Acts of Faith (5 page)

“Okay, buster, the game’s over.”

He whirled around. It was a huge, barrel-chested black man, wearing a revolver and the intimidating blue of the New York police force.

“Your name Hogan?” the officer growled.

“What’s it to you? I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Well, I don’t know about that,” the policeman replied. “You sure fit the description I’ve got of a runaway named Hogan.”

“I’m not running anywhere,” Tim persisted bravely.

The bus driver interrupted. “Hey, officer. I’ve got a schedule, y’know.”

“Yeah, okay, okay.” The big man nodded and, keeping a firm grip on Tim’s arm, said, “We won’t be making any joyrides today.”

The moment captor and captive descended, the bus door hissed closed and the vehicle pulled away from the curb, heading for a destination Tim now knew he would never reach.

The cruelty of this encounter—the fleeting, tantalizing seconds that had robbed him of a lifelong goal—now evoked in him a feeling of sadness so profound that he began to sob.

“Hey, take it easy, kid,” the police officer murmured in a more kindly voice. “What’d you try the escape act for, anyway? Did you misbehave or something?”

Tim shook his head. Now he really did want to run away and never see the Delaneys again.

Unfortunately, he saw his uncle all too soon. He had waited less than a half hour in the terminal’s police headquarters when Tuck appeared.

“So, you little twerp,” he saluted Tim. “Thought you could pull a fast one on me, didja? Boy, are you dumb—you didn’t even look in the papers to see if the Knicks were playing in town.”

He looked at the arresting officer. “Thanks for nabbing him, pal. Have you got a room where I can talk to the kid alone?”

The black man nodded, indicating a small door in the rear. Tuck grabbed Tim by the elbow and started to pull him, but this time the boy protested.

“No! No! I didn’t do anything—I didn’t.”

“
I’ll
be the judge of that. Now you gotta take what’s coming to ya.”

As they disappeared into the room, the policeman lit a cigarette and began to flick through the
Daily News.
Moments later he winced at sounds he recognized: the repeated slaps of a belt against bare buttocks, followed by a muffled groan as the truant child attempted manfully to deny the pain.

On the subway home, Tim stood and gritted his teeth. He glared at his uncle and swore inwardly, I’ll kill you some day.

A
s I walked along the snowy sidewalk, Bible in hand, I could distinguish shadows of the faithful coming home from morning Mass.

It was Christmas morning. And I was doing what my ancestors had always done on this day—deliberately ignoring it. Which is why I was going to school. And the rest of my father’s followers had all gone to work. This unfestive action was meant as a lesson in itself: Remember, this is not
your
holiday.

During the twilight of the year, our yeshivas and high schools also gave their students two weeks’ holiday—which they pointedly designated as merely “winter vacation.” To accentuate even further the difference between us and our gentile neighbors, school reopened for one day on December twenty-fifth. It was a gesture of defiance.

Our teacher, Rabbi Schumann, dressed in his customary black suit and homburg hat, watched solemnly as we filed in and took our seats. He was an austere and demanding tyrant who often berated us when we made even the tiniest error.

Like many of our other teachers, he had spent several years in a concentration camp, and pallor seemed ingrained in his features. In retrospect, I think his severity with us was a personal way of disguising the grief, and
perhaps the guilt, he felt at having survived the Holocaust when so many had not.

The Bible passages he had chosen that day all emphasized the otherness of our religion, and as the morning progressed, Rabbi Schumann grew increasingly upset. Finally, he closed his book and with a deep sigh, rose and transfixed us with his hollow, dark-ringed eyes.

“This day, this awful, awful day is when
they
found the fuel for the torches that would burn us everywhere. In the centuries since our expulsion from the Holy Land, has there ever been a country that has not persecuted us in
his
name? And our own age has witnessed the ultimate horror—the Nazis with their ruthless efficiency—
Six million of us.
”

He pulled out his handkerchief and tried to staunch the tears. “Women, little children,” he went on with anguish. “They all turned into wisps of smoking from the ovens.” His voice grew hoarse. “I saw this, boys. I saw them kill my wife and children. They wouldn’t even do me the kindness of exterminating me. They left me living on the rack of memory.”

No one in the classroom breathed. We were overwhelmed by his speech, not merely for its content but because Rabbi Schumann, normally a stern taskmaster, was now sobbing helplessly.

Then, still weeping, he continued. “Listen—we are sitting here today to show the Christians that we’re still alive. We were here before them, and we shall endure until the Messiah comes.”

He paused, regained his breath, and some of his composure.

“Now let us rise.”

I always dreaded this moment when we had to sing the slender verses chanted by so many of our brethren as they entered the gas chambers:

The afternoon sky was a gray shroud as I walked home, shaken. Once again, I passed all the Christmas lights. But this time what I saw in them were the shining, indestructible atoms of six million souls.

O
n a hot afternoon in the summer of 1963, fourteen-year-old Tim, Ed McGee, and their perpetual cheering section, Jared Fitzpatrick, were passing through alien territory—the neighborhood adjacent to St. Gregory’s, which was the center of the
B’nai Simcha
community.

When they passed the home of Rav Moses Luria, Ed sneered, “Look, that’s where the head Hebe lives. Why don’t we ring his doorbell or something?”

“Good idea,” Tim agreed, but Fitzpatrick had qualms.

“Suppose he answers? He might put a curse on us.…”

“Aw, c’mon, Fitzy,” McGee jibed. “You’re just a lily-livered chicken.”

“The hell I am,” he protested. “It’s just that ringin’ bells is kids’ stuff. Couldn’t we do something more interesting?”

“Like what?” Ed countered. “We ain’t got a hand grenade.”

“How about a rock through his window?” Tim suggested, pointing to a Con Edison excavation a few dozen feet down the road. The workmen had gone for the day, leaving potential missiles of all sizes.

