Part 5: Retirement

14. Move to Safed

I returned to Brooklyn with the intention of giving up my position and proceeding to my retirement haven in Safed. I was now 65 years of age and sensed that my heydays were over and my bright youth in Tichon was far behind me. Nonetheless, my values and orientation on life had not changed. Throughout my journey I remained a non-fanatical and liberal believer.

I conveyed my decision to Avner a few days after I made my final resolution to leave. For all practical purposes he was ready to take my place. He had completed his studies with flying colours, had proved himself as cantor and had delivered a number of sermons after prayer sessions. His style, though, differed from mine. He tended to concentrate on the topics covered by him without adding jokes or plays on words. In reality, his approach was more serious and traditional than mine.

To my surprise Avner insisted on a formal ordination procedure: a Semicha. I agreed with him that this formal step was of relevance. Originally, it had been a ceremony in which a panel headed by a properly ordained Rabbi declared the newcomer as fit to resolve disputes brought before him. In this way, the panel confirmed the Rabbi’s ability to adjudicate or make a determination in any matters to be decided on the basis of Jewish law and tradition. In addition, the panel had the power to confirm the graduate’s capacity as a cantor.

In our modern era this formal ordination became superfluous. Once a Yeshiva’s student graduated, the course of studies ensured that he had the required skills. Avner, though, took the strict view, under which the studies had to be supplemented by the formality.

Having been ordained by a panel headed by Rabbi Margalioth, I could have chaired such a panel; but in view of my close friendship with Shosh (Avner’s mother) I felt the need to engage another chairman. Rabbi Margalioth had become too frail to carry out any procedures. He recommended that I approach Rabbi Mendel Schulman who was at that time in Brooklyn. Schulman looked with satisfaction at Avner’s excellent grades and added that he had been present in a session in which Avner led the Shabbat morning prayers and delivered an address.

Schulman was satisfied that Avner met the required standard. He added that, in his opinion, Avner would reverse my highly liberal and often debatable determinations. On his recommendation, our panel ordained Avner as capable of functioning as both a cantor and adjudicator.

When the session was over, Mendel Schulman observed that the Hidden Hand that found an acceptable successor to my duties as Rabbi, had not endowed Avner with the gift of faith healing. He thought it advisable that we search for a replacement. Both of us had difficulties in finding such a person. When our search remained unsuccessful, Schulman observed that a Rabbi did not have to be a healer.

An additional issue was raised by Yentl. She pointed out that Avner was not in a position to oversee the Foundation. She suggested that the new administrator should be her deputy, a pleasant woman who had worked with her for years. Rabbi Schulman, Avner (now Rabbi Shamir) and I agreed.

After completing all the formalities, Rabbi Schulman asked Avner whether he intended to get married. Whilst there was no law requiring that a Rabbi be a family man, traditionally he had a wife and children. Unlike the celibacy required of Roman Catholic clergymen, Rabbis were not exempt from the duty to multiply. Further, many issues brought for determination to a Rabbi related to domestic affairs. A married man was in a better position to advise or adjudicate than a confirmed bachelor.

Avner listened to Rabbi Schulman’s words and, I believe, accepted the rationale. A frozen expression alone indicated that he was uneasy. Then he turned to me:

“Rabbi Loeb, did you tell Rabbi Schulman anything about my experience.”

“No Avner. I always keep personal details respecting others in strict confidence. You better tell him yourself all about Dina.”

Rabbi Schulman listened attentively to Avner. A sad expression descended on his face when the full impact of the episode dawned on him. For a while he was lost in his thoughts. When his mind was clear, he told Avner that it was fortunate that they had become aware of the facts before it was too late.

“Look here, Rabbi Shamir,” he concluded. “You are still a young and currently unattached man. You must put this dismal experience behind you. Dina did the right thing when she ceased to contact you. There are many attractive and traditionally raised girls in Brooklyn. I feel confident that you will find one you consider suitable.”

“It may be difficult for me to fall in love with another woman. I cannot imagine that any would be superior, or in the very least equal, to Dina.”

“Please, keep the door open until you find a good wife. You know, in many ways things were easier when I was your age. My late father and my wife’s guardian consulted a matchmaker, who thought we were right for one another. I fell in love with her after our nuptials: like Isaac with Rivka (Rebecca).”

“The days of the matchmaker are long over,” I interceded. “Nowadays we believe in marriages based on love or a sense of compatibility between bride and groom.”

“I am not sure this is a better approach,” observed Schulman. “Still, I hope that even this new approach will lead to a suitable match when Rabbi Shamir comes across an appropriate girl.”

“I agree,” I said supportively.

For a while Rabbi Schulman looked preoccupied. He then asked Avner:

“Has Rabbi Zohar told you anything about the crisis I faced a few years ago?”

“I haven’t,” I explained. Avner looked puzzled.

“My own son,” Schulman told Avner, “left our faith and became a Roman Catholic. I loved him dearly before then; saw him through college and university. His desertion was a shock. I wanted to remain in touch with him but, in the ultimate, took the step prescribed by our tradition. I have disowned him! I tell you this so as to impress on you the importance of strictly adhering to our laws and tradition.”

“But he is still your son, Rabbi Schulman. Why did you feel obliged to oust him?”

“He broke the fifth commandment (Ex. 20:13). He did not respect his father.”

“How so?” asked Avner.

“By deserting: by disowning our faith.”

“I wonder,” countered Avner. “The fifth commandment forbids him to show any personal sort of disrespect. You do not suggest that he did so. The fifth commandment does not apply where his convictions lead him to a path different from yours.”

“His desertion was as disrespectful as a slap to my face. You, Rabbi Shamir, are still under the influence of Rabbi Zohar’s motto of tolerance!”

“I respect him as if he were my father,” summed up Avner, “and very often we see eye to eye. I would take a different path if I disagreed with him on any doctrinal point.”

“Thank you, Avner,” I summed up.

Avner was now in a position to take over my duties as leader of the congregation. To my surprise, he asked me to remain in office for another two years. Notwithstanding his ordination, he felt the need for guidance. Reluctantly, I agreed. At the same time, I took longer periods of leave. My object was two-fold. To start with, I was keen to spend as much time as possible in Safed, which became our main residence. In addition, I felt that Avner should get used to the idea of being in charge.

During my last year in Brooklyn, I was a figurehead. In reality, Avner had taken over all the duties of a Senior Rabbi. I was pleased that he kept gaining confidence. He still consulted me at times but handled all matters satisfactorily when I was away. Yentl’s resignation from her post in the Foundation meant that our constraints of time diminished.

My having taken a back seat in the congregation meant that in some cases I could act without regard to the dignity of my post. One such instance arose when the Jewish and Israeli Culture Club decided that the time was ripe for the staging of a drama. Once again, we tried to spot a suitable piece. After some deliberations, one member of the Committee suggested that we revive Nathan the Wise. Its initial performance had been a success and all of us felt confident that it would again be well attended. On this occasion Avner, who had been elected a member of the Committee, agreed to play the role of the Good Samaritan. Another member offered to take on the role of Saladin. To our disappointment the Chairman advised us that due to other commitments he was unable to perform Nathan. To my own surprise, and acting on the spur of the moment, I volunteered.

“Are you sure, Rabbi Zohar?” asked the Chairman.

“I am,” I responded. “Nathan was a wise and tolerant man.”

On the way back, Avner expressed his own feeling of unease. He wondered whether the playing of a role on stage was compatible with the dignity and status of an established Rabbi.

“Normally I, too, would have reservations. The present case is an exception. You see, Avner, for all practical purposes you have become the Chief Rabbi of our congregation. It is no longer my post. Even so, I would turn down roles such as the Malade Imaginaire or Tevyeh. These are comic parts and hence not befitting. Nathan, in contrast, is a sage. His motto is tolerance. This, as you know, is also mine. And bear in mind that Nathan is a dignified figure: a role befitting a tolerant Rabbi.”

“You did not volunteer on the previous occasion,” pointed out Avner.

“Abundance of caution! But today the position differs: I am semi-retired. Also you know well that drama and staging are dear to me. Nowadays I can afford to obey the commands of my heart.”

Yentl, with whom I discussed the episode shortly after arriving at home, was supportive. In her opinion, it was proper for me to act in any manner befitting a member of the congregation. She pointed out that this was a charitable act as the net amount left after the deduction of expenses was to be paid into the Foundation’s trust account. She also reminded me that we got acquainted in the course of the staging of Tevyeh the Milkman. She added that the performance of carefully chosen plays contributed to the cause of Jewish welfare in New York. Performing a role on such an occasion differed from an appearance in a commercial ensemble.

Once again Nathan the Wise was a success. All seats were booked in each of our ten performances and the audience applauded enthusiastically. The critique, too, was warm. We had favourable reviews in a number of Jewish periodicals. To my delight my own act was lauded. One reviewer observed that it had pleased him to see the role of a sage of bygone days played by a judicious and tolerant Rabbi. I felt that Avner’s misgivings were put to rest.

During my last year in Brooklyn we were busy packing belongings we wanted to send over to Safed. Quite a number of unfinished manuscripts of sermons had to be discarded. Initially I considered giving them to Avner but after further deliberation felt it would be better not to shackle him. My idea was to withdraw from the scene in toto. Yentl was of the same view.

