My Name Is Asher Lev (20 page)

    The mashpia called me into his office. The Rebbe wanted to meet with me, he said. The Rebbe met with all the yeshiva students who were about to become bnai mitzvah, he said. The Rebbe especially wanted to meet with me alone; he gave quiet and resonant emphasis to the word
yechidus
—alone.

A week before my meeting with the Rebbe, I began going to the office of the mashpia every day after school. We studied Torah and Hasidus. The mashpia was preparing me for my meeting with the Rebbe.

We studied about three kinds of Jews in the world: the rosho, the one who sins and has evil thoughts, whose efforts to live a good life are an endless struggle—most of us are in that category, the mashpia said sadly; the benoni, the one whose acts are without fault but who cannot control his thinking—very few achieve that high level, the mashpia said; and the tzaddik—a tzaddik can only be born, the mashpia said. It is the greatest gift of the Ribbono Shel Olom; yes, a tzaddik can only be born. Only tzaddikim have control over their hearts; the mashpia said, quoting the Midrash.

We studied the meaning of the verse in Deuteronomy, “But the thing is very near to you, in your mouth and in your heart, that you may do it.” What does the word
very
come to teach us? That the person whose understanding in the knowledge of the Master of the Universe is limited, who cannot comprehend the
greatness of the blessed Being Without End, who cannot produce awe and love of God in his mind and understanding—such a person can nevertheless come to fear and love God through the observance of all the commandments of the Torah, for the commandments are
very
near to all Jews.

We studied the meaning of the verse in Proverbs “The candle of God is the soul of man.” The souls of Jews are like the flame of a candle, the mashpia said. The flame burns upward; it seeks to be parted from the wick in order to unite with its source above, in the universal element of fire. Similarly, the soul of the Jew yearns to separate itself and depart from the body in order to unite with the Master of the Universe, even though this means that nothing will remain of its former nature as a distinct and separate entity. It is in the nature of the Jewish soul to desire this union with the Being Without End, unlike the souls of the Gentiles, which are derived from the Other Side and which strive to remain independent beings and entities.

We studied about the sitra achra, the Other Side, the realm of darkness and evil given life by God not out of His true desire but in the manner of one who reluctantly throws something over his shoulder to an enemy, thereby making it possible for God to punish the wicked who help the sitra achra and reward the righteous who subjugate it.

I did not understand many of the things that we studied, especially his explanations of the verse in Proverbs and his account of the difference between Jewish and Gentile souls. But he was a patient teacher and I enjoyed the hours I spent with him. I did not draw or paint that week.

My father was home the January night of my meeting with the Rebbe. He said to me in Yiddish as I was putting on my coat, “Remember with whom you will be speaking.”

He seemed tense and apprehensive. My mother looked proud.

It was a cold night. I walked quickly along the parkway. A winter wind blew through the street; I heard it in the bare trees overhead. The sky was clear and dark, jeweled with cold and distant stars.

I came into the Ladover building and walked up the stairway to the second floor. I had been told to go to the room at the end of the corridor to my right. The corridor was carpeted. Bright lights burned inside ceiling fixtures. I came to the room and opened the door.

It was a large waiting room with white walls, a single window in the wall to my right, and a heavy wooden door in the wall across from the window. There was a desk beneath the window and chairs along the walls. On the wall opposite the doorway where I stood was a framed photograph of the Rebbe. Rav Mendel Dorochoff sat behind the desk. He wore dark clothes and a tall dark skullcap. He was the Rebbe’s gabbai, the chief of staff, the one who arranged the Rebbe’s meetings and could speak in the name of the Rebbe with the same authority as the Rebbe.

The only other person in the room was a tall heavy-shouldered man in a dark winter coat and baggy brown trousers. His face was ruddy and deeply lined. He had a white walrus mustache and a thick shock of flowing white hair. His hands were huge, and he wore a dark beret. He was writing in a small pad he held in his left hand. He glanced up at me as I entered, smiled vaguely, and resumed writing in the pad. I could not remember ever having seen him before.

