by Andrew Kane
“How are those Bar Mitzvah lessons coming along?” Alfred asked, as he lifted an eye over the daily newspaper.
“Okay, I guess.”
“What does ‘okay’ mean?”
“Everything is fine,” Paul said. “Rabbi Weissman thinks I’m doing well.” He found his father’s sudden interest in his Bar Mitzvah perplexing, especially over a plate of bacon and eggs.
“Well, I hope he’s right,” Alfred responded. “Those private lessons of yours are costing me a fortune.”
Paul felt ashamed of what he was eating as the image of Rabbi Isaac Weissman, his Sunday-school teacher and private Bar Mitzvah tutor, came to mind. He pictured the rabbi’s gentle face, soft and deeply set blue eyes, small—almost emaciated—body, and long scraggly beard. But most of all, he pictured the dark rings under the rabbi’s eyes, the reminder that Rabbi Weissman was a kindred spirit in the struggle for sleep. In fact, when Paul had confided in the rabbi about his own sleep problems, the rabbi had responded with a wide smile, suggesting, “Vhy not spend that time studying? It’s quiet late at night, good for your concentration.”
Paul found Rabbi Weissman easy to talk with, and always sympathetic; beyond that, he had a sense that the rabbi understood anguish in a way that few men could. During the summer, the rabbi frequently rolled up his sleeves, and Paul would glimpse the number on his left arm. Paul had learned about the concentration camps in school, and had chosen not to ask the rabbi for specifics. It was a wise choice, for this was a subject the rabbi never discussed.
The private lessons were actually the rabbi’s idea. He had been Paul’s teacher in Sunday School for two years, had noticed the boy’s interest in Judaism, and had brought it to the attention of Alfred and Evelyn, who were both bewildered as to how their son came to care about such things. Alfred had minimal interest in Judaism and, in fact, had worked hard at putting that part of his life behind him. True, he wanted Paul to do well at his Bar Mitzvah, and had therefore agreed to the private lessons, but that had nothing to do with religion. If he and Evelyn were ever in agreement on anything, it was that they didn’t want some Hasidic rabbi from Brooklyn, who comes out to the suburbs once a week for extra money, converting their son to the “old ways.” After the Bar Mitzvah, the rabbi would be gone.
Paul was silent. The Bar Mitzvah was just three weeks away, and he was suspicious of his parents’ plans for the rabbi once it was all done.
Alfred returned to his paper. He had spoken his piece. Loretta observed them from the corner of her eye as she busied herself with the pots and pans. She wouldn’t have to fix breakfast for the lady of the house; all Evelyn ever had in the morning was a cup of coffee.
A few moments later Alfred left for work, while Paul sat there, playing with the food on his plate. Loretta watched him for a moment, then said, “He’s real hard on you sometimes.”
“How can you tell?” Sarcasm.
She walked over to the table and sat herself across from him. She often sat with Paul when it was just the two of them. He didn’t mind; she was his friend.
“Your father always wants what he wants, and there’s no stopping him once he makes up his mind. I think you can be stubborn too, you know,” she said.
“I suppose.”
“He just wants you to be the best, and he knows you can be.”
Paul nodded, but—in truth—he couldn’t see why Loretta had such a flattering perception of him.
“Seems silly, though, his worrying about your Bar Mitzvah, don’t it? You’re a smart boy, and you’re always working hard and studying. There’s no need for him to be worrying.”
Paul was pensive for a moment. “I suppose I should get going,” he said, eyeing the clock on the wall.
“Yes, you should.”
They both stood up, and Loretta walked over to him. She put her hands on his shoulders, looked him in the eye, and added, “You know, you can always talk to me if you need.”
“I know.”
She wanted to hug him, but stopped herself. She used to caress him all the time when he was younger, but hadn’t in many years. The same for Joshua. She missed those days, but she understood that boys do eventually have to become men, a thought that left her sad and empty.
It was just a few minutes before noon and Dr. Harold Goldman sat in his Hewlett Bay Academy office reviewing the file on his next client, Paul Sims. Remarkable, thought Goldman, assessing the boy’s progress. Paul had first come to him over a year ago as a withdrawn, angry kid, refusing to talk about anything. The school had insisted on the treatment, if Paul was to remain enrolled. An embarrassment for Alfred and Evelyn, but by that time they had no choice.
