The Promise (36 page)

What I read in those galleys fascinated me. The book was about prayer, and the part of it that I read that afternoon was a moving and poetic account of what prayer had once meant and why it could no longer mean that today. And once again I found myself agreeing with all of Abraham Gordon’s questions and none of his answers.

Later, we came out of the study and sat in the living room in front of a fire and saw the dry snow against the windows and heard the wind blowing against the building, and Abraham and Ruth Gordon talked freely and openly about their lives and about their anguished bewilderment over Michael. Ruth Gordon had served us hot, spiced wine—reserved only for cold Sunday afternoons,
she said—and now she sat next to her husband on the couch, and they talked. They seemed to need to talk about themselves now. I sat in an easy chair near the fireplace, and listened.

The Orthodoxy in which Abraham Gordon had been raised by his parents in Chicago became a riotous mockery to him about one year before he entered the university. He never really rebelled against his religion. He simply stopped taking it seriously. Rebellion, said Abraham Gordon, is a conscious act of the will directed toward the remolding of ideas or institutions whether by force or by persuasion. Turning one’s back upon ideas or institutions is therefore not an act of rebellion but an act of disengagement. The old is considered dead.

All through college he considered the old dead. And yet, strangely enough, he found it impossible to abandon the rituals of the tradition. The entire theological structure upon which those rituals were based had disintegrated into a joke: creation in six days, the revelation, miracles, a personal God—all of it. But the rituals—particularly prayer, kashruth, the Shabbat, and the festivals—had intrinsic value for him; and so he continued to observe the rituals while no longer believing in the theology, all the time gambling that he would one day develop a new theology for the old rituals. But by the time he was done with graduate school all of it was a joke, including the rituals. He went off to Europe for two years to do post-doctoral work in logic with some of the Vienna Circle positivists, met Ruth in the American Express office in Paris, where he had come to pick up some mail and where he suddenly discovered—that’s right—he had misplaced his passport. They were both on their way home then; she from a year at the Sorbonne, where she had done post-doctoral work in French literature, and he from Germany, which he had visited for a month after finishing his work in Vienna. So they met; they discovered they were traveling home on the same boat; they fell in love; four months later they were married. While still in Europe, Abraham Gordon had been offered an assistant professorship by Harvard. But during the trip back, he decided he would
rather be a professor of Jewish thought than of gentile logic, and entered the Zechariah Frankel Seminary. He had seen Germany. “I could smell the smoke of the crematoria even before anyone knew what a crematorium was,” he said. “I did not think there would be much left of European Jewry before Hitler would be stopped. So I gambled. I gambled that there was enough strength and depth in the tradition for me to be able to make it into more than Sunday-school Bible stories. I had no stomach for fundamentalism. I wanted American Judaism to become something an intelligent person would
have
to take seriously and be
unable
to laugh at and
want
to love. No one laughs at what I write. They may hate it. But they don’t laugh at it.” He jumped to his feet and went out of the room and came back a moment later with a huge scrapbook which he placed on my knees. “I call it the scrapbook of hate. There’s more than a decade of villification pasted to those pages. It’s grim reading. But no one laughs at what I write.” He was silent then, sitting on the edge of the couch, his body bent forward over his knees, his eyes staring moodily at the carpeted floor. “A few of the articles in here were written by some of the graduates of the seminary. But they aren’t vicious pieces. Most of the vicious ones were written after the war. A lot of them are in Yiddish. Their coming here made a big difference. But how can I be angry at them after what they suffered?”

Ruth Gordon recalled her husband’s struggles over his first book—“Philosophers sometimes write with the grace of an elephant,” she said—and how they had slowly created the method by which they worked together. They had tried to interest Michael in helping them, but they had a difficult time thinking of things for him to do and he cared little for the things they did think of—so nothing much ever came of that. On Sunday afternoons he would come into the study and stay with them awhile, watching silently, and then go back to his own room. They were under the impression that he liked the times he was with them, watching them work together.

They had always spent a great deal of time together as a family.
Ruth Gordon had no doubt that he loved them deeply. She simply could not understand why he was ill. It had happened so suddenly … She put out her cigarette. I saw her lips tremble and her eyes fill, and she rose from the couch and went quickly out of the room, tall, beautiful, regal with dignity and self-control. She returned some minutes later, her eyes red and puffy.

“May I bring you some more wine?” she asked with a quiet smile.

“Yes.”

Abraham Gordon went out to replace the scrapbook and his wife went to the kitchen. I was alone for a moment and I sat back on the easy chair and gazed into the fireplace, feeling the warmth of the flames on my face. Then I closed my eyes and found myself thinking of Rav Kalman and found too, somewhat to my surprise, that thinking about him no longer caused anger. At that moment there was the feeling that I could walk away from Rav Kalman and his world with infinite ease and with no regret.

Abraham Gordon came back and sat down. “There are two other scrapbooks filled with praise and serious evaluations,” he said, smiling. “But we won’t show you those. ‘Let a stranger praise you, and not your own mouth,’ ” he quoted in Hebrew.

Ruth Gordon returned with more wine and filled our glasses. The wine was hot and spicy and was making me deliciously lightheaded. She sat down next to her husband and gazed at me thoughtfully.

“Do you intend taking a pulpit after your ordination?” she asked.

“I don’t know. I may go on for a doctorate in philosophy and then take a pulpit.”