I went over to the desk. Rav Dorochoff looked up.

“Good evening, Asher Lev,” he said in Yiddish. He had a deep nasal voice and sharp gray eyes. He was in his late forties, but his beard was coal black, as was the hair beneath the skullcap. “Your mother is well?”

I nodded.

“You have no tongue?” he said, looking at me.

I found my voice. “My mother is well, thank you.” I spoke in Yiddish.

Out of the corner of my eyes I saw the man in the beret smile faintly. I could not tell if he was smiling over my lost voice or over something he had written in his pad.

“Sit down,” Rav Dorochoff said. “The Rebbe will see you soon.”

I sat down two chairs to the right of the man in the beret. Rav Dorochoff sat behind the desk reading sheets of paper filled with Hebrew or Yiddish typing. I sat very still in the chair. It was a hard wooden chair with a straight back. The man next to me flipped a page in his pad and continued writing. An aircraft passed overhead. The man shook his head, flipped another page, and went on writing. He held the pad in his hand close to his chest. I looked closely at the pad and saw he was not writing but drawing. I looked away and sat very still, facing the door set into the wall opposite the window and the desk. It was a heavy wooden door, stained walnut. Gentle arabesques of thin dark metal played along its surface. Long triangular wedges of metal hinged the door to its frame. I felt eyes on my face. I felt them moving across my chest. I kept staring at the door. I felt the eyes leave my face for a moment; then I felt them again. I glanced at the man in the beret. He looked back at me. He had pale-blue eyes. He smiled vaguely through the thick walrus mustache, then looked down again at his pad. I glanced over at Rav Dorochoff. He sat at the desk, reading. The room was very still. The man in the beret flipped the page of his pad and went on drawing.

The door opposite me opened soundlessly. A woman stepped nimbly into the room and closed the door behind her. She was tall and slim and well dressed. She went quickly through the room and out the door.

Rav Dorochoff got up from behind his desk, motioned me to
follow him, crossed the room, and opened the heavy wooden door. He stepped back and waved me across the threshold. The door closed soundlessly behind me.

The room was large. It contained a single glass-enclosed bookcase, a large walnut-stained desk, and three chairs near the desk. The walls were white and bare. The desk was bare. Lights burned in a small glass chandelier overhead. A tall Gothic window, its uppermost section open, took up much of the wall to the left of the desk.

Behind the desk sat the Rebbe. He wore a dark caftan and an ordinary dark hat. A dark cord girdled the caftan. His face was pale. He seemed more a presence than a man.

“Asher Lev,” he said, raising his hand slightly, then letting it rest again on the desk. “Sit down, Asher Lev.” He spoke in Yiddish. His voice was soft. “How is your mother?”

I started to respond. I felt the words deep in my throat. I could not get the words out of my throat. I swallowed hard and took a deep breath. I saw the Rebbe looking at me.

“Thank you, Rebbe,” I heard myself say in Yiddish. “My mother is well.” I was sitting in one of the chairs near the desk but could not remember how I had got there.

“Asher Lev,” the Rebbe said softly, “I wanted to see you and to give you my blessings for your bar mitzvah.”

“Thank you, Rebbe.”

“Asher,” the Rebbe said. “How are you feeling?”

“I am well, Rebbe.”

“I remember when you were born. I remember your bris.”

I was quiet.

“You will become a bar mitzvah this Shabbos.”

“Yes, Rebbe.”

He looked at me. “I remember your father’s father. I bless you in the name of your grandfather. May you have a life of Torah and commandments.”

“Thank you, Rebbe.”

“Asher.”

“Yes, Rebbe.”

“A life should be lived for the sake of heaven. One man is not better than another because he is a doctor while the other is a shoemaker. One man is not better than another because he is a lawyer while the other is a painter. A life is measured by how it is lived for the sake of heaven. Do you understand me, Asher Lev?”