One problem cropped up in consequence of Ami’s marriage to a non-Jewess. Ami and Mary, who came over for a visit, wanted to know whether the baby-boy she was carrying ought to be circumcised. My initial reaction was to advise against it. Under Jewish law, the children of a non-Jewish mother were not considered Jewish. They would have to convert in order to qualify as members of the congregation. I took the view that in the case of the offspring of mixed marriages, Jewish rites were out of place. The best approach was to let young people grow up before they made a conscious decision respecting faith. It then dawned on me that the issue was even more complex. Under the strictures of ultra-conservative communities, such children would be deemed ‘mamserim’ and hence could not be admitted into the community.

To my relief, Yentl took over. Addressing Mary, whom both of us liked, she asked whether Mary had been brought up as a Christian and whether she would want her children to be brought up as such or simply as secular free thinkers.

“My parents were evangelical but I became an agnostic during my university days. I believe Ami shares my orientation,” Mary advised.

“I do,” affirmed Ami. “I only hope you are not offended, Dad.”

“I am not. Both the United States and Israel are liberal countries when it comes to religion.”

“And you, Mom?”

“I am comfortable with my traditional outlook,” Yentl explained. “But I would not force my view on others.”

“I am relieved,” Ami summed up. “Still, what do you advise as regards our forthcoming problem?”

“Are you sure it will be a baby-boy?”

“The gynecologist advised us.”

“In that case, I advise circumcision. To start with it is hygienic. In addition, if your son decided to convert to Judaism, the issue would not arise: he would already be circumcised. In the case of a baby, circumcision is a small matter. In the case of an adult, it involves a rather unpleasant operation.”

“I wonder if, as a matter of convenience, I ought to convert,” observed Mary. “Surely, this would sort out the problem.”

“Conversion to Judaism takes some time. By then, the baby would have been born. It would still be the son of a gentile mother,” I explained.

“How restrictive,” Mary pointed out. “Is your religion that select? Don’t your Rabbis welcome converts?”

“Judaism is non-proselytizing. It may be described as clannish,” I conceded. “Follow Yentl’s advice. Have the baby circumcised but bring him up as a free thinker. He is entitled to make his own decision when he is of age.”

“Would other Rabbis agree with you?” Mary wanted to know.

“I believe that on this specific point they would see eye to eye with me,” I replied after trying to analyze the problem from Rabbi Schulman’s perspective. “They may even take the stand that, by marrying a non-Jewish woman, a chap like Ami has tacitly consented to his children being brought up in her faith.”

Six months later, the baby-boy was born. They decided to name him Jacob, to be abbreviated to ‘Jack’. Mary had him circumcised by a surgeon. A Jewish ceremony would have been inappropriate. Little Jack was cute, smiling happily when callers came to see him. My own feelings remained mixed. He was my grandchild but, of course, there was the danger of our becoming estranged, especially if I decided not to travel to America after my retirement in Safed.

When I submitted my official resignation, the congregation arranged a farewell party. Food was plentiful and the wine flowed. Avner delivered a moving speech lauding my contributions to the congregation and to the development of Jewish cultural life in Brooklyn. I was particularly moved when he said that I had been his spiritual guide since we had met in Tel Aviv. For the first time in years I felt that my eyes were getting moist. In my short but direct reply, I thanked all our members for their moral support and expressed my confidence that our ship remained in self-assured and highly competent hands.

My days in Brooklyn were drawing to a close. I thought that we ought to keep the large dwelling in Brooklyn. We could either rent it out or simply keep it as a ‘second home’ so that it would be available if we decided to fly to New York from time to time. Yentl’s view differed. Our children had left home and so the roomy residence was getting too big for the two of us. She also thought that it would be unsound to rent it out and use the net proceeds to pay for accommodation in a serviced apartment. Tenants might not take care of our home so that, in the ultimate, the cost of repairs and renovation would deplete our net income from it. In the end, we agreed to sell it and use the proceeds to buy a small flat in Manhattan, to be used when we came over.

The flat in Brooklyn, which had been well maintained over the years, was snapped up within a few days. We then had to pack the items we wanted to take with us to Safed. Over the years we had furnished the cottage in Safed to our taste and so we had no use for our New York furniture. Paying for their storage would be wasteful.

It pained me to dispose of our comfortable sofa, armchairs and our dining-room set. The second-hand dealers paid us a pittance. We had to accept the price they offered because these items would not fit our newly acquired studio-flat in Manhattan. Still, our Brooklyn residence fetched a good price. We used the balance left after both settlements to have our new holiday apartment renovated and furnished by interior designers.

The items we decided to keep were packed by professional movers and sent over to the port of Haifa in a container. From there they would be transported by land to Safed. It was an expensive dispatch and so we selected carefully the items to be retained.

Most of the books I had acquired over the years had to be given away. The remaining ones, which I treasured, were packed neatly in four huge boxes. They comprised mainly medieval writings of Jewish sages I had collected during my travels. Prominent amongst them was a collection of early editions of Maimonides’ books and a fine copy of the Vilna Talmud. Today, these treasures grace my study in Safed.

Another item I insisted that we ship over was Yentl’s electric organ. I was aware that we would have to use an adaptor so as to attach it to the electric current of Israel but this was, really, a small matter. The organ was a gift which I presented to Yentl on our first wedding anniversary.

I knew that Yentl was attached to it and enjoyed playing traditional Jewish music. Indeed, many of our guests listened with pleasure to her performance of Der Rebbe Elimelech and to some Hebrew songs like Zeena Habanot. Leaving the organ behind and purchasing a new one in Israel seemed the wrong type of economy.

Another item we took with us was a magnificent rosewood desk given to me by a member of the community I had helped to overcome the depression that had set in when his wife eloped. The top of the desk, which was made in China, was cherry wood of fine quality. The legs were embroidered with neatly fitted slices of ivory. I believe it was a well-constructed collectors’ item and cherished it. Yentl assured me that we would be able to fit it into my study in Safed.

Our collection of bronzes – mainly of Israeli origin – was packed into a teakwood chest, which had been presented to me by the congregation in Brooklyn a as farewell gift. Yet a further gift – given to me by Ami – was a mahogany step-ladder used to reach my upper book-shelves. Whilst I had no use for it in Safed, we decided to take it with us. As it was foldable it could be used as a stand for a large Ming-style porcelain vase, which I had picked it up in an auction during a trip to Shanghai. It was bound to adorn our cottage.

These items, and two boxes of clothes and religious apparel, filled a small container. In a sense, we managed to transfer the ambience of our residence in Brooklyn to our cottage, which was now becoming our main abode.

To my relief, Yentl was looking forward to our change of venue. Although she had been brought up in New York, she became attuned to the Israeli culture prevailing in Safed. She was moving from her old home to her new abode in the chosen land.

To show my appreciation I gave her a treat. I knew that during her days in college she took tours to Europe. These whetted her appetite but did not familiarise her with the old Western world. I decided that a five-week break would please her.

Our first stop was in London. We spent a fortnight in the metropolis. We went to a few shows in the West End, including an excellent performance of The Importance of Being Earnest, took a day excursion to Hampton Court and visited the British Museum three times. We also managed to book a trip up the Thames to Kew Gardens.

On another day, we took a trip to Windsor and proceeded to Oxford. We spent a night in The Old Parsonage. After breakfast, we enjoyed visiting the colleges, the Bodleian library and the Ashmolean Museum. In the end, we spent an extra day in the lovely university town, walking down High Street to Magdalen College and back to St. Aldate’s through Addison’s Walk. We took a bus back to High Street and had a pleasant lunch. I could sense how the ambience of this enchanting town reinforced Bushi’s decision to remain in the Diaspora rather than return to Tel Aviv.

We then went up to the Lake District and on to Edinburgh. We gave a miss to Glasgow, which had struck me as singularly unappealing when I spent a weekend there on behalf of the Foundation.

We took the Dover ferry to Calais and proceeded by train to Paris. I had visited the French capital after Bushi and I spent a few days in Zermatt and so I had some knowledge of this cultural centre. Originally, Yentl and I intended to spend just a few days there but were mesmerized by the French capital’s beauty. We must have been three times in the Louvre, went twice to the Opera and to the Opera Comique and then spent hours in Versailles and Malmaison.

To my relief, eating out was not a problem. Just like London, Paris boasted excellent vegetarian restaurants. It grieved me to have to follow our dietary laws and, thus, give a miss to excellent dishes. In the end, we went to one of the synagogues and had some of our meals in the Kosher restaurant. The roast goose was splendid. The meal has remained fresh in my mind. So have the excellent wines we consumed. A visit to the Eiffel Tower was the highlight of our visit.

We proceeded via Toulouse to Albi, the birthplace of Henry de Toulouse-Lautrec. My calling proscribed the collection of prints and posters by this outstanding artist, who drew mainly human figures. Hanging his prints in my house would have been a breach of the second Commandment (Ex. 20:4). I had, however, admired the works of the crippled artist from the day I watched the Moulin Rouge in a cinema in Tel Aviv with my boyhood friend Bushi. Visiting a museum displaying Lautrec’s masterpieces was within the permitted parameters of our faith. We spent a day admiring his legacy and then paid a visit to the famed cathedral.

