Day of Atonement

“He’s my Benny all over again,” Frieda said. “I loved his father, Rinalah. Such love I’ve never known except with him. He worked for my father, did some carpentry … some bookshelves for him. I thought he was so handsome … I loved his hair, that beautiful thick red hair … ” Tears ran down her cheeks. “When my parents weren’t looking, we’d talk. I loved him so, so much.

“When Papa found out … oooohh.” She shuddered. “He fired him. Hated him. Benjamin had no family, no yichus, no head for learning. He was not a serious student, told too many jokes. Too frivolous for my father. When he found out we were still meeting behind his back, he slapped my face and forbade me to ever see him again … ”

There was a knock on the door, Miriam asking if everything was all right.

Frieda shouted, “We’re fine. Go away.”

“Mama, open up,” Miriam said.

“I said go away.” Frieda sighed. “Darling, I’m resting. Take care of your father for me. Tell everyone I’m fine.”

“If you’re sure—”

“I’m sure,” Frieda said. “Rina is taking good care of me.”

No one spoke. A few seconds later, they could hear Miriam sigh, then the sound of receding footsteps.

Rina said, “They’re all terribly worried about you.”

“I don’t deserve it.”

“Stop it,” Rina said.

“Oh, my little Rina,” Frieda said. “I have this empty hole in my heart since I gave him away. Nothing has ever filled it, nothing ever could. I wanted to find him. Yes, I wanted to do it. But I never had the courage.”

“It’s very frightening.”

“He looked up his birth certificate,” Frieda said. “He must have been curious. But he never contacted me.”

“He said he put his name on this list—”

“Aaah,” Frieda said. “I know about the list. So many times I reached for the phone … I was too ashamed, too afraid. Too embarrassed! But he knew who I was. He didn’t come to me.”

“He knew you were married with five other children. He didn’t want to intrude on your privacy.”

“He is a better person than I am.”

Rina squeezed her hand. Frieda looked up at her, smiled. “He picked a beautiful bride. A young woman for his age.” She knitted her brow. “He just turned forty-one. You must be … what, ten, twelve years younger than him?”

Rina nodded.

Frieda shook her head. “I talk stupidity. Tell him I love him. He will not believe me, but tell him anyway. Tell him I will leave it up to him what he wants to do. But I would like to talk to him, ask his forgiveness.”

“There’s no reason—”

“Yes, there is, Rina. There is reason.”

“I’ll tell him.” Rina paused. “I don’t think he wants to see your parents—”

“My parents!” Frieda blurted out. “They’ll recognize him. Oh, dear God, my husband and children know nothing of my terrible shame.”

“So we figured—”

“I feel like dying.”

“Rest, Mrs. Levine,” Rina said. “Let me talk to Peter. I’ll find out what he wants to do.”

“Tell him my parents go to my sister’s house tomorrow for lunch,” Frieda said. “It will be only my family …” She started to cry. After a minute she asked, “Does he have any family?”

“Of course!” Rina said. “Peter didn’t grow up in an orphanage or anything like that. He had a very nice childhood. His mother and father live in Florida, where he grew up. They were taken aback by his conversion—”

“He doesn’t have to convert,” Frieda said.

“I know that,” Rina said. “And you know that. But it was easier to tell everyone that he was a ger than to explain the circumstances. Besides, he feels like a convert. His mother is a religious Baptist. Peter speaks very fondly of his parents. And he’s close to his brother.”

“Just the one brother?”

“Yes, that’s his only sibling,” Rina said. “And of course, he adores his daughter, Cynthia.”

Frieda clutched her heart. “A granddaughter I’ll never know. Such a terrible fate to suffer. But I deserve such a fate, Rina. It’s punishment from Hashem—”

“Shhhh,” Rina quieted. “Everything will work out.” But she didn’t believe her own words.

There was another knock on the door. Shimon this time.

“I’ll be out in a minute, darling,” Frieda said. “I feel much better. It was just a little exhaustion.”

“Rest, Mama,” Shimon said. “I just wanted to know.”

After he left, Frieda said, “You’d better go to him.”

Rina stood. “I’ll let you know what he wants to do.”

“Tell him I love him, Rina,” Frieda said. “I will not intrude on his privacy just as he didn’t intrude on mine. I will honor whatever decision he makes. Please tell him that for me.”

“I will.”

Frieda said, “And if he doesn’t want to see me, tell him I love him, I always have. And tell him I’m sorry … so very sorry.”

