As
the little, black Miata zipped along through the small hills south of Hamden,
Connecticut, heading down the Wilbur Cross Expressway towards New Haven,
Herschel Bernstein decided to raise the topic of conversion again with his
fiancée.
Melinda
Rainwater really did not like to talk about it.
She had made that clear every time Bernstein broached the subject. But, the fresh greenery of a New England
spring, the crisp air flowing across the top of the open convertible and even
the light blue sky above all combined to prompt Bernstein to try again. He felt as though God were conspiring to
create the perfect atmosphere and to enhance any words he might use to overcome
her reluctance.
Not
wanting to look at her, he glanced to the side, where rocks placed carefully to
hold back the severed countryside also seemed to offer some strength to his
wavering convictions. Everything was
perfect, a cohesiveness, an order to life.
He could only obey.
What
should he say? he thought. He should
tell her how he felt. In the past, he
merely mentioned the idea. She had to
see what being Jewish meant. Being
embraced by the laws gave meaning to life.
Without them, we would lead aimless lives. Here was a divine plan, one that anyone could
follow, neatly spelled out, analyzed over the centuries, organized and
delineated. He knew what was expected of
him. He knew what was right or wrong.
Bernstein
did not challenge any other religions.
He assumed believers elsewhere did not understand the importance of a
guideline so clearly explained at Mt. Sinai.
Melinda would, once he explained it.
He
cleared his throat.
“No,”
she said without pause. Her voice, as
always, was quiet and calm, but with a noticeable infusion of firmness.
“Honey,”
Bernstein whined. “It’s easy.”
“I
was born a Lutheran,” she replied.
“That’s all there is to it.
That’s my heritage. I don’t want
to discard it. It matters to me. I don’t mind raising our children Jewish, if
you insist. But, I don’t see any reason
why I should become Jewish at the same time.”
She
spoke calmly. Her hands on the steering
wheel stayed steady. The car never moved
an inch from the line she was following.
Bernstein was enchanted how Melinda managed to remain placid even when
discussing an emotional topic. Yet,
there was a hint of red in her cheeks and almost a twinge around her jaw, as
though any inner turmoil was being carefully and completely smothered. Lutherans are like that, he told
himself. They bury their feelings. He yearned for her to demonstrate some of the
passion that must lie beneath her pale, enticing surface. Her inability to match energy to her words
was her weakness, his sorrow.
“I
only mentioned it,” he tried again — they were nearing the exit and would soon
be at his parents’ house. There wasn’t
much time — “because Mom and Dad were raised in Orthodox homes. They always wanted me to marry a Jewish
girl. It’s just, with Josh dead, I’m the
only son left. I fell in love with a
Lutheran. They have accepted that. They love you; you know that.”
“I
love them, too,” Melinda said quietly.
She turned off the expressway, steered easily around the tight curves of
the exit, then gunned the engine onto the nearest street. In a moment, she was nearing the main campus
of Southern Connecticut State University.
The Bernstein house was only a few blocks away.
Bernstein
didn’t say anything. What could he
do? His parents expected Melinda to
become Jewish. It was as simple as that. His father had pulled him aside into the
library after first meeting Melinda.
Bernstein didn’t have to explain anything. He knew what his father wanted to know. There was a natural sequence to each meeting
to any date he introduced his father to.
Melinda was no exception.
“No,
Dad,” Bernstein said before the question was asked, staring down at the
off-white carpet that filled the lower floor of the house. “She’s not.”
His
father shrugged with his whole body, the shoulders rising, the hands coming up,
the eyes closing and the head titled upward.
“So?” he said in his raspy voice.
“She’ll convert. Is that so
hard? You go into a mikvah a Christian; you come out a Jew.”
Bernstein
sighed at the recollection. It seemed so
simple. God had worked out the process
in an orderly, coherent manner.
“Did
you ask him, Maury?” his mother had called a few minutes later.
“I
asked him. I asked him,” his father
replied testily, the way he usually talked to his wife. They’d been married 46 years. Bernstein
couldn’t remember when his parents didn’t converse with an edge in their
voices. There was a rhythm to their
manner. He expected to hear them bicker,
and they never disappointed. Indeed, if
they had altered their tones, he would have been startled.