A trip by rented car took us to Colmar. Yentl refused to make a stop over in Germany and so we took a train to Switzerland and then drove via Lichtenstein and Innsbruck to Salzburg. Both of us liked the puppeteer show and, naturally, spent a day in the Mozarteum. I reflected on the strange vicissitudes of fate. Mozart, who had been shunned in his birth town during his lifetime, had become the cornerstone of its fame.

From Salzburg we went on to Vienna. I had not visited this charming town before. We went a few times to the State Opera and to the Popular Opera. I recall with pleasure the performance of The Magic Flute and Freischuetz in the former and the amusing Bat in the latter. As Yentl did not have a command of German, we attended the English language theatre. She was impressed and – to my delight – asked me to take her to a performance of Amadeus in the Theater in der Josefstadt. We had seen it, in English, on Broadway and so she had no difficulty in following it in German. We also spent a few days in the Art Museum and in the Science Museum. I had seen dinosaur remains in Canada and concluded that the display in Austria’s capital was impressive.

On one particularly pleasant day, we went to the famed Belvedere. As both of us were fit, we started viewing the 20th century art displayed in the upper section and walked down, through the grounds, to the Baroque and Medieval collections. It was a most enjoyable experience.

Eating did not present a problem. There were quite a few vegetarian restaurants and we were, of course, welcomed by the Jewish Welfare Board. We also went to the synagogue which had a restaurant. We spent our weekends near the Schul and attended the Shabbat evening celebrations.

After some two weeks in Vienna, we realised that we were running out of time. We feared that our shipped items might arrive in Safed before us. Today – when I am living on my own as an aged retiree – I believe the sensible thing would have been to arrange for the storage of the items upon their arrival. This would have given us the time needed for visits to Budapest, Warsaw and Prague. The latter, in particular, was of interest because of the renowned Jewish quarter. Yentl, though, was getting restive. She was concerned about her organ and, generally, wanted to arrive in Safed.

We agreed to travel to Europe in years to come. We wanted to spend a few days in these towns as well as in Granada, Amsterdam and The Hague. Little did we know what lay in store for us.

Having made up our minds, we booked a flight to Tel Aviv. On arrival, I contacted the forwarding agents only to find out that there had been a delay of some two weeks in the shipment of our effects. This enabled us to prolong our sojourn in Tel Aviv. My first task was to advise the Schul that I had opted for full retirement in Safed. Accordingly, I had to withdraw from my membership. Here, too, the congregation gave me a farewell party, which was well attended. The evening was enlivened by a small band, which played local music.

A few days later, Yentl and I had dinner with Shosh and her second husband. I was favourably impressed by him. I was satisfied that the two of them had a good understanding and were a harmonious couple.

Shosh asked a great deal about Avner. For reasons of health, she had been unable to attend his graduation ceremony and his ordination. She was delighted to hear my praiseworthy account of his life in New York. She expressed the hope that, in due course, he would find a dependable wife. I assured her that this was likely to take place before too long. Avner was a good looking and presentable young man and had a good position. Girls would be interested in him.

A few days later, Yentl and I spent an evening with Ronnie and Galya. I was surprised when Galya often made comments which were out of context. She appeared unfocused and disorganized.

Whilst Yentl went with her to the kitchen, I asked Ronnie what was the matter. He appeared relieved to unburden himself. In the opinion of their family physician, Galya was demonstrating early symptoms of dementia. I looked at my friend with concern. He looked tired and worn out. With some hesitation, I asked whether he might possibly consider placing Galya in a suitable facility. He replied that, at this stage, he was able to cope. If her condition deteriorated, he might have no other option. I knew that there was no treatment for mental deterioration. All I could do was to sympathize.

Following this sad occasion, Yentl suggested that we proceed to Safed. Our first task was to make room for the effects shipped from New York. A functional desk I had used in our cottage had to be discarded so as to make room for my elegant Brooklyn desk. We also emptied many drawers and bookshelves.

When our things were delivered, they fitted neatly into the cottage. Yentl’s organ became the centre piece. When our dwelling was spot and span, we gave a party to our neighbours. Yossi too accepted our invitation.

To my delight, the gathering became a housewarming and we were showered welcome gifts. We received some kitchen ware, interesting DVDs, including one on Masada, and a number of books. One, which I cherish and read very often, was a new treatment of the history of the Jews.

When the festivity was over and our guests left one by one, both of us felt that we really had moved from one home to another.

15. Our Homely Cottage

Yentl and I started life in Safed by making our cottage, which used to be a holiday resort, our headquarters. All in all, we had a reasonably spacious hall cum dining room and another three rooms. One, which had an attached bathroom, was our master bedroom. The second, which used to be a spare room, was turned into Yentl’s room. She kept in it an easel, a cabinet in which she placed her painting materials and her volumes of notes and books on classical composers. The third room had always been my study. It suited me. Yentl kept decorating and renovating it.

To my delight she took our departure from New York in her stride. My fear that she might find Safed reclusive was dispelled. I was gratified. After a while we started to take day trips to the main towns in Israel, especially to my hometown, Tel Aviv.

In many ways our life in Safed was more harmonious and peaceful than in Brooklyn. To start with, I was master of my own time. The need to arrive promptly for our three daily services – my routine in Brooklyn – was over. If I arrived late for any prayer session, I could slide into the hall quietly and unobtrusively. In Brooklyn the congregation would have awaited my arrival. Further, in Safed members of the congregation occasionally asked for my advice or for help in sorting out their problems. As Rabbi in Brooklyn it had been my duty to assist whenever approached. Here, in Safed, I could avoid such issue and refer the party in distress to the Rabbi-in-charge.

Yentl too had more time for her hobbies. She was no longer involved with the running of a foundation. Like me, she had become an independent retiree.

A few weeks after our arrival in Safed I discarded my Rabbi’s attire. It seemed more natural to wear ordinary clothes than to retain the black silk garments I donned during my years as the leader of a congregation in Brooklyn. Although Safed boasted a temperate climate it was much warmer than New York, which meant that lighter clothing – such as a jacket or a pullover – were more comfortable than the formal clothing I used during my years of service. Naturally, I wore a scalp cap or a hat but, then, these were commonplace in my new abode. In a sense, I became a member of the crowd, a position that suited me. I also acclimatized to my social environment, spending many afternoons and evenings with Yossi, who was keen to discuss political and sociological questions. My old debating skills, developed during my long-gone days in Tichon, stood me in good stead in our encounters.

Some four months after our settlement in Safed, Ami and Mary paid us a visit with little Jacob. We had a sumptuous welcome dinner and, acting on a whim, I decided to invite Yossi who had become a close friend.

When we were taking the dessert – a dish of Zimmes (which could be taken after a meal regardless of whether it was ‘dairy’ or ‘meat-based’), Mary addressed me:

“Tâte,” she started, “I wanted to tell you and Mom that I have converted to Judaism.”

I gasped. Mary’s use of the Yiddish word ‘Tâte’, which had the same meaning as ‘Dad’, startled me. As she had not been brought up in our faith and ambience, her use of a Yiddish expression was unexpected. Her having converted was yet another surprise. Ami was secular and, I felt certain, would not have asked his wife to take such a step.

“What induced you?” I wanted to know. “Surely, Ami never suggested this.”

“I didn’t,” interceded Ami.

“Did you want your entire family to identify with one faith?” asked Yossi.

“The very question I wanted to ask,” observed Yentl.

“This was one of the considerations,” explained Mary, “but there was a further and more important reason: I have come to believe in our religion. You see, I was brought up in an Evangelical house and went to a school that was so orientated. I knew how much Christianity owed to Judaism.”

“Historically, Christianity developed from one of the sects of Judaism. Probably early Christians broke away from the Essenes. Some scholars maintain that the roots of Christianity are in the sect of Qumran that left us the Dead Sea Scrolls,” pointed out Yossi. “It is widely accepted that John the Baptist was a member of the sect. One researcher maintains that St. Paul stopped in Qumran on his way to Damascus.”

“For a hardened agnostic, you are uncommonly well versed in the development of religions,” I sneered at my friend.

“The understanding of the background of doctrines you deny enables you to stand your ground,” he replied.

“Yossi is right,” averred Yentl. “But, Mary, don’t you think that Jesus Christ was an innovator?”

“In a way, he was. He told us that God loves all humans, and that one ought to love one’s enemy,” agreed Mary.

“In that case, why do you prefer Judaism?” Yossi wanted to know.

“Because it is the cornerstone. Further, the tenets of Jesus are not pursued by his followers.”

“I agree with Mary. Jews stick to their tenets and their traditions. Their clannishness is also their strength.”

“How were you converted?” I wanted to know.

“A Reform Rabbi tutored me and his congregation accepted me.”

“Do you realise that your conversion may not be recognised by orthodox congregations?”

“I do; but this does not matter to me. Ami and I attend the sessions of a Reform congregation. In many ways, we adhere to the core far more than the orthodox sects. And please call me ‘Miriam’; I prefer it to ‘Mary’.”

