“What was that, my boy?” It took Rabbi Syme a few lingering moments to realize that he was staring.
“God hardened Pharaoh’s heart,” Perchik repeated. He was wearing a groove into the parchment before him with the side of his thumb, as if his thumb could wipe away every confusion and nagging shame, every scrap of loneliness.
The rabbi continued to stare.
“Yes, boy,” he replied, treading carefully. “Very good. Pharaoh had the human power of free will to choose the path of righteousness and instead chose selfishness.” He opened himself to the rest of the students. “Thus our Lord hardened Pharaoh’s heart, and as a result of this heartlessness the entire nation of Egypt was destroyed.”
Rabbi Syme was fascinated. He had always noticed that there was something different about the boy; he possessed a quality—a light that surrounded him.
“Yes,” said Perchik, gaze still set low, “Shlomo HaMelech, King Solomon, the wisest of all men, wrote in Mishlei, ‘The heart of the king is in God’s hands.’”
“Indeed,” the rabbi concurred.
Then all at once Perchik’s face grew very grave. His hand shook slightly over the groove he had now fully worn into the parchment.
“Pharaoh cannot just think about himself. His actions and decisions affect everyone. . . .”
Lord in heaven, thought Rabbi Syme. At once he straightened himself and addressed the rest of the class.
“Now, boys, is the lesson of Exodus still true today?”
“Yes.”
“In what way?”
“These are times when the Jewish people are in great danger,” Avi said. “It appears that our fate is in the hands of a few bad leaders.”
Zindell added, “From Exodus, we know that our hearts are in God’s hands. The Jewish people are really being influenced by Him.”
“Right, boys, but God still desires something from the true service to Him that has saved the Jewish people time and time again: tefillah, or prayer; tshuva, or correcting our mistakes; strengthening our Torah learning; strengthening our mitzvah performance; and giving more tzedakah, or charity. Are we ready to give it our best, my sons? Let us do our part to help our people. God will surely take notice. Amen.”
“Amen,” chimed the boys in chorus.
“But, Rabbi,” piped up young Perchik once again from the corner of the room, “I believe the Exodus from Egypt symbolizes something else as well.”
“And what is that, my boy?”
“Imprisonment to freedom. The story resonates. It is true of any oppressed person,” he said quietly. “And we learn from Exodus that the heart of a good man is not wrong. It is not unreliable or bad. The heart always knows the truth. There is nothing more important than living one’s truth. The heart knows when it is thriving and when it is being trampled. . . .” The boy looked out the window.
“And since the heart knows this,” said the rabbi directly to Perchik, “the question cannot be whether it is better to express or suppress the gifts that God has given. Rather, it can only be: Is it better to express or suppress life itself?”
Perchik did not blink as he spoke. “Yes.”
It was this moment. The moment when Rabbi Syme was over-whelmed with a desire to preserve this tender prodigy. To save him.
“Human life is to be lived, my sons,” said the rabbi to the whole group once more. “The Israelites are told to ‘choose life.’ They are promised a long and fruitful life if they abide by God’s commandments. If the purpose of life is to live it, then the Exodus from Egypt is a journey from death into life—from a culture that focuses beyond this world to one that embraces it. And thus the theological question changes too, as we ask whether a God who loves life would ask God’s children to throw their gifts away in any kind of slavery. Do you see?”
The boys nodded uncertainly, like boats bobbing in the early-morning Dnieper River. Rabbi Syme fixed his eyes directly on Perchik and made his way slowly around the rectangular table of young men, who followed his movements with curiosity. The rabbi stopped before Perchik with a sense of the definite.
“What think you of that, Reb Perchik?”
Zindell and Avi locked eyes, traded furtive shrugs. The rest stared at Perchik and Rabbi Syme as they exchanged a look of understanding. Perchik had been too good and too bright before, but this moment rang out differently. It was communicated on the rabbi’s face.
“I believe you are correct, Rabbi.”
Later that week, Rabbi Syme went to visit Gershom.
