by Andrew Kane
He had enough change left for both of them to take the bus, and thanked God the buses ran all night. By the time they got home, it was close to five. He tried being quiet, so as not to disturb his mother, but she was awake, and had been all night. Silly of him to have expected anything else.
When Loretta saw Celeste, her face turned crimson. “Lord in heaven,” she gasped, bringing her hand over her mouth.
There was no need for explanations; Loretta understood. “I’m gonna let Celeste sleep in my room tonight,” Joshua said.
“Yes, of course,” Loretta replied, still stunned.
He brought Celeste into his room, and said good-night. “You’re really not gonna stay with me?” she asked.
“I’ll be right outside, in the living room.”
He promised they’d figure everything out tomorrow, and went into the living room. Loretta was making up the couch. She looked at him, and said, “It’s okay, Joshua, if you wanna sleep in the bed with me. There’s enough room for the both of us.” The couch was about three inches shorter than he was.
“Come,” she said, as she walked into her bedroom. “It’s late. You need to sleep, and you ain’t gonna get any sleep on that couch.”
He went in and lay down beside her. She turned off the lamp. “What are you planning on doing for that girl?” she asked in the darkness.
“I don’t know.”
She was silent for a while. “We’ll figure something out,” she said.
Joshua drifted off to sleep, only to be awakened by his mother’s alarm clock less than an hour later. He opened the door to his bedroom quietly so as not to awaken Celeste. He might as well have been blowing a bugle because she wasn’t there.
Loretta stood behind him. “Well, I’ll be,” she said. “Seems our guest sneaked out while we were sleeping.”
“Seems so,” he said, still looking at the bed.
“What are you gonna do now?”
He thought for a moment. “I don’t know.”
“Maybe it’s best. That girl don’t want help, Joshua, or else she would’ve stayed. There ain’t nothing you can do for someone who don’t want help!”
He knew his mother was right. Celeste was gone, and this time she would make sure he wouldn’t find her. Suddenly, he felt himself unraveling. He couldn’t stop the tears. Loretta took him in her arms.
“It’s okay, Joshua. You did all you could. It’s in God’s hands now.”
With all he’d been through, he couldn’t remember ever having cried until now. And here he was, in his mother’s arms, weeping like a helpless infant. He cried for Celeste, but also for himself, his leg, and his anguish over Rachel. For all the things he would never have.
CHAPTER 29
Rachel Weissman’s engagement came as no surprise to Paul Sims. The blow was softened by the fact that things had been progressing well with Chava Feuerstein. He was trying to convince himself, and others, that he was okay, though he sensed that Chava had her own conflicts about him because of his background.
They had recently begun to discuss marriage themselves. In keeping with the custom of consulting the Rebbe on all major life decisions, they had sent a letter asking his advice, and had received a prompt reply with his blessing.
The most difficult part would be selling the idea to Alfred and Evelyn. While Paul had long forsaken any hope of gaining their approval, he and Chava would definitely need financial help. There was also the matter of Reb Blesofsky’s fee, which in this case would not be able to be paid by the bride’s parents.
Paul knew he would need assistance in confronting his father, but he had no idea where to turn. In the past, Rabbi Weissman had proven an effective ally in dealing with Alfred, but Paul’s relationship with the rabbi had become strained by the situation with Rachel. He consulted Chava, and she suggested Rav Schachter.
“He is a great leader in the community, and has tremendous influence,” she said.
“But I’ve heard he’s a fanatic, that he doesn’t accept people from backgrounds like mine. He would never approve of our engagement!”
“Those are just rumors from those who fear his influence. He has many followers, you know.”
“Are you one of them?” Puzzled.
“Well, my father is.”
Paul found this strange, considering her own predicament.
“Rav Schachter didn’t make my mother ill,” she explained, reading his mind. “He didn’t create the prejudices that people have toward me because of that, either. In fact, he was the one who convinced Reb Blesofsky to help me. That’s why I’m certain he’ll help you.”
Paul considered her point. “You think a man as important as Rav Schachter would take the time to speak with my father?”
“I believe that a man like Rav Schachter would seize any and every opportunity to do a mitzvah.”
Rav Nachum Schachter’s sanctum was a limestone house on the South side of Eastern Parkway, half a block down from the yeshiva dormitory. It was an impressive, three story building, in which the elder rabbi lived and worked, a shrine and gathering place for his followers, and a site surpassed in eminence only by the Rebbe’s residence.
Paul arrived on time for his appointment, but still had to wait a good hour. When his turn finally came, one of the rabbi’s assistants escorted him up three flights to the rabbi’s study on the top floor. Paul traipsed up the stairs behind the assistant, failing to keep pace, and was more than a mite winded when he got to the top. The assistant, obviously accustomed to the stairs, offered a quizzical look, which Paul ignored.
Paul was led into the Rabbi’s study, a small but well adorned room with bookcases, a large desk, and several hand carved wooden chairs, all of burnished oak. The assistant instructed him to take a seat.