Her spirited reply brought our conversation to a close. It seemed to me strange that this young and forthright woman had taken a step which might have estranged her from her parents. Was this – I kept reflecting – yet another manifestation of the Hidden Hand that controlled our lives? Yossi, I knew, would regard the episode as a manifestation of sheer coincidence. Was it possible that his was the more plausible explanation?

Ami and Mary (now to be addressed as ‘Miriam’) spent three weeks in Safed, occupying Yentl’s room. Before their return to the United States, Ami told me that he had launched a new venture with a colleague and asked whether I wanted to acquire a share.

“I don’t think so, Ami. All ventures carry a risk and I have learnt not to take any. Your Mother and I are in full agreement on this point.”

“I expect it to be a success, Dad.”

“I hope it will be.”

“But, Dad, at this stage we need an input of capital.”

“How much do you need?”

“About $20,000.00. Can you perhaps lend me the money?’

“I can’t raise so much. But I can give you $5,000.00. You’ll have to find another person who is prepared to take a risk.”

Shortly after our guests departed, Yentl told me that she wanted to sleep on her own. I was stunned but managed to keep my composure.

“Why, Yentl?”

“Loeb, as you know I am a light sleeper. Normally I go to bed an hour or an hour and a half after you. You snore so that quite often I cannot fall asleep and remain awake for a long time.”

“Why don’t you come to our bedroom when you retire early and use your room when you continue to work after I switch off?”

“That’s a good idea,” she agreed.

Initially, I found this new arrangement disturbing. I was used to waking up beside Yentl. It gave me a feeling of confidence and a sense of proximity. Still, during my years in office I had often traveled on my own. My existence on such trips had prepared me for having a bedroom of my own. In a sense, I now reverted to my existence during my youth.

One consequence of my retiring before Yentl was that, invariably, I woke up before her. When we shared the same bedroom, I used to wait until Yentl woke up. Our new arrangement enabled me to get up, walk over to the kitchen and prepare breakfast. At the beginning, Yentl resented my intruding into the kitchen. She regarded it as her domain. However, Yentl like poached eggs but often overcooked them. My preparation of the dish was superior to hers. After a while, she accepted that, during the morning, I was in charge.

As she was an excellent chef, I did not venture into her province later in the day. I always looked forward to the lunch and the dinner she prepared. In this regard I could not compete with her. Some of her chicken dishes have remained fresh in my mind. So have the Goulash, the dumplings and the stuffed cabbage.

Our first two years in Safed were commonplace. From time to time we drove over to Jerusalem, Haifa and Tel Aviv. Usually we called on friends and acquaintances and had an interesting and pleasant time. On one occasion we spent a few days in Acre. The excursion to the Crusaders’ underground city was exciting. Whenever we went to Jerusalem I visited the Hall of the Shrine, which housed the Dead Sea Scrolls. I spent hours reading those on display.

Our existence in Safed was lively. On one occasion Ronnie came over after having placed Galya in an institution. I sensed that looking after her had become too heavy a burden. On another occasion Shosh and her husband called on us. We took them to see the Luria Centre and spent some time in the Schul. I was glad to hear from Shosh that Avner had met a nice girl from a good Jewish home. They were going steady and intended to get married before long. Ruth, too, flew over and stayed in Safed for some five weeks. She brought her children with her. Her husband was unable to accompany her but Ruth brought with her a set of photographs. I was pleased to glean that the whole family was happy and that although their business had not flourished it was doing reasonably well.

I thought that I had brought my ship home when I received a sad letter from Ami. His business enterprise had failed and he was facing financial difficulties. He had found another opening – a fresh venture – and asked me to participate. After a lengthy discussion, Yentl and I decided to sell our flat in Manhattan which had soared in value. I gifted some of the proceeds to Ami and invested the balance in carefully chosen bonds and shares. As we no longer flew to the United States, the sale was timely. Keeping an empty flat seemed wasteful.

Shortly after Shosh’s departure we received an invitation to Avner’s wedding. I was keen to fly over and rent a serviced apartment for some two weeks. Yentl’s view differed.

“Look here, Loeb, Avner regards you as a father figure. He is used to seeing you dressed like a Rabbi and leader. He may be nonplussed by your new demeanour. Send him a nice letter and a handsome wedding gift. This may be more appropriate than attending the occasion as a layman.”

“But Avner knows I have retired and am leading a quiet and secluded life, doesn’t he?”

“He does. But knowing is different from seeing. He may feel that his idol has feet of clay.”

After some reflection, I took Yentl’s advice. We sent Avner a befitting gift and a pleasant letter, in which I invited him and his wife to visit us in Safed.

Life continued to flow smoothly. I spent a great deal of time studying the Kabbala and reading the Zohar. To my disappointment I had to concede that even this monumental work did not throw much light on the nature of God. Like other milestones of Judaism it accepted the existence of God and his vigilance of mankind as an a priori premise.

My lively discussions with Yossi did not clarify the issue; his was an agnostic approach, which tended to explain our existence and nature without reference to a superior being. After a while I saw the logic in the system preached by him. Basically, he opined that we existed because we did. He did not explain our lineage. He thought that it was adequate to accept the obvious.

Yentl did not participate in our discussions. She adhered to her traditional approach, which she had adopted during her childhood. She felt comfortable with it and saw no need to embark on further investigations. I concluded that her upbringing ruled her throughout life.

I would have been happy to continue our harmonious and carefree existence. Then, unexpectedly, I had a rude wake up call. One bright morning I carried the breakfast tray to Yentl’s room. I was sure she would like the Musli (to which I had added an extra helping of raisins, which she favoured) and the poached eggs accompanied by smoked salmon and pickled cucumbers. Seeing that she was still asleep I thought it best to leave the tray beside her bed and come back after some fifteen minutes. She was bound to wake up by then. Poached eggs, though, need to be consumed right after they are cooked. The thought of their getting soggy disturbed me.

With some hesitation I approached Yentl’s bed hoping she would open her eyes as I approached. Then, to my surprise, she remained still. As I came nearer I realised she was not breathing. She remained immovable even after I called her name, touched her and then shook her lightly. It was only then that it dawned on me that she was gone. Dropping the tray on her bedside table, I rushed to the telephone and called our GP. When he arrived out of breath after some twenty minutes, he confirmed she had passed away. Her heart had stopped beating.

“How on earth did this happen?” I asked him. “I never expected to outlive her.”

“Your wife, Rabbi Zohar, suffered from arteriosclerosis. Last year I wanted to send her to a cardiologist in Tel Aviv, who might have recommended stents. She declined and asked me to give her tablets.”

“She didn’t tell me about it.”

“Didn’t you know she came over for consultations?”

“I thought she had some woman’s ailment. I asked her if everything was well. She assured me it was nothing serious, just a trifle.”

“Actually, she asked me not to tell you. As you know, the relationship of patient and physician is confidential. I was obliged to respect her wishes.”

It added up. Yentl knew she was ill but decided to hide her condition. She feared making a fuss. Still, by moving out of our bedroom, she prepared me for the lonely existence I was bound to experience following her demise.

Both Ami and Ruth flew over for the funeral, which took place two days later. Shosh and her husband drove up and so did Ronnie Eyal. Quite a few of our friends in Safed attended. Avner, who must have been informed by Shosh, sent me a lengthy consolation email. Representatives of the Foundation and two members of my Schul in Tel Aviv were able to arrive in time. All in all, many familiar faces were to be seen.

The ceremony was conducted by a Rabbi of my acquaintance. Being the only son, Ami was asked to say the blessing, which was recited after the brief prayer. To my surprise and dismay he broke down as he recited it. I had seen Ami crying when he was a child but knew that in his adult life he was invariably in command of his emotions. Ruth cried quietly whilst I managed not to shed tears.

Throughout the ceremony my thoughts traveled to the past. I remembered our wedding, our happy times together, our breaks and trips and, generally, the support she had given me during our many years as a couple. The Bible tells us that husband and wife become one flesh. My happy and lasting marriage to Yentl was in accord with this maxim. She did all she could to make me happy. Life without her seemed bleak and dismal.

After the funeral, family and close friends attended the traditional meal given to calm the bereaved relatives. As we stood around waiting for the first dish, Ami approached me:

“I am ashamed to have made an exhibition of myself,” he told me.

“You didn’t, son. I have attended quite a number of funerals in New York. Often people break down. I suspect it the realisation that a person you have loved is no more.”

“But you know, Dad, mine were not tears of pain but of deep shame. I had done little to please her.”

“What do you mean?”

“Mom was not pleased when I became secular and then married out.”

“You needn’t feel any guilt on that score. Yentl was worldly and understanding.”

“She wanted me to study medicine; that was her dream!”

“Yentl knew full well that you had to plan your own future. So don’t blame yourself for a misdeed you never committed.”

“And what will you do, Dad? Miriam asked me to invite you to live with us.”

“I’d rather stay put, son: in Safed where Yentl planned our home for my existence as a widower.”

“I understand, Dad. But the invitation is there whenever you want to come over and join us.”

“Thank you,” I told him.

The meal was an anti-climax. We talked about Yentl’s achievements: her role in the Foundation and her hobbies. Yossi, who had joined us, talked about the splendid meal she had prepared whenever he came over. We then, as if by consent, talked about the ambience of Safed and about Israeli politics.