He twisted his way through the crowded morning streets of the city—from the temple and the schoolhouse, past the town market, past the wigged and kerchiefed women, the beggars and the scholars too engrossed in talk to mind the road. It was a cold winter morning laced with a dense fog, and as he approached Gershom’s imposing black door, he felt his throat close up with nerves. He did not know whether his hand shook more from cold or apprehension, but in spite of his trepidation, he knocked. For the boy’s sake.
Gershom was startled when he heard the knock at the door. This is not a working hour, he thought, for no one ever came to call on him. That was just the way he liked it. Want required refusal, and refusal was his business—the one with which he had made his considerable fortune. Keeping others away was Gershom’s pleasure; after all, just look where opening the door to an orphan had gotten him ten years ago it was now, he thought as he answered the door.
Gershom’s face contorted to make out the form within the thick morning fog.
“Rabbi.”
Gershom was suspicious of Rabbi Syme. This far too open-minded young rabbi was a smudge on the coat of his long-dead, far more traditional predecessor. “What an unexpected call.” His face contorted further with visible displeasure. The rabbi’s breath frosted as he stomped his feet upon the stoop and rubbed his hands together to warm them. “Do come in.” Red-cheeked and face aglow, Rabbi Syme did just that.
Gershom pointed to a chair beside a pitiable fire. Afraid of being uninvited, the rabbi removed his coat and placed it on the back of the chair.
“Thank you, Reb Gershom. I am much obliged for your audience,” the rabbi said, settling himself down.
Gershom sat across from the rabbi and merely stared at him, expressionless.
“That is”—he stuttered slightly—“for taking the time to see me. I know you are quite busy. I will not be long.”
“What is it I may do for you, Rabbi?” asked Gershom. The last word almost frothed from his colorless lips like a noxious taste.
Rabbi Syme gathered himself. His mind was blurred, as if the fog had followed him in and clouded his mind. Gershom unnerved him. But in the cloud of his anxiety flashed the young boy’s face. He heard Perchik’s voice and recalled the clarity and brilliance in the boy’s eyes during the lesson of Exodus. The boy was remarkable, and Rabbi Syme would not leave until his uncle knew it.
He was once again coherent. Looking straight into the man’s eyes, he leaned forward and declared his purpose: “It is about your nephew, Reb Gershom.”
Gershom was eerily still.
“He is brilliant, sir, and requires special attention.”
Gershom remained impassive.
Rabbi Syme pressed on. “At first, I believed he was unreachable,” he said. “His aloofness made it almost impossible for him to communicate with the other boys or indeed with me. I now know better.”
Gershom remained unnervingly steady in his gaze. “I don’t believe I understand your point,” he said tersely, adding almost as an after-thought: “Rabbi.”
His words hung in the air for a moment.
The rabbi continued, “I believe Perchik needs educational opportunities that are tailored to his unique talents. He has the potential to be a great scholar. Indeed, I believe he could become whatever his imagination is capable of conceiving!” The rabbi could now see how small and quarantined a world the boy was growing up in. No wonder he is so withdrawn, he thought. “I wish to open the world for him.”
&
nbsp; He smiled broadly, laughing nervously as he observed the expression upon Gershom’s face.
“His reasoning skills are, frankly, breathtaking. His insights astonishingly far beyond his years.” Perhaps Perchik’s uncle didn’t quite yet understand. “The boy is a wonder, Reb Gershom.” But there was still no reaction. “Truly . . .”
Rabbi Syme was suddenly aware of the awkward, inhospitable angle of the chair and the sound of Gershom’s almost imperceptible breathing as he sat motionless before him.
“Perhaps we could arrange for him to be tutored privately? Measures such as these can be the best thing that ever happened to a gifted child. If we make room for his progress, just think of the extent of his potential! It is truly so exciting. . . .”
But the young rabbi felt the heat leave the already frigid room as his words reached no audience whatsoever. Gershom thawed from his position only to glance severely at the floor.
At last he spoke. “Are you suggesting, Rabbi, that I do not know the best way to care for my own nephew? My community standing, my devotion to God, and my professional merit would suggest I am responsible, would it not?” he asked in earnest.
