Acts of Faith (14 page)

Every day’s horarium was identical—meditation, prayer, study, thirty minutes’ outdoor recreation. Except for the Sabbath.

On Sunday afternoons, the boys would remove their
somber cassocks and don special garb—black suit, white shirt, black tie and shoes—for visiting the ordinary world.

They would march down to the village, led and followed by priestly chaperons. The purpose was not wholly clear to them, since they were not allowed to buy a newspaper, or even a chocolate bar. They simply paraded into town and back, under the curious gaze of the villagers, to whom, of course, they were forbidden to speak.

Toward the end of Timothy’s first year, four boys in his dormitory were discovered in a serious breach of conduct.

It was a rule that all correspondence—in and out—had to go through the Rector’s office. But Sean O’Meara had mailed a letter during one of the Sunday promenades. Three other seminarians had seen him, but had not reported his misdemeanor.

In the hearing presided over by the Rector, Sean bravely, though foolishly, tried to defend himself on the grounds that the letter had merely been to his old parish priest and spiritual adviser.

This did not mitigate his offense.

The punishment was harsh. O’Meara was banned from major orders for twelve months, during which time he was to study, pray, and do penance.

The conspirators were sentenced to stay at school in July and August, to work in the gardens—and to pray.

Timothy stayed on as well. The summer months provided an opportunity to receive daily tutorials in Hebrew and Greek and accelerate his journey toward ordination.

Besides, he had nowhere to go.

One hot July afternoon at the end of his daily tutorial, Tim excused himself so he could go to the library and commit to memory what had been taught that day.

Father Sheehan urged him to get some sun instead. “Those boys out there trimming rose bushes aren’t really being punished,” he said with a smile. “It’s a joy to be in the fresh air—the summer sun is God’s reward for suffering the winter.”

And so, unwillingly at first, Tim went into the garden after lunch and joined the penitents in weeding plants.

It was the first occasion in nearly a year that Timothy found himself with others of his age beyond official supervision. At first they were hesitant, wary of each other no less than of him. But as the summer heat intensified, so did the need for fellowship. They began to talk.

All three “prisoners” were saddened by their punishment. It was not the work, for they enjoyed the beauty of the outdoor life. But they had been looking forward to returning to their families.

“What about you, Tim?” asked Jamie MacNaughton, the tallest, leanest, and most nervous of them. “Haven’t you got any family—brothers, sisters—anybody that you miss?”

“No,” he answered blankly.

“Parents not alive?”

He hesitated for a moment, unsure how to answer. Discretion was the wisest course.

“Not really …,” he said evasively, his voice trailing off.

“You’re lucky in a way,” said another of the trio. “Frankly, Hogan, I’ve always admired how self-sufficient you are. Now I can sort of understand. You don’t miss the outside world because you don’t have anybody in it.”

“Yes,” Tim replied.

And—as he had throughout that agonizing year—he tried to suppress all thought of Deborah Luria.

I
t was the Fast of Esther, the solemn day that precedes Purim, the merriest holiday on the Jewish calendar.

The festival of Purim celebrates the bravery of Queen Esther, who successfully petitioned her husband, King Ahasuerus, to revoke the death sentence he had imposed on all her fellow Jews in Persia. Since Esther spent the preceding day praying and fasting, religious Jews commemorate her piety by doing the same.

Despite the outward sadness of the Fast Day, Deborah always found it a heartening occasion, for no other holiday in her religion celebrated the noble actions of a woman.

To her growing resentment, not once in all the time she had been a captive in Jerusalem had the Schiffmans allowed her to visit the Wailing Wall. So it was not surprising that Deborah chose to grieve over her own exile by praying there.

Perhaps she even hoped to put in a
kvitl
—one of the tiny slips of paper containing personal pleas to the Father of the Universe—which pilgrims traditionally left in the crevices of what some called “God’s mailbox.”

She knew that Rebbe Schiffman went to the Wailing Wall often, not merely to pray but to communicate with other religious leaders. Yet during all the time that Deborah
had been with the Schiffmans, he had never once invited even his wife to come along.

“What’s the point, anyway?” Leah rationalized to Deborah in a rare moment of conversation. “They squash us into a fenced-off corner, and the men pray so loud that you can’t even concentrate.”

“
I’ll
concentrate,” Deborah insisted.

Rebbe Schiffman capitulated. “All right, Leah. If she wants it so badly, go with her.”

His wife frowned. Exhausted from her household duties, caring for their offspring (and carrying a new one), she did not relish the prospect of walking to the Old City—even for so sacred a purpose. She scowled and muttered, “Very well. I’ll ask Mrs. Unger next door to keep an eye on the children.”

An hour later, the two women were trudging along Hanevi’im Street. The narrow byways of Mea Shearim always seemed in perpetual shadow, and Deborah welcomed the early spring sunshine on her face.

