Authors: Erich Segal
I proceeded to check out the “Just Arrived” table.
I can’t describe the feeling. In Brooklyn I took it for granted. Yet here, as a fugitive from a hermetic sylvan province, I first began to appreciate the true joy of touching a book in the holy language.
I whiled away twenty minutes or so. Then I began to grow restive, so I went to get some further elucidation at the counter where the old-fashioned cash register stood. Perhaps there might be a message for me.
It was at that moment that my life changed.
Seated there was a fresh-faced girl in her late teens, with the deepest brown eyes I had ever seen. Even from afar I could sense the emanation of what the mystics called
shekinah
, the quintessence of divine radiance.
I approached respectfully and said, “Excuse me. I’m looking for Reb Vidal. He was supposed to—”
She immediately turned her back to me.
God, what a heathen I had become! No well-brought-up Orthodox girl would ever speak to a male stranger. Clearly she was present in that shop only to serve the female clientele.
Awkward fool that I was, I tried to apologize—which only exacerbated matters.
“Please forgive me,” I babbled, “I meant no offense. I mean …”
She turned her head again and addressed the old man in the corner in Yiddish. “Uncle Abe, would you kindly help this gentleman customer?”
“Just a minute, Miriam,” he replied. Then added, “He looks like a
shaygetz
to me, so go in back.”
I bristled. He had described me with the ultimate Orthodox disparagement for another Jew—calling me a gentile.
I would have been furious except that, at least by my outward appearance, her uncle was absolutely right. After all, with my crew-neck sweater and open collar, not to mention my uncovered head and the outrageous shortness of my sideburns, I was clearly an alien.
Uncle Abe was glaring at me from across the store, and I could even hear him mutter, “What
chutzpah.
” Thereafter he deliberately took his time with the other customers, probably hoping I would go away.
Finally he rang up their sale, and the store was completely empty. As I walked up to him, he inquired,
“Oui, monsieur?”
Who the hell did he think I was, Yves Montand? In any case, to his great relief, I answered in Yiddish, hoping that would convince him that I was at least within the pale of acceptability.
“May I help you?” he asked with a touch of irritation.
“I’m looking for Reb Vidal,” I replied. “I called ahead to say I’d be here today.”
His eyes lit up in recognition. “Oh, you must be the cowboy.”
“The what?”
“That’s what my brother calls you,” he said. “He had to take his wife to the hospital, and he sends you his excuses.”
“Is it serious?” I asked.
“Well,”—he shrugged—“when you’ve spent your childhood in Bergen-Belsen instead of kindergarten, everything
is serious. But—God willing—it’s just another of her blood pressure attacks. Now may I help you?”
“Please give my best wishes to Reb Vidal for his wife’s recovery,” I said. “Meanwhile, I’d like to take a look at Alfred J. Kolatch,
The Jewish Book of Why.
”
“Why?”
“That’s the title,” I answered.
“I know the title, young man,” he replied. “I just wanted to know why you should be interested in such a work. Are you Jewish?”
“Are you kidding? Can’t you tell?”
“Not by the way you’re dressed. But I’ll take your word for it. Just explain to me why you need a book which tells you what any yeshiva
bocher
of six already knows.”
“This may come as a surprise to you,” I retorted. “But not everybody in the world has had the benefit of yeshiva training. I have a lot of students desperate to learn about their heritage who can’t read Hebrew. Now could I impose upon you to show me that book?”
Uncle Abe shrugged, reached beneath the counter, and withdrew a blue-and-red volume. Glancing at it I was immediately convinced that it was a delightful way of explaining Jewish customs.
“This is terrific,” I said, looking up at him. “Can you order me two dozen?”
“It’s not impossible,” he responded vaguely, obviously intent on sparing me the pleasure of a simple yes.
Just then his glorious niece reappeared. “Uncle Abe, Papa’s on the phone.”
“Oh,” said the old man in a worried tone, and as he turned away mumbled to me, “You wait quietly.” Then, as he passed the counter, he said to the young girl, “Don’t speak to the cowboy, Miriam.”
She nodded obediently, and her eyes followed her uncle as he disappeared to the back of the shop.
I know, chapter and verse, that what I did next was wrong. But I did it anyway. And the reason couldn’t be found in any Jewish Book of Why. I addressed the girl.