7

The next day, Rosh Hashanah services lasted from eight in the morning to two-thirty in the afternoon. Never much of a churchgoer in childhood, Decker wasn’t much of a synagogue goer either. But today he was grateful for every minute of delay. Less time to spend with people, specifically with her.

There was no purpose for flight now. His secret—so long buried, so seldom acknowledged even to himself—was violated. He knew and she knew. No one else knew of course, except Rina.

Rina, the go-between—a luckless role. She had played her part with aplomb and diplomacy.

She’ll do whatever you want, Peter.

What does she want to do?

She wants to talk to you.

I don’t want to talk to her.

That’s fine.

Then she doesn’t want to talk to me.

No, Peter, Rina had explained patiently. She does want to talk to you, but she doesn’t want to force you to do something you’re not ready to do.

I’m not ready? Decker had whispered incredulously. I’m not ready? I was the one who’d put my friggin name on the list. I was the one who was willing to be contacted. Now she’s saying I’m not ready?

Rina sighed, gave him a “please don’t kill the messenger” look. Maternally, she patted his hand and said, Think about it, Peter.

The upshot: He decided to eat lunch with her—and her family, knowing that the amount of contact she and he would have would be minimal.

Half of him wondered: Why am I doing this? His other half answered: Because you’re curious, jerk. That’s why you started this whole thing rolling twenty-three years ago.

He was curious. As they started back from shul, her sons at his side, he couldn’t help but sneak sidelong glances at them. The detective in him—trying to find any signs of physical commonality.

The oldest was Shimon, the one Rina had called good-looking. He was a handsome man—solid, strong features. Decker put his age at around thirty-eight: There was a gray coursing through his trimmed black beard. Decker’s own facial hair was full of rusty pigment, not a streak of white anywhere. For some reason that gave him an odd sense of superiority—as if his paternal genes were better. Although Shimon was dark, his pink cheeks—probably tinted from the cold—gave his face a splash of color. He stood about five eleven, had black hair and brown eyes, and was built with muscle—he and Decker had that much in common. In keeping with tradition, he was wearing his white holiday robe over his black suit. His kittel was a nice one—white embroidery on white silk.

The next in line was Ezra—same size as Shimon but thinner. Complexioned identically to his brother, Ezra was dark, his beard wide and wild. He wore glasses, and wrinkled his nose when he spoke. Decker was fixated on his ears—slightly pointed on top, exactly like his and Cindy’s. Ezra had pulled his kittel tightly over his chest as he walked, stuck his hands in the robe pockets.

Jonathan was the baby of the family. The Conservative rabbi was tall—same size as Decker but slender. He was also dark-complexioned, but his eyes were lighter—hazel-green. He was clean-shaven and wore a Harris-tweed sport-coat over gray flannel pants. No kittel—either he wasn’t married or the robe was too traditional for his taste. He was whistling “Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah” as they walked, eliciting dirty looks from Ezra. Maybe it was the modern clothes, but Decker found more of himself in this kid than in the two older brothers.

Kid? Jonathan must be Rina’s age, maybe even a year or two older. A pause for thought.

All this mental game playing, it didn’t amount to diddly squat. Unless he ever needed a transfusion or kidney transplant, it didn’t matter what these jokers and he had in common. But he couldn’t stop himself. He was trying to be unobtrusive about it, but more than a few times he managed to lock eyes with one of them, their expressions, in return, mirrors of confusion.

His furtive glances—like Jonathan’s rendition of “Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah”—had a slightly unnerving effect on Ezra. Shimon and Jonathan also seemed puzzled by Decker, but amused by him as well.

Rina was walking behind them with the women; her brothers-in-law were walking ahead with the older men. Children were all over the place. Somehow, Decker had been grouped with his half brothers. Did she notice it?

How could she not notice? He wondered what she was thinking at this moment, if the sight of all her sons together caused her untold pain or happiness. A moment later, Decker caught Jonathan grinning at him.

Jonathan said, “I want you to know, Akiva, that while Rina lived here, her phone never stopped ringing—”

“Half the calls were yours,” Shimon interrupted.

“I was calling as a friend,” Jonathan said.

“A very close friend,” Shimon countered. His brown eyes were twinkling.

Jonathan looked at Decker. “She never even looked at another man.”

Ezra adjusted his black hat, frowned, and said, “Is this yom tov talk?”

“I just wanted Akiva to know that Rina was loyal to him,” Jonathan said.

