Joshua: A Brooklyn Tale (10 page)

Rabbi Weissman’s hand came around Paul’s shoulder as the man on the podium sang out his Hebrew name, along with the title “
Habachur
HaBar
Mitzvah
,” the Bar Mitzvah boy. Perplexed, Paul turned to Rabbi Weissman, who smiled and whispered, “Today is the day of your Bar Mitzvah, Pinchas. Go! Make me proud!”

Paul moved hesitantly toward the podium. He wanted to back out, say forget it, pack his bags and catch the next train back to Hewlett Harbor, but he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t disappoint the rabbi, and he wasn’t going to recoil in front of Rachel. It was his first taste of what “love” can make men do, a fitting lesson on the day he was to become “a man.”

He ascended the steps of the podium and approached the Torah scroll. The man who had called his name reached into a blue velvet bag and removed a large white prayer shawl with black stripes and white fringes. Rabbi Weissman had taught Paul about the significance of the
tallis,
prayer shawl, though in his temple they weren’t worn. The man helped him drape the shawl over his shoulders. It was large and engulfed his entire body, the fringes reaching the floor.

The man reading from the scroll took the silver pointer, pointed to a word in the scroll, and instructed Paul to take one of the corners of the prayer shawl, touch it to the word, and then kiss it. After doing this, Paul began reciting the short blessing before the Torah reading. Despite his nervousness, the Hebrew was familiar and flowed easily. He was even able to concentrate on the meaning of the words,
Blessed
be
God
 
.
 
.
 
.
Who
has
chosen
us
from
among
the
other
nations,
and
has
given
us
His
Torah
. Thanks to the rabbi, it was one of the prayers he understood.

Paul concluded his blessing, and the reader began. He tried to follow the pointer as it passed from word to word upon the ancient Torah scroll. He had studied Torah script with Rabbi Weissman, and recognized all the letters. Figuring out the correct pronunciation of words, and their accompanying melody, however, was another matter. That task required vowels and notes, neither of which appeared in the scroll itself. He knew he was going to read from the scroll in his own temple in two weeks. He had spent months memorizing the pronunciation and melody for each word. None of his peers had bothered learning this; instead, they recited only the
Haftorah
, which could be read directly from a book containing notes and vowels. But Rabbi Weissman insisted that Paul do it the hard way. “A true scholar breaks his teeth and suffers to gain knowledge,” the rabbi had remarked.

The reader finished, and again instructed Paul to take a corner of the prayer shawl, touch it to the last word read, and kiss it. Paul recited the concluding blessing, “
Blessed
be
God
 
.
 
.
 
.
who
has
given
us
His
Torah
of
truth,
and
implanted
within
us
eternal
life
.” As he completed the blessing, he noticed the other men on the podium lifting their prayer shawls above their heads and holding them up like canopies. He had no idea what they were doing, and wondered if he was supposed to do the same. He looked to the man who had been instructing him, but the man offered only a smile. Suddenly, a shower of candy began to fall from the balcony. as the congregation broke into joyous singing and clapping.

Siman
Tov
Umazel
Tov
, a traditional song wishing luck and prosperity.

The young children raced to the podium to collect the candy as Paul felt his hand grabbed by the man next to him, pulling him into a circular dance around the Torah scroll. He followed, and began singing along.

Another circle quickly formed at the foot of the podium, then another around that, and still another around the last. Most of the men’s section had broken into dance, save for the followers of Rav Schachter, while the women above leaned over the railing, watched and sang along. All, except the wives and children of the followers of Rav Schachter.

Gradually the gaiety subsided, decorum was restored, and the next honoree was called to the Torah. Paul removed the prayer shawl and returned it to the man who had given it to him. The man placed it back in the blue velvet bag, and as Paul descended the podium to return to his seat, the man reached out, stopped him, and handed him the velvet bag with the prayer shawl inside. Paul hesitated, not understanding the gesture. “It is a gift for you from your revered teacher,” the man said as he placed the bag in Paul’s hand.

Paul took the bag, and returned to his seat, where Rabbi Weissman tearfully embraced him and kissed him on the forehead. Paul stiffened, as he was unaccustomed to such displays of affection. The rabbi looked him in the eye, and said, “
Mazel
tov
, my son,
mazel
tov
!”

My
son
, Paul thought,
if
only
.

Here he was, two weeks later, reciting the same blessing over the Torah, feeling almost naked without his
tallis
and yarmulke. He had hidden the
tallis
in the bottom of his junk drawer, the only drawer he knew his mother didn’t regularly inspect. How kind she was, he often mused, to allow him this morsel of privacy.

He noticed his father looking around, observing the reactions of the others in the room. He knew that Alfred would only be impressed if the guests were impressed.