After the meal, Ruth came over and extended to me an invitation similar to Ami’s.

Yet she was not surprised when I told her I had decided to remain in Safed.

“I thought that was going to be your plan. Mom and you were very close.”

“Quite so, Ruth. I prefer to remain in Safed. I propose to visit her grave frequently. I was happy with her and cannot bear the idea of leaving her grave unattended.”

“I can understand you,” she told me. “But you can come over and visit us from time to time. I hope you will.”

“I’ll think about it,” I promised her, suppressing words indicating that my travelling days were over.

It took me a while to get used to my existence as widower. I continued to sleep on one side of the double bed although I was, of course, aware that she would no longer slip in from time to time. Out of habit I used only the right bedside table. Yentl had used the other and it seemed inappropriate to utilize it for myself. Another oddity was the preparation of breakfast for two. However, before long I discarded this wasteful process and started to take mine in the kitchen.

Yossi visited me regularly. On many occasions we played chess. Both of us were average players so I lost some games and won others. On many such evenings we discussed philosophical and sociological issues of the day. I recall how we discussed the SARS outbreak in 2003. Both of us took an urbane attitude based on the assumption that the pandemic was unlikely to spread to Safed.

One evening, after I had won a match, I asked Yossi to tell me a bit about himself. Whilst I knew him from his days in the army and was aware he had been a psychiatrist, he had never discussed his personal life with me.

“Well,” he said, “there is not a great deal to tell. After serving my time as a houseman in Hadassah in Tel Aviv, I practised for a while as GP.”

“What made you turn to psychiatry?”

“It dawned on me, during my years in practice, that many patients’ complaints were mental rather than physical. After a while, I started to specialize. In due course fellow practitioners started to refer patients to me when they sensed that the problem was of a mental type. When my reputation grew, I decided to devote myself to the discipline.”

“I became renowned as a faith healer,” I grinned.

“Tell me about it,” he asked.

Yossi listened attentively to my account. He grinned when I mentioned how members of the congregation asked me to pray for them or bless them, and how I used my influence to induce them to change their orientation – for instance, to switch from resentment of others to understanding.

“You talked your ‘patients’ out of their irrational or untoward demeanour. I used to prescribe placebos instead of medications they were hoping to get. Still, there were extreme cases, such as anxiety or mortification, where I had to prescribe medicines such as valium or anti-depressants.”

“I had to refer some of my ‘patients’ to psychiatrists I trusted.”

“Just as I referred some to their Priests or Rabbis,” he grinned. “In reality there are many occasions in which faith healers like you and medical men like me have to complement each other. Oh well.”

“Tell me a bit about your personal life,” I prompted him. “Occasionally you must have been tempted by some female patients.”

“Not really,” He told me. “You see, I have burned my fingers. I adhered to an ancient maxim: once bitten, twice shy. And I was scorched twice.”

“How comes?”

“My first wife, Miri, did not feel as passionate about me as I for her. Somehow, the chemistry was not right on her part. I suspect that if I had let her boss me, she would have remained with me. When she found out that this did not work and lost interest in me, she left and shacked with another girl. Her elopement made me feel inadequate. I remained on my own for some three years.”

“And your second wife? How did you find her?”

“She was a psychiatrist – like me. I met her through contacts. You see, I was her second husband. Both of us wore battle scars and so became tolerant. We were happy together.”

“So what went wrong?”

“She died of a neglected flu. She told me, on her deathbed, that I was not easy to handle. She asked me to marry again only if I found a wife who would put up with ‘my nonsense’. I heeded her warning. In the event, I remained on my own. And I am content.”

“Do you know what happened to your first wife?”

“We are not in touch but I was told that she and her partner retired in Nahariya.”

“In Nahariya?”

“So I am told. Why do you ask?”

“Do you know her partner’s name?”

“I’m not sure. She was the business manager of a theatre ensemble.”

“Signon?”

“Quite so.”

“So I know your first wife’s partner well. She was my boss in Signon. She lived with her secretary, Miri. Was this Miri your first wife?”

“Quite possible,” he muttered.

“Strange: my boss, Nina, could be fierce and unbending but occasionally Miri had to step in and extricate her. I was told that in their personal lives, Miri was dominant.”

“It sounds like my first wife. She liked to be in control.”

“How strange that so many years later we find a remote connection. I met Miri when I came to see Nina. And yes, I know for certain that Nina and Miri retired in Nahariya.”

“Oh well,” Yossi summed up.

“What a strange coincidence,” I observed after a pause.

“I am glad you do not seek to see here the intervention of ‘a Hidden Hand’.”

“I am an observant Jew but not a fanatic,” I protested.

“Quite so. Fanatics may assert some divine involvement. You see, both of us were married twice and experienced the loss of a good wife. We now keep company or, in other words, each of us helps the other to cope with the feeling of a void. So, in the eyes of fervent believers, the Good Lord showed His kind hand.”

“In that case, why didn’t He save us the grief?”

“The ways of the Good Lord are not comprehensible to us, mere humans! But He is aware of everything that takes place, don’t you know this?” Yossi mimicked a pedantic preacher explaining the ‘basics’ to his congregation.

“I never assumed this sort of doctrinal and authoritative demeanour when I addressed my parishioners.”

“That’s what I thought. But, then, you must concede that your approach was not a typical one. Occasionally, I suspect that you had your doubts about dogma.”

It seemed best not to proceed. I went to the kitchen to prepare a snack and asked Yossi to put the pieces back on the chessboard. Both of us concentrated on the game and, as if by agreement, did not revert to the subject we had covered. Deep in my heart, though, Yossi’s final words kept reverberating. He had struck an echo. Did I have doubts throughout my entire odyssey?

During the following few days I kept reflecting on Yossi’s words. At the same time, I had to tackle the reality facing me. I had a fine cottage with three rooms. Initially, I thought it best to leave Yentl’s room unchanged. I then recalled Dickens’ Miss Havisham, who kept her house as it was on the very day her groom deserted. I felt certain that Yentl would not have expected me to follow suit. Her approach to life was pragmatic. She accepted events the way they came. She would not have wanted me to keep a room consecrated to her memory and hence out of bounds.

As my needs were met by my keeping the master bedroom and my study, I turned Yentl’s erstwhile room into a guest room. Yentl’s organ had to be given away. As Miriam Porat dreamt of having one but could not afford to buy it, I gave her Yentl’s. She was pleased and promised to play the music which had been cherished by my late wife. I then bought a double bed and two side tables and used them to refurnish the room. I could now accommodate a couple and, if needed, I could convert the bed-sofa in the sitting room to yet a further bed. I now was able to put up an entire family, such as Ami’s or Ruth’s. I felt confident that Yentl would have approved.

Some two months after I completed the last renovation, Shosh wrote to advise that she and her husband had decided to spend a few days in Tiberias and were thinking of visiting me in Safed. In my reply, I encouraged them to come over and offered to put them up. Shosh accepted.

We spent some three days together. I took them to the Kabbala synagogue. Both were impressed. They liked the ambience of our town and the mild summer climate. Before their departure, Shosh observed that she was perplexed to gather that I had been frequenting the Kabbala Schul. She had expected me to adhere to my moderately orthodox orientation.

“The Kabbala tries to explore issues not covered by my stream. I have remained open minded and am prepared to listen to any views which do not require me to depart from the essence,” I explained.

“I have wondered all along what you considered ‘the essence’. Don’t you ever doubt some of the strictures?”

“I’m rather set in my views,” I replied defensively.

“But, in that case, why do you flirt with marginal concepts?”

It seemed best not to reply. Shosh had come close to exposing a dent in my spiritual armor. She did not press the point and so we stuck to small talk during the ensuing dinner. Next morning they continued to Metula. Before their departure, Shosh observed that I frequently scratched my beard. I told her it had become very itchy, especially as I had not trimmed it since Yentl’s demise.

A few weeks after Shosh’s departure, I invited Ronnie Eyal. He came over for a week. He recovered from the strain he had manifested before Galya was moved to an institution. By and large, he became – once again – his old self. After visiting the sights, I raised one evening, over dinner, the issues raised by Shosh as regards my spiritual outlook.

“Look here, Chayim…

“Loeb, as I told you before, but my close friends use my nickname: Pilkin…” I interceded.

“Very well, Pilkin, but don’t take offence at what I am going to say.”

“I won’t,” I assured him.

“When you worked in Signon we saw a great deal of one another, didn’t we?”

“We did.”

“And you knew I was an agnostic or, in plain words, a disbeliever. You also knew I was Jewish. All the same, you never tried to influence me. Correct?”

“Indeed. I accepted you as you were. Many of my close friends fall into this category. I like them for what they are and, of course, each of them is a decent person. None of them impinged on my faith.”

“And you have always been closer to people like us than to ultra-orthodox believers.”

“True! Fanatics appall me; and most ultra-orthodox Jews are intolerant.”

“And you find this offensive, don’t you?”

“I do, rather.”

“I suspect, Pilkin, that you are getting the drift. The fact is that when we became close, I started to wonder whether you were simply born into a traditional home or adopted your moderately observant outlook after searching for the truth.”