“Look at the man,” Shimon said, pointing to Decker. “Does he look as if he ever had any doubt? He has a magnetic effect on women. Look what he did with Mama.”

Decker said, “Must have been my charm.”

“I think it was the red hair,” Jonathan said. He took off his yarmulke, then repinned it onto his black hair. “Mama loves gingies. Stubborn woman that she is, she’s always trying to set me up with redheads.”

Decker felt his stomach tighten. He said, “You’re not married.”

“A sore point in the family,” Shimon said. “One of many.”

Jonathan said, “Know any nice Jewish women in Los Angeles? Preferably ones that look like your wife?”

Shimon said, “Religious women.”

Jonathan said, “Not so religious.”

Shimon said, “Another sore point.”

Ezra turned red and said, “This is how you talk on Rosh Hashanah?”

“Take it easy, Ez,” Jonathan said. “The Torah’s not going to fall apart if someone cracks a smile on yom tov.”

“What do you know from Torah?” Ezra said. “The way you people make up your own laws—”

“Ezra, not now,” Shimon said.

“It would be better if you did nothing,” Ezra’s pointed ears were now crimson. “What you do now is apikorsis.”

“That’s your interpretation,” Jonathan said. He held back a smile and began whistling again.

“It’s a true Torah interpretation!” Ezra shouted. “And stop whistling that nonsense.”

Jonathan said to Decker, “A point of fact. It was Ezra who took me to see Song of the South way back when before movies were considered unkosher—”

“Before you were tref,” Ezra said, using the Hebrew word for unkosher.

“Low blow, Ez,” Jonathan said.

“Both of you, enough,” Shimon said. “Papa will hear you and get upset.”

“Ach,” Ezra said, waving his hand in the air. He picked up his pace and caught up with the older men and Rina’s brothers-in-law.

Jonathan said, “The man has no sense of humor.”

Shimon wagged a finger at him. “That is not nice.”

“It’s not a matter of being nice or not nice,” Jonathan said. “It’s a statement of fact, Shimmy.” To Decker he said, “Ezra hasn’t forgiven me for leaving the fold—”

“I haven’t either,” Shimon said.

“You?” Jonathan waved him off. “Who pays attention to you.”

Shimon laughed. “Of all of us, Jonathan had the best head for learning. He’s breaking my father’s heart with his Conservationism—”

“Conservatism,” Jonathan said.

“It’s all the same foolishness.” Shimon put a hand on Decker’s shoulder. “He won’t listen to us, but maybe he’ll listen to you. Talk to him.”

Decker smiled.

“Gornisht mein helfun,” Jonathan said. “Give it up. I’m too far gone.” He raised his eyebrows. “Unless you’re willing to give up Rina—”

“Forget it,” Decker said.

“Not even to save a soul?” Jonathan said.

“Your soul looks okay to me,” Decker said.

Jonathan patted his brother’s shoulder and said, “Hear that, Shimmy? An objective opinion.”

“Then again, I’m pretty new at assessing souls,” Decker said.

Jonathan smiled.

“Yonasan,” Shimon said, “can you do us all one favor? Can you not bait Papa for one whole meal? His heart isn’t what it used to be.”

“So what do you want me to say when he starts in on me?” Jonathan said.

“Don’t say anything.”

“Papa loves to debate me—”

“He doesn’t love it.”

“It revitalizes him.”

“Yonasan …”

“It does!”

Shimon spoke in a patient but parental voice. “Yonasan, Papa was shaken up by Mama’s sudden attack yesterday. Do a mitzvah and go easy on Papa.”

Jonathan threw up his hands. “Okay. I can always use another mitzvah at this time of year. I’ll lay off Papa.” He had a gleam in his eye. “But Ezra’s fair game—”

“Yonasan …”

“He doesn’t have a heart condition.” To Decker, Jonathan said, “Everyone at today’s table has a big mouth. Feel free to make a jerk out of yourself like we all do.”

“Speak for yourself.” Shimon turned serious. “I’m worried about Mama. She still looks a little shaky.”

“She must have caught my bug,” Decker said straight-faced.

“You felt shaky last night?” Shimon said.

“Very,” Decker answered.

“You look okay now,” Shimon said.

“I feel a little better,” Decker said.

“How are you enjoying New York?” Jonathan asked.

“I’m not used to such close quarters,” Decker said.

“It can be oppressive,” Jonathan said. “Especially if you’re used to a lot of space. Rina says you have a ranch with horses.”