Rav Schachter sat behind the desk, stroking his beard, scrutinizing his visitor. The rabbi was an imposing man, stout, with grievous brown eyes, bushy reddish-brown hair, and touches of gray at his temples and in his beard. The desk was orderly, except for a few open religious texts which the rabbi was working on. The rabbi closed the books, slowly and deliberately, and signaled for his assistant to shelve them. The disciple did as commanded, then left the room.
It was dark, and Paul felt like he was in one of those interrogation rooms he used to see in spy movies. The only light came from a dim reading lamp on the desk. Another, more substantial lamp, sat behind the rabbi on a small table, but for some reason, it wasn’t on. Paul wondered about this as he waited to be addressed, apprehensive of what he might be asked and how to respond. He was tempted to get up and leave, but he froze. This was a bad idea, he told himself, though it was too late.
Rabbi Nachum Schachter was a keen observer of human nature, and understood that the less men saw the more they feared. Routinely darkening his study before meetings, even with his closest colleagues, was one of many ways in which he maintained his edge, augmenting the mystique of his already revered presence. It was a necessary, albeit manipulative ruse to inspire fidelity among his followers. And most effective.
“So you are the one who is to marry Chava Feuerstein,” the rabbi said.
“Yes, I am.” Tremulous.
“Her father tells me you are a fine young man.”
“I am honored to be entering his family.”
“That is gut. The Feuerstein name is a worthy one. A pity it has been marred by such tragedy.”
“Yes, it is. I hope to bring joy and honor to the family.”
“Gut. Then what can I do for you?” The rabbi glanced at his watch.
“There is a problem, at least I believe there will be a problem, when I tell my parents of my intentions.”
“You mean you have not told them?” Feigned consternation, for the rabbi had already been briefed on the purpose of the meeting.
“Yes.”
“How does one become engaged without informing his parents?”
“In this situation, the circumstances are such…”
“Yes, I am aware of the circu
mstances. But when a young man leaves his home, for whatever reason, he does not forget to honor his parents, does he?”
“No.” Sheepish.
“Then, you must tell them immediately.”
“What if they object?”
“So they object. That is not the issue. You are an adult. If you want to marry, you should marry. But you owe your parents the honor of telling them, that is all.”
“But I would prefer if they didn’t object.”
“And how do you think you can control that?”
“With the rabbi’s assistance.” Paul spoke to the rabbi in the third-person, as he had been taught in the yeshiva, not unlike the way a loyal subject addresses his king.
Rav Schachter reflected for a moment. “And what is it that you would like me to do?”
“Talk to my father, if it wouldn’t be too much of a burden.”
“You think that would help?”
“My father is a difficult man to deal with. He doesn’t listen much to what I have to say, but he has always listened to Rabbi Weissman. He frequently disagreed with the rabbi, but he listened.”
“So why don’t you have Rabbi Weissman talk to him?”
“I don’t speak to Rabbi Weissman that often these days.” Faltering.
“Oh, I see.” Hands stroking his beard. “And why, if I may ask, is that?”
Paul didn’t want to go into this. He was surprised by how uninformed Rav Schachter was, surprised and fooled. He dismissed the issue, answering, “Rabbi Weissman and I have been having some differences.”
“Your father, I am told, owns many buildings in our neighborhood.”
“Three or four I think.”
“Yes, I’ve heard his name.” The rabbi stopped, and stared into space, calculating something in his mind. This young man could be useful in the future. “Yes, perhaps I will speak with him.”
CHAPTER 30
Rachel’s wedding was in June, and Joshua had the dubious distinction of being the only black guest among several hundred. He attended and held his head high. The ceremony was outdoors, under the stars, and the reception was in a catering hall next to the synagogue. There was a lot of food, music, and religious dancing. He couldn’t dance because of his leg, not that he was inclined to dance with a bunch of men. But he drank, more than enough to help him forget his sadness.
During the months prior to the wedding, Rachel and he had continued seeing one another, though not as often as before her engagement. She’d visit him at home, call, or meet him in the park every few weeks. They always had much to talk about, though she never stayed for more than an hour.
Joshua hadn’t met Binny until the wedding. Rachel had rarely mentioned him, and Joshua couldn’t tell what she truly felt. She had always managed to avoid the topic, leaving Joshua to wonder if she simply didn’t want to hurt him, or if she couldn’t betray her own disappointment. He had hoped for the latter, had prayed that she would come to her senses and regain her old self, but now his hopes were gone.
Paul Sims also married, just a few months after Rachel. Joshua wasn’t invited, but Loretta was. The night that she came home from the affair, she blabbed incessantly about the food, the music, and the way the guests dressed. Joshua wondered if his mother would ever cease to be impressed by white folks.
Loretta continued working for the Simses. She was growing tired, and it showed. But she never complained; she did what she had to do.
And Joshua forged ahead, keeping his mind on school despite all the things eating at him. He had given up on ever finding Celeste again, though she never left his thoughts. In his heart, he believed that things were not yet over for them, that someday, somehow, their paths would cross again.
Rachel phoned every few weeks, but always on the sly, when Binny wasn’t around. Once, in the middle of a conversation, she heard Binny coming through the front door, and hung up abruptly, without even saying “good-by.” Another time, she called in the middle of night, whispering that she needed to see him. It never came to be.
