The Promise (15 page)

“Tell me,” he was saying. Danny’s father talks that way, I thought. Rav Gershenson talks that way. They all talk that way.
Tell me. Tell me. “Tell me, Malter. What were you doing all those weeks in the Zechariah Frankel Seminary?”

I wondered where he was getting all his information about me. But it did not really matter. Anyone could have seen me going in and out of there. The Zechariah Frankel Seminary was less than a half hour’s walk from Hirsch. Rav Kalman might even have seen me himself. It made no difference
how
he knew. As far as I was concerned, it even made no difference
that
he knew. I had not intended to conceal my going to that library.

I told him I had been doing some work for my father.

“What work?” he asked.

I told him I had been checking the footnotes and the variant readings in the galleys to my father’s book to save him time and spare him the physical effort of having to go back and forth to that library. He was very tired after more than a year of work on the book, I said. He was not a well man, I said.

I had used the term variant readings. I saw his eyes open wide at that. “Your father has written a book?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“I know of your father. Tell me, the book, your father’s book, what is it about? It is a book on the Gemora?”

I told him it contained many of the scholarly articles my father had published over the years, as well as a lengthy introduction on the nature of the Talmud. The introduction had been written especially for the book, I said, a little proudly. I omitted mentioning that the introduction also contained a long section on the methodology of Talmudic text criticism.

He was silent for a moment. He tugged at his beard. Then he lit another cigarette.

“It is forbidden to punish without first giving a warning,” he said, his voice abruptly cold. “So I give you a warning. That school is unclean. You are not to set foot in that school.”

I stared at him, not quite believing what I had heard. I told him I had seen dozens of Orthodox Jews in that library, studying, doing research, writing.

He became angry then. “Orthodox! Everything is Orthodox! What kind of Orthodox? There is one Yiddishkeit. I know nothing about Orthodox. The school is unclean and its books are unclean. My students will not go into their school.”

I said nothing. My face was suddenly hot. I felt the slow mounting of anger.

“Malter, you understand that a student does not receive smicha from me simply because he knows Gemora. You understand that.”

I did not say anything.

“You understand, Malter? I do not give smicha only for Gemora.”

I nodded or did something to indicate acknowledgment of his words.

There was a brief silence.

“When does your father’s book come out?” he asked quietly.

I told him.

He dismissed me with an abrupt wave of his hand and a curt nod of his head.

I went through the corridor and the marble lobby and out into the street. The afternoon air was cold and sharp. I stood there for a moment, breathing deeply. Then I realized I had forgotten my coat in the synagogue. I went back inside.

Irving Goldberg sat in a chair near the coat racks that stood against the wall opposite the Ark. He had obviously been waiting for me. He was short, round-faced, chubby, very solemn, and very good at Talmud. We studied together every morning to prepare for Rav Kalman’s shiur. He had read for today’s shiur.

He got to his feet. He was wearing his coat and hat. I put on my coat. He watched me solemnly. I told him he had done a good job in the shiur.

He shrugged. “What did he want?”

“A private musar message.”

“How private?”

I did not respond.

“Are you in trouble, Reuven?”

“I don’t know.”

He looked uncomfortable. He stood there in his heavy coat, looking short and round and uncomfortable.

“Reuven,” he said.

I looked at him.

He glanced around quickly. We were alone in our part of the synagogue. “Are you thinking of applying to the Frankel Seminary?”

That did it for me. “No, I’m not thinking of applying to the Frankel Seminary,” I almost shouted. “What’s going on around here? What’ve we got, our own version of the Spanish Inquisition?”

He stared, frightened. “For God’s sake, not so loud. Are you crazy?”

“I’m going,” I said.

“There are rumors that you’re planning to apply to that seminary,” he said somewhat plaintively. “Don’t get angry at me, Reuven.”

“What rumors? Where have there been rumors? I haven’t heard any rumors.”

“There have been rumors for the past three weeks.”

“I haven’t heard a thing.”

“No one hears rumors about himself. People saw you going in and out of that place. They thought—”

“I was checking the galleys of my father’s book,” I said.

“Oh,” he said. “Oh.”