“A small ranch,” Decker said. “A few acres.”

“Do you police your area on horseback?” Shimon asked.

Decker stared at him. Shimon had asked the question sincerely. He cleared his throat and said, “We don’t live on the wild frontier. We have regular houses, regular streets—”

“But no sidewalks,” Jonathan said. “Rina said there are no sidewalks.”

“The major streets have sidewalks,” Decker said. “How well do you know Rina, Jonathan?”

“You have streets without sidewalks?” Shimon said.

“Some of the streets don’t have sidewalks,” Decker said. To Jonathan, he said, “You and Rina do a lot of talking?”

Shimon said, “Where do you walk if you don’t have sidewalks? On people’s lawns?”

“There are these dirt curbs—”

“How quaint,” Jonathan said.

“Quaint is cobblestone streets,” Decker said. “Our area isn’t at all quaint.”

Jonathan said, “Rina says you have a lot of Hell’s Angels living near you.”

“Not right near us—”

“Hell’s Angels, gang shootings, highway shootings, and all those crazies on drugs …” Shimon shook his head, adjusted his hat. “And they say New York is bad? I bet I’m safer here than where you live. Because here I have neighbors that know me.”

Jonathan said, “Rina says in Los Angeles no one knows their neighbors.”

“That’s not really true,” Decker said. He realized he was sounding defensive. “Well, it’s sort of true. What else has Rina told you, Jonathan?”

Jonathan didn’t answer right away. Then he said, “Did Rina tell you I was her late husband’s best friend? Yitz and I grew up together.”

“Yitz and Yonasan used to learn together,” Shimon explained. “Every single night until Yitz and Rina moved to Israel. The two of them were amazing. Whenever they learned in the Bais Midrash, people gathered around them just to hear their fertile minds click—”

“A real dog and pony show,” Jonathan said.

“You loved to learn back then, Yonie,” Shimon said. “I remember the fire in your eye whenever you proved a point.”

“That was a glazed look from lack of sleep.”

“You loved it.” Shimmy became grave. “Yitz was a good influence on you. Now he’s gone and you’ve become an apikoros. We lost both of you in one year.”

Jonathan looked pained. “Not quite the same thing.”

Shimon put his arm around his brother and said, “You’re right. It’s not the same thing at all. I’m just saying you lost your love for learning when Yitz—”

“I pay an analyst for this, Shim,” Jonathan said.

“Ach,” Shimon said. “Analyst, shmanalyst. I have faith. I haven’t given up on you.”

Jonathan started to say something but changed his mind. They walked the next few steps without talking. Turning to Decker, Jonathan said, “I used to razz Yitz the same way I’m razzing you.” He rolled his tongue inside his cheeks. “He was a good guy.”

There was another moment of silence. Jonathan managed to put on a cheerful smile, then punched Decker lightly on the shoulder. “As far as Rina goes, I tried. God knows I tried … and tried … and tried and tried.”

Decker let out a small laugh.

Jonathan shrugged and said, “The better man won out—both times.”

Decker didn’t know if that was true. But he certainly wasn’t going to argue the point.

The house that Rabbi Levine built was nearly identical to the Lazarus abode. Crystal, Decker decided, must be symbolic of something. Frieda Levine, like Rina’s ex-mother-in-law, Sora Lazarus, seemed to be inordinately fond of the glistening glass. The dining area was lit with a mammoth-sized chandelier—a four-tiered job with scores of icy stalactites dangling from the frame. It completely overpowered the room.

And as had been the case at Sora Lazarus’s, the adjoining living room–dining room had taken on the appearance of a mess hall. One long rectangular table and four folding card tables crammed every available inch of floor space. There were enough chairs to fill an auditorium.

Rina took Decker’s hand and explained that Frieda had invited a few families—ones that hadn’t lived in the community for so long.

“Nice that the woman is hospitable,” Decker said.

“Peter …”

“Okay, okay.”

“How was your walk over here?” Rina asked.

“You know, you might have walked with me,” Decker said. “Especially after all that happened.”

“You’re not going to like this, Peter, but I felt Frieda Levine needed me more than you did.”

Decker stared at her. “Feel the need to mother her, do you?”

“I think that’s a rhetorical question,” Rina said. “I’m not going to answer it.”

Decker jammed his hands in his pockets. “Did you happen to notice who I was walking with?”

“Yes, I did,” Rina said. “So did Mrs. Levine.”