“Miriam, are you still in school?” I asked timidly.
She hesitated for a moment and then, glancing furtively behind her, turned to me. “It’s not proper that we speak like this,” she said uneasily.
But she didn’t walk away.
“I know we shouldn’t,” I replied. “The prohibitions can be found in the Code of Jewish Law 152:1, and
Shulchan Aruch Even Ha Ezer
22:1 and 2.”
“You know the
Shulchan Aruch
?” she said with surprise.
“Well, I’ve studied a bit and I know the
unabridged
version pretty well.”
“Oh,” she said, “that must be why Papa likes you so much.”
I was astonished. “You mean Reb Vidal has actually spoken of me?”
She blushed and again glanced over her shoulder. “My uncle will be back in just a moment. I’d better—”
“No,” I stopped her. “Just one little second. What exactly did your father say?”
She answered shyly and quickly, “That you were … very learned. That it was a pity—”
“A pity that what—?” I interrupted urgently.
“That you were—”
At that frustrating moment, Uncle Abe reappeared and glared at Miriam. “Have you been talking to this stranger?” he asked sternly.
She was tongue-tied, so I interceded. “It’s my fault, sir,” I insisted. “I was just asking her what time it was.”
“You don’t have a watch?” the old man inquired suspiciously.
“Uh,” I answered, groping for a pretext, “Uh—it’s stopped.” That was even half-true. For in a cosmic sense, time had stood still from the moment I set eyes on Miriam Vidal.
He ordered his niece to go out while he would “take care of this tourist.” But I was heartened to see that Miriam disobeyed him. She remained rooted to her post behind
the counter, drinking in every word of our conversation.
“All right then, mister,” he said curtly. “Have we done all our business for today?”
“No,” I answered, “I haven’t driven two hundred miles just to order one book. I was looking forward to discussing publications on mysticism with Reb Vidal.”
“Well, you’ll have to do that next time. Have a nice journey home.”
Before he could turn his back on me, I stopped him with the next question, “Scholem?”
He sneered at what he chose to regard as a mispronunciation. “
Shalom
to you as well.”
“No, no,” I persisted, “I mean Gershom Scholem. He writes on the
kabbalah.
”
He took this remark as the ploy it was and answered dubiously, “What particular title were you interested in?”
“Well, I’d like to see what you have.”
“Certainly,” he replied and pointed to the opposite wall. “Mysticism’s over there on the top three shelves. If you need any advice just ring the bell on the counter and I’ll come out. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
He turned and saw his niece still standing there.
“Miriam,” he said with a frown, “I thought I told you to go.”
“I’m not talking to him or anything.”
“But you’re
looking
,” her uncle snapped. “And you know what the Code says about that.”
This was my moment. I intervened with as much hostility as I could put into a single sentence. “And in precisely what tractate does such an interdiction appear?”
Uncle Abe was stumped. “Uh—it doesn’t matter, I just know that it’s forbidden.”
“I beg your pardon,” I replied, warming to the fray. “According to Chapter 152:1 of the Code,
I’m
forbidden to look at Miriam—which, as you can see, I’m not doing. It’s forbidden for me to look at her and say that her hair is the loveliest I’ve ever seen, her voice the loveliest I’ve ever heard. But of course I’d never do such a thing.”
I stole a look at her out of the corner of my eye. She was smiling.
“In any case, I’ve already got all the Scholems you have in stock, so I’d better leave it for another visit. But could I prevail upon you to leave a message with Reb Vidal?”
“Perhaps,” the curmudgeon replied. “What is it?”
“Naturally I’ll write him a formal letter, but I’d like the honor of being formally introduced to his daughter—in the presence of a chaperone, of course.”
“That’s out of the question,” he retorted. “She’s a pious girl—”
“Don’t worry,” I persisted, “I’ll wear a skullcap—I’ll even wear black clothing and a fur hat if I have to.”
“Are you mocking us?” asked the old man.
“No, I’m just trying to convince you that I’m worthy of an audience with your niece. Anyway, at least let her father decide.”
“No, he won’t approve, I’m absolutely certain,” the man said adamantly. “You come from somewhere in the woods. We don’t know your family or anything.”
I think I can point to this as the moment I took pride in my upbringing for the first time. All I needed now was to be precisely who I was.