His
father looked at Bernstein. “You heard
your mother,” he said, in a low, conspiratory voice. That was his usual way of passing the blame
to someone else. Bernstein managed a wry
smile.
“Couldn’t
you find a nice Jewish girl?” his mother interjected as she huffed into the
room. She inevitably made some kind of
entrance, drawing attention to herself.
Bernstein figured her small size probably forced her to a more outspoken
tack to life. Whatever the reason, she
had the approach down pat.
“Mom,”
Bernstein protested.
“Just
asking,” she said with a frown, immediately retreating. All bluster, Bernstein had figured out a long
time ago.
“Where
is Melinda? We’re in here, and she’s all
alone,” he said.
His
mother held up a hand. “She’s looking at
Dad’s collection of menorahs. Shikses like those sorts of things. She’s a nice girl. She can be alone for a few minutes,” she
said.
She
smiled at her son. “Are you happy?’ she
asked.
“Yes,
Mom,” Bernstein said. “I’ve never been
happier.”
“As
long as someone is,” his mother said softly as she walked away.
“Dad!”
His
father had offered a simpler shrug, one involving just the hands. He had an entire repertoire, each with a
different meaning. This one said: “What
can I do?”
The
second and third meetings had gone a little better. Then, the emphasis had shifted from “Why
didn’t you choose a Jewish girl?” to “We’re just the parents, grandparents of
your children. It doesn’t matter what we
think. When will Melinda start her
conversion classes? We’re not rushing
you, but the wedding isn’t that far off.
God forbid anything gets delayed.
But, what would the rabbi say?”
Always
the concern about appearance, Bernstein sighed inwardly. The wedding was only a few months away. The meeting with the rabbi couldn’t be put
off. There was a get to sign. Besides, the
rabbi — no doubt — wanted to express thoughtful words about marriages. He typically did that sort of thing.
As
Melinda turned onto Colony Drive, Bernstein became aware of the familiar
surroundings. He had grown up in this
old Tudor-style home. He knew the
neighbors, which trees had disappeared under the hurricane in 1985, who had
fixed up their home, who had not. Any
anxiety he had felt before usually vanished once he entered the broad street
with the stately homes.
This
time, however, it clung to him. He knew
his parents would want an answer. They
always did. Breathing slowly to calm
himself, Bernstein readied himself for the coming session with them. He felt his muscles tighten. His head started to ache. Quietly, he began to silently repeat the
Buddhist mantra, “om, om.” The sound
echoing inside his brain always relaxed him,
Melinda
steered directly into the long, paved driveway next to the large, three-story
home. The basketball hoop, a reminder of
younger days in this home, still hung on the garage, although the net was
completely tattered from the wind and rain.
Bernstein
could see a small face peer through the curtain, then vanish. His mother was checking on them. Next, she’d look at the clock to see how
close they had come to their predicted time of arrival.
“Will
you think about it? Please,” Bernstein
made one last plea as he exited the car.
“I
already have,” Melinda replied. She took
his hand. “Look happy,” she said. “Your mother will think something is wrong.”
“My
mother always thinks there’s something wrong,” he answered. “Jews are fed pessimism along with their
knishes.”
His
mother would smell something was wrong before either of them actually reached
the front stoop. She did. He could see the concern in her eyes as the
door opened. She hugged him, but without
much fervor. He kissed her proffered
cheek with equal enthusiasm.
“Dad’s
at the proctologist,” his mother announced gleefully after greeting
Melinda. “That’s what happens when you
eat trefe.”
“Nonkosher food,” Bernstein translated in an
aside to Melinda as his mother led them into the living room.
“Sit,
sit,” his mother urged, gesturing at the soft couch. She perched herself on the high-packed chair
that was the least comfortable seat in the living room and one designed to
encourage unwanted guests to depart as quickly as possible. “I have a little nosh for you on the table,”
she said.
Bernstein
knew what that meant — a four-course meal.