“Yes. Oh.”

“God,” he said. “You could kill a person with rumors.”

“I’m going. I’ve got a logic class in fifteen minutes.”

“I’ll walk out with you.” We went out of the synagogue. “You were only working on your father’s book,” he said, shaking his head.

We passed Rav Gershenson’s classroom, which adjoined ours. It was a quarter after three, fifteen minutes past the end of the class hour. I peered through the small square window set in the
door. Rav Gershenson was still there, standing behind his desk surrounded by more than half a dozen of his students.

We came outside. The metal door slammed shut behind me. I went quickly down the stone steps to the sidewalk. The street was crowded with people and traffic. But it felt good to be outside.

Irving Goldberg stuffed his hands into the pockets of his coat. The coat lay tight around his heavyset round frame. He smiled solemnly.

“You’d really stand this place on its head if you ever went to that seminary,” he said.

“Very funny,” I muttered. I was in no mood for his gloomy humor.

“Star Talmud student at Hirsch goes to Frankel,” Irving Goldberg was saying. “That would be like what’s his name—your friend—Danny Saunders—that would almost be like Danny Saunders going to that seminary.” He looked at me. “Were you really there only for your father’s book?” he asked seriously.

“No, I was there to take lessons in conversion to Catholicism. For God’s sake. How can something as small as this get blown up that way?”

“Lashon hara,” he said. “Gossip, gossip, gossip. Rumors. Tongues. ‘Life and death are in the power of the tongue,’ ” he quoted in Hebrew.

“I’ll see you tomorrow morning,” I said. Then I said, “Why didn’t you tell me earlier about the rumors?”

He smiled soberly. “I was afraid they might be true.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said, and went off to my logic class.

Late that night I sat at my desk at home and worked automatically and without effort at a series of complicated problems in symbolic logic. I had turned down the covers of my bed and turned off the ceiling light. But I knew I would be unable to sleep, and so I sat at my desk in my pajamas with only the desk lamp on and filled pieces of paper with the conventional notations that form the language of logic. I must have sat there for hours; the top of the desk became heaped with paper. There was comfort
and satisfaction in the effortless manipulation of neutral symbols, and I worked at it steadily. The only sound in the room was the faint scratching of my pencil on the sheets of paper.

It was after two in the morning when my father knocked quietly on my door.

He stood in the doorway, wearing his dark-blue robe over his pajamas, his gray hair uncombed. “I saw your light, Reuven,” he said softly. “It is late.”

I looked at him and did not say anything.

“You are doing assignments for class?”

I told him I wasn’t doing assignments. I couldn’t sleep, I said.

He came into the room and closed the door. “You were so quiet tonight,” he said. “Even Manya commented to me on how quiet you were tonight.”

I put down the pencil. He came over to the bed and sat down, drawing the robe over his thin knees. He looked tired and frail and I felt something turn over inside me as I gazed at him, and I looked away. Quantifiers stared up at me from the piece of paper on my desk.

I heard him sigh. “Little children little troubles, big children big troubles,” he murmured in Yiddish. “When my big Reuven is so quiet, there are big troubles. Can I be of help to you, Reuven?”

I told him it wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle by myself.

He regarded me in silence for a moment through his steel-rimmed spectacles, his eyes heavy with fatigue. “I did not mean to pry, Reuven,” he said quietly. “I want only to help if I can.”

“You’re not prying, abba. Since when do you pry?”

“With a grown son a father never knows when he is prying. Can I be of help to you, Reuven?” he asked again.

I had not wanted to tell him. I had not wanted him to know it had come about as a result of the weeks I had spent working on his book. Now I found I needed to tell him. I spoke with as much calm as I could bring to my words.

He blinked wearily. He sighed. He rubbed a hand over the gray stubble of beard on his cheeks and shook his head.

“I was right,” he said quietly. “It is a big problem.”

“He’s a detestable human being.”

“Detestable? From a single conversation you conclude that a person is detestable?”

“I’m in his class, abba.”

“And you know enough about him to call him detestable? I am surprised at you, Reuven.”

