Acts of Faith (7 page)

This was a unique moment in the festivities—the only time when a man and a woman would dance together.

The others danced on their respective sides of the room, and long after the ladies had returned weary and sweating to their chairs, the long-bearded men continued to dance energetically with one another, forming a huge ring by holding handkerchiefs between them.

It was at this point that the clarinetist gave his fellow musicians a sly wink. At that signal they launched into a special song whose lyrics were merely the syllables
“Biri biri bum biri bum.”
It was the most famous of the melodies composed by Rav Moses Luria himself and had been printed in the two-volume
Great Book of Hasidic Tunes.

At its conclusion there was ecstatic applause and cries of encouragement for Rav Luria to sing his own song. He happily complied, his foot tapping rhythmically and his eyes closed in concentration.

Danny tried to keep up with the older men, who—especially Papa—seemed indefatigable. Finally on the verge of exhaustion, he excused himself to get a drink. Unwisely, he quenched his thirst with wine instead of seltzer water, and was soon light-headed. And uninhibited enough to call out to his sister who was sitting pensively by herself.

“C’mon, Deb, don’t just sit there. Get dancing!”

Reluctantly Deborah rose and rejoined the few women still holding hands and swaying to the music.

There was no way Danny could have known that her mood had just plummeted after hearing her ebullient Uncle Saul boom, “Deborah—just think, you’re next!”

T
his time I really thought he was going to kill me.

Was this my reward for taking extra lessons in Torah?

It was the year of my
bar mitzvah
, and Papa had arranged for me to stay an extra hour every afternoon to study with Rebbe Schumann the portion of the Prophets I was to read on that momentous day. My journey home was therefore even darker and more perilous than before.

I do not know what destiny brought the murderous Ed McGee into my path that night. Perhaps he had been lying in wait, since he seemed to derive some special joy from assaulting me.

I was caught in a kind of cross fire. The other kids at school resented me because I was the son of such a renowned and pious man. Their jealousy aroused, they would hurl abuse at me. But McGee—for almost the same reasons—would hurl fists.

This time there were no spectators—which frightened me. Who would restrain him should he go berserk? It was so icy cold that the rare pedestrian who passed us had his collar drawn up and hat down, barely leaving room enough for his eyes to see where he was going. And the wind was so loud it all but drowned my groans. My only
arsenal was defensive—my shield of holy books, which I held up as quickly as I could.

Then suddenly Ed crossed the border of all precedent. His right fist smashed the cover of my Talmud, shattering its binding and knocking it from my hand onto the ground. I do not know whether the shock or the sacrilege caused me greater pain.

“Now, you little kike,” he sneered, “you don’t have your precious Jew books to hide behind. Stand and fight me like a man.”

He lowered his fists, stuck out his chin, and boasted, “I’ll even give ya the first punch free.”

I had never hit anyone in my life, but suddenly my fear transmuted into rage, and I lashed out at his solar plexus. I heard a sudden whoosh, like air being expelled from a huge balloon.

Ed doubled over in pain and stumbled backward, trying his best not to fall. Though I knew this was my opportunity to run, I stood there paralyzed as my attacker continued to stagger, gasping for breath.

Why didn’t I escape when I could? Shock, for one thing. I couldn’t believe what I’d just done. And how effective it had been.

And, for some strange reason, I felt guilty. Guilty for having caused harm to another human being.

He was quickly in control again, and fire seemed to erupt from his mouth.

“Now,” he growled. “Now I’m gonna kill you.”

Suddenly there was a shout.

“Leave him alone, McGee, you stupid shit!”

We both looked up, startled. It was Tim Hogan running toward us.

“Stay out of this,” Ed countered. “This kike and I are having a private fight.”

“Just leave him alone,” Timothy repeated. “He’s a rabbi’s son.” He turned to me and ordered, “Go home, Danny.”

“What are you, Hogan, his bodyguard or something?” McGee sneered.

“No, Ed, I’m just his friend.”

“You call this sissy Jew your friend?”

“Yeah,” Tim replied with a calm that awed me. “Wanna make something out of it?”

“Are you serious?” McGee gasped.

“There’s only one way you can find out,” Tim replied, turning to me again and ordering, “Danny, go home. Right now!”