“I wanted to take a pulpit,” Abraham Gordon said. “Ruth talked me out of it.”

“He would have put all his energy into the pulpit and left nothing for his writing,” Ruth Gordon said. “I couldn’t have that.”

“Very strong-willed, my Ruth.”

“You would not have enjoyed the pulpit,” Ruth Gordon said softly.

“I don’t know. Sometimes I wonder.”

“You would not have enjoyed it,” she said, her voice quiet.

“You would have hated it.”

“Yes,” she said, smiling. “You’re quite right.”

“I might have liked it. Helping people. Being part of their sorrows and joys. I might have liked it very much.”

“You could not have done your writing.”

“Not as much of it anyway.”

“It would not have had the same quality.”

“Perhaps.”

“Not perhaps. There’s no perhaps about it.” Her voice was gentle but edged with conviction.

“All right,” he said. “There’s not much point to discussing it now.”

“Shall we have dinner soon? Reuven, will you stay for dinner?”

I told her I would be very happy to stay for dinner. Then we were silent for a while. Abraham Gordon took his wife’s hand. I saw her smile at him, her blue eyes very bright. She had removed her glasses and she sat with her long legs folded beneath her, leaning back against the couch. She seemed deeply content now, as if the long afternoon of work with her husband’s manuscript had added to her reservoir of comfort and strength. We sat there, listening to the fire and the wind and watching the dervish dance of the snow outside the windows.

At the dinner table she said to me, “I read your father’s book. He writes beautifully.”

“I’ll tell him you said that. He’ll be pleased.”

“Did you help him at all?”

“Only with the footnotes and the variant readings.”

“Checking the galleys in the manuscript room got Reuven into trouble with his school,” Abraham Gordon said. “With my Talmud teacher,” I corrected.

“Don’t be so charitable,” he said. “If your Dean knew you were friendly with Abraham Gordon, you would have questions to answer.”

“I find most of them quite detestable,” Ruth Gordon said quietly, a sudden hardness entering her voice. “They have cobwebby minds, and I find them dangerous and detestable.”

“How is your Rav Kalman these days?” Abraham Gordon asked.

“The same.”

“Have you read any of his books?”

“Yes.”

“Have you read his book on ethics?”

“That was the first one I read.”

“I had occasion to read it a few weeks ago. I had no idea he was a student of Finkel. If you read the book you know about the rebellion in the Slobodka Yeshiva.”

“Yes.”

“What rebellion was that?” Ruth Gordon asked.

“Finkel was head of the Slobodka Yeshiva. In 1905 the students rebelled. He excommunicated those he couldn’t subdue and had them thrown out of town.”

I saw her shoulders stiffen beneath the plaid shirt she still wore. “They
are
rather detestable,” she murmured.

“Finkel established quite a few yeshivoth where musar was taught,” Abraham Gordon said placidly. “He refused to accept the recognition and support of the Lithuanian government in 1921 because it meant having to add secular studies to the curriculum.”

“Medieval cobwebs,” Ruth Gordon said.

“Not entirely,” Abraham Gordon said. “Some excellent ideas were taught in those musar yeshivoth. Love of man, obedience to God, honest self-criticism and criticism of others, sincerity in the
performance of the Commandments. Those were some beautiful ideas.”

“They were nice people as long as you agreed with them,” I said.

“That’s the way it is with most people, Reuven.”

“Well, Rav Kalman is Rav Finkel at his worst. He’s a permanently angry Rav Finkel.”

“No,” Abraham Gordon said very quietly. “He can’t be.”

“Why?”

“He cannot be the same as Rav Finkel.”

“Why?”

“Rav Finkel never experienced Maidanek.” He paused, eyeing me intently. “You might want to think about that, Reuven.”

Ruth Gordon looked uncomfortable.

A few minutes later Abraham Gordon said, “You know, it’s strange. I can’t get it out of my head how strange this all is. I sit here and talk and eat, and my son is locked in a room, suffering … But I don’t know what else I can do …”

“There is nothing else we can do,” Ruth Gordon said gently.

“Sometimes I wish there
were
a personal God,” Abraham Gordon said moodily.

“Would you pray to Him?” his wife asked with a thin smile.

“I would have someone to shout at.”

“Are you having tea or black coffee, Reuven?” she asked.

“Black coffee,” I said.

Later, as I was putting on my coat, he said to me, “What do you think would happen if Rav Kalman discovered you were seeing me?”

“I don’t know.”

“Would he refuse to give you smicha?”

“He might. I really don’t know.”

“I would not like to be the reason you did not receive smicha.”

I looked at him.

“If next Sunday is a nice day, let’s meet at two in Prospect Park at the lake, and walk and talk. All right?”

“Yes.”

“Good night, Reuven,” Ruth Gordon said. “It was very good to have you with us.”

“Is there still much of a fuss at your father’s yeshiva over his book?” Abraham Gordon asked.

“Very much of a fuss.”

He nodded slowly. “Good night, Reuven. You are good to talk to and to have around.”

We shook hands and I went home.

My father was in his study. I put away my coat and hat and tapped on his door. He told me to come in.

He sat behind his desk, his black Waterman’s pen in his hand.

“I don’t want to interrupt your writing, abba.”

“I was grading papers, Reuven. This is the last paper. Sit down and give me a moment.”