when Shosh finished it, she said it was so good that she had to have another! And she ordered it!”

“You don’t say,” countered Bushi. It amused me to see that his eyes bulged out of his head and that an expectant expression descended on his face. I was, of course, aware that Bushi retained his sweet tooth.

“Why don’t you have one? You won’t offend me by taking milk immediately after meat. As you know, my maxim is: ‘live and let live’. What do you say?”

“Not the best concoction for an old diabetic,” he sighed. Then with gusto, he reached his decision: “The hell with the doctor. I’ll have one.”

Instantly I felt protective. On the waiter’s advice, I insisted that he use Kirsch and an artificial sweetener rather than a sweet liqueur. Bushi gleamed. Then he looked at me thoughtfully, smacked his lips and uttered the highest Yiddish praise for a dish: á mechayedik. At this juncture my own eyes burst with envy. I knew full well that he was tempting me but wanted to partake. Looking at me aghast, the waiter, who was familiar with our dietary laws, recommended that I substitute a sweet Pflümli for the Kirsch and add a spoon of raw sugar. Grinning with delight, the two of us touched glasses. “To good old Shosh,” yelled Bushi. “Amen,” I retorted.

We spent the rest of the evening singing songs of the old days. We then chatted about our exploits during our years in Tichon and in the University. Before we parted, Bushi suggested that we make another rendezvous, this time within a year or two.

“No Bushi: we don’t want to tempt fate. Here is my personal card. Let us keep in touch from now on.”

Early next morning I took a train to Geneva and then flew via London to Tel Aviv. Yentl was waiting for me in Safed. She, too, was perturbed by Bushi’s description of my calling as an act. She insisted that I was a leading religious figure. I was the real thing: not just an actor in orthodox attire.

“No, Loeb, I disagree with Bushi, unless he maintains that life in itself is nothing but an act.”

“Perhaps he does, with Bushi you never know.”

“Then don’t take his words too seriously.”

Yentl was right. Bushi had not elaborated. It was best for me to regard his words as a tactless comment. All the same, I had a nagging doubt. Bushi had prepared himself for our reunion. I sensed that he was unlikely to make an observation, unless he meant what he said.

To discuss the matter further I called on my friend Yossi. Having listened to my account intently, Yossi took a view different from Yentl’s.

“Look here, Chayim, from what you tell me about Bushi, he is unlikely to blurt something out without thinking. Further, he had prepared himself for your meeting. It might have surprised him that you have become a religious leader. But, then, he probably wanted to meet his ‘Pilkin’ of old. He knew your main interest was drama and acting. When addressed to Rabbi Zohar, his remark sounds tactless. When he made it to ‘Pilkin’, it might have been a natural observation. It might even have been a compliment.”

“Do you share his pessimistic outlook?”

“Time will tell. I should like to meet him. I suspect I know what the get-together meant to him. He hoped to revive the past. This also explains why he made no reference to his marriage which, as you tell me, has remained unhappy.”

“In the old days, we were very close. I shared more of my life and dreams with him than with my brother, David.”

“It clarifies the position. I am sure he relaxed as the dinner proceeded.”

“He did rather. And you are right, Bushi wanted to travel back to the past.”

“So did you,” he summed up.

After our spell in Safed, Yentl and I spent a few days in Tel Aviv. We then flew back to Brooklyn. Yentl slept during the flight. I looked at her with esteem. Providence was kind to me. After years spent on the fringes, far away from the limelight, He led me to the centre of the stage. He also sent me a wife I admired. Yentl was a treasure. She had always put my interests above hers. She had turned my odyssey from a mundane trip to a successful journey. The reunion with Bushi drove me back into the past. I enjoyed our dinner. All in all, though, I had no wish to turn the clock back.

Shortly after we were back in Brooklyn, Ruth came to stay with us for a few days. She did so from time to time and was, of course, most welcome. As usual she brought a breath of fresh air to our roomy and empty house. On this occasion, though, I sensed that she wanted to tell us something concerning her life. Her lengthy chat with Yentl underscored my assessment.

A day after Ruth’s arrival, Yentl told me that Ruth was contemplating marriage. I knew Ruth was very friendly with Meyer, one of her colleagues, who was a staunch reform orientated New York Jew. What I could not understand was what had induced Ruth to talk to Yentl before keeping me officially in the picture.

“Ruth thinks you want her to marry one of your own disciples,” explained Yentl.

“She is a grown-up woman. She has every right to plan her own life.”

“She does not want to hurt your sensitivities.”

“She needn’t worry,” I assured my wife. “I am glad she is not marrying out. But, Yentl, have you explained to her how important it is to make sure that Meyer is ‘Mr. Right’?”

“I have; and, in any event, Ruth is sensible. She is aware of the issues involved.”

“Well, that settles it. Will Meyer come to talk to me?”

“I invited him for dinner this evening.”

Meyer appeared ill at ease. It seemed best to nudge him. He broke into a smile when I told him that I hoped he would make Ruth happy.

“Her happiness will be my first priority, Rabbi Zohar.”

“Is there any chance of your settling in Israel? I know both of you have jobs in New York. But how about later on?”