I must have looked as if I was bowing when I bent down, picked up my injured books, and began to retreat. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the two of them standing toe-to-toe like gladiators. As I started down the street, I could hear the sound of fighting. Punches exchanged, parried, landed. I did not dare look back. And then I heard the unmistakable sound of someone falling to the pavement. It was followed by the soft-spoken words of Tim Hogan.

“Sorry, Ed. But you had it coming.”

T
hough her husband did not suspect it, Cassie Delaney had stopped pooling her salary with his each week. That is, she no longer contributed her entire share.

All through her childhood, her blue-eyed sister Margaret had been the “pretty one,” and she—in their very own mother’s words—the “scarecrow.” They remained the same even as adults.

Nothing her husband could say dissuaded Cassie from believing she was inherently unattractive. She sensed that he daydreamed of a sexier wife.

She suddenly found an opportunity to change all that. Her department received an order of exquisite black French silk negligees, garments seductive enough to make any woman look like Brigitte Bardot.

She had to have one of them. But where would she find the eighty-six dollars? Even with her employee’s discount, she would never be able to afford such a luxury.

By a stroke of luck, Macy’s unexpectedly raised her salary by $4.68 a week. She withheld this information from Tuck and began stockpiling the cash.

When she was certain that the household was asleep, she would creep into the kitchen, mount a stepladder, and place four dollars in an empty box of Kellogg’s corn flakes.

The weeks passed slowly, but gradually her treasure grew. At last breathless count she had reached sixty-eight dollars.

One Saturday evening, she arrived home to find a note from her husband that he had taken all the kids out for a pizza. Tired as she was, she felt a tingle of delight as she climbed the stepladder to add four more dollars to her riches.

But there was something funny about the box. It did not seem as full as it had been. Counting the money bill by bill, she discovered to her horror that there were only fifty-two dollars.

She felt simultaneously sick and furious.

“Goddammit, there’s a bloody thief among us.”

Nor did she have to look far to find a likely culprit.

She stormed upstairs and began to ransack Timothy’s room. In a pair of his sneakers, she found
money
—far more than he ever could have saved from his weekly twenty-five-cents allowance. And there was only one place he could have gotten it.

“That’s the limit!” she exploded to Tuck. “We’ve got to send him away. I’m going to speak to Father Hanrahan tomorrow.”

Voices easily passed through the plywood barriers of the Delaney house. Upstairs in his room Tim heard everything.

“Oh Jesus!” he whispered to himself, suddenly feeling a terrible emptiness in his chest. What could he do? Where could he turn?

It was a Sunday afternoon. Rachel had gone with Danny and Deborah to visit her mother in Queens. As usual, the Rav stayed home in his study. There was always so much work to do.

He was absorbed in a particularly complex case appearing before his religious court involving an abandoned woman—an
agunah
—who was applying for permission to marry again, when he was interrupted by a voice.

“Excuse me, Rabbi.”

He looked up, startled. “Oh, it’s you, Timothy.” He smiled with relief. “I sometimes forget you have a key.”

He reached into the top drawer of his desk. “I’ve got your month’s wages right here.”

As he offered Tim the envelope, Rav Luria suddenly sensed that the boy’s visit was not merely to collect his salary.

“Sit down,” he said, motioning to the chair opposite his desk and then, offering a plate, added, “Have a homemade macaroon.”

Tim shook his head—but only in reference to the cookies. He seemed to welcome the invitation to remain, yet was afraid to speak.

Rav Luria took the initiative. “I want to tell you again, Timothy, how much the families appreciate how well you’re doing your job.”

“Thanks,” Tim answered uneasily, “but I don’t think I’ll be able to do it much longer.”

“Oh—? Is anything the matter?”

“Uh, no,” Tim replied stoically. “It’s just that I’ll probably be going away to boarding school.”

“Well,” said the rabbi. “I suppose I should congratulate you, but quite selfishly, I’m a little sad.”

“To tell the truth, sir, I’m not all that happy myself.”

The silence that followed made it clear that both of them now understood the real topic of conversation.

“So who’s forcing you to go?” the rabbi asked.