In December, 1967, Joshua applied and was accepted to Brooklyn College. His guidance counselor claimed his grades were good enough for him to consider better schools, like NYU or Columbia, but he wasn’t interested. He didn’t mention any of that to his mother, knowing she would have loved the idea and would have gone to Alfred Sims for help.
The following spring, on the fourth of April, the TV, newspapers, and radio were filled with news of the assassination of Reverend Martin Luther King Jr. That night, when Joshua came home, he found his mother sitting in the living room, her eyes misty, glued to the television as the reports came in. “Oh my God, Oh Lord,” she chanted over and over again.
“Mama, you okay?” He asked several times.
“I’m fine,” she finally answered. Unconvincing. Lost.
“Do you want me to get you anything? Some water or coffee?”
She didn’t hear him.
He sat quietly beside her, for what seemed an eternity.
Finally, she turned to him and said, “I do want you to do something for me. I want you to promise that you won’t leave the house for a few days.”
He looked at her curiously.
“There’s going to be trouble in the streets, rioting, I just know it. I want you to stay put for a couple of days.”
“Rioting?”
She looked at him as if he should have understood this on his own. “There are people out there who’ve just been waiting for a chance like this to riot.” She pointed to the TV. “Now they’ve got one.”
He considered her point, but felt she was overreacting. He remembered having heard about riots in Harlem and Bedford Stuyvesant four years earlier, after a fifteen year old black kid was killed by a cop, and again last year in Harlem and the South Bronx, after an Hispanic man was also killed by a cop. He hadn’t paid much attention to such things, for they only seemed to happen in places ridden with crime and poverty. Nothing like that could happen in Crown Heights, he thought.
Joshua obeyed his mother’s wishes, though in the end he was right. While there were reports of sporadic violence, rock throwing, looting, and arson for a few days in Harlem and Bedford-Stuyvesant, things remained peaceful in Crown Heights.
“See, Mama, I told you there was nothing to worry about,” he said, sitting with her in front of the TV, listening to a news report three days after the assassination.
“Don’t get too pleased with yourself, Joshua,” she answered. “We were just lucky, that’s all. Lucky.” She stared off into space, contemplating her own words. “Luck don’t last forever,” she added, seemingly talking to herself. “Sooner or later, it’s got to run out.”
BOOK III
CHAPTER 31
Chava Sims, neé Feuerstein, lay in her bed, silently wondering what was happening. She was trying to be sympathetic about Paul’s sexual naiveté, but couldn’t help feeling wounded by his behavior. In the few times they had attempted relations, they had barely kissed or held one another before Paul penetrated her. A few seconds later, it was all over and he would retreat to his own bed in silence. Now it seemed as if he was avoiding her altogether. She tried to tell herself that he was just embarrassed, and she knew that if they didn’t talk, it would only get worse.
“Pinchas,” she said softly from her bed.
“Hmm,” he groaned, acting half asleep, hoping she would leave him be.
“We don’t have to sleep apart tonight,” she said, reminding him that she had observed her seven days of cleanliness and had just been to the Mikvah.
“I know, I know, but I’m very tired. Maybe tomorrow night.”
“But, I think…”
“Please, Chava, I must go to sleep! I have a long day tomorrow in yeshiva.”
And that was that.
After a few more attempts, seeing that the situation was not improving, Chava Sims consulted Rav Schachter.
“This happens sometimes,” the rabbi said. “As he gets more comfortable, things will be better. You
must be patient and understanding.”
In the weeks that followed, the rabbi’s words proved incorrect, but there was one thing that did change. At first she had thought she’d come down with a virus or something, but after days of unrelenting nausea and vomiting, she realized what it was. She had difficulty believing it, but it was undeniable; it didn’t take much for her to get pregnant.
When she told Paul, he was ecstatic. “Oh my God, Chava, this is so wonderful!”
Only, instead of embracing or kissing her, as she had hoped, he ran out to the yeshiva to tell his friends.
That night, she began despising him.
Rachel Weissman stood in the bathroom, looking in the mirror, feeling a surge of disgust. She had prayed that this month would be different, but still the bleeding came. It had been over a year since her wedding, and she would still have to endure yet another month of waiting, hoping, beseeching God.
She tried to convince herself that it wasn’t so bad. A week of menstruating, a week of cleanliness, and then back to the Mikvah. Next time it will be better.
She thought about Binny, about their times together in bed. It had all began so wonderfully, filled with tenderness and innocence. Their first time had been both strange and exciting, far from the calamity she’d feared. She had bled from the penetration, and had to wait the week of cleanliness before she could go to the Mikvah and be with him again. And what a reunion that had been, one that most certainly should have produced a son. But it hadn’t.
Rachel went into the bedroom, and looked around. It was an impressive room by all standards: silk wallpaper with blue flowers against a white background; wall-to-wall light blue carpeting; two queen size beds, the extra one for when they had to sleep apart; walnut night-tables with matching armoire and dresser, and an abundance of closet space for her ever-growing wardrobe. There seemed no end to Binny’s generosity.