Acts of Faith (18 page)

He rose at six, dressed quickly in his formal clothes, embraced Aunt Cassie, endured his uncle’s hug, and left to walk the three blocks to the subway, just as the bells of St. Gregory’s began to toll for early Mass.

He had nearly made it to the stairway of the IRT, when he thought he saw someone waving from afar, calling his name.

It was Danny Luria, running with a heavy briefcase.

Tim’s heart began to beat frantically. Although he had not spoken to Danny since that fateful night so long ago, he assumed he was still anathema to all the Lurias.

Seconds later, Danny reached him.

“Nice to see you back,” he puffed, as they shook hands. “How long are you staying?”

To Tim’s immense relief, he spoke in what seemed a friendly voice.

“Well, actually, I’m just leaving.”

“Going to Manhattan?” Danny asked.

“Well yes, but then a long way afterward.”

“Come on,” said Danny, “we can talk about it on the train.”

As they descended into the depths of Brooklyn, Tim could not help thinking, Look at us, two future men of God—a Catholic and a Jew—dressed like twins. The only difference was that Danny’s black attire was augmented by a hat.

They bought their tokens, carried their respective bags through the turnstiles, and waited on the long, empty platform.

“Are you a priest yet?” Danny asked.

“I’ve a few more years to go,” Tim answered, wondering which of them would be the first to mention Deborah, and yet hoping neither would. “Are you a rabbi yet?”

“I also have a ways to go—a lot of it inside my head.”

Just then the train roared into the station. The doors snapped open, swallowing them both. The car was virtually deserted, and they sat side by side in a corner.

“So,
nu
, what’s this long way you’re going?”

“Rome—to study for the priesthood.”

“Gosh, you must be very excited.”

“Yes,” Timothy answered, growing increasingly anxious as he thought to himself, Why doesn’t he make some mention of … the scandal?

“How are your parents?” Tim asked tentatively.

“Both fine, thank you,” Danny replied. Almost as an afterthought, he remarked, “Deborah’s still in Israel.”

“Oh,” said Timothy. “Is she happy?” The unasked question being, Is she married?

“That’s kind of hard to say. Her letters read like travelogues. I mean, there aren’t any
people
in them.”

Timothy took this to mean that she was still single.
Yet he had been certain that the day she arrived in Jerusalem, her father would have had a husband waiting for her.

They rode for a few minutes, their silence broken only by the raucous scraping and lurching of the subway cars.

Danny could tell by Tim’s expression that he was still ill at ease.

“This may sound silly after such a long time. But I’m sorry about what happened,” he said quietly. “I mean, from what Deborah told me—which wasn’t much—it was a terrible misunderstanding.”

“Yes,” said Tim gratefully and thought, There was
no
misunderstanding.

“Is she studying?” he inquired, hoping that the question was within the parameters of politeness.

“Not really, she’s sort of just learning the language.”

Danny saw no reason to suppress the details of his sister’s daring act of independence, and so told Tim of her servitude in Mea Shearim and her escape to Kfar Ha-Sharon.

“What’s that?”

“A kibbutz in the Galilee. She’s been there for more than a year now.”

“Lovely name,” said Tim and immediately recited in Hebrew, “ ‘I am the rose of Sharon, and the lily of the valleys …’ Song of Songs, chapter two, verses one and two.”

“Hey,” Danny remarked, “your Hebrew’s better than some of my classmates’.”

“Thanks,” Tim responded shyly, “I’ve been studying it for several years now. Trying to see what the Lord actually said to Moses.”

“Do you believe that God spoke to Moses in Hebrew?”

“I’ve never doubted it,” Tim replied, puzzled by the question.

“Well, it isn’t specified anywhere in the Bible. For all we know, they could have spoken in Egyptian—or in Chinese for that matter.”

“Isn’t that a bit irreverent?” Tim chuckled.

“No,” Danny replied. “College has taught me to keep an open mind. After all, Moses lived after the Tower of Babel. There were hundreds of languages in the world by then. They could have talked in Akkadian, Ugaritic—”

Tim nodded, and began to feel a warmth emanating from Danny. He seemed so grown up now, so
open.

“Well then,” Tim responded lightheartedly, “what proof do we have that Moses
didn’t
speak Chinese?”