“The former, Ronnie. But this ambience suited me.”

“I know. Still, if you were born into an evangelical home you would not have become an observant Jewish believer.”

“This may be so,” I admitted.

“Similarly, if you had grown up as a free thinker, a Christian preacher might have converted you to his faith.”

“True, or I may have rejected his indoctrination,” I replied.

“You might have doubted the truth he asserted,” Ronnie appeared agitated.

“Quite so,” I assured him.

“All this leads me to wonder whether you might have rejected Jewish thinking if you ever came to doubt it. Well, Pilkin, perhaps it was fortunate that you never doubted it.”

Ronnie’s words rattled me. During my long odyssey I felt comfortable with my tolerant and non-dogmatic stance. I had no reason to doubt it. At the same time, I felt no affinity for the firmer, often intolerant, faith of other Rabbis. Mendel Schulman and I were miles apart. Unlike him, I could accept the orientation of a son, who did not follow in my steps. Was my lenient approach incompatible with the tenets of our faith? Was my broadmindedness akin to apostasy?

Ronnie left after two days. My orientation and outlook were not discussed any further. Still, his observations gave me food for thought.

16. An Aged Retiree

During the next few months I re-read Zohar, the opus magnum of the Kabbala. I knew that the sect attributed the work to Rabban Shimon Bar Yochai, who founded the Yavneh school during the decades following the destruction of the Second Temple by Titus Caesar. The book, though, included Portuguese words. This convinced me that the version we possess was composed at a much later date.

I realised that the Zohar was profound and detailed. All the same, it failed to open new doors to my searching eyes. Our religion’s essence remained enshrined in some difficult passages in the Tanakh (Old Testament). I had accepted our norms unquestionably in my youth and never sought to find a rational explanation for the tradition I followed. My intellectual curiosity arose when I retired from my active and often stressful existence. The Zohar did not clarify the issues.

My interest in finding the rationale of our faith kept me so occupied that my interest in staging plays and in acting suitable roles waned. In a sense, this was natural. I had become a retiree.

Yossi visited me regularly. We played chess and philosophized. It was clear to me that he had formed his conclusions about my outlook and belief but had decided not to raise the subject again. However, he observed that I kept scratching my face.

“When Yentl was around,” I explained, “she insisted that I trim my beard at least once a month. The itch wasn’t so bad; at least not for a week or two.”

“Then why don’t you trim it nowadays?” Yossi wanted to know.

“Oh, I simply can’t be bothered.”

“If the beard keeps troubling you, why don’t you simply shave it off?”

“What would people say? Won’t they be shocked?”

“I don’t see why. Is there any Biblical command respecting the growing of a beard?”

“Not really. It is simply a matter of tradition. A Rabbi is expected to have one.”

“But you are in retirement, aren’t you?”

“Quite so! Still I am a Rabbi.”

Yossi did not persevere. A few days later the itch became unbearable. Having reflected on his words and bearing in mind the old maxim that risk to body and soul overrides Shabbat, I decided to have the beard removed.

The barber’s apprentice, who had come to know me well, looked at me incredulously. He then went to consult his boss. The latter came over and asked me whether I had really requested a shave off.

“Quite so,” I told him

“You didn’t mean ‘to trim’, did you?”

“No. I want a clean shave.”

“Very well. But it will take a while. You have a long beard. It must have taken you years to grow it.”

I saw no need to reply. After some twenty minutes I had a good look in the mirror. The neatly shaved face looked unfamiliar. Was it really mine?

In the evening Yossi came over for a chess match. As we sat down, he scrutinized me thoroughly.

“That’s the countenance I recall from my days in the army. But you had a younger face in those days.”

“The clock keeps ticking, Yossi. You too have aged.”

“Of course; but I had never grown a beard and so did not hide myself behind it.”

On the following weekend I took a bus to Tel Aviv. Ronnie had no difficulty in recognizing me. His only comment was that I looked younger and less formidable without a ‘camouflage’. He then took me for a visit to Galya. She seemed to have come to terms with the institution which housed her. To my surprise, she did not recognise me. She assumed that I was one of Ronnie’s new friends. It pained me to think that my ex- wife forgot that I had played a role in her life.

Ronnie looked somber and deflated as we left the place. I thought it best to try to console him.

“In the very least you don’t have children,” I told him.

“Why is this good?”

“It might have been difficult to induce them to come to terms with the situation.”

“True; but as matters stand I am on my own; I have nobody to turn to.”

“I know; but, then, nobody cries on your shoulder.”

“Well spoken; but, to tell the truth, sometimes it is tough to be bonded to a wife who is no longer the woman you married. Your lot – as an aging widower – is easier to bear. I am certain you have only good memories of your years with Yentl.”

“True,” I replied; “but I miss her badly.”

“Why don’t you talk to her spirit? She may respond.”

Ronnie’s words made sense. I was, of course, aware that death was terminal. Nobody came back from that last trip of his or her life. Occasionally, though, the spirit of a departed echoes in your mind.

One evening, a few days after I had settled back in the cottage, my mind heard her voice.

“Loeb, why are you so glum?” she wanted to know.

“Is it really you, Yentl?”

“Who else, Loeb? Surely, there is no other woman in your life or mind?”

“Of course not! But, you are no longer here. How, then, are you able to talk to me?”

“But I am here, Loeb. I exist in your mind. My body is gone; but my spirit is part of yours.”

“I think I understand,” I conceded.

“Well then; so why are you morose?”

“I was used to sharing my ideas with you, Yentl. And we enjoyed having our meals together.”

“You’ll have to partake these on your own. But you can still share your thoughts with me.”

“Just now I ponder whether I should ask Ami or Ruth to come over for a visit.”

“Why not ask them both in turn?”

“But which one should I invite first? I’ve tried hard not to have a preference between them. A good father loves Esau as much as Jacob. Still, Ruth was always closer to me than Ami.”

“In that case invite Ruth and her family to come over for a spell.”

Ruth arrived on her own. I should have liked to see my grandchildren but they had to attend school. I tried hard to hide my disappointment but I believe she noted it.

Ami came for a visit a few months later. Mary (now Miriam) came with him and brought little Jack along. We had a wonderful time. I showed them the sights and we drove over to Metula. We did not proceed to the Golan Heights but returned to Safed via Haifa. Ami told me that his new enterprise was doing well and that his dreams of a notable success would materialise. I had my doubts but did not disclose them to him.

Little Jack was a self-assured boy. He knew what he wanted but, fortunately, his demands were reasonable. One of his acquisitions was a toy elephant on which he could ride and which trumpeted when one pulled a cord attached to its head. Sighing, Miriam said they would take it with them as unaccompanied baggage. The shipment was bound to cost more than the toy but, then, Jack had set his heart on it. Ami took a photograph of Jack astride his elephant and me standing beside him and smiling happily.

“I wonder who is more content,” he observed when he showed me the snap.

“The onlookers?” queried Miriam. “Surely, you and I, Ami, were as happy as grandfather and grandson.”

A few days later Miriam guided me on another matter. We went for a walk during a hot summer morning. After half an hour all of us were uncomfortable. Noting that I perspired more than the rest, she asked whether I was unwell.

“Not really, Miriam: I’m just feeling very hot.”

Looking me over carefully, she asked: “Why are you wearing a vest on a day like this, Tate?”

“It’s not a vest, Miriam. It’s my prayer shawl.”

“A prayer shawl under your shirt? The Rabbi who instructed me on Judaism told me that a large prayer shawl – a talith gedola – need be worn only during Shacharit: our Morning Prayer.”

“True,” I explained, “but just in case you forget or lose it, you have the alternative of wearing a small shawl under your shirt. I have done so for years.”

“But on such a hot day? Why don’t you discard it and use the large shawl over your clothes when you say Shacharit?”

“Actually, you are right,” I conceded.

Thereafter I stopped using the small prayer shawl. When I went in the morning to the synagogue to say the Morning Prayer, I used a large shawl worn over my clothes.

To my delight, Yentl approved. A few nights later, when I woke up shortly after midnight, her voice told me:

“You, Loeb, are strict on yourself but liberal when others seek your guidance or advice.”

“I know; but, then, I am a Rabbi.”

“Wrong tense, Loeb: you were a Rabbi. Nowadays you are a retiree. So be a Mensch even where you yourself are concerned.”

Yentl’s words convinced me. I was doing the right thing though, possibly, on the wrong basis. As Rabbi I had to set a good example. I wore the small talith next to my skin. As a retiree, who led the life of a hermit, I could follow customs in a broadminded manner. By using the large prayer shawl when I recited Shacharit, I observed the liberal tradition I had advocated to members of my congregation. In my present life, it suited me and was proper.

Another problem arose from my laying tefillin (phylacteries) every morning before reciting the Shacharit. The relevant verses in the Bible (Ex. 13:9,16; Deut. 6:8 and 11:8) command the People of Israel to put a sign on their hands and between ‘your eyes’ to commemorate the Exodus miracle and the laws given by God. This led to the tradition involving the ‘laying’ (or wearing) of two small rawhide boxes (8x8x8cm.) during the Morning Prayer on all days of the week except the Shabbat. Inserted in these boxes are the above passages written on parchment by a qualified scribe. Both boxes are fixed to the body with leather. The box for the hands is placed on the left upper arm and the strap is wrapped around the upper limb and down to the left-hand fingers. Our tradition requires that it be fastened tightly.