Fitzy rushed over to the site and selected a stone slab roughly the size of a baseball.

“Okay, guys,” Ed challenged, “who’s gonna be the first-string pitcher?” He fixed Tim with a stare. “I’d do it for sure, but I’ve still got a kinda sprain in my arm from beating up those niggers last Thursday.”

Before Tim had time to protest, Ed and Fitzy had elected him. “C’mon, chickenshit, throw the goddamn thing!”

In one furious motion he snatched it from Ed’s hand, cocked his arm, and hurled the stone at the rabbi’s largest window.

The noise was deafening. Tim turned toward his companions.

They were already halfway down the street.

Three hours later, the Lurias’ doorbell rang.

Deborah answered, still in a state of shock, and was now further taken aback at the sight of the two callers. She immediately went to inform her father.

The Rav had been deeply engrossed in a difficult passage of a legal
midrash
when the enemy missile had pierced the sanctuary of his household.

Ever since that moment he had been standing immobile, staring through the few angry slices of glass still clinging to the window frame, his mind tortured by images of pogroms and goose-stepping storm troopers.

“Papa,” Deborah said haltingly, “there’s a policeman at the door … he’s got a boy with him.”

“Ah,” he murmured, “perhaps we might receive some justice this time. Ask them to come in.”

Moments later they appeared.

“Good afternoon, Reverend,” the policeman said as he removed his cap. “I’m Officer Delaney. Sorry to disturb you, but I’m here about the damage to your window.”

“Yes,” the Rav acknowledged somberly, “damage
has
been done.”

“Well, here’s the malefactor,” the policeman answered,
pulling at the young boy’s collar as if to hoist him like a trapped animal. “I’m ashamed to say that Tim Hogan here’s my ungrateful nephew. We took him in after his poor mother Margaret fell sick.”

“Oh,” said the Rav. “So this is Margaret Hogan’s son. I should have recognized the eyes.”

“You knew my mother?” Tim asked.

“In a distant way. When my wife died, Sexton Isaacs hired her to come in now and then to keep my house in order.”

“More’s the disgrace.” Tuck glared at Tim. “Now say it. Tell the rabbi what I told you.”

Timothy screwed up his face as if tasting a bitter pill and mumbled, “I’m—”

“Louder, boy,” the policeman growled. “This is a man of the cloth you’re talking to.”

“I—I’m sorry for what I did, Your Reverence,” Timothy responded, and continued by rote, “I take full responsibility for my actions and I intend to pay for the damage.”

Rav Luria looked quizzically at the young man for a moment, then said, “Sit down, Timothy.”

Tim perched himself obediently on the edge of a chair facing the rabbi’s book-strewn desk, but he could not keep himself from squirming nervously as he watched the bearded Jewish man pace back and forth along the sagging wooden shelves, his hands clasped behind his back.

“Timothy,” the rabbi began slowly, “can you tell me what induced you to perform such a hostile act?”

“I—I didn’t know it was your house, sir.”

“But you knew it was a Jewish home, yes?”

Tim lowered his head. “Yes, sir.”

“Do you feel any special … animosity toward our people?”

“I … well, some of my friends … I mean, we’ve been told …”

He could say no more. By this point his uncle was also beginning to sweat.

“But do you think it’s true?” the Rav said quietly. “I
mean, does this house look in any way different from your friends’ homes?”

Tim looked around for a moment, before responding candidly, “Well, there are an awful lot of books …”

“Yes,” the rabbi continued. “But otherwise, do I or any of my family look like demons?”

“No, sir.”

“Then I hope that this unhappy incident gave you a chance to see that Jews are just like other people … with perhaps a few more books.”

He turned to the policeman. “Thank you for giving me the opportunity to converse with your nephew.”

“But we haven’t discussed compensation yet. A big window like that must have cost a pretty penny. And since Tim won’t rat on his accomplices, he’ll have to pay you by himself.”

“But Uncle Tuck—”

The Rav intervened. “How old are you, Timothy?”

“Just turned fourteen, sir.”

“What do you think you can do to earn money?”

Tuck answered for his nephew. “He can run errands or carry groceries for the neighbors and they’ll give him a little something.”

“How little?”

“Oh, a nickel or a dime.”

“But at that rate it would take years to repay the cost of my window.”

The officer merely looked at the rabbi and stated, “I don’t care if it takes a century. He’ll pay you something every week.”

Rav Luria put his hands to his forehead as if grasping for some elusive idea, then raised his head and spoke.

“I think I have a solution that may be of help to both parties,” he declared. “Officer Delaney,” the rabbi went on, “I can see your nephew is basically a good boy. How late is Timothy allowed to stay up?”

“School days till ten.”

“And Friday nights?” asked the Rav.

“Ten-thirty, eleven. If there’s a night game on TV, I let him watch till it’s over.”

“Good.” A smile had taken over the rabbi’s face. Turning to the boy, he announced, “I may have a job for you.…”

“He’ll take it,” his uncle said quickly.

“I’d rather he made up his own mind,” said the Rav gently. “It’s a post of great responsibility. Do you know what a
Shabbes goy
is?”

Again Officer Delaney interrupted. “Begging your pardon, Rabbi, but isn’t
‘goy’
what you people call Christians?”

“Yes,” Rav Luria answered. “But the word simply means ‘gentile.’ A
Shabbes goy
is a non-Jew of impeccable morals who comes in on Friday evenings after our Sabbath has begun and performs the functions that are prohibited to us—like lowering the heat, putting out lights, and so forth. The individual in question,” he explained, “usually runs additional errands for us during the week so he can learn something of our laws, since it is a sin for us to
tell
him to do anything once the Sabbath has begun.” He turned to Timothy.