Danny looked at him and answered wryly, “If he had, we Jews would have been eating a lot better food.”

Finally, the train reached 116th Street. Danny rose to leave and Tim followed. It was only when they were on the platform that Danny realized.

“Hey, weren’t you supposed to get off at Seventy-second?”

“That’s okay,” Tim replied, “I’ve still got time, and I was enjoying our conversation.”

“Same here,” said Danny, offering his hand. “Good luck in Rome—and keep in touch. You know where to find me now.”

“You too,” Tim responded amicably. And then, as Danny Luria walked away, repeated to himself, I am the rose of Sharon, and the lily of the valleys …

Kfar Ha-Sharon.

And now I know how to find
Deborah.

When Timothy met his traveling companions at Fordham, he was even more amazed at having been chosen for this journey.

He had assumed that they would be scholars—and indeed they were. But two of the four other young seminarians being sponsored by the mysterious “committee” had already published articles. Perhaps even more significant, each in his own way generated a kind of animal magnetism. Charisma was too pale a description.

Why me? Timothy puzzled.

Later that night, as he lay in bed in the luxury of a small room all to himself, he wondered what he had in
common with these imposing young seminarians. The only link he could find was superficial. They were all about his own age—and Irish Catholics.

By two
A.M.
, he realized that it was not the enigma of his selection that was keeping him awake, but all the feelings that had resurfaced when he’d talked with Danny Luria. He knew now that he had to see Deborah one more time. Not to pursue their relationship, but to bring it to a proper end.

On their flight the next evening, the quintet was chaperoned by Father Lloyd Devlin, a spry sexagenarian who unfortunately was terrified of flying. All across the ocean he fortified himself with a rosary in one hand and a glass in the other.

After the cabin darkened to show the movie, Timothy pretended to be leafing aimlessly through the Alitalia magazine, hoping that no one would notice him studying a map of the airline’s routes.

Yes, they regularly flew from Rome to Israel. But how could he possibly arrange it?

He tried to imagine what would happen if he ever saw Deborah face to face, thousands of miles from the authorities who had ordained their separation. What might she say to him? How would he feel?

He could not conjure up the answers. But he knew he had to find them.

I
t was the most traumatic night of my life.

I was brain-weary from studying
Solomon’s Wisdom
, the famous work on the different tractates of the Talmud written by Rav Solomon ben Jehiel Luria in the mid-sixteenth century—a fact that may explain the effort I had expended on it.

I was about to take off my shoes and flop into bed, when a guy from down the corridor knocked on my door to say I had a phone call.

At this hour?

It was my mother—and she was frantic.

“What’s the matter?” I asked, my heart beginning to pound uncontrollably. “Is something wrong with Papa?”

“No,” she answered, her voice quavering, “it’s Rena.…” She took a deep sobbing breath, and blurted out, “She’s possessed! She’s hallucinating—in a kind of trance—and groaning in a strange voice. Your father thinks it must be a
dybbuk.
”

“A
dybbuk?
” I nearly shouted, fear and disbelief commingled. “For God’s sake, Mama, this is the twentieth century. Demons don’t enter other people’s bodies. You should get a doctor.”

“We did,” my mother said softly. “Dr. Cohen’s talking to your father right now.”

“Well, what did he say?”

Her voice dropped to a fearful whisper. “That we should call … an exorcist.”

“Surely Papa wouldn’t agree to
that.
”

“Danny, he’s already found one.”

My incredulity gave way to fright. I didn’t even know there
were
such people. “Mama, are you telling me Papa believes a so-called demon is actually inside Rena, talking through her?”

“Yes,” my mother replied. “I heard it myself.”

“Well, who … who does it claim to be?”

She hesitated for a minute. “It’s Chava.…”

“Papa’s first wife?”

My mother could only repeat, “Chava says she’s taken over Rena’s soul and won’t leave till she receives justice. Please, Danny,” she implored, “get here as quickly as you can.”

I dashed back to my room, grabbed a windbreaker, and hurried toward the subway. Then it occurred to me—What the hell could I do? I mean,
I
didn’t believe in
dybbuks.
For God’s sake, dead people are dead.

But suddenly I realized that I couldn’t go alone.

Though ashamed, I forced myself to dial Professor Beller’s number. A sleepy voice answered.