“Come, then,” returned the rabbi brightly. “I meant no offense, Reb Gershom.”
“Well, what else am I to be?” returned Gershom, his voice growing in harshness. “What is the boy to you, Rabbi? To me, he has proven no such giftedness. He is good for nothing but balancing books—and does not even do that particularly well, I might add.” The elderly lender had taken it upon himself to ensnare his nephew in the ways of his profession—an honor Gershom considered so tremendous, he felt he had performed good deeds enough for a lifetime. “He is a boy so lacking in gratitude that I am bewildered. Year after year I find myself older and not a bit more prosperous, no thanks to him. Why should I extend additional consideration when there is nothing to gain?”
Rabbi Syme was shocked. He had hardly expected a warm welcome, but even this was more frigid than he had anticipated. Did Gershom feel it was his God-given right as surrogate parent to insist that Perchik revere him? Was that why he made such demands of his nephew? Because he perceived the boy as a thankless minion? What had begun to dawn on Rabbi Syme was solidified by Gershom’s next words.
“The boy is an afterthought, Rabbi—the product of a harlot’s indulgence,” said Gershom coldly. “Nothing more. He is leftover bread.”
The rabbi stared, thoroughly horrified. “The boy is an afterthought, Reb Gershom? Surely you do not mean that. Surely not.”
“I do.”
The rabbi despaired for them both. Lord in heaven, he thought. For all the demands placed upon this boy, it truly appears this man despises him.
“Gifted!” Gershom suddenly scoffed. “What right has he to be gifted? What authority have you to tell me so? You are a younger man than I, Rabbi, and not a parent. I mean no disrespect for your rabbinical status, but beyond that, what sovereignty do you possess to lecture me so?”
“Please, Reb Gershom—” the rabbi pleaded.
“Rabbi,” said Gershom, rising from his chair. “Teach in your own way, sir, and let me look after the boy in mine.”
“Look after him?” Rabbi Syme said in misery. “It certainly seems to me that you do not look after him at all.” He stood slowly from the chair and moved to take his coat. The meeting was over.
Once he had reached the door, Rabbi Syme turned around once more. “Brilliance, sir, is a gift from God,” he said. “I have come to know your nephew to be a good boy: a remarkable, bright spark of humanity. It is an honor to teach him. And I know this to be certain: a mind such as his cannot be reined in. Good day.”
Rabbi Syme left the house without another word.
Outside, he stalled as the boy came running up the street, arms full of the daily papers and a stockpile of fire kindling. The rabbi paused to bestow a look of compassion upon the boy, who emerged from the throngs of the street and still, cold as he was, greeted Rabbi Syme with a dip of his cap and a smile so full of sorrow and resilience, the rabbi could scarcely bear it. He returned it and dissolved into the mist of the morning.
“Good day, Uncle,” said the boy as he entered from the cold.
“Let me hear another sound from you,” said Gershom, “and you shall lose your situation here and back to the orphanage with you.”
With that, Gershom turned on his heel and stormed farther into the house, leaving young Perchik alone and mystified in the thickness of the cold and empty room.
One day, after class had been dismissed, the rabbi beckoned Perchik, who gathered his books and made his way to the rabbi’s great wooden desk. Rabbi Syme grasped the tzitzit on his prayer shawl thoughtfully before setting his gaze upon his student.
“Perchik, my boy, your thoughts are extraordinarily advanced for a boy of your age,” he said gently. “Indeed, your grasp of the trials of Exodus is so exquisite and all comprehending.” Perchik’s stillness neither refuted nor confirmed this fact, and as the rabbi’s heart flooded with emotion, he could barely continue. Once he had gathered himself again, he locked eyes with Perchik. “Tell me, my son: Does your uncle have any idea what you are capable of?”
Perchik stared at the rabbi in shock. No one had ever seen, let alone named, his condition; that of his innate specialness, and of his subjugation to Gershom, like the Jews by the Pharaoh he understood so well. The pain of this condition, matched by the feeling of liberty at being understood, was a sensation no cleverness, not even his, could ever fully comprehend.
