“Do you think I should join Rabbi Goldberg’s Talmud study group?” I asked Lili. I explained what I’d read in the Cahan excerpt.
“Do you need more mental rigor in your life?” she asked. “Or will studying Talmud make you more successful, like David Levinsky?”
“I think seeing so much death around me and Rochester has made me more conscious of my spiritual side,” I said. “And you living with you has reminded me of how much we both remember of those Bible stories we’d learned as kids.”
“If you’re interested, then follow up. It’s not like a gym membership—you won’t be locked in for a year.”
I said I’d consider it and went back to my reading. Given my concerns with what Joel Goldberg had been worried about, I was surprised that so much of the material I’d selected for the course was connected to what he’d been worrying about. But then, so much of the early works of Jewish American literature had been about those very issues.
The other section I’d chosen from the Cahan novel was about Levinsky’s ability to exploit his workers and steal from his competition. I wanted the students to see the darker side of the immigrant experience as well—the way that a former Talmudic scholar could go against his principles in a desperate desire to succeed, even if it left him with “a brooding sense of emptiness and insignificance.”
That connected to the prejudice that Joey’s grandfather had experienced, that I was sure many immigrants confronted. Sometimes their countrymen were the first to exploit their naiveté and desperation.
All four of my grandparents had come to the United States from Russia soon after the turn of the century. My mother’s family had landed in Trenton, and they’d lived in a small neighborhood called Jewtown near the river, a warren of narrow streets and alleys and buildings jammed together. Yiddish was the lingua franca, and it wasn’t until urban renewal in the sixties destroyed the area that the Jews had been forced to move out and integrate with the rest of the city.
My grandparents had been moderately successful. My mother’s father had his own business delivering baked goods to stores and restaurants, and my father had grown up on a family farm in Connecticut, where they had taken in summer boarders who wanted to escape the city heat.
Had they been forced to make the kind of difficult decisions David Levinsky had in order to achieve that success? I was sure of that. They had struggled to put their children through college and establish them in professional careers. They had kept up their religious traditions, from Passover Seders to bar mitzvahs where their sons proclaimed their connection to the generations that had come before them.
Eventually I went back to the course materials, and spent some time reviewing Leo Rosten’s The Education of H*Y*M*A*N K*A*P*L*A*N, which I’d read as a teenager and still loved. By the time of my class on Tuesday afternoon, I was even more immersed in questions of immigration. I was eager to hear what contemporary students thought about the adult English class Rosten described, and wondered if any of them knew friends or family members who’d taken what we were now calling English as a Second Language, or at the college level, English for Academic Purposes.
We met in a small seminar room on the third floor of Blair Hall, which housed the English and Humanities departments. Tall, gothic-arched windows along one side let in the light and gave students the chance to look outside in case I bored them. Fluorescent lights hung on pendants around the room, and a rich wooden wainscoting ran around the perimeter of the room, a legacy of Eastern’s long history of deep-pocket alumni.
I had a dozen students, a mix of men and women. From their names, I guessed that most had some Jewish heritage, but I didn’t want to make a big deal of that. Literature was literature, after all. You didn’t have to be a woman to read Jane Austen, African-American to appreciate Toni Morrison. All of them were English majors looking for an additional credit toward their requirement, and that was fine with me. I was no scholar of the field and didn’t want the students to know more than I did.
They filed in to the classroom in twos and threes, chattering and laughing as they settled into their wooden chairs, assembled seminar-style in a semi-circle around me.
“Let’s talk about immigration,” I said, once I had taken roll. “Since science has established that humanity originated in Africa, we’re all immigrants to this continent, and to what eventually became this country. So the immigrant experience—leaving behind home, family, even language is a common one in American literature. What did you find in reading the excerpts I gave you? Any commonality? Differences?”
A young woman raised her hand. “I was interested in the idea of the ghetto. How in Russia and Poland and places like that Jews were forced to live in specific communities, and then when they came to the United States they did that voluntarily.”
Her name was Jessica Sharpstein, and if you’d put her in an apron, with a kerchief on her head, she could have been an extra in a production of Fiddler on the Roof.
I nodded. “My grandparents were drawn to places where they had landsmen – people from the same home town. My mother’s family ended up in Trenton that way.”
“Mine, too,” a boy said. His name was Noah Plotnick, a Jewish name if there ever was one. “But the places where they lived were all torn down before I was born.”
We talked about ethnic enclaves for a while, how people probably felt safer in them. “No one would criticize you for speaking with an accent,” a young woman named Rosita said. “Sometimes in Philadelphia when I’m out with my mother, who’s from the Dominican Republic, people complain that it’s hard to understand her.”
A young black man with a single dreadlock hanging down his back said, “Or walk across the street to avoid you.”
A heavyset blonde in a man’s button-down shirt over slacks said, “Or yell things at you and tell you to go back where you come from.” She had a strong Eastern European accent, and in our introductions the previous week she said she was from Poland.
“I hope that Eastern is that kind of enclave for all of you,” I said. “That you all feel safe from discrimination here because of how you look, how you speak, or where your family comes from.”