Paul had no choice either, and he never stopped reminding Goldman of his resentment at having been forced to see the school-shrink every week. He even resisted small talk. Goldman would say, for example, “Did you do anything interesting this weekend?” And Paul would respond, “What business is it of yours what I did this weekend?” Goldman would respond, “Just trying to make conversation,” and Paul would retort, “Well, why don’t you make it with someone else?” Goldman knew that Paul’s anger was really meant for his father. “Transference” was the technical term.
Sometimes, Paul was mute for an entire session. Goldman would attempt a few openers, but usually ended up staring at the walls or twiddling his thumbs. But he never gave up on Paul and never became exasperated. And in the end, his tenacity paid off.
At about the same time that Paul started his Bar Mitzvah lessons with Rabbi Weissman. his hostility began to wane, but he still took every opportunity to cancel, come late, or simply forget appointments. Then, gradually, his attendance improved and he began talking. Soon, they were exploring substantive issues, like how Paul felt about the way his parents treated him, or the way they treated one another. Goldman had felt uneasy with the summer break, but was glad that Paul would still be studying regularly with the rabbi. Not therapy, he thought, but somehow therapeutic. Now, with the start of the new school year, Paul had resumed his weekly visits to the psychologist’s office, and was embarking on the most painful course of all—how he felt about himself. Their first session went overtime, and Paul had requested an additional visit for that week.
Goldman closed the file, somewhat amazed but mostly humbled. He had originally seen this young man as destined for a difficult, sad life. Now, who could tell what the cards held for Paul Sims? Such transformations were rare in Harold Goldman’s business.
Paul knocked on the door at exactly noon. Goldman opened the door as Paul entered and took his usual seat.
Although the Hewlett Bay Academy was a wealthy school, counseling services were not a budgetary priority. Goldman’s office was a simple, unadorned room, institutional in character. Pale green linoleum, off-white walls, a few pictures of nature scenes, a gun-metal desk, and a single bookcase filled with psychology texts. Goldman sat in a swivel chair, and behind him were a pair of windows covered by dusty venetian blinds turned open to expose a view of the parking lot. Protruding from the bottom of one of those windows was the office’s sole luxury: a rickety old air conditioner with a broken thermostat that was permanently set at high. On hot days such as this, it was either bake or freeze. Goldman chose the latter.
There was a brief silence in the room. Goldman looked at Paul curiously; he always waited for his patients to initiate.
“It’s a pretty hot day out there,” Paul said.
“You asked for an extra session to discuss the weather?” Goldman wasn’t one to waste time on niceties.
“Well, actually… yes, in a way.”
Goldman waited for more.
“It’s the heat, you see. It’s been bothering me a lot lately,” Paul explained.
“How do you mean?”
“I’m always hot, no matter where I am. I seem to sweat all the time.”
Goldman saw that Paul was indeed sweating, despite the frigid office. “Sounds to me like it’s not the weather that’s bothering you,” he obser
ved.
“Then what is it?”
“I would guess, from knowing you, that you’re experiencing a great deal of anxiety.”
“Anxiety?” There was a short silence, while Paul considered this. “Why do you think I’m having anxiety?”
“You tell me!”
“My Bar Mitzvah?”
“Possibly.” Goldman pondered for a moment, and said, “Do you have any other thoughts on what you might be anxious about?”
“Well…” Paul stopped himself, without revealing what he was thinking. “No, that’s not it.”
“Why don’t you say what just came to mind, and we’ll see how irrelevant it is,” Goldman suggested.
“I was just thinking about a conversation I had with my father this morning. It was nothing, really. He was complaining, as usual, about how much money he’s been spending on my lessons with the rabbi, that’s all.”
“That’s all?”
“Do you think there’s something to that?”
“What do you think? The thought came into your mind, didn’t it?”