His Torah reading was flawless, and his conclusion of the final blessing was met with silence. No candy flew through the air, no singing or dancing. He returned to his seat between the rabbi and the president of the congregation, each of whom extended their hands and politely wished him
Mazel
Tov
.

He sat, waiting for the service to end, thinking only of one thing:
Rachel
. He imagined her being there, sitting in the pews, watching him breeze through the Torah reading. He knew that in her world men were measured by their scholarship and piety. He lamented not having been prepared to read the Torah in her synagogue, and craved another opportunity to prove himself.
If
only
she
could
be
here
, he thought,
if
only
she
could
see
what
I
can
really
do.

If
only.

After the service, the congregation gathered in the catering hall for a collation of bagels and spreads. Guests and relatives lauded Paul’s performance and wished him well, a mere prelude of what was to come that same evening during the lavish affair that would take place at the Seawane Country Club in Hewlett Harbor. “It will be the bash of all bashes,” Alfred had told Evelyn earlier that morning while they were dressing for synagogue. “Wait till they see the parakeets,” he exclaimed, referring to the hundreds of little caged birds that would be adorning the dining room, party favors for the guests.

“Just make sure that we don’t end up with one of those creatures flying around this house,” she responded. “I have enough problems keeping things tidy between you and your son.”

“Please,” he implored, “don’t get yourself all riled up. They live in cages, you know.”

So
do
I
, she thought.

It was to be the quintessential suburban Bar Mitzvah affair, replete with glutinous food, a nine-piece band, and enough flowers to fill a rain forest. Parakeets would surely be a new one, Alfred mused, something people would talk about for a long time; something that would go down in the annals of Long Island Jewish History; something an author might even write about one day, only to find his readers reacting,
No
way
!

Alfred stood with some of his buddies in the back of the room, next to a small table upon which sat a few bottles of rye, bourbon, and scotch. One of the men, a husky business associate who had a loud and obstreperous voice, called Paul over to join them for a drink. “Come here my boy,” the man said as he handed Paul a shot. “Have one in honor of being a man,” he continued, slapping Paul on the back while demonstrating how to down the whisky.

Paul followed the man’s wrist motion only to end up almost having a seizure. The others laughed, including Alfred. Paul was embarrassed. It was going to be a long day.

Alfred mingled with his guests, practically ignoring Paul. There were no displays of warmth or affection between father and son, but Paul didn’t seem to mind. His thoughts were elsewhere. In the past two weeks, not a minute had passed when his mind was free of Rachel.

His imagination was running wild. For in actuality, he knew that Rachel had been rather indifferent to him. He blamed it on his background, and he was determined, in time, to fix that. He also figured she was too devout to even think about boys at this point in her life. He just couldn’t fathom any other reason for the way she reacted to him.

What he didn’t know was that there was more to Rachel Weissman than he, or anyone who knew her, had realized at the time.

CHAPTER 9
 

It wasn’t that Rachel Weissman didn’t like boys; in fact, quite the opposite was true. And while she lived the life of a reverent Hasidic maiden, her fantasies often told another story.

As if being the daughter of a revered scholar in the community wasn’t enough, she was also the child of a man who had a son taken from him in one of God’s crueler moments. She had never been told the details, but she knew she bore a heavy burden. She would always have to lead two lives—her dead half brother’s and her own.

Rachel’s mother knew this too. Hannah was almost twenty years younger than Isaac, yet the gap between them was filled by more than time. She never doubted his devotion, but always felt the presence of his past. It wasn’t his fault, for he tried to keep it inside, but there was only so much he could conceal.

Hannah had understood this when she’d accepted Isaac’s marriage proposal. Having been one of the more desirable young women in the community, strikingly attractive and from a fine family, she could have had her pick of the lot. Almost every
shodchin
, matchmaker, in the neighborhood had been knocking at her father’s door. Until, one day, her father came home from a Talmud lecture and announced that he had found her the perfect husband.

“Who needs those ridiculous matchmakers?” Aaron Twersky exclaimed as he came through the door on that cold January night in 1950. “I have just listened to one of the great scholars of our time recite from the holy books. He is new here, from Europe, somewhere in Poland I think. And he is single, so they say.”

“So they say?” Hannah’s mother, Rivka, asked her husband as he removed his hat and coat. She was a cautious woman.

“Well, I didn’t go up to him and ask, but I walked home from the class with Reb Lazar, and he said that he heard from Reb Mordechai, who heard from his wife, Raizel, that the man is single. So how can this be wrong?”

Rivka sighed and Hannah laughed. Hannah trusted her father, and disliked the matchmakers as much as he did. She’d already had some frightful experiences at their hands, and had become skeptical of ever finding a husband. She would gladly do as her father wished.