My tefillin were one of my Bar-Mitzvah gifts. I have put them on regularly each and every weekday morning, except the days of hospitalization following my heart attack. I managed to lay them even just before our battle of Latrun and even when I was travelling. I recall one amusing incident that occurred when I took a flight from New York to London. Just before we were served breakfast, I took off my jacket in order to lay my tefillin. As I was winding the hand-strap, the flight became bumpy and I had to sit down and fasten my seatbelt with the half-wrapped phylacteries on. The airhostess looked at me with concern, shook her head and brought me a glass of water. I drank it, waited until the plane steadied, got up and continued the traditional proceedings. When I finished praying, she came over again and asked whether I was alright. She looked relieved when I assured her that all was well. I then dug into the Kosher meal she served me.

I used my Bar Mitzvah tefillin during my years in Israel and in New York. Shortly after my ordination, Rabbi Margalioth gave me another set of phylacteries. They were a deluxe version, made of softer leather. I accepted them gratefully but, out of habit, continued to don my original set. I cherished my mentor’s gift and treated the new set as a treasure, to be used only on special occasions.

The position changed after my retirement. Shortly after Yentl and I settled in Safed, I caught a severe chill and felt the need of seeing a physician. When I rolled up my sleeve to facilitate the taking of my blood pressure, Dr. Cohen viewed with concern the bruising left by the phylactery on my arm.

“Do you have to fasten the strap so tightly?” he wanted to know.

“If you don’t, the box may slip down your arm.”

“I understand. But, then, you told me you had a heart attack – caused by a thrombosis – in your youth.”

“True. But what should I do? I am used to laying my tefillin.”

“Try to fasten the strap less tightly or get one made of softer leather. You are on blood thinners! They exacerbate bruising.”

“I have a set of deluxe tefillin. I’ll use it in the future.”

Yentl approved and so I started using my deluxe tefillin regularly. For a while the bruising ceased but eventually it started afresh. When I went to Dr. Cohen for my annual checkup he looked at my arm with unease.

“I cannot reduce your blood thinners. You need them. At this stage, the laying of the tefillin is becoming dangerous. As your medical adviser, I have to draw your attention to the problem. You see, at your age you are bound to have some narrowing of the arteries. Your cardiogram indicates that you have moderate arteriosclerosis. You are taking a risk.”

“But I am used to laying them,” I muttered.

“You must make your own decision, Rabbi Zohar.”

It was a difficult issue. Laying tefillin had become part of my life. Was I to change my pattern at this late stage? When I was a Rabbi in New York, one of our disciples held classes for members of the congregation who required instructions respecting tefillin. How on earth could I cease following a Mitzvah – a religious obligation – which had been close to my heart for decades?

As I sat pondering the issue, I suddenly heard Yentl’s spirit talking to me.

“Loeb, what sort of advice would you have given to one of you congregants if he had raised the problem with you during your long years of service?”

“I would have told him that danger to the soul and body overrides even a Shabbat. The final decision would be his.”

“But if he persevered, what sort of advice would you give him?”

“I should have exempted him or, in other words, I should have told him that he was no longer obligated to lay tefillin.”

“Why, then, don’t you give the same advice to yourself?”

“But I am no longer in office. I cannot exonerate myself.”

“Then why not discuss the matter with someone whose opinion you trust?”

My first choice would have been Rabbi Moshe Margalioth. I then thought about Avner, who had succeeded me in Brooklyn. However, I was senior to him and sensed that in view of his youth and the close relationship between us, it would be best to exclude him. It was advisable to turn to an older person. In the event, my choice fell on Rabbi Mendel Schulman. The current Rabbi of the Schul advised me that Mendel, who was in his nineties, was living in his daughter’s house. He still came for prayer from time to time and had remained mentally alert.

Mendel Schulman was glad to see me. For a while, we engaged in small talk. Then he asked me, smilingly:

“What good spirit directed you to me?”

“I wanted to see you and ask your advice on a delicate matter.”

“Let’s see if I can help you.”

Mendel Schulman listened attentively to my query. His eyes opened wide when I showed him my bruised arm. His first query was whether I had considered buying deluxe tefillin. When I assured him my set was of this kind and that it was Moshe Margalioth’s gift, he looked at me with concern.

“So the tefillin remind you of him and the years you spent as his right hand man?”

“This too, of course. Originally – I mean as from my Bar Mitzvah – I used my first plain set. I switched to my new ones only when the old set was cutting into my arm. And now even the softer leather is bothersome.”

“Actually, Loeb, why do we lay tefillin? What do they convey?”

“Laying them is part of my life. The meaning is clear. They remind us of the miracles HaShem made when he delivered us from slavery in Egypt. When we put them on, we think about HaShem’s greatness and we bless him.”

“Precisely,” he confirmed, “and we bless him in our morning prayer. I am sure you recite it every morning, don’t you?”

“Of course. Occasionally I even repeat the Amidah, which praises Him 18 times.”

“We have the old, venerated, principle which tells us that risk to soul and body overrides even a Shabbat: which is holy to us. On this basis, you are no longer obliged to put on tefillin.”

“But this would leave a void in my life. The ritual has become part of my daily life.”

“You could still put on the head phylactery.”

“That would be strange and, in any event, it would take only a few seconds.”

“And so the emptiness would still be there,” he summed up. “But look, I have an idea. Why don’t you read appropriate passages of our Bible as soon as you wake up? How about Psalm 119. It blesses HaShem and recites his greatness.”

“I don’t like this Psalm, Rabbi Mendel.”

“Because it is the longest chapter in the Tanakh: a work of 176 lines?”

“That’s not the reason. Its structure is alien; it is an acrostic. Its verses follow the order of our alphabet and each letter has eight lines.”

“Which of our Psalms do you like best? Let me guess. Is it by any chance Psalm 104?”

“Spot on. Poetically it is superb and it venerates HaShem.”

“Are you particularly fond of any other passage in our Tanakh?”

“I love Ha’azinu (Deut. 32 1:43),” I told him.

“Splendid, I too love these gems. I suggest you give the tefillin a miss and start your day by reading or, when you have memorized them, by reciting these two monumental passages. Both tell us that HaShem is great and just.”

Mendel Schulman’s advice was sound. In point of fact, I already knew the two poetic works by heart and so decided to recite them each morning in lieu of the laying of the tefillin. I thanked him.

It then seemed appropriate to remind him of his rigidity in previous years. With some hesitation, I asked whether he had remained estranged from his son.

“I no longer regard him a rascal. A few years ago I succumbed to an attack of pneumonia and had to be hospitalized. Baruch – now known as Father Benedict – flew over out of concern. We had a heart to heart talk after I recovered. Ever since, I have treated him as a son. I believe he is errant but I have accepted the situation.”

“How did he know you were so sick?”

“Dahlia, my daughter, has been in touch with him all these years. She cabled him.”

“I am glad you are reconciled,” I told him. “Notwithstanding your different views about religion he has continued to treat you as his father. I sense that he loves and respects you. Our religion would regard him a renegade. Love, though, overrides all sins.”

“It does,” he conceded.

Yentl’s spirit was supportive. She concluded that Mendel Schulman had sorted out my problem. It also pleased her that father and son had reunited.

“Occasionally, we agree to disagree,” her voice told me. “Family unity should not be disturbed or interrupted because of divergent views on religion or politics.”

A few days later I had a chat with Yossi. He was relieved to know that I had decided to stop laying tefillin. He had noticed the bruises on my arm one morning when we went for a walk. He had meant to talk to me about them but decided to keep quiet. Basically, he felt that this was not his business. An additional reason related to his reflections on my odyssey.

“What is so special about it?”

“You rose from obscurity to fame and then took a back seat.”

“Is that so unusual?”

“Perhaps not in itself. Many success stories follow this pattern. However, your journey is special in one regard.”

“In what way?” I wanted to know.

“In the variety of the roles you assumed.”

“Eh?”

“Early in life you became your family’s bread winner. In Tichon you became a central figure …

“… with the aid of two friends: Bushi and Shosh,” I interspersed.

“Undoubtedly, but without your lead they would have simply remained part of the crowd: pupils in your Form in secondary school. They needed you to lead them. You in turn benefited from their support and friendship. In the army you became both an entertainer and a fine officer. In Signon you failed to gain an acting role but you became Galya’s supporting angel. You were her caregiver and helped her to find her way to stardom. You then became in quick succession a highly respected and liked teacher, the founder of a club interested in books and dramas, a cornerstone of the ITV and then reverted to your studies in the Yeshiva. When you graduated you became Moshe Margalioth’s right hand man and thereafter a famed Rabbi in your own right. You then retired and melted into the background.”

“What is so extraordinary about all this? And aren’t you forgetting Yentl’s role?”

“I am certainly not overlooking it. She helped you along the way. But your journey is special. Most people stay in a given discipline, like painting, writing, composing music or business. You changed your role several times.”

“What does this indicate to you?” I asked genuinely perplexed.