As they entered the walls of the Old City at the Damascus Gate, and walked down the slender cobbled alleys, Deborah was almost dizzy with anticipation. She could feel the immanence of a million pilgrims who had left invisible atoms of their spirit reverberating like silent prayers in a thousand tongues.

They passed the Via Dolorosa, and reached the rampart above the wide expanse of courtyard that had been cleared by Israeli soldiers after the Six Day War.

As a military policeman checked Leah’s purse, she grimaced at him and then remarked to Deborah in Yiddish, “Look at this bunch of storm troopers. Do I look like a terrorist bomber?”

Before Deborah could respond, one of the soldiers replied, also in Yiddish, “Do you think I like this job, Madam? But I’d have to do it even if you were my mother.”

Leah glowered, and again commented to Deborah, “Did you hear how disrespectfully they talk?”

The soldier merely smiled indulgently and waved them through.

As they descended into the forecourt, they could see the multitude of black-garbed worshipers swaying fervently in front of the Wall. Their prayers soared into the air and resounded in a cacophony of melodies in accents as diverse as Damascus, Dresden, and Dallas.

A metal barrier set off a small area in the far right-hand corner for the use of women worshipers. As they headed in that direction, Leah tugged at Deborah’s arm to keep her as far away from the men as possible.

“What are you doing?” Deborah whispered with annoyance. “I’m not disturbing them.”

“Don’t talk,” Leah snapped. “Just do as I say.”

The tiny area of their segregated sanctuary was crowded, but Deborah eagerly pushed her way through the press of other women to reach the front. And felt a shiver as she gently kissed the holy stones.

Without opening her book, she joined in the morning prayer. By the time they had reached
ashrey
—“Happy are they that dwell in Thy House”—Deborah’s glorious voice had grown in volume and fervor, inspiring the others to follow her example.

Then came the attack.

From across the barrier angry shouts began to bombard them:
“Shah! Zoll zein shah!”
Shut up! Keep your voices down!

But the women were so caught up in Deborah’s zeal that they sang their prayers even more loudly—except for Leah Schiffman, who kept trying to quiet them.

The men continued to shout, and the women continued to chant. Suddenly, a wooden chair was hurled over
the barrier, striking a grandmotherly woman and knocking her to the ground.

Then, as Deborah bent down to help her, a metal object was lobbed into the air. As it struck the ground, it split open, and began to hiss.

“My God—it’s tear gas!”

Outraged beyond fear, she snatched up the canister and hurled it at the men with all her might. There was an outcry of indignation. As more missiles began to fly over the barrier, the women followed Deborah’s lead and threw them back.

Deborah shouted frantically to the policemen ringing the area above, “Why the hell don’t you do something?”

But the guards were uncertain how to act. They had strict orders not to interfere with the worshipers except by express permission of the Religious Ministry. (Who had thrown the tear gas was anybody’s guess.)

Captain Yosef Nahum arrived at the only solution that would prevent further injury.

“Get the women out of here,” he barked. “And try to keep the men away.”

Some of the officers hurried to help the frightened women retreat. A dozen others locked arms to restrain the rioting male zealots from chasing after them.

Ten minutes later the women were allowed to regroup and finish their prayers elsewhere.

Though Deborah was in shock, the irony was not lost on her. They had been banished to the Dung Gate—the door of the Old City, which for thousands of years had been used to expel the garbage.

They reached home to find Rebbe Schiffman incensed.

“You mean you’ve heard about it already?” Leah asked her husband.

“In Mea Shearim you don’t need newspapers to know what’s happening.”

Pointing an accusatory finger at Deborah, he growled, “It’s all because of this devil. I knew we shouldn’t have let her go to the Wall.”

“Me?” Deborah asked in a stunned voice.

“Of course
you
,” the rabbi shouted. “Your father didn’t tell me you were such a harlot.”

“Harlot?”

“You sang,” he shouted accusingly.

“I was
praying
,” Deborah protested angrily.

“But
loudly
,” snapped the rabbi. “The men could hear your voices. Don’t you know the Talmud says ‘the voice of a woman is a lascivious temptation’?”

He turned to his wife. “I tell you, Leah, I’m ashamed this girl is staying in our house. I’ve half a mind to ask Rav Luria to take her off our hands.”

Oh, thought Deborah to herself, inwardly wounded and grieving, If he only would.

O
urs was a twentieth-century university.

Unlike some of the ultraorthodox seminaries that act as if Jewish scholarship has scarcely evolved since the Babylonian Talmud, Hebrew University was a “modern” institution. It believed in such liberal intellectual activities as secular philosophy, the arts, and nuclear physics. It even allowed an occasional lecture by conservative rabbis.