On a hot afternoon in the summer of 1963, fourteen-year-old Tim, Ed McGee, and their perpetual cheering section, Jared Fitzpatrick, were passing through alien territory—the neighborhood adjacent to St. Gregory’s, which was the center of the B’nai Simcha community.
When they passed the home of Rav Moses Luria, Ed sneered, “Look, that’s where the head Hebe lives. Why don’t we ring his doorbell or something?”
“Good idea,” Tim agreed, but Fitzpatrick had qualms.
“Suppose he answers? He might put a curse on us.…”
“Aw, c’mon, Fitzy,” McGee jibed. “You’re just a lily-livered chicken.”
“The hell I am,” he protested. “It’s just that ringin’ bells is kids’ stuff. Couldn’t we do something more interesting?”
“Like what?” Ed countered. “We ain’t got a hand grenade.”
“How about a rock through his window?” Tim suggested, pointing to a Con Edison excavation a few dozen feet down the road. The workmen had gone for the day, leaving potential missiles of all sizes.
Fitzy rushed over to the site and selected a stone slab roughly the size of a baseball.
“Okay, guys,” Ed challenged, “who’s gonna be the first-string pitcher?” He fixed Tim with a stare. “I’d do it for sure, but I’ve still got a kinda sprain in my arm from beating up those niggers last Thursday.”
Before Tim had time to protest, Ed and Fitzy had elected him. “C’mon, chickenshit, throw the goddamn thing!”
In one furious motion he snatched it from Ed’s hand, cocked his arm, and hurled the stone at the rabbi’s largest window.
The noise was deafening. Tim turned toward his companions.
They were already halfway down the street.
Three hours later, the Lurias’ doorbell rang.
Deborah answered, still in a state of shock, and was now further taken aback at the sight of the two callers. She immediately went to inform her father.
The Rav had been deeply engrossed in a difficult passage of a legal midrash when the enemy missile had pierced the sanctuary of his household.
Ever since that moment he had been standing immobile, staring through the few angry slices of glass still clinging to the window frame, his mind tortured by images of pogroms and goose-stepping storm troopers.
“Papa,” Deborah said haltingly, “there’s a policeman at the door … he’s got a boy with him.”
“Ah,” he murmured, “perhaps we might receive some justice this time. Ask them to come in.”
Moments later they appeared.
“Good afternoon, Reverend,” the policeman said as he removed his cap. “I’m Officer Delaney. Sorry to disturb you, but I’m here about the damage to your window.”
“Yes,” the Rav acknowledged somberly, “damage has been done.”
“Well, here’s the malefactor,” the policeman answered, pulling at the young boy’s collar as if to hoist him like a trapped animal. “I’m ashamed to say that Tim Hogan here’s my ungrateful nephew. We took him in after his poor mother Margaret fell sick.”
“Oh,” said the Rav. “So this is Margaret Hogan’s son. I should have recognized the eyes.”
“You knew my mother?” Tim asked.
“In a distant way. When my wife died, Sexton Isaacs hired her to come in now and then to keep my house in order.”
“More’s the disgrace.” Tuck glared at Tim. “Now say it. Tell the rabbi what I told you.”
Timothy screwed up his face as if tasting a bitter pill and mumbled, “I’m—”
“Louder, boy,” the policeman growled. “This is a man of the cloth you’re talking to.”
“I—I’m sorry for what I did, Your Reverence,” Timothy responded, and continued by rote, “I take full responsibility for my actions and I intend to pay for the damage.”
Rav Luria looked quizzically at the young man for a moment, then said, “Sit down, Timothy.”
Tim perched himself obediently on the edge of a chair facing the rabbi’s book-strewn desk, but he could not keep himself from squirming nervously as he watched the bearded Jewish man pace back and forth along the sagging wooden shelves, his hands clasped behind his back.
“Timothy,” the rabbi began slowly, “can you tell me what induced you to perform such a hostile act?”
“I—I didn’t know it was your house, sir.”
“But you knew it was a Jewish home, yes?”
Tim lowered his head. “Yes, sir.”
“Do you feel any special … animosity toward our people?”
“I … well, some of my friends … I mean, we’ve been told …”
He could say no more. By this point his uncle was also beginning to sweat.
“But do you think it’s true?” the Rav said quietly. “I mean, does this house look in any way different from your friends’ homes?”
Tim looked around for a moment, before responding candidly, “Well, there are an awful lot of books …”
“Yes,” the rabbi continued. “But otherwise, do I or any of my family look like demons?”
“No, sir.”
“Then I hope that this unhappy incident gave you a chance to see that Jews are just like other people … with perhaps a few more books.”
He turned to the policeman. “Thank you for giving me the opportunity to converse with your nephew.”
“But we haven’t discussed compensation yet. A big window like that must have cost a pretty penny. And since Tim won’t rat on his accomplices, he’ll have to pay you by himself.”
“But Uncle Tuck—”
The Rav intervened. “How old are you, Timothy?”
“Just turned fourteen, sir.”
“What do you think you can do to earn money?”
Tuck answered for his nephew. “He can run errands or carry groceries for the neighbors and they’ll give him a little something.”
“How little?”
“Oh, a nickel or a dime.”
“But at that rate it would take years to repay the cost of my window.”
The officer merely looked at the rabbi and stated, “I don’t care if it takes a century. He’ll pay you something every week.”
Rav Luria put his hands to his forehead as if grasping for some elusive idea, then raised his head and spoke.
“I think I have a solution that may be of help to both parties,” he declared. “Officer Delaney,” the rabbi went on, “I can see your nephew is basically a good boy. How late is Timothy allowed to stay up?”
“School days till ten.”
“And Friday nights?” asked the Rav.
“Ten-thirty, eleven. If there’s a night game on TV, I let him watch till it’s over.”
“Good.” A smile had taken over the rabbi’s face. Turning to the boy, he announced, “I may have a job for you.…”
“He’ll take it,” his uncle said quickly.
“I’d rather he made up his own mind,” said the Rav gently. “It’s a post of great responsibility. Do you know what a Shabbes goy is?”
Again