They were only stopping by to say hello before heading to Branford to
eat at Chez Bok, the Thai restaurant there.
Then, they would come back to the Yale Rep for a Fugard play, A Lesson from Aloes.
Not
to eat, however, would be an insult, almost as bad as not converting.
Bernstein
suggested they move into the dining room.
The table was overflowing with food all set out in little plastic
containers. “I had some things left over
in the refrigerator,” his mother reported.
“There’s lox, gefilte fish, kugal, chopped liver with lots of shmaltz,
some whitefish, borscht, herring and some hummus. Oh, I forgot the brisket. I think there’s some chicken in the kitchen.”
Bernstein
glanced at Melinda. “Nibble,” he
suggested, wondering how long her svelte figure would endure his mother’s
onslaught.
“I
would,” she whispered back, “if I knew what most of this is.” She sat down and probed some of the dishes
with her fork. “Does the marriage
license come with a dictionary and a cookbook?’ she asked mischievously under
her breath.
Bernstein felt some of the tension ease away. She was still teasing; maybe that mean she wasn’t totally rejecting the conversion suggestion. He closed his eyes and said a silent prayer for God’s assistance. When he opened them, he noticed immediately that Melinda was imitating him.
Bernstein felt some of the tension ease away. She was still teasing; maybe that mean she wasn’t totally rejecting the conversion suggestion. He closed his eyes and said a silent prayer for God’s assistance. When he opened them, he noticed immediately that Melinda was imitating him.
______________________________________________________________
The rabbi could not see them at their scheduled time. They sat outside his small office at the synagogue as a secretary bustled around them. Melinda held a small folder with the two birth certificates in it. She seemed perfectly relaxed, in her usual serene pose as though sitting outside a rabbi’s office was the normal thing to do.
The rabbi could not see them at their scheduled time. They sat outside his small office at the synagogue as a secretary bustled around them. Melinda held a small folder with the two birth certificates in it. She seemed perfectly relaxed, in her usual serene pose as though sitting outside a rabbi’s office was the normal thing to do.
Bernstein
had brought her to Friday night services, where he showed her some of the
intricacies of Hebrew. She followed his
finger across the page for a moment and then smiled. “It doesn’t matter,” she said.
Later,
she reported, that the German her grandmother taught her was helping her
communicate with some of the older people introduced to her during the oneg
shabbat. She was very happy to discover
that connection.
Bernstein
was delighted to find yet another asset his fiancée possessed. He knew no German and very little
Yiddish. He had met Melinda’s
grandmother, but she was senile, babbling on and on about the seven states of
New England and reciting them. Melinda
had arranged for Grandma Rainwater to be placed in a nursing home. The old woman stared at the television all
day and continually listed the appropriate states to any and all visitors. There weren’t many.
Bernstein
had been depressed by the lone visit, but Melinda, whose own parents had died
when she was young, went weekly to comb her grandmother’s white hair and to
check on her condition.
“My
grandparents raised me,” she explained.
“It’s the least I can do.”
Bernstein
loved her for the compassion. His
parents had been impressed, too.
“You’d
probably never visit me,” his mother claimed.
“Sure,
I would,” Bernstein protested. “I visit
you now.”
“Just
to show off your girlfriend. You think
if we see her enough, we’ll like her.”
“You
do like her.”
“And
don’t you ever tell her,” his mother cautioned.
“Wives need to have a little sense of fear. She’ll twist you around her little finger,
but not your father and I.”
Bernstein
laughed to himself. Melinda had them
under control, too. She just seemed to
understand what to say and do. The day
before this visit to the rabbi, Melinda had dropped by on her own with some
homemade cake. The day before that, she
had called to remind them about their planned doctor visits. Instead of being offended — as they would
have done if their son had been so bold — they simply fawned in childish
delight.
The
door to the study opened. “Please come
in,” said Rabbi Gershom Keller, a thin man with a trim white beard and a tiny yarmulke clipped to the small hairs on
the back of his balding head. He looked
like every rabbi in pictures, resembling even the ink painting that hung on his
wall. That rabbi was dovening, head covered with a shawl, but
with the beard and face poking through the folds.