What Aaron Twersky hadn’t told his wife and his seventeen year old daughter was that this brilliant scholar was thirty-six and widowed. He would worry about that in time, but first he would consult the
Rebbe
, for the
Rebbe
always knew what was best. If the
Rebbe
gave his blessing, then the
shiddoch
was meant to be.

The following week, the
Rebbe
weighed in. Isaac Weissman was a great scholar and Hannah Twersky was a dutiful young lady from an esteemed family. Together, they would produce extraordinary children. Nothing else mattered.

Rivka Twersky’s anger at her husband was intense at first, as was Hannah’s surprise. But in time, as they came to know Isaac, they couldn’t help but love and respect him. For he was a “special” man.

After only three months of courting, Hannah fell deeply in love. The wedding took place two months later, and on her wedding night, Hannah learned yet another thing about Isaac that would make her smile each time the thought of him entered her mind: he was a wonderful lover, soft and passionate, far beyond anything she’d ever dreamed. During the time of month when sex was permitted, she spent her days longing for him, craving his touch. And when he came to her at night, she experienced such pleasure, it often brought tears to her eyes. “How could anyone have the right to feel so good?” she once whispered to him as she was catching her breath, lying back on her pillow.

“It is not a right,” Isaac responded softly, “it is an obligation.”

Hannah knew that Isaac was referring to the rabbinic commandment to enjoy sex. She had learned about this in her bridal class at the women’s seminary.
A
man
who
sexually
pleases
his
wife
will
merit
sons
, was the dictum she recalled each time they made love. Yes, they would create extraordinary children. Yes, she would give him what he had lost, many more than he had lost. She would help him forget.

But eight months after their wedding, Hannah’s hopes faded into illusions. She had been seven and a half months pregnant, and one evening—in the middle of the night—she began to bleed profusely. By the time she’d finally made it to the hospital, both she and the baby were almost gone. The doctors managed to save both of them, but she would never again bear children.

Rachel was
it
. Hannah knew it, Isaac knew it, and—above all—Rachel knew it. Nothing ever needed to be said; all was understood. Isaac, especially, doted over Rachel and attended to her in ways that were uncommon. When she was an infant, for example, and wouldn’t sleep through the night, he convinced Hannah to let him take her into their bed to comfort her, instead of listening to the pediatrician’s instructions to let her cry herself to sleep. “Vhen she is ready, she vill sleep alone,” he’d said. Hannah had her doubts, but not enough to argue. She saw how much Isaac loved Rachel, and wanted to believe that he knew better than the doctors.

One Friday night when Rachel was six months old, she began crying hysterically in her high-chair while Isaac was trying to recite the blessing over the wine. Isaac took her from the chair and sat her on his lap while he concluded the
Kiddush
. He rocked her on his knee as he sang the blessing, and even let her taste the sweet red wine. When he tried to return her to the high-chair, she protested with more crying and kicking, so he took her back to his seat and fed her from his plate. Rachel never returned to the high-chair, and remained on her father’s lap until she was old enough to take her own seat at the table. Isaac couldn’t handle hearing his daughter cry; the memories were just too powerful.

Throughout Rachel’s childhood, every morning after Isaac finished teaching his Talmud class in the yeshiva, he would come home for a few hours to spend time playing with her. And every evening, after dinner, he would spend yet a few more hours with her. On
Shabbos
afternoons also—a time when he should have been napping to catch up on sleep—he would sit and read to her or take her for walks around the neighborhood. He never seemed to tire or lose patience.

Hannah felt that Isaac should devote more of his time preparing for his classes or resting, but she would not argue. She even began to feel jealous. Still, she wouldn’t allow herself to interfere with her husband’s joy. She was proud of him, and confident in his love. She wanted nothing more than to make him happy.

For her first two years, Rachel’s parents never went out without her. This was despite numerous offers from Rivka and Aaron Twersky to baby-sit for their granddaughter. After that, Hannah and Isaac went out only rarely, for special occasions such as their anniversary or a friend’s wedding. Once in a blue moon, Isaac would agree to let Rachel sleep at her grandparents’ home so that he and Hannah could be alone. Those nights Hannah was reminded of how wonderful things could be, dampened only by her frustration and longing for the next time which she knew would be far off.

Soon after Rachel mastered walking, Isaac began taking her with him to the synagogue on
Shabbos
. It wasn’t unusual for a father to take a child to
shul
early so that the mother could have some time to dress, and maybe tidy up the house a bit for any afternoon guests. When Hannah finally arrived at the synagogue, she would look down into the men’s section and find Isaac and Rachel (young girls were permitted to accompany their fathers in the men’s section). Isaac would usually be praying and Rachel would be running around with the other children. Hannah waited patiently for the time when Rachel would, at last, be at her side.

Rachel Weissman was plagued by the depth of love she received, and the overwhelming responsibility that came with it. For Isaac, she represented everything he had once lost. For Hannah, she was simply everything. Rachel understood this, and accepted her role as an obedient, noble daughter.