“Do you happen to have a copy of
The Great Book of Hasidic Tunes
?” I asked ingenuously.
“Certainly, both volumes. Are you interested in buying it?”
I answered his question with one of my own. “Do you happen to be acquainted with the tunes therein?”
“Some of them,” he answered. His averted eyes told me he was feeling slightly intimidated. “The famous ones, of course.”
Again I sneaked a furtive glance at Miriam, who was watching wide-eyed.
I began to hum,
“Biri biri biri biri bum.”
The old man stared at me as if I were a lunatic.
Encouraged by his consternation, I began to snap my fingers and sing at the top of my voice.
“Do you recognize this one, Reb Abe?”
“Of course. It’s by Moses Luria, the late Silczer Rav, may he rest in peace. Everybody knows it.”
“Well, I’m his son—
biri bum.
”
I heard a little gasp, and turned in time to see Miriam covering her mouth. But she did not cover her eyes, which were sparkling. The old man stood there gaping, at a loss for words.
Just then a voice boomed, “Abe, what are you doing?”
The old man whirled to see his portly brother, Reb Vidal, stride in.
Now poor Abe was all aflutter. “This
meshuggener
, he’s singing. He says he’s—”
“I know, I know. I just want to know why …”
“Why what?” the befuddled uncle asked.
“Why
you’re
not singing too?” And then the good Reb Vidal let loose a cannonade of laughter.
Needless to say, I got my audience. More than that, I was invited to spend an entire Sabbath weekend with the Vidals. I was billeted in Uncle Abe’s basement apartment on Clark Street.
For the rest of the week I desperately tried to grow my sideburns, and thanks to my dark hair, had pretty much achieved the statutory minimum length by Friday afternoon.
As I unpacked my suitcase in the guest room—an elaborate word for the large closet I would be occupying—I recalled my frenzied activity in the past few days. I was desperate to obtain the trappings of orthodoxy, and must have gone into every store I could find to obtain the appropriate—and best-cut—Orthodox attire. I examined myself in the mirror and heard a voice ask, “Hey, Danny, where’ve you been?”
Miriam’s mother had gone to great effort and expense to prepare that meal. They had even invited a brace of elderly cousins named Mendele and Sophie. My own contribution was a bottle of Château Baron de Rothschild, a strictly kosher red Bordeaux from France.
My only worry was that I might spill some of it on their precious white tablecloth, since from the moment I walked in I could not keep my eyes off Miriam. She looked lovelier than ever in a blue-and-white dress with a high lace collar and cuffs, her face angelic in the flickering candlelight.
I felt a curious conflict of sensations. On the one hand, I was happy, even flattered, that Reb Vidal had obviously gone through every songbook in his shop to make sure he sang as many Lurianic melodies as possible. On the other, I began to wonder if I could endure being accepted merely as my father’s son. But then I persuaded myself that if our biblical ancestor Jacob could work fourteen years in Laban’s fields to win his beloved Rachel, I would be able to survive my family’s eminence and still win Miriam on my own.
“By the way,” Reb Vidal mentioned during the fish course, “I see from
La Tribune
that your uncle is causing quite a stir.”
“How so?” I asked in genuine ignorance. Though I called home weekly, most of the conversation consisted of a bombardment of questions from my mother, all of which seemed to boil down to unending variations on the theme: Was I dressing warm?
My host explained. “It seems he’s signed a petition in
The New York Times
, along with some Conservative—and even Reform—rabbis, urging the state of Israel to give up land on the West Bank in exchange for peace. That’s unprecendented for a man in his position.”
I could not help beaming with pride. Not only had Saul acted as a leader should—to think of his people’s welfare with
vision
—but he had bravely done it in the most public of forums.
“Apparenty, he’s been criticized by many Orthodox rabbinical leaders. And I’m sure it didn’t win him many friends in Brooklyn,” Reb Vidal added. “Do you think he did the right thing?”
“Absolutely,” I remarked. “A leader’s first obligation is to safeguard the survival of his people. Saul had legitimate
doctrinal reasons. Besides, the Bible itself gives contradictory boundaries for the Jewish State. There’s Genesis 15:18, which rather ambitiously claims for us all the land ‘from the Nile to the Euphrates,’ while Judges 20:1 mentions only ‘Dan to Beersheba,’ which wouldn’t even give us Haifa and the Negev.”