Rabbi
Keller gestured at two small, wooden chairs by his desk, which was crowded with
papers. An impressive looking
certificate lay on the blotter. Books,
magazines and papers had been moved aside to clear room for the
certificate. The room itself was shadowy
with large bookcases towering over the visitors. Bernstein glanced around. The place hadn’t changed much since he and
his parents first joined this shul. Then, of course, the rabbi had less
gray. That was all that seemed
different. Bernstein was willing to bet
that if he checked carefully enough there’d be his first-grade evaluation under
one of the piles, not to mention some stale tam-tams.
Rabbi
Keller smiled at them and asked for the birth certificates. Melinda handed over the folder. He opened it gravely and pulled out one
certificate, then the other. He then
looked at Melinda.
“Your
mother was Lutheran?”
“Yes. Missouri Synod,” she replied.
“And
your grandmother?”
“She
was a member of a tiny liberal Christian sect my late grandfather started,”
Melinda explained without a hint of concern.
“Where
was she from?”
“Krakow,
Poland.”
The
rabbi considered that. “Do you know how
she met her … your grandfather?”
Melinda
nodded. “Grandma and her family left
Poland just after World War II started.
They made it to England, where my grandfather was working. Then, after the war, they came to this
country. My father was born in New York
and moved to Connecticut after he married my mother.”
“Kracow?”
the rabbi mused.
“Oh,”
Melinda said, “she wasn’t Polish. She
was German. She always told us
that. She lived in the German part of
Kracow.”
The
rabbi arched his eyebrows and contemplated that bit of information. Then, he looked at Bernstein. “Have you ever looked at your birth
certificate?” he asked.
“Not
really,” Bernstein admitted.
The
rabbi pursed his lips, then silently passed the certificate over. “Perhaps,” he suggested, “you should.”
A
bit perplexed since the rabbi hadn’t really looked at it, Bernstein took the
proffered slip of paper. His mother had
dug it out from a file drawer, which contained information about his late
brother as well as the records of his sister, who had moved away about five
years ago to marry a goy in the Navy
and hadn’t been heard of since. Mother
was always so organized; she knew exactly where to locate anything.
Bernstein
saw his formal name: Herschel Bernard; his date of birth: July 4, 1976; the
location, Yale-New Haven Hospital; his father’s name, Maurice Jacob Bernstein;
his religion, Jewish; his mother’s name, Rachel Fawn Barrow; and her religion,
Christian Scientist.
He
stopped reading.
“This
can’t be right,” he said. “Mom is
Jewish.”
“I
am sure the hospital made a mistake,” Rabbi Keller said without a hint of
concern. “You should have her correct
it.” He waved his hands across the
certificate. “As you can see, there is
no point signing the get if you are
not Jewish. In fact, you might consult a
justice of the peace for the ceremony.”
He
then glanced at Melinda and said something to her in a foreign language. Melinda laughed lightly and replied in kind.
“What
is going on?” Bernstein hissed after they left the synagogue.
“He
said this was quite a mix-up,” Melinda said.
“I agreed with him.”
“He
was talking in Yiddish,” Bernstein whispered urgently.
“German,”
Melinda corrected. “I don’t know any
Yiddish.”
_________________________________________________________________
Bernstein
slumped into the car. His head hurt
again. His stomach was churning as fast
as his thoughts. His heart was thumping
madly.
The
hospital must have written down the wrong religion. His mother was Jewish. She had to be. Every Friday night, like clockwork, she lit
the shabbat candles and covered her
face in prayer. She went to service
faithfully, kept kosher for his father, fasted on Yom Kippur, oversaw the seder
and every other ritual in an exacting manner.
She made sure the correct prayers were said for Hanukkah, that the
menorah was lit in the proper direction, that the kiddush cup was full, that
the yartzheit of his brother was
carefully observed. She visited the
cemetery regularly and left the requisite pebble on the small monument.
Her
vocabulary, her manner, her kvetching, her commentary on life. It was all Jewish. She had to be Jewish. Her sense of humor was Jewish, the same
faculty that had tripped up “The Man in the Glass Booth.”