“The answer is complex and I don’t want to make promises I may be unable to keep. Ruth and I are American Jews. Later in life, when we retire, Israel may become the ‘promised land’. For the time being, though, we intend to remain in the United States. New York is our home.”

“I understand,” I told him. “But will your children have some nexus with Israel?”

“Most American Jews have it, don’t you know?”

“I do. But will they learn Hebrew?”

“Nowadays it may be to their advantage to study Mandarin.”

“I take your point. However, I hope that my grandchildren will also be conversant in Hebrew and be familiar with our rich literature.”

“I’ll do my best; but I cannot promise that they will. Nowadays few Jews are conversant in Hebrew. I suspect that outside Israel, Hebrew is becoming, once again, a liturgical language. During my lifetime, our services here will be conducted mainly in English, which is the spoken language of members of the community.”

“How about Yiddish?”

“I fear it is dying out. It was the jargon of Ashkenazi Jews in Eastern Europe and it has a rich literature and a grammar. However, there are no longer substantial Jewish communities in Russia, Poland, Latvia or Lithuania – their erstwhile abodes. And Yiddish was never spoken by the Sphardies.”

“Many American Jews are conversant in it and in some congregations it is still spoken. Further, there are American authors who use it,” I protested.

“Not many of the younger generation, I fear.”

“I thought that both in America and in Israel there are clubs, societies and even theatres whose very aim is to keep the tongue alive?”

“They remind me of medical men, who try to save the life of a critically ill patient. In reality, the best they can do is to prolong the sufferings and postpone the inevitable end. I bet you have read Yiddish authors in Hebrew or English translation.”

“You are right. I read Shalom Aleichem in translation.”

“The same is true about most of us. There are a few localities in New York where you can hear Yiddish in the street or in restaurants. But there is no other place in which Yiddish is alive. Even in Israel, Hebrew has ousted Yiddish.”

“True: Hebrew has become the Israeli tongue. I do not expect to hear Yiddish in Safed, where I hope we shall retire. Actually, would you come to visit us there from time to time?”

“Of course! This I can promise; and it will be a pleasure.”

Ruth’s wedding was grand. To ensure that it would be universally recognised, they had a civil marriage followed by a traditional Jewish ceremony. Being the bride’s father, I thought it was best not to officiate. Another Rabbi assumed the role and performed well. I enjoyed the celebration and drank the health of the newlyweds. My feelings, though, were mixed. I sensed that my grandchildren would be brought up as American Jews. My family’s Israeli link would culminate on my appointed day. Still, Ruth’s children would be Jewish. They would – I hoped – remain in the fold.

On our way from Manhattan to Brooklyn, Yentl looked at me thoughtfully. She had overheard my short chat with Meyer and had scrutinized me during the festivities. When we entered our house, she broke her silence:

“You don’t look too happy, Loeb. What’s the matter?”

“It concerns me to think that, involuntarily, I have fathered a new family of American Jews. As you know, I am a Tel Avivi. Israel remains my home.”

“But you became a Rabbi in Brooklyn and married an American Jewess. You should have known that your children would be brought up in New York. If you wanted to ensure that they became Israelis, you should have settled in Israel years ago. I would have come with you.”

“I know this. And I have only myself to blame. I was hoping that Ami and Ruth would regard the cottage in Safed as their home.”

“It has always been a holiday home. Ami and Ruth are conversant in Hebrew and understand Israeli mores. Their lingua franca, though, is English and America’s culture is ingrained in them.”

“I understand. Still, it would have been nice to keep the link with Israel alive and ticking.”

“Meyer will try,” she summed up. “But I shouldn’t bank on his success. He is an American Diaspora Jew; not an Israeli.”

“Somehow I managed to retain my Israeli identity, notwithstanding my having accepted a post in New York,” I defended my own position.

“How very true, Loeb. But don’t you see? You compromised your stand when you married a non-Israeli Jewess.”

A sense of being out of touch plagued me. It manifested itself when I attended the next meeting of our Club. Once again our members wanted to stage a play. Their difficulty was to identify a suitable piece. One member suggested Sholem Asch’s God of Vengeance. The play deals with the life of a Jewish brothel keeper, who tries to become respectable by marrying his daughter to a student of a Yeshiva. The play attained fame, or rather notoriety, when performed in New York early in the 20th century. Another member of the Club pointed out that the play was no longer topical. Yet another stressed that the English translation did not convey the humour of the Yiddish original. We then considered other dramas of the same author but nobody was keen to see any of them performed.

Throughout the discussion, I felt uninterested. I knew that, in the end, the Club would opt for a modern play. I sensed that early works, which suited audiences prior to the end of WWII, had lost their topicality. Ours was a brave new world and the Club had to move with the times.

On the way back to our Yeshiva, Avner pointed out that I had not taken part in the discussion. This puzzled him.

“You were rather aloof today, Rabbi Zohar. Why?”

“In truth, Avner, I am getting tired. Somehow I yearn for retirement. The hustle and bustle of the present era irritates me. Don’t you think it is time for me to hand the reins over?”