“Yes, Rebbe.”

“But there are those who do not understand this.”

I was quiet.

“There are those you love and who love you who do not accept this. Asher, to honor your father is one of the Ten Commandments.”

“Yes, Rebbe.”

“I give you my blessings, Asher Lev son of Reb Aryeh Lev.”

His right hand made a slight waving gesture. I got to my feet. I felt dazed and bewildered.

“Good night, Asher Lev.”

“Good night, Rebbe.”

I went from the room and closed the heavy door behind me. It closed soundlessly without effort.

I started through the waiting room. The man in the beret stood up. He went quickly past me, opened the heavy door, stepped inside, and closed it. A vague odor trailed behind him, the odor of earth and oil and paint. I saw a folded piece of paper on the chair I had occupied earlier. I stopped and picked it up and unfolded it. It was a pencil drawing, a photographic likeness of my face made with an exquisite economy of line and without light and shade. The lower right-hand corner of the drawing contained a signature: Jacob Kahn. Below the signature was the date: 1-10-56.

I sat down on the chair and stared at the drawing. Rav Dorochoff was behind his desk, reading. He seemed not to know I was there. I folded the drawing and put it carefully into a pocket. I took out my small sketchbook and, with a ball-point pen, drew in one continuous line the face of Jacob Kahn. In the lower right-hand corner of the drawing I signed my name: Asher Lev. Below the signature I wrote the date: 26 Teveth 5716. I left the drawing on the chair Jacob Kahn had occupied and went over to Rav Dorochoff.

“Good night,” I said.

He looked up at me. “Good night, Asher Lev. Mazel tov.” He paused, and added, “May you bring joy to your parents.”

“Thank you.”

I went from the room. I walked quickly down the stairs. I could hear voices. There were people still working in some of the offices on the street floor. I came out onto the stone porch. The night wind bathed my face. I sat on the rail of the porch and looked at the parkway. I sat there a very long time, remembering other times I had sat on that porch.

A man came out of the building, stopped for a moment in the doorway, and walked over to me. I got off the rail.

“My name is Jacob Kahn,” he said. He had a strong voice and he spoke with a vague Russian accent.

“My name is Asher Lev,” I said.

We shook hands. He had a powerful grip. I felt my hand swallowed by his.

“Thank you for your drawing,” he said.

“Thank you for yours.”

“Do you have any idea at all what you are getting into?”

“No.”

“Become a carpenter. Become a shoemaker.”

I was quiet.

“Become a street cleaner.”

I did not respond.

He sighed. “You are crazy,” he said. “We are all crazy. I know your father. He will become my enemy.”

I said nothing.

“Why should I make your father my enemy? Why? Tell me why.”

I did not respond.

He sighed again. “Our Rebbe is very clever. If it isn’t me, it will be someone else. Yes? He prefers to take a chance with me.”

I was quiet.

“Of course, yes. The Rebbe is clever. I will watch you. We have a clever Rebbe.” He drew his hand out of his coat pocket. “This is yours.” It was the sketchbook I had once filled for the mashpia.

“Thank you.” I put the sketchbook into my pocket.

“Now,” he said. “We begin. I do not like to start new relationships in the winter. It is not in my nature to do that. Also there is a sculpture I must finish and I will not have time for you now. You will call me in the middle of March. I am in the telephone book.” He stopped and peered at me intently. “You will call?”

“Yes,” I heard myself say.

“You understand that I am not what you call a Torah Jew. I am a great admirer of the Rebbe’s. My father was a follower of the Rebbe’s father. But I am not a religious Jew. You understand that?”

“I understand.”

“Good. Now, between today and the middle of March is a long time. You will do something for me in that time. You will take a journey to the Museum of Modern Art, you will go up to the second floor, and you will look at a painting called
Guernica
, by Picasso. You will study this painting. You will memorize this painting. You will do whatever you feel you have
to do in order to master this painting. Then you will call me in March, and we will meet, and talk, and work. Do you understand?”