Thus
decided, Bernstein felt better. What a
story this would be to tell his children.
Daddy and Mommy almost couldn’t get married in a synagogue. Dumb hospital.
His
mother poked her head through the living room curtain as they drove into the
driveway. This time, however, she didn’t
meet them at the door. Puzzled,
Bernstein unlocked the door.
“I’m
in the kitchen,” his mother called.
“Just a minute.” She appeared a
few minutes later with a large cake in her hand. “Hungry?” she asked.
“That’s
looks lovely,” Melinda started.
“Later,
Mom,” Bernstein interrupted. He wanted
to be calm, to stay confident and self-assured like Melinda. Instead, he felt his voice quaver. “We saw the rabbi, Mom,” he continued,
gulping in great breaths of air.
“One
piece or two?” his mother asked.
“One,”
Melinda replied. “A small one. I want to fit into the wedding dress.”
“A
little thing like you? I’ll cut you a
big piece,” his mother said. “Herschela,
you want a big one, too?”
“Mom,”
he tried.
She
hurried back into the kitchen.
Bernstein
looked helplessly at Melinda.
She
smiled sweetly. “Honey,” she said,
“relax. We’ll get it all taken care of
in a minute.”
He
threw up his hands.
Plates,
forks and napkins appeared on the table.
“Coffee?” his mother called.
“Tea,”
Melinda said, “if it’s not any bother.”
“Bother? What’s a bother?’ Mrs. Bernstein replied as
she rushed back into the kitchen.
“Mom,”
Bernstein said as forcefully as he could.
“I
know. Black,” his mother called. “You’re my son, my baby. I know you.”
“I’m
not talking about coffee,” Bernstein almost shouted.
Quietly,
timidly, his mother peered out the doorway.
Her face, so exuberant moments ago, was now pale. Her shoulders were bent, and she seemed to
have shriveled. Bernstein felt a catch in
his throat and would have walked towards her, but his legs were amazingly weak.
“Herschel,”
his mother said. With great effort, she
put a coffee cup on the table. The steam
rose around her, outline the deep ridges in her face. She had aged years within seconds. Melinda rushed over and took her arm. Mrs. Bernstein smiled gratefully and let
herself be led to the table. She sat
like a lump that was slowly melting away.
Bernstein
was stunned. Everything seemed out of
focus, as though he had stumbled into some kind of weird parallel university. That wasn’t his mother; that was an old woman
with gray hair and rounded shoulders.
That wasn’t the dining room table he knew so well, the array of menorahs
his father collected. It was all
strange, and he was a stranger, too.
He
knew why.
“Why
didn’t you tell me?” Bernstein asked in a wounded voice. He was rooted in place.
“What
could I say?” his mother said in a soft whimper. “You were raised Jewish. I didn’t think it would matter. ” She drew
herself up. “You were bar mitzvahed; you
were confirmed. We follow all the
holidays. You walked to Yom Kippur
services with your father. You wore your
yarmulke, your tefillin. You now have a tallis your grandfather used. This is a Jewish house.” She waved her hand to indicate the many
menorahs that sat on shelf encircling the dining room, the painting of an old
rebbe poring over a Torah, the small wooden carving of an old Jewish couple,
holding a prayer book. “You are
Jewish. You are as Jewish as Rabbi
Keller.”
“Mom,
mom,” Bernstein pleaded in a voice that seemed to come from far away. “Not under Jewish law.”
“Law?
What law?” his mother replied grimly.
“You were raised in a Jewish house.
No one was more Jewish than me.
Your father is Orthodox. You are
a Jew. What law can change that?”
“But, Ma,” Bernstein said wearily, “if there is no law, there are no Jews.”
“But, Ma,” Bernstein said wearily, “if there is no law, there are no Jews.”
“Laws,
rules, regulations. Such michigas. You are a Jew. That’s final,” Mrs. Bernstein insisted.