“Yes?”

I was shivering with cold and fright as the black wind sliced through the crevices of the phone booth.

“It’s Danny Luria, Professor—you know, the
frummer
in your lecture course. I’m incredibly sorry for calling you this late, but it’s something very serious—”

“That’s all right, Danny,” Beller replied in a calming tone. I guess it was his psychiatric training. “What seems to be the matter?”

“Professor,” I begged. “Please hear me out before you think I’m crazy and hang up. I don’t know what to do. My mother just called to say my half sister’s possessed by a
dybbuk.
”

“That’s superstitious nonsense,” he answered without raising his voice.

“I know, but Rena’s raving and hallucinating—”

“Of that I have no doubt,” Beller replied. “But whatever your sister’s saying—even if her voice has changed—has got to be coming from her own psyche. I’ll call one of my colleagues in Brooklyn—”

“No, please! You see, my father’s already called an exorcist.”

“Not the Silczer Rav,” Beller responded, half under his breath. Then he asked quickly, “Where are you now, Danny?”

“Outside the Hundred-and-sixteenth Street IRT.”

“I’ll get dressed and meet you. Give me ten minutes.”

Throughout the excruciatingly slow subway ride to Brooklyn, Professor Beller tried to explain what he knew about the ceremony he was hoping to prevent. “If she’s had a mental breakdown—which I clearly think she has,” he said, “this sort of medieval voodoo is bound to make it worse.”

We got to the synagogue at about one-thirty in the morning. It was dark except for the lights in front near the Holy Ark.

Half a dozen men were gathered in a circle around my father, who was seated, wringing his hands. Among them were my Uncle Saul, my brother-in-law Dovid—a yeshiva teacher who was married to my older half sister, Malka—and Rena’s husband, Avrom, pale and quivering.

Reb Isaacs, the sexton, was scurrying back and forth between them and a far corner where the women—my half sister and my mother—were taking turns trying to soothe Rena, who was groaning unintelligibly.

Dr. Cohen, obviously with Papa’s dispensation, stood in the segregated women’s section and shrugged his shoulders.

As we drew nearer, I suddenly realized that Beller did not have a skullcap. Luckily I always carry a spare, which I offered to him, half-afraid he would refuse to wear it. He simply nodded and placed it on his head.

As we joined the men, I saw a bizarre figure hovering close to my father—a wizened, bearded old man in a long caftan and wide-brimmed hat. He seemed to be whispering to all present, punctuating his words with emphatic gesticulations.

Standing respectfully a few paces behind him was a tall, cadaverous youth, obviously some kind of assistant.

At this moment, Father saw us. His face was gray as a tombstone. In all my life I had never seen him so distressed. His shirt collar was open and his prayer shawl draped over a wrinkled jacket. He hastened toward us and motioned me aside.

“Danny,” he confided hoarsely, “I’m glad you’re here. I really need your support.”

Him
need
me
? That was an unsettling reversal of roles.

When I asked who the strange old man was, he looked at me with pain and helplessness.

“He’s Rebbe Gershon from the Williamsburg
Talmidey Kabbala.
I asked him to come. You know that our ancestors were mystics, but I myself never believed in this sort of black magic. And now it’s right in front of my eyes.”

He paused and added mournfully, “What else could I do? Anyway, we have another problem. We don’t have ten men. I could only ask people we could trust. So there’s Rebbe Saul, the two sons-in-law, Rebbe Isaacs, Rebbe Gershon and his apprentice, Dr. Cohen—and now you make the ninth. We still need one more.”

He looked at my companion and asked, “Is this gentleman—”

“This is Professor Beller, Papa—” I interrupted.

“Oh,” my father responded. “Are you Jewish, Professor?”

“I’m an atheist,” he replied. “Why don’t you ask one of those women to make the quorum?”

Father ignored him and demanded urgently, “Will you just stand with us? That’s all the Law requires.”

“Very well,” Beller conceded.

A sudden piercing shriek came from the front of the synagogue and echoed from the rafters.

The men had now moved Rena to the front of the pulpit and surrounded her. This time, despite the hysteria in her voice, I could hear the words.

“I am Chava Luria, and I cannot be admitted into the life of the world-to-come until the man who murdered me does penance.”