“I know enough about him to know that I can’t stand him as a teacher. He’s poisoned everything at Hirsch for me.” They’re poison, Michael had said. They’ll poison all of us with their crazy ideas. I felt cold and stared down at the sheets of paper on my desk. The symbols stared back up at me, silent.

“I understand how you feel, Reuven. I understand what it means to have such a teacher.” He spoke very quietly, his eyes narrow with sudden remembering. He was quiet a long time. Then he said, speaking more to himself than to me, “A teacher can change a person’s life. A good teacher or a bad teacher. Each can change a person’s life.” He was silent again. Then he said, very softly, “But only if the person is ready to be changed. A teacher rarely causes such a change, Reuven. I am not saying it is impossible. Do not misunderstand me. I am saying it is rare. More often he can only occasion such a change. You understand what I am saying.” He smiled faintly. “You are a student of philosophy and logic. I am certain you understand.”

I was quiet.

“Yes,” he said. “I am certain you understand.” He paused. “Reuven, was Rav Kalman angry when he spoke to you?”

“He’s always angry.”

“I have been reading some of his articles. He also writes in anger. He attacked Abraham Gordon recently in an article. It was unpleasant to read. His choice of language was unpleasant. But he understands Abraham Gordon’s thinking.”

“He wants me to obey the cherem.”

“What cherem?”

“Against Professor Gordon.”

“You did not tell me you talked about Abraham Gordon.”

“He said I was seen with Professor Gordon in the library. He wants me to obey the cherem.”

“The cherem is nonsense.”

“He wants me to obey it.”

My father was quiet. “It is a bigger problem than I realized,” he said after a moment. “What energies we waste fighting one another.” He got slowly to his feet. “I am very tired, Reuven. I will not send you any more to the Frankel Library. The book is done. There is no need for you to go there any more. Unless you want to go for yourself. I do not know what to tell you about Abraham Gordon. I cannot think now. I am too tired.” He looked at me wearily. “Reuven, you want smicha from the Hirsch Yeshiva?”

“Yes,” I said.

“And Rav Kalman’s approval is mandatory in order for you to obtain smicha?”

“Yes.”

“You are no longer curious about the philosophy of Abraham Gordon?”

“I’m curious about Michael.” Curious is not the word I wanted, I thought.

He sighed heavily. “I wish I knew what to tell you. I must go back to sleep. We will talk about it again another time. I do not know what to tell you now. Go to sleep yourself, Reuven. It is almost three o’clock. You will not be able to think in the morning.”

He went slowly from the room. I heard the soft shuffling of his slippers as he moved through the hall. Then I heard nothing.

I sat at my desk and stared at the pieces of paper. I sat at my desk and the symbols stared back up at me, silent, inviting. I snapped off the lamp and went to bed and was awake a long time. The night wind blew against the window. In the apartment overhead a baby cried, then was silent. I fell asleep. There was the wind and the sun and the heaving waters of the lake and Michael and I on the Sailfish and Michael was shouting at me and I could
not make out the words but I knew he was angry. I woke. I lay awake, thinking of Michael. Then I slid slowly into exhausted sleep.

The next day at the beginning of the shiur, Rav Kalman called on me to read. I was dull-headed with lack of sleep. Part of the time I did not even know what I was saying. Rav Kalman listened, asked questions, paced back and forth, smoked, tugged at his beard, asked more questions, and looked startled when I automatically and sleepily altered a word in the text that I instinctively sensed was wrong. He rushed to his desk, peered down at his Talmud, straightened, stared at me for a moment, then resumed his pacing. I realized then what I had done and glanced at the margin. The variant reading was listed; it had been inserted by a medieval scholar, which meant that it was an authorized reading. I took a deep breath. All of this had taken a second or two. But I was wide awake for the rest of the class session, reading slowly, explaining carefully. Rav Kalman paced and smoked. We had a brief skirmish over a passage in one of the major medieval commentaries. But I backed off quickly and went on reading. Rav Kalman said nothing to me when the class ended.

Two days later, he called on me again. I read. He paced and smoked and asked questions. Again, he said nothing to me when the class ended.

About half a dozen of my classmates followed me over to the coat racks inside the synagogue.