There was a general murmur of agreement. “I was surprised by the mix of ethnic groups in the adult education class in Rosten’s book,” Rosita said. “That these groups would mingle so much. Where I live in North Philly, the groups are still very separate.”
I nodded. “There are still ethnic enclaves, aren’t there? Any big city will have a Little India, a Chinatown, a Little Havana. And yet it’s hard to stay in one of those areas for most people, isn’t it? Rosita, you mentioned people complaining about your mother’s accent. Outside your neighborhood?”
She nodded. “I feel like maybe if people mixed more they would get along better.”
“This kind of discrimination isn’t new.” I told them about Professor Del Presto’s work looking at the history of prejudice, and its prevalence in social media.
The syllabus moved into more contemporary work, and I asked them to read Philip Roth’s novella “Goodbye Columbus” from the collection under the same title before the next class. “Pay particular attention to the themes of assimilation and class distinction,” I said. “That’s going to be the next step in the immigrant experience.”
As I walked back to my car, I thought about Joel Goldberg and his concerns about the Holocaust. Was that kind of obsession symptomatic of schizophrenia? I realized that I knew little about the illness beyond what I’d seen on TV and read in novels. So I detoured past the psychology department, where I was lucky to find Professor Bill Conwell at his office.
I had gotten to know Bill a few months before when he offered a program about combatting dementia at Friar Lake. I’d taken some of his advice myself, like eating foods shown to remove toxins that contributed to Alzheimer’s, and I’d gone back to doing the crossword puzzle regularly. And of course, Rochester gave me lots of opportunities for exercise.
“Hey, Steve,” he said,
getting up from his desk to shake my hand. He was about my age, mid-forties, and very fit – he ran marathons and triathlons in his spare time. “How’s it going?”
“Pretty good. I can do the New York Times puzzle every day—though I need a little help on Friday and Saturday.”
“That’s excellent.” He sat back down and I took the chair across from him. “What can I do for you today?”
I told him about my encounter with Joel Goldberg, though I didn’t tell him about Joel’s death. “It made me curious to know more about schizophrenia.”
“You should know about it, because it often shows up in college age students,” he said. He sat back in his chair, his hands behind his head. “It’s a chronic and severe mental disorder that affects how a person thinks feels and behaves. Those who suffer from it might seem like they’ve lost touch with reality.”
I thought about Joel’s behavior at the synagogue the day of the blessing of the animals. “Can they be dangerous?”
He shook his head. “That’s one of the common misperceptions. Most schizophrenics aren’t violent and don’t exhibit aggressive behaviors. Only about a small percentage, ten to fifteen percent.”
“What about if someone with schizophrenia feels threatened?”
“In that regard, they’re probably like all of us,” he said. “The fight or flight response kicks in. What’s this about? Has this guy been threatening you, or someone else?”
“Not as far as I know. It was just his behavior when I saw him, and the way that some other people responded.”
“That’s a tough one. Even loved ones can get tired of someone who’s in the throes of a mental illness. And we’re always frightened of what we don’t know.”
We talked for a while longer, and then a student came by to see him so I walked out. Was Joel Goldberg in that small percentage of schizophrenics who were dangerous? Was that why Rabbi Goldberg had been out of touch with his brother, because he was too much to handle?
What if I joined the rabbi’s Talmud study group with Rochester, and Joel showed up again, further agitated? Would I be putting myself and my dog in danger?
5 – Family Connections
When I got home that evening, Lili was on the phone once more, again speaking rapid Spanish, but this time I figured out she was speaking with her brother, Federico.
I fed Rochester and we went out for our evening constitutional. As we walked, I thought about my parents, and how sorry I was that they had never been able to meet Lili. They didn’t care for my ex-wife, Mary. But my mother had kept her mouth shut—I’d brought home a Jewish girl, after all, one who was smart and pretty, and that was a lot better than many of the sons of her friends and cousins, and she wasn’t one to tempt fate by complaining.
My father, on the other hand, had made it clear in small ways that he thought Mary was too bossy, too sharp-tongued. “You need a wife who will treat you like an equal,” he had said to me several times. “That woman talks to you like you work for her.”
“It’s a relationship, Dad,” I’d said. “Modern women have to work twice as hard to succeed as men, and sometimes Mary has a hard time leaving that attitude behind at work.”
He had snorted. By the time Mary and I divorced, he was already suffering from the cancer that would kill him, and I was locked up in California. Our brief phone calls centered mostly around his health, though I could tell he was happy that Mary had moved on.
My father had always appreciated a good-looking woman, and with her curvaceous figure, mass of curly hair and heart-shaped face, Lili radiated beauty. She also had a kindness that Mary lacked, that I was sure he’d have responded well to.
Which led me to considering how I’d get along with Senora Weinstock, when we met in person. She seemed to have a lot of Lili’s fire and determination, though underlaid with a sense that the world was against her—conspiring to chase her from her childhood home and leave her to roam the earth unmoored. What would she think of me, a man with a checkered past, too old to give her more grandchildren, not wealthy enough to give her daughter the life she deserved?