“My aunt and uncle,” Tim began hesitantly. Then apologizing: “I really shouldn’t be wasting your time.…”

“No, no, please,” the rabbi gestured. “Go on.”

Tim mustered his courage and replied. “It’s the stolen money.”

“You stole money?”

“No, that’s just it,” Timothy agonized, “somebody robbed my aunt’s savings, and when she found the money I earned from you—”

“You didn’t explain?”

He shook his head. “My uncle said she wouldn’t like it.”

“Well, Tim,”—the Rav frowned—“you have to tell her now.”

“It’s too late. She’s seeing Father Hanrahan tonight about sending me away.”

There was another silence, and then almost involuntarily Tim blurted out, “Would you help me, Rabbi?”

“How might
I
be of assistance in these circumstances?”

“You could speak to Father Hanrahan,” Tim pleaded. “I know he would believe you.”

The rabbi could not suppress a bitter laugh. “That is, one might say, a rather large leap of faith.”

“Well,” Tim argued, “you’re both men of the cloth, aren’t you?”

Rav Luria nodded. “Yes—but very different fabrics. Still, I’ll call him and see if he’s willing to talk.”

Tim stood up. “Thanks. I really appreciate it.”

“Timothy—excuse my intrusion,” Rav Luria inquired cautiously, “but even if you can’t convince them you’re innocent, isn’t there any way you can make your aunt and uncle forgive you?”

“No, Rabbi,” Tim answered painfully. “I guess you don’t understand.” He paused and, holding back the tears, burst out, “You see, they hate me.”

With that, he turned and left the room without looking back.

Rav Luria stood there for a moment and thought to himself,
Now
I understand why he broke windows.

Rav Moses Luria had stared down the gun barrels of angry Czech policemen; he had fearlessly confronted half a dozen hooligans daubing swastikas on his synagogue. But calling up a priest was something altogether different.

Finally, he took a thoughtful puff on his pipe, asked the operator for the number of the church, and dialed. The phone was answered on the second ring.

“Good evening. This is Father Joe.”

“Good evening, Father Hanrahan. My name is Rabbi Moses Luria.”

“Oh,” the priest replied. “The Silczer Rebbe himself?”

How did Hanrahan know such things? the Rav wondered.

“How can I help you, Rabbi?”

“Well, I was wondering if you could spare the time for a conversation?”

“Of course. Would you like to come for tea tomorrow?”

“Well, actually, it would be best if we could meet outside.”

“You mean, in neutral territory, so to speak?”

“Well, yes,” the rabbi replied candidly.

“Do you play chess, by any chance?” the priest inquired.

“A bit,” the rabbi answered. “I don’t really have much time for games.”

“Well, then,” the priest suggested, “why don’t we meet at the outdoor chess tables in the park? We could have a relaxing game while we chat.”

“Fine,” the rabbi concurred. “Shall we say eleven o’clock tomorrow?”

“Eleven it is,” replied the priest. To which he added a cheery
“Shalom.”

The next afternoon the two clergymen sat at a concrete table, a chessboard embedded in its surface. The rabbi opened by moving his king’s pawn forward two squares.

“How can I help, Rabbi?” asked the priest affably, countering with the identical move.

“It’s about one of your parishioners—”

“And who might that be?”

In a series of symmetrical moves, both players began to develop their knights and bishops.

“A young boy named Timothy Hogan.”

“Oh dear.” The priest sighed as he edged his queen in front of his king. “Has he broken another window?”

“No, no. This is something completely different.”

The Rav paused, castled on his king’s side, and then continued in slightly apologetic tones. “I really shouldn’t be interfering, Father. But it has come to my attention that this boy is in some difficulty … about some stolen money.”

The priest nodded. “He’s such a bright lad, but he seems to have a talent for getting into trouble.”

In an even exchange on the eleventh move, both players lost a knight.

“He is bright. I’m glad you agree,” the rabbi responded, as he used a pawn to take one of the priest’s bishops. “That’s why it would be so unfortunate if he were sent away.”

Father Hanrahan looked quizzically at the Rav. “How do you come to know about all this, may I ask?”

“Well, many years ago the boy’s mother worked briefly for me. And the lad is currently in my employ … as a kind of Sabbath helper.”