“You have left your mark here. And you launched my career. I learnt a great deal from you.”

“You are too kind. But, really, all sagas have to come to their end.”

A few weeks later Yentl and I flew to Tel Aviv. Prior to our trip to Safed, I called on Ronnie and Galya. They were still in Tel Aviv, happily married and semi-retired. Occasionally Galya took supporting roles in Signon and other ensembles. Ronnie was intermittently consulted on lighting issues arising in plays performed by theatres. He listened with interest to my meeting with Bushi in Zermatt.

“What do you make of Bushi’s comment, implying that I was playing the role of a Rabbi?” I asked.

“Did his remark upset you?”

“Not really. But is he right? Am I an actor playing a Rabbi?”

“Surely, Chayim, all of us play roles! In Germany, I was Ronald Hirsch – a middle-class banker. I got to my office on time and left when I finished my daily work. In Signon, I was Ronnie Eyal – a disgruntled unionist. Nowadays I am a semi-retired and quite contented family man. Which image is real?”

“I suspect you just changed your role, Ronnie.”

“Quite so. And the same applies to you. In the army, you were a capable officer. In Signon, you remained an unsatisfied man hoping to acquire a career on the stage. In New York you became a Rabbi. I suspect you ‘adjusted’ when called to do so by the modification of circumstances.”

“Wouldn’t that apply to everybody?”

“I suspect it does!”

Galya, who was listening to us, nodded. It dawned on me that this comfortable, middle- aged woman, was no longer the hungry and aspiring debutante of old.

Later in the same week, I had lunch with Shosh. To my delight she looked invigorated. It was clear that she had recovered from the melancholy that engulfed her after Uzi’s death.

“Anything new, Shosh?”

“Actually, there is. Pilkin: I am remarrying!”

“Who is the lucky man, Shosh?”

“You don’t know him, Pilkin. We met in a Book Club. He is a widower and, I think, is an outstandingly nice person. Well, what do you say?”

“Warmest congratulations, Shosh. I hope you will be happy. My only question is: why do you want to remarry? Don’t you think it is best to stick to the status quo?

“I don’t like being on my own. I am not the self-sufficient type. That’s why I decided to remain married to Uzi.”

“Did you inform Avner?”

“I’m going to write to him within the next few days. How is he doing?”

“He is ready to be ordained and to take over. You see, I want to retire. Time does not stand still!”

Shosh listened with interest to my account of the reunion with Bushi. She was pleased to know that he was doing well. His taking up permanent residence overseas did not surprise her. In Israel, Bushi had been an odd man out; life in the Diaspora, as an outsider, might suit him better than the constant struggle to accommodate at home.

Early next week, I proceeded to Safed. Yentl was already there. On my way, I reflected on the kindness shown to me by the Hidden Hand. Proverbs (30:10-end) – the passage recited at Mother’s funeral – elucidates the virtues of a ‘worthy woman’ and the lavish praise bestowed on her by an admiring husband and their offspring. Proverbs tell us how she caters for the entire family. I was satisfied that this description befitted Yentl. Throughout her life, my happiness and that of Ami and Ruth was her priority. We were fortunate to have her.

The cottage in Safed was warm and welcoming. Yentl had tidied it up and turned one of the rooms into a study. It was bound to be an ideal retirement abode. Obviously, Yentl was cognizant of my wish to stop working in Brooklyn. Although she was by nature an American Diaspora Jewess, she was getting ready to share with me our retreat in Israel. I felt deeply grateful to her. I knew that, if she had expressed the wish to retire in the United States, I should have agreed. Knowing that I loved the peace and quiet of Safed, she accommodated.

To clear my mind about my reunion in Zermatt and current plans, I called on Yossi. Having listened to me, he agreed that it was time for me to retire.

“Chayim, am I right in concluding that you have ‘done your share’?”

“You are, indeed. In plain language: I am fed up!”

“How about your interest in acting and in drama in general?”

“I propose to continue reading works I have missed out on. I do not intend to become idle.”

“You no longer feel the need to influence events?”

“I don’t. And, you know, my orientation as Rabbi is becoming old-fashioned. The future must be planned by the younger generation!”

“You feel you are passé?”

“I do; and I am!”

“I wonder if your friend’s – Bushi’s – remark has something to do with it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Bushi suggested you were playing a role. I suspect he hit – unintentionally – a sore point. He implied that you weren’t the real thing.”

“So…?”

“He suggested that Loeb Zohar suppressed ‘Pilkin’ – the old boyhood friend he craved to catch up with. He felt no affinity for the Rabbi confronting him. The effect on you was profound. He brought home to you that, in his eyes, Pilkin of old was a better individual than Rabbi Zohar and, tacitly, you conceded the point.”

“How did this influence me?”

“You decided to take the route back.”

I pondered over Yossi’s words for a long time. Eventually I conceded: “You hit the nail on its head, Yossi. From now on, please address me as Pilkin.”

“It will be a pleasure, Pilkin!”

During our period in Safed, I downloaded onto the computer the bulk of my materials. Yentl smiled with satisfaction. She new I had made up my mind and that the reclusive ambience of Safed would suit my new outlook.