There was no television in the Weissman home, and the radio was permanently tuned to the news station. For entertainment, Rachel learned Hasidic tunes and stories of great Jewish heroes. The protagonist was inevitably a great scholar or
Rebbe
, and by his side was always the righteous wife that every Hasidic woman should ultimately aspire to be.

In school, Rachel was exemplary. By the third grade, she knew the Bible cold, far more thoroughly than most of the other girls in her class. She was also a prodigy with numbers, able to calculate instantaneously in her mind, and easily achieved a perfect score on every arithmetic test. The teachers were amazed, even intimidated.

Her best friend was Esther Mandlebaum, a slightly overweight young lady with brown eyes, curly hair, and a long, narrow nose. No match for Rachel in the looks department, but definitely an intellectual equal. Esther lived in a private house around the block from Rachel, in one of those President Street mansions: four stories, lofty white pillars, sparkling windows, and a huge front lawn with a limestone walkway. Her father, a diamond dealer, was one of the wealthiest men in the neighborhood, and—like Isaac Weissman—a regular attendee at Rabbi Feldblum’s Talmud lectures. The girls’ mothers were very close friends. From infancy, Rachel and Esther had played together; they were like sisters.

Rachel seemed to be the only one who knew how smart Esther was, for Esther was less concerned with school, and spent most of her time daydreaming about other things. That was how it all began: Esther started sharing her dreams with Rachel, and Rachel started having dreams of her own.

Esther had it easier than Rachel. She was the oldest of four, with two sisters and one brother. Her father traveled a lot, and even when he was around, he gave most of his attention to little Moishie. Rachel often wondered what life would be like with a sibling, how it would feel if everything didn’t rest on her shoulders.

Esther fantasized about becoming an actress. Her parents had a television set in their bedroom and would, on rare occasions, allow her to watch. She would play-act scenes from movies with Rachel as her audience. Rachel was a great spectator; she admired Esther’s zeal. Esther made her laugh, made her want something more.

Exactly what that “something more” was, Rachel didn’t know—an indefinable, yet constant longing. At times, she wanted to be like Esther, to live in a big house, have nice clothes, lots of siblings, and a television. But Esther wasn’t so happy either, and Rachel was the first to notice.

Then, one freezing January day when Rachel was nine years old, it came to her. She was on her way to pick up Esther so they could walk to school together, as they did each morning. In her snow boots, she walked up the icy path to the Mandlebaums’ front door. Carrying her book bag draped over her shoulder, she lost her balance, slipped on a patch of ice, and hit the ground hard.

Esther and her mother came running out as soon as they heard Rachel screaming. Rachel was lying on the ground at the foot of the stairs, crying, unable to move her left leg. They helped her up and took her inside. As soon as her boots were off, Mrs. Mandlebaum looked at her ankle, realized she needed medical attention, and called Hannah Weissman, who immediately rushed over. Rachel tried to be brave, but was still crying from pain; her ankle was swollen to the size of a grapefruit and badly discolored. Hannah phoned the pediatrician who advised them to go to the hospital emergency room.

They helped Rachel into Hannah’s car and drove to the Kingsbrook Jewish Medical Center. Although the Kings County Hospital was closer, Kingsbrook was more modern and upscale, and the Hasidim always preferred a “Jewish” hospital.

They entered the crowded emergency room. Apparently, Rachel wasn’t the only casualty of the icy streets. It would have been a long wait had the nurse on duty not felt sorry for the tearful young girl. She discretely shuffled Rachel and Hannah into a treatment room where they waited for a doctor while Esther and her mother remained outside.

About twenty minutes passed before an attractive, tall, vibrant redhead in a white coat entered the room. She smiled at Rachel and Hannah and, without saying anything, picked up the medical chart and began reading. “Excuse me, nurse,” Hannah interrupted, “do you know how long it is going to be before we see a doctor. My daughter is in a lot of pain.”

The woman glanced up from the chart. “Oh, I’m sorry, I neglected to introduce myself.” She smiled at them both again and said, “I’m Doctor Schiffman.”

Hannah was taken aback and immediately responded, “Oh, I’m sorry. It’s just that…”

“It’s okay,” Doctor Schiffman interrupted, “it happens all the time. I’m quite used to it.”

Though Hannah tried to be mannerly, Schiffman read the discomfort in her face. True, it was the late fifties and female doctors weren’t such a rarity, but among the insulated Hasidic communities, the notion was completely blasphemous. It was one thing if a woman had to work in a bakery or dress shop, which was the case if her husband’s income was insufficient, or if he were a scholar and studied the holy books all day. But to actually pursue a career and spend endless years studying in college and graduate school? That was absurd. A Hasidic woman made a career out of getting married and having as many children as God would provide.