“What
law?” Melinda asked. She sat next to her
future mother-in-law, as though protecting her,
Bernstein
sighed. “Either the mother or the
grandmother has to be Jewish for a child to be Jewish,” he explained. “It has to be on your mother’s side. My father is Jewish, but that doesn’t
matter. My mother in Christian
Scientist, for God’s sake.”
“You
are Jewish,” his mother protested.
“Why
didn’t you convert?” Bernstein was pleading now.
“You
had to walk into the mikva naked in
front of witnesses. I didn’t want to do
that. Your father understood,” his
mother said huskily. “God understands.” She wrinkled her nose as if smelling
something rancid. “The great rabbi
should, too,” she insisted sarcastically.
“He’s
bound by the law,” Bernstein responded sadly.
His
mother shook her head. “Law,” she
scoffed.
Bernsteine
had a thought and pounced on it. ‘Was
Grandma Jewish?” he asked. He was
clutching at air; he knew it, and his voice reflected his sense of
hopelessness.
“She
may have been,” his mother tried.
“Was
she?”
His
mother looked away. “I don’t think
so. My father was, but he died
young. My mother raised us Christian
Scientists. I could try to find her
birth certificate.”
Bernstein
shook his head. “Never mind,” he
said. There was no doubt now, regardless
of what magic drawer produced the missing paperwork. He sat down on the uncomfortable chair in the
living room, the closest seat.
“You’re
Jewish,” his mother insisted.
“In
name only,” he replied weakly.
“In
this house,” his mother said firmly.
Bernstein
had a sudden thought. He should have
suppressed it; he knew that later.
Instead, he blurted it. “Oh, my
God,” he said. “That’s why Josh is
buried in that part of the cemetery, the part reserved for non-Jewish members of
Jewish families.”
His
mother looked at him wide-eyed and pale.
Tears bubbled down her broad cheeks.
“He was Jewish. They wouldn’t
listen. I could accept what they did to
him. He was dead. You … you’re Jewish.”
Bernstein
reached towards her. “Mom, I’m sorry. I
didn’t …
Melinda
stared at him, holding him back. She
embraced the older woman, who was rocking and moaning.
“Mom,”
Bernstein tried. They had told him Josh
had been placed under a nice tree, in a secluded corner. That’s why he wasn’t with the other members
of the congregation. Bernstein had been
was too young to notice the anomaly. He
was only eight. Josh was 14, when he was
hit by a car. Bernstein thought of the
many times he had visited the grave, the almost compulsive ways his mother went
every week.
He
felt sick inside.
“And
one more thing,” his mother said. “That old high fallooting rabbi knew I wasn’t
Jewish, too.” Her voice dropped to
barely a whisper. “I figured the new one
wouldn’t know.”
Bernstein
closed his eyes and said nothing. He was
trying not to drop into a dark abyss with little success.
With
that final outburst, his mother rallied her energy. She straightened up, gave a weak smile to
Melinda and wiped her eyes with a napkin.
“That’s enough,” she announced.
“Herschela, come over here at eat some cake. I cut you a big piece. It’s your favorite.
He
looked at the floor. The carpeting seemed
so strange, as though he had never seen it before. Where had the brown threads come from? They had spread through the pale white
surface. He always thought the carpet
was off-white.
He
always thought a lot of things.
Lord,
he thought, I may have to go through a conversion ceremony. At least he’d have company; Melinda would
join him.
That
wasn’t very comforting now.
_________________________________________________________________________
The rabbi, always, was running late. They sat outside his study in the plush chairs, just as before. Bernstein found himself look around. The books on the shelf seemed so different. Some were in Hebrew. What an odd looking language. He recognized a fanciful painting of the Temple on the far wall, but it seemed to have been moved. Wasn’t it on the eastern wall before? How strange. Everything was strange.
_________________________________________________________________________
The rabbi, always, was running late. They sat outside his study in the plush chairs, just as before. Bernstein found himself look around. The books on the shelf seemed so different. Some were in Hebrew. What an odd looking language. He recognized a fanciful painting of the Temple on the far wall, but it seemed to have been moved. Wasn’t it on the eastern wall before? How strange. Everything was strange.