Paul considered Goldman’s point. He wasn’t worried about the Bar Mitzvah per se, he was more than amply prepared for that. Not only had he had the advantage of private tutoring, but he’d also had extra time to prepare. His thirteenth birthday had actually been in the beginning of August and, as with many summer birthdays, his Bar Mitzvah was postponed until September so friends and family who were away for the summer wouldn’t miss it. For him, it really made no difference. He had no friends and couldn’t care less about his family. For his father, who was planning the most lavish bash ever seen this side of Canarsie, it made all the difference in the world.
“So it has something to do with the rabbi?” Paul asked.
“Possibly.” Goldman was noncommittal, not because he didn’t know what was bothering Paul, but because he wanted Paul to uncover these things himself.
“Well, I am afraid that once the Bar Mitzvah’s over, my private study sessions with Rabbi Weissman will also be over.”
“You enjoy studying with him.”
“Yes,” Paul said, then hesitated. “Very much.”
“You stopped yourself for a second, were you thinking of something?”
“I was just thinking about the rabbi.”
“What about him?”
“I don’t know!” Defensive.
“I’m sure you do know.”
“It’s just that… I… like him. Not only the studying, but him.”
Goldman smiled and waited for more.
“The thing that bothers me most,” Paul said, “is that he has invited me to his home for the Sabbath this week.”
“Why should that bother you?”
“You can’t guess?”
Goldman wasn’t stupid. He understood that Alfred and Evelyn wouldn’t take kindly to the idea of their son spending a weekend with a Hasidic family in Crown Heights. “You mean that your parents would object?”
“Exactly,” Paul said. “I don’t even see why they sent me to Hebrew School, or even wanted me to have a Bar Mitzvah in the first place.”
“There are some things that people can’t abandon regardless of how hard they try,” Goldman said.
Paul looked at Goldman, surprised, realizing there was something personal in that last remark. He knew that Goldman was a non-practicing Jew like his parents, for Goldman had revealed as much in previous discussions. Beyond that, he knew nothing about the man. It often made him feel strange discussing his feelings about religion, causing him to wonder what his inquisitor thought of it all. He had actually raised the issue once, but Goldman had retreated to “shrink-talk,” claiming that Paul’s real worry was about how Alfred felt. It had sounded to Paul like a copout then, yet he was certain he would get a similar response now if he pressed. He chose to let it slide.
“I do want to go to the rabbi’s house,” he said.
“Perhaps you can ask the rabbi to speak with your father. He does seem to have a little influence.”
“That’s a good idea, but it doesn’t solve the other problem about what happens with the rabbi once my Bar Mitzvah’s over.”
“Why don’t we tackle one thing at a time.”
The next morning, at exactly seven, the phone rang in the Sims’ home. Evelyn was startled when she picked up the receiver in the bedroom. Still half asleep, she called to Alfred, who was shaving.
He could barely hear her above the noise of the electric razor. “Who?” he called out.
“It’s Rabbi Weissman, on the phone, for you,” she yelled back. Now she was completely awake.
He thought he heard her say, “Robert Waxman,” but he didn’t know any such person. He shut the shaver, stuck his head out the bathroom door, and asked again. She held the phone out, gesturing for him to come and take it, and said in a lower but more severe manner, “Rabbi Weissman.”
He walked to the phone mumbling, “What does he want this early in the morning?”
“Why don’t you take the damn phone and find out,” she muttered as she handed him the receiver, turned away and stuck a pillow over her head. The rabbi heard this little exchange.
Alfred greeted the rabbi in a friendly, respectful manner. He still remembered that, at least in person, rabbis were to be treated with reverence.
“Good morning, Mr. Sims,” the rabbi said in his thick Eastern European accent. The rabbi knew that Alfred cringed at his accent. It reminded Alfred of his parents and grandparents, of the heritage he had so readily discarded. It embarrassed him that there were still Jews who spoke that way, as if they were too stupid to learn proper English. But Rabbi Weissman’s problem wasn’t stupidity, not in the least, for English was only one of eleven languages in which he was fortunate to have an accent.
“I’m sorry to call this early, but I understand from your son that you are an early riser, and the morning is such a vonderful time to have a meaningful conversation. People think vith such clarity this time of day, yes?” The rabbi knew an evening call would probably not have found Alfred at home.
Alfred listened, wondering what the man wanted.