“No, sir,” he replied, his voice so small, he was unsure he had spoken at all.
The rabbi’s eyes glinted. “Perchik, I wanted to share something that you yourself reminded me of: freedom is dynamic. It is an active thing.”
Perchik tilted his head, intrigued.
The rabbi continued. “On Shabbat, when we are commanded to rest instead of work, we are experiencing what, on the surface, seems to be the opposite of something else. But just as Shabbat is much more than the absence of toil, so too is the freedom of Exodus more than the absence of bondage.”
The boy understood.
“Free a man of the constraints that limit and inhibit his development, and you have a free human being. Freedom is the natural state of man.” He looked away from the boy for a moment and recalled his youth, his own search for self. “My boy,” he imparted with a ferocious passion that shook them both by the throat, “there is nothing negative about our human potential—do you understand me? God Himself created you the way you are. Do not let anyone in this world convince you otherwise. And you are capable of anything, my boy. There is and shall always be a disparity among the gifts God has granted men, but we all deserve equal consideration. All men, no matter how low, how basic, or how tormented, deserve compassion, dignified brotherhood, and respect.
“But part of respecting all men is respecting ourselves. Recognizing that God has blessed you. By embracing these gifts, we live as God lives, with love for all He has created—with an open heart.
“Thus our sages have said: ‘In every generation a person must see himself as if he has himself come out from Mitzrayim.’ You, of course, know what Mitzrayim, this Hebrew word used for ‘Egypt,’ means, do you not?”
“Boundaries,” the boy said quietly.
“It does indeed—and the effort to free ourselves is a perpetual one.”
The rabbi removed his spectacles and looked deeply into the eyes of the boy. “I promise you, Perchik: you are a truly blessed child of our Lord. I promise you will find the strength to overcome the oppression of your circumstances. This fight is your purpose—the strength for it inherent within you. Like rocks of salt shaken in water, the turbulence soon asserts itself in perfect order. My boy, you are supported by the greatest parent of them all. As it is He who has endowed you with your gifts, you can be sure that He therefore believes in their power. And for the record, my boy, so do I.”
Perchik grew very still. The foreignness of these caring words caused h
is eyes to sting with tears. He was filled with a gratitude he had never known.
“Do you recall the Father’s response to another one of his most gifted sons?”
He did. The boy wept silently into the blackness of his coat and whispered: “I am that I am. . . .”
twenty
YOU ARE INATTENTIVE, BOY,” GERSHOM SAID ONE MORNING IN deepest winter when Perchik had mishandled a ledger.
It was not the first time Perchik had been scolded.
Perchik was now seventeen. He worked for his uncle full-time, having once again acquiesced to his uncle’s demands despite every effort of Rabbi Syme. What is it that ensnares me so? he thought. What tempts me to return to this dry well for nourishment again and again? Perchik exhaled deeply—from a place of anguish. He possessed no language for it, but the promise of something—anything—resembling love and approval from Gershom was the intoxicating flame to Perchik’s fixated moth; he was caught, crippled, and trapped for life. He could not help it.
“You think I bring you here to my business day after day to abuse it?”
“No, Uncle,” Perchik muttered, his head bowed.
“What was that?” Gershom shouted.
Perchik jerked his head up and looked his uncle in the eye. “No, sir,” Perchik said louder.
Ever since Gershom had pulled Perchik from Rabbi Syme’s shul, melancholy had blanketed the boy, as he struggled to survive living in the stark gap between his daily life and his abilities. And so he filled in that space with daydreaming. He invented a world for himself in which he thrived, and cultivated every last detail of it. He drew maps of this illusory place within the quarters of his mind—constructed its inhabitants, filled its streets with innovative buildings, the buildings with encouraging mentors, gifted peers, and a community of innovative thinkers. Perchik lived in this world; the world he expected to find. He thought of it while he copied the accounts into his uncle’s large, imposing black book. The place where he could at last become himself.
After Anatevka Page 11