“Did she say anything to you?”

“No, but she did have this real … wistful look in her eyes.”

“Wistful?”

“Maybe that’s not the right word.”

Decker bounced on his feet, unable to pace because they were in public and there was no room to pace even if he wanted to. He said, “Is there assigned seating at this shindig?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do I have to sit separate from you?”

“I don’t know that, either.”

“Can I put my elbows on the table?”

“Peter—”

“Forget it.” Decker dug into his hip pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “Anywhere I can get a light?”

“You need to smoke?”

“Very badly.”

Rina sighed. “Give it to me. There’s probably a fire under one of the kitchen burners.”

Decker handed her a cigarette. A moment later, she came back with his lighted smoke and suggested they take it outside. Decker said that was a wonderful idea. On the front lawn, they met Jonathan puffing away.

He said, “Great minds think alike.”

Rina took Decker’s arm and said, “Would you two like a formal introduction?”

“Not necessary,” Jonathan said.

“Jonathan grew up with Yitzchak,” Rina said.

“He’s had his history lesson for the day,” Jonathan said.

“Excuse me,” Rina said.

Jonathan laughed. “Sorry. I’m in a bad mood. I hate these things. Every year I swear I’m going to beg off coming, and every year my mother pleads and I give in. Mama can be very persistent. It’s religion to her. The family’s got to be together on holidays!”

Rina felt Decker’s arm tense.

Jonathan said, “I’ve got to marry a woman who doesn’t get along with my family and use her as an excuse.” He said to Decker, “How ’bout yourself, pal? You look really excited.”

“I’m thrilled.”

“Can read it all over your face.”

Decker laughed.

Rina said, “I think her hospitality is nice.”

“You’re nice.” Jonathan said to Decker, “Rina says I’m too sarcastic. Do you think I’m sarcastic?”

“Don’t get me involved in your squabbles,” Decker said.

“You’re way too sarcastic, Yonie,” Rina said. “That’s why you’re having trouble finding a nice woman.”

“His sarcasm doesn’t put you off,” Jonathan said, pointing to Decker.

“Akiva is not sarcastic,” Rina said.

“I’m not?” Decker said.

“No,” Rina said. “You’re cynical. There’s a big difference.”

The men laughed. Decker crushed out his cigarette, feeling a bit more relaxed. Jonathan followed suit a moment later.

“What the heck,” he said. “It’s a bad vice.”

A woman stormed out of the house. She was short and thin and had she been in a better mood might have been considered attractive, but her expression was chiseled out of anger, her blue eyes flashing sparks like a hot wire in water. She was wearing a navy knit suit, the skirt falling three inches below her knee, and a pair of matching leather boots. Covering her hair was a blue headdress pinned with a rhinestone brooch. She marched down the walkway, tented her eyes with her hands, then scanned the sidewalk.

“Lose something, Breina?” Jonathan said.

The woman turned to him and wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Have you seen Noam?”

“Which one is he?” Jonathan said. “I get them all mixed up.”

“That’s not funny, Yonasan,” Breina said.

“No, I haven’t seen him,” Jonathan said.

Breina took one more look down the block. Muttering to herself, she stomped back into the house.

“Ezra’s wife,” Jonathan explained. “She adores me.”

“I can tell,” Decker said.

Jonathan said, “Noam’s the second of five. A weird kid. Always smiling but he never looks happy.”

Rina said, “Jonathan …”

“It’s true,” Jonathan said. “She blames it on me. Anything remotely bad is blamed on my secular influence. God, I wish I had the power they attribute to me.”

He paused a moment.

“I feel bad for Noam. He’s a lost soul.”

“You’re projecting,” Rina said.

Jonathan said, “I’m a lost soul. I admit it freely.”

“Aren’t we all?” Decker said.

“Yeah, but it takes on greater significance in this community,” Jonathan said. “The object in Boro Park is to conform.”

“That’s not true,” Rina said.

“It is true,” Jonathan said. “Noam’s an obnoxious kid, but I feel for him. You know, about six months ago, he came to me to mooch twenty bucks. I was a little put out, but I gave him the money anyway. Before he left, he started asking me some pretty soul-searching questions.”

“What kind of questions?” Rina asked.

“Why did I leave Boro Park? Why did I become a Conservative rabbi? Did that mean that I really didn’t believe in God?” Jonathan sighed. “According to the Orthodox, I really don’t believe in the same God as they do because I think oral law is not as holy as the written law.”