The rabbi was calling from his home in Crown Heights. “I have to be getting to shul for the morning prayers soon, so I von’t take up too much of your time.” He knew that Alfred was a bottom line sort. “I vas hoping to be able to have Paul visit vith my family for the Sabbath.”
Alfred immediately grabbed the pillow off Evelyn’s head. He wanted her to hear this. “This weekend?” he asked the rabbi, as he mouthed to Evelyn what they were discussing. She definitely wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep now.
“Vell, I vas thinking that Paul needs more vork during the two veeks ve have left before the Bar Mitzvah, and it vould be difficult for me to spend Shabbos in your home, yes?”
“But he tells me he’s doing well, not to worry,” Alfred said nervously.
“Indeed he is, Mr. Sims,” the rabbi asserted. In fact, Paul had been fully prepared months ago with the essentials for the ceremony. What he and Rabbi Weissman were presently studying was well beyond that.
The rabbi didn’t feel deceptive, for he believed that he was still teaching Paul things that were very much related to entering Jewish manhood. They were toiling through the pages of the Tanya, the great book of mystical lore written in 1796 by the first Lubavitcher Rebbe, Schneur Zalman of Liady, a disciple of the Baal Shem Tov, the original founder of Hasidism. Paul had learned that Lubavitch was only one of many Hasidic sects that had emanated from the Baal Shem Tov’s teachings, and that the Tanya held the path to spiritual enlightenment through the doctrines of Chabad, a Hebrew acronym for wisdom, understanding, and knowledge. Lubavitchers believed that the true Hasid, or pious one, strives for these three ideals, and therefore refer to themselves as Chabad Hasidim.
Another thing that the rabbi was teaching Paul was the history of the Chabad Hasidim, and how the name Lubavitch came from the Belorussian village in which Rebbe Zalman lived during the last years of his
life. Although the Rebbe died in 1812, most of the Hasidim remained in the town until 1915 when they were forced to flee because of Russian persecution. They relocated to other parts of Europe, and in 1940, the sixth Rebbe, Yosef Yitzchak Schneerson, brought many of them to Crown Heights. Of those who remained in Europe, most eventually perished at the hands of the Nazis.
Ten years after their arrival in Crown Heights, the sixth Rebbe died, and his post was assumed by his distant cousin and son-in-law, Menachem Schneerson, a renowned genius who commanded many languages and had been educated at both the University of Berlin and the Sorbonne, in addition to his Torah scholarship. Rabbi Weissman had told Paul that many Lubavitchers believe that this Rebbe was to be the last before the coming of the Messiah, and Paul had found it intriguing that a man as intelligent as Rabbi Weissman could accept this. In fact, Paul found most of what the rabbi had to say intriguing.
“But as you know, vone can never know too much of anything,” the rabbi added, “there is alvays room for improvement. I vant Paul to be perfect. After all, it is as much a reflection on me as it is on you, yes?”
Alfred had known from the moment they’d met that Rabbi Weissman was a hard man to bargain with. Initially, the rabbi’s unassuming presence had Alfred thinking he was a push-over. Just tell him that I’m not interested in my son having a private tutor, Alfred had said to himself, and that will be that. But by the time their first meeting in the Hebrew School classroom had ended, Paul had a tutor for three hours each week, and at twenty dollars for each of those hours.
“I’ll have to discuss it with my wife. I’m not sure if she has plans for the weekend.” Alfred felt a bit embarrassed at having flaunted his non-observance of the Sabbath in the rabbi’s face. The rabbi didn’t think twice about it; he was a true Lubavitcher, believing that every Jew has a hidden desire to return to “God’s way.” That’s why he schlepped, each Sunday, from Brooklyn to the Five Towns to teach children like Paul. Not solely for the money—as Alfred had thought—but to bring the children closer to Yidishkeit, to Judaism, and thereby hasten the coming of the Messiah. True, the modest salary of a Talmud teacher in the Lubavitcher Rabbinical Seminary was not enough to support his wife and daughter, and give the required ten percent to charity. But Rabbi Isaac Weissman, a survivor of the Nazi death camps, in which he’d lost his first wife and son, was motivated by more than money. And his interest in young Paul was deeper than Alfred could fathom.