“Your real passion in life was acting, wasn’t it?”

“It was,” I conceded. “I always sought to have my foot in the door of the theatre.”

“This leads me to the conclusion that throughout your life, regardless of the twists and turns of your odyssey, you have remained an actor. Your stage was the world: not a mere space on the front of a theatre hall.”

Yossi’s words rang a bell. He made me think of my first day in the theatre – when Mrs. Kornmehl introduced me to the actor who played Sapper Vodichka in The Good Soldier Schweik. I gleaned from him that every actor refurbishes the roles he plays and, in a sense, interprets the text. Did my general outlook on life remain unchanged throughout my lengthy trip?

“Yossi,” I asked my friend, “did I then assume roles bestowed on me? Was I an actor who, when needed, played a role such as an officer or Rabbi?”

“I think so,” he told me unflinchingly.

“Okay; but was there a common thread – a system to my play acting?”

“There were two. In the first place, you liked – still like – to help people who need aid or guidance or who rely on you …”

“And the second?” I asked as he stopped himself.

“You remained ingrained in tradition. Ritual became part of your life.”

I looked at Yossi with amazement. It was true that throughout life I strove to assist others – my neighbours. But was my traditional outlook merely a mantle? Was I bonded to ritual or was I simply a moderate believer? I had prayed daily since youth, had worn a prayer shawl and laid tefillin. Were these just a camouflage?

“I can’t be sure,” replied Yossi when I raised the point. “Speaking as a psychiatrist, I would conclude that your adherence to ritual was anchored in your survival instinct. You needed to feel safe and the traditions you adhered to enhanced your sense of security.”

“So you don’t think it was a genuine belief in the fundamentals?”

“I can’t be sure. Reflecting on my spell as a trooper in your unit in the army, I believe your urge to protect and confer a sense of security on others was more basic to you than dogma.”

“What view do you take of my conversations with Yentl’s spirit?”

“Objectively seen, they are hallucinations. You know that a person’s voice dies upon his or her demise. To me, your need to air points with your late wife’s spirit suggests that you have a limited trust in your own outlook and analysis.”

Yossi’s words struck a chord. My traditional outlook was not the fruit of reflection or of a search for truth. I followed the precepts because of the manner in which I had been brought up. I inherited my late Father’s orientation, which, in turn, was an acceptance of the norms followed by his predecessors. My preoccupation with the Zohar and my reading of many philosophic works indicated that right from my childhood I kept pondering. Unflinchingly, I recalled my final disappointment with the Zohar because it was entrenched in myth and failed to provide a rational exposition of the fundamentals.

Shortly after Yossi departed I heard Yentl’s voice. It was loud and clear and appeared to come from an external source.

“Loeb,” she asked me, “Loeb, do you agree with Yossi’s conclusion?”

“I can’t be certain, Yentl. Many of my friends are agnostics or non-conformists.”

“Weren’t Moshe Margalioth and other believers close to you?”

“They were. And religion bound Avner to me. Still, I did not disown my son when I thought he might leave the fold after marrying out.”

“In other words, you were a liberal Rabbi and you remained observant throughout life. Tolerance, though, was your motto. When others took a different view of life, you concluded that they were entitled to their opinions. But you retained yours!”

“I did. Still do, I think.”

“You alone know the answer,” she told me.

“Am I hallucinating?”

“Of course not. My spirit dwells in you. You are conducting an internal dialogue.”

“You were always a good wife to me!”

“So I was Loeb. The plain truth is that I set my heart on you. I made the choice and throughout your life guided and spurred you on.”

“Please explain,” I pleaded.

“I made sure you would become the Chief Rabbi of our congregation. I realized that handling the Foundation’s affairs would have been an extra and too heavy a burden. So I took over and remained in charge of it until your retirement.”

“You did me proud,” I assured her.

“I hope I did. So don’t waste your time now on dissecting your personality. The real question is: did you achieve your goal?”

“With your help, I think I did.”

“And the rest – I say – is irrelevant.”

“And how about my loss of interest in drama and staging?”

“But it is not a plain loss. You continue to read the works of great playwrights. The other day you read Major Barbara.”

“I did not dream of staging it.”

“You didn’t: I know this. But your present interest in plays and literature befits a retiree.”

Yentl’s words explained my change of attitude. She soothed me. The main issue, though, remained unanswered. Did I simply play the roles conferred on me, or was I motivated by religious convictions and by the need to carry out the obligations faith imposed on me? Was I a genuine believer or a free thinker wearing the cloak of religion?

A few weeks later, Shosh and her husband came over for a short visit. After a pleasant dinner in a Kosher oriental restaurant I mentioned the issue that kept troubling me. Shosh was taken aback. She took the view that I had struck a clear course of tolerance and liberalism throughout my life. Whether I was a genuine believer or a free thinker was – she observed – irrelevant.

“Did you regard me an observant Jew or a free thinker?”

“You wore a Yarmolka and observed our dietary laws. As far as I was concerned that was a clear indication of your being an observant Jew; and I sensed that you were a traditionalist. At the same time, I noted that you never tried to influence the orientation of Bushi and of myself. And you knew we were free thinkers.”

“But, surely, ours is a non-proselytizing religion?”

“It is true that we do not seek to convert gentiles. Our religion is exclusive. Still, most orthodox believers try to influence ‘errant’ Jews. You didn’t. I always sensed that moderation and the willingness to accept others as they were constituted your basic creed.”

At this stage, Shosh’s husband, who was known by his nickname of ‘Jonas’, stepped into the argumentative arena. Initially, I was surprised. Jonas was one of those tight-lipped individuals, who prefer to leave the floor to their wives. It then dawned on me that Shosh had touched a sore point.

“Shosh is right, Rabbi Zohar,” he told me. “When I served in the army I befriended two observant troopers. They looked askance when I told them I had never laid tefillin or prayed. They tried hard to convert me; but to no effect. During our years as recruits they remained friendly with me.”

“Well?” I asked

“When I contacted them after we finished our years of service, they were invariably too busy to see me. After three or four attempts, I gave up.”

“I am not sure why this disappointing experience is relevant,” I told him.

“Because they tried hard to make me ‘see the light’. They tried to indoctrinate me. An observant Jew accepts a gentile as he is; but he seeks to influence other ethnic Jews. So the non-proselytizing nature of our faith applies only in respect of non-Jewish persons.”

“I agree with Jonas,” added Shosh. “And you, Pilkin, never preached to Bushi or to me. In your case, liberalism and moderation applied across the board.”

Shosh and Jonas departed after a few days. Before they left, Jonas gave me a bulky volume encompassing Ibsen’s plays.

“Shosh tells me you love dramas. So do I. A volume of George Bernard Shaw’s plays is one of my cherished possessions. I devoted a great deal of time to his writings during my school days. I passed my examinations but without any distinction. As you know I went to the Max Fein technical school. During my years as locksmith, I continued reading and watching plays. I gather from Shosh that you love Ibsen but that you are no longer interested in staging plays.”

“True,” I told him, “and many thanks for the gift.”

“Enjoy reading or re-reading them. I can understand that, as a retiree, you no longer have the wish to stage these plays.”

Life flowed smoothly for the next few years. Ruth came over again. Ami rang me from time to time. Occasionally, I went to Tel Aviv, mainly in order to see friends and so as to visit my old Schul.

About a year after Shosh’s visit I rang Bushi Berger. I had corresponded with him sporadically ever since our reunion in Zermatt. Bushi knew I was a widower and I was aware that his Chinese wife was terminally ill. After polite enquiries, I raised with him the issue respecting my internal doubts about religion.

“Look here, Pilkin, does all this really matter?”

“It matters to me! Was I a fraud?”

“Of course not! Religion is a complex issue. It will surprise you to hear that even I – old heretic as I am – attend our local synagogue from time to time. In some two weeks, I’ll attend the Seder – the Passover Feast – in the house of a good friend.”

“But Passover was initiated so as to remind us of the Exodus. I thought you didn’t believe it had taken place.”

“In everyday life, I don’t. As you know, I think the Israelites were indigenous Canaanites. Still, I recall how our teacher in Tichon made us read an article entitled Moses by Ahad Ha’am. Perturbed by archeological evidence, this renowned essayist postulated the distinction between an archeological truth, based on modern findings, and a historical truth, based on the tradition or folklore we embrace. During the Seder and when I attend a service in the synagogue, I accept the historical truth. Back at home, I revert to the archeological findings.”

“The issue of whether I am genuinely observant or just wear a mantle does not disturb you. Does it?”

“Of course not. It is a red herring! You were a good and helpful fellow. That is why quite a few of us befriended you. Your religious make up did not – does not – concern me.”

“Let us give further consideration to the issue when we next meet.”

“But, Pilkin, both of us are aged men. In all probability, my travelling days are over and, in any event, I have no wish to visit Israel. Are you likely to visit me? You’ll be most welcome.”

“I doubt it,” I told him. “I may spend a few days in New York but the chances are that I shall stay put here in Safed. Let us continue to stay in touch by phone and by mail.”

“Very well. All the best to you, Pilkin. I look forward to talking to you again soon.”

Bushi’s words soothed me. I accepted his analysis.