When I got home, Lili was still talking, though she’d slipped into English. “I have to go, Fedi. There’s only so much I can do in a weekend.”
She ended the call with besos and abrazos for her niece and nephew. Then she turned to me. “Dios mio! I told Fedi that I’ll come down for a visit, and he jumped all over it. I feel terrible that the burden of all this stuff with my mother is falling on him and Sara.”
“They want the burden, don’t they?” I asked. “You told me Fedi built a mother-in-law unit onto his house for her. That they want her to move in with them.”
“I know. But I feel like it’s right for me to go down there. And I admit, maybe, that I’m feeling a little wanderlust. This is the longest I’ve lived in one place, with one job, in ages.”
I was disturbed. “But I thought you wanted to settle down, after all that roving.”
“I thought so, too. I still think so. I don’t know. I’m just confused.”
“Well, you’ve been at Eastern for two years,” I said. “That seems to be your limit, doesn’t it?”
She cocked her head and stared at me. “What do you mean?”
“You were married to Philip for what, two years? And Adriano about the same? Maybe you’ve got an internal clock that makes you start to get restless after that much time has passed.”
“Are you insinuating that I’ll leave you, too? Because the situation with both of my ex-husbands was very different.”
I held up my hands in surrender. “Hey, I wasn’t implying anything. Just stating a point.”
“A not very pleasant point.” Rochester kept dancing around between us, looking up at us and yipping, and it was difficult to concentrate on what Lili was saying with the dog getting in the way. “Why don’t you take your dog and go for a walk?” Lili said.
“We just did that.”
“Then call your friend Rick and go over there. I need some time to think without your dog barking and you making smart comments.”
I chose not to take any of that personally. Lili was upset, and leaving and taking Rochester with me would give her a chance to calm down.
“Sounds like a good idea to me,” I said. I hooked up Rochester’s leash once again, and he was confused. Another walk so soon? But he wasn’t one to complain.
I’d first met Rick Stemper when we were in a high school chemistry class. We weren’t great friends back then, but once I’d returned to Bucks County we had met up by chance and bonded over our divorces. He was a detective with the Stewart’s Crossing police department, and soon after Rochester had come into my life, Rick had adopted an Australian Shepherd. Our dogs were as close to each other as Rick and I were.
Outside, I called Rick and asked if I could come over with Rochester and a pizza, and he was all over that idea. I called in a delivery order to Giovanni’s, in the shopping center in downtown Stewart’s Crossing. Luckily, we both liked the same kind—a thick crust with spicy Italian sausage crumbled and scattered over a base of homemade tomato sauce, freshly sautéed mushrooms and shredded mozzarella from an artisan cheese maker in New Hope.
Rascal was in Rick’s backyard, where Rick had installed an agility course to keep his dog busy. I opened the gate, and Rochester rushed inside. The dogs greeted each other at Rick’s front door like long-lost brothers, jumping around and trying to hump each other.
Rascal was about six months younger than Rochester but they were both the same size. The Aussie had a white chest and forelegs and a black head, back and rear legs. His muzzle was white with brown cheeks and his nose was as black as trouble—which was what he and Rochester got up to whenever they were together.
I walked up to the front door and rang the bell, and Rick answered a moment later. Though we were the same age, he was graying faster than I was – probably all the stress of police work. He was a couple of inches shorter than I was, and more muscular—I knew that he ran regularly an
d worked out at the gym a couple of times a week.
“What’s up?” he asked, as I walked in.
“Lili’s mother is on a rampage.” I explained the situation as he handed me a Dogfish Head Firefly Ale, from a Delaware microbrewery we both liked.
His kitchen hadn’t been changed much since the house was built in the fifties; he’d put in a new fridge, oven and dishwasher, but the Formica cabinets were original, as was the big stainless steel sink and the brown and tan patterned linoleum floor. It was a comfortable room and I liked hanging out there.
“Lili thought it was a good idea for me to get out of the house for a while, and I agreed.”
We watched the dogs romp around the yard for a couple of minutes, chasing and nipping at each other, until Rochester scrambled up the arm of the teeter-totter. He got to the center, caught his balance and woofed once before the other arm lowered down. Then he raced down and began to chase Rascal again.
His least favorite was the set of weave poles – he couldn’t seem to get the point of racing to and fro like a crazy dog.
Maybe that’s because he was already kind of crazy.
When the pizza arrived, the dogs rushed inside through the doggie door, and while I distracted them with some squeaky toys Rick put two bowls of food out on his kitchen floor. They both chewed noisily, and Rick and I dug in, There was no matching real, Jersey-style pizza from your neighborhood joint, where the mushrooms came from the farmer’s market and the sausage and cheese from local farms.
“You should have seen Tiffany’s mom when she was on a roll,” Rick said. Tiffany was his ex-wife, a Puerto Rican wild child who still depended on Rick now and then. “She’d start talking Spanish a mile a minute and I could never tell if she was excited or pissed off.”
Dog is in the Details Page 3