does Talmud allow a second opinion when you don’t like your rabbi’s ruling?”
No one responded.
“ Create. Acquire. Don’t you see it?” Rabbi Gerster looked around the hall. “Friendships you acquire with kindness, generosity, or intellectual interaction. We are friends with our grocer, tailor, and barber, and we are friends with our study companion. Friendships vary by the nature of reciprocal exchanges. We go through life acquiring and losing friends. But a rabbi? ”
Lemmy watched the nodding heads spread like a wave of comprehension.
“Every Jew must create his rabbi by embracing faith and knowledge. It is a permanent bond of trust, spirituality, confidence, and obedience to your rabbi’s authority. Create! Your rabbi will conduct your marriage ceremony, pronounce your food kosher, settle your disputes, educate your children, and marry them to their chosen spouses. The relationship with your rabbi is like the relationship with your child. And let me ask you: When our child behaves disagreeably, do we go out to seek a new and better child? Of course not! Once we create the parental bond, it’s inseparable, for better or for worse. Similarly, the bond of obedience to our rabbi is unbreakable.” Rabbi Gerster paused, looking from one side of the crowded synagogue to the other. “And when I called to check on Aaron a few months later, he told me that Miriam had fallen sick, and he took care of her, which renewed their feelings for each other-better than ever!”
The men exhaled in relief. A story with a sweet and instructive ending was a perfect appetizer for the warm dinner that awaited each of the men at home, prepared by their loyal wives. The chandelier above the dais, while not lit up, glistened in red reflections of the setting sun, signaling the end of a day of studying.
But Lemmy could not think about dinner. How could hundreds of Talmudic scholars, critical and inquisitive minds, turn into the submissive crowd surrounding him? How could they not raise their voices in the same protest that boiled inside him?
As if in a dream, he raised his hand.
His father noticed. “Yes?”
The clatter subsided as all heads gradually turned to him.
“I think that, just like Talmud doesn’t require a wife to obey her husband blindly, Talmud also doesn’t require a husband to obey his rabbi blindly.” Lemmy swallowed hard. “A rabbi is only flesh and blood. A rabbi could be wrong. Anyone could be wrong sometime, right?” He took a deep breath. The hall was silent. “Maybe the meaning of create is that we have a personal choice to seek a rabbi whose rulings we find to be wise?” He shifted his weight, his knees shaky.
His father’s face remained expressionless. “Go on.”
“A rabbi,” Lemmy said, “might give his followers the wrong advice-not maliciously, but due to ignorance or poor judgment. Not always would it be a minor disagreement about sleeping arrangements. What if it’s a matter of life and death?”
The silence grew deeper. All eyes focused on him.
“For example,” Lemmy spoke louder to hide the tremor in his voice, “the rabbis in Europe told their congregations not to immigrate to Palestine, and the millions who obeyed their rabbis died in the Holocaust. And those who disobeyed the rabbis’ rulings and joined the Zionists in Palestine? They survive! I think it proved that rabbis can be wrong. Deadly wrong, even.” He wanted to continue, but the words never left his lips.
“Master of the Universe!” Rabbi Gerster grabbed the lectern. “Six million were chosen to join God, and you think it was their rabbis’ fault?”
“It’s not about fault, but about being wrong sometimes-”
“Silence!” Rabbi Gerster raised both hands. “Who are we to judge God’s decision to gather His lambs under His merciful wings?” He swayed back and forth. “His decision to take my saintly mother, my eight young brothers, and two little sisters. Was my father, Rabbi Yakov Gerster, guilty of their death? And of the death of the rest of our shtetl?”
After a long moment, Cantor Toiterlich began chanting in a mournful voice: “ This world is only a very narrow bridge, leading to heaven. ”
More voices joined him. “ And the essence is not to be afraid, not to be afraid at all. ”
The second time, every man in the synagogue, except Lemmy, chanted the sad melody, eyes shut in devotion, voices growing stronger. “ Not to be afraid, not to be afraid at all. ”
Lemmy felt Benjamin tugging at his sleeve. He sat down. His throat was dry. No one looked at him.
T emimah served chicken soup with a slice of bread and a piece of meat with boiled potatoes. The silence was broken only by the clanking of forks and knives. Lemmy had expected his father to admonish him, but not a word was uttered since they had left the synagogue after evening prayers.
Temimah served tea and cookies.
Rabbi Gerster recited the blessing after the meal, ending with, “ God shall give courage to His people and bless us with peace. ”
“Amen,” Temimah said.
“Father,” Lemmy said, “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“You didn’t upset me.” His father sighed. “The Nazis, their name be wiped from memory, they upset me.”
Temimah stood up but did not start to collect the plates.
“I have doubts,” Lemmy said. “I’m not sure I can accept what you said about obedience. My question about the Holocaust-”
The word Holocaust brought Rabbi Gerster’s hand pounding the table with such force that the teacups jumped and landed noisily. “You think you’re alone? Everyone has doubts about what happened. Everyone!” He pointed at Lemmy. “You are my son. When you speak, it’s like I’m speaking. You can’t say whatever comes to your mind. You have a responsibility, for God’s sake!”
“Abraham, please,” Temimah said softly, “he is only-”
“He’s not a child anymore!” Rabbi Gerster stood. “He can defend himself!”
“It’s good for him to express his doubts.”
He glared at her. “To express blasphemy?”
Temimah lowered her eyes.
“And you,” the rabbi turned back to Lemmy, “remember who you are! Our people need certainty, not misgivings. They look to us for answers, not for more questions. Do you understand?”
“I’m not a rabbi,” Lemmy said.
“Not yet! And if you don’t think before you speak, you’ll never be one!” He left the kitchen, and a moment later, the front door slammed behind him.
Lemmy collected the plates from the table and placed them in the left sink, which was dedicated for meat dishes. His mother turned on the faucet and soaped the sponge. “For people like us,” she said, “your father and me, the Holocaust is a demon. It’s a terrible monster that’s still haunting us.”
He knew they had both lost their entire families in the Holocaust. That’s why he didn’t have grandparents, uncles, aunts, or cousins. Temimah had survived a mass execution by pretending to be dead, dug herself out, and was taken in by a Catholic nun who hid her in the basement for four years. After the war and two more years in a displaced persons’ camp in Italy, she had arrived in Israel and found a distant relative in Neturay Karta, where a marriage was arranged with Abraham Gerster.
“And we’re too small to question God.” She caressed his cheek. “We have to accept His judgment, His decision to collect all those innocent souls to His paradise.” She sighed. “It’s a wonderful thing to know that I’ll meet my parents and siblings again. It makes me so happy to imagine our reunion.”
Watching his mother’s face, suddenly aglow with inner joy, he held his tongue. How could he argue with her about the meaning of the Nazis’ murder of those she had loved? How could he express doubts, when God’s powers provided his mother with hope?
“Go now,” Temimah said. “You should be with your father.”
Lemmy took his coat and hat and went to the synagogue for evening study. Many of the men were back, swaying over open books. Cigarette smoke swirled up to the ceiling. But there was no sign of his father.
E lie Weiss leaned against the wall by the entrance to the public restroom. The beggar’s cloak was not thick enough to deflect the bitterly cold wind, and he was shivering. Abraham had called for an emergency meeting-the first time ever.