Melinda
wasn’t. She was pretty than ever. Yet, he had begun to notice the little hairs
on her upper lip, the way her jaw seemed to growing soft jowls, even the
furrowing around her eyes. Whatever
illusions he had about her appearance were vanishing, being replaced by a real
person.
She
was so familiar, and yet so different.
In
a moment, the study door swung opened.
Rabbi Keller held it for them and then followed them into his office.
He
sat behind his desk, his hands clasped in front of him, and smiled at them
benevolently. He had the same look when
he stood on the bema and delivered
the priestly benediction. From a
distance, he seemed so benevolent. Close
up, the smile was harsher, more forced.
“Herschel,”
he began softly, “you do understand the situation. Am I right?”
“Yes,”
Bernstein conceded. He tried to disguise
his anger, but it was still there. He
had imagined how the conversation would proceed, but every version ended in
loud recriminations. This was a
Conservative temple, at least, his father’s concession to more modern
times. In an Orthodox school, he wouldn’t
have even gotten an education with going through conversation.
Education? Bernstein’s mind shifted. What had he learned? That the beloved law had a large gap?
“Do
not worry,” the rabbi said with a nod.
“This can be worked out.”
He
shifted his gaze to Melinda. Bernstein
was happy not to be the focus anymore.
He didn’t know what to say, what to do.
On the other hand, he couldn’t contain himself.
“How
can it be worked out?” he blurted.
“We’ll
follow the law,” the rabbi said calmly.
“The
law is what got me into this situation,” Bernstein protested.
“We
always go back to the Torah,” the rabbi reminded him. “That is what gives structure to our lives
and meaning to our days. There is always
the law. God has a solution for every
problem.”
“The
law!” Bernstein snapped, half rising from his chair. The rabbi arched his eyebrow, but Bernstein
didn’t care. He had never challenged the
rabbi before; he would never have thought about doing such a thing. “There shouldn’t be any law that says I’m not
a Jew. I was raised in a Jewish home and
followed Jewish laws. Everyone thinks of
me as Jewish. I think of myself as
Jewish. That’s all that matters.”
“Yes,”
the rabbi answered serenely, “so you would think.”
“The
law is stupid,” Bernstein continued, unable to contain himself.
“To
those who do not understand it,” the rabbi said, “perhaps.”
Melinda
patted Bernstein’s arm. “It’s all right,
honey,” she soothed. “We’ll get through
this. Come on. Relax.”
He
started to retort, then stopped. Now,
she was comforting him about religion.
He closed his eyes and relished the nothingness that appeared. He leaned back in his chair and groaned.
“Melinda,”
the rabbi aid, as if nothing had happened.
“I did check on that area of Kracow where your grandmother lived.”
“I’ve
thought about visiting there,” she said.
“My grandmother used to talk about the community so lovingly.”
The
rabbi took a deep breath. “As well she
should,” he said. “It was a nice area
until the Germans came. Many of the
people in the Warsaw ghetto came from there.
The rest were sent to Dachau and Auschwitz.”
The
awful names floated darkly around the room.
“My
grandmother was lucky to be alive,” Melinda said. Her voice, usually so calm, trembled.
“Do
you understand what I am saying?” the rabbi asked.
Melinda
nodded. “I have two heritages,” she said
softly.
Bernstein
straightened up, trying to make sense of all the confusion around him. He heard words, but could not completely
translate them.
The
rabbi said something in Yiddish. Melinda
replied in her odd, small, weak voice.
“All
of them were Jewish?” she finally asked.
The
rabbi nodded. “They called themselves
Germans,” he said. “Ironically, Hitler
said he wanted to gather the distant Germans to the Fatherland, yet the people
he sought were all Jews.”
“Oy,” Melinda murmured.
She
gathered herself and patted Bernstein’s hand.
“Looks like you are the only one who has to convert,” she said, hiding a
wry smile. “I am told it’s easy.”
Bernstein
looked at her, seeing her for the first time, the same way he was seeing the
study, the rabbi, the once-familiar books.
“No,” he replied correctly, honestly.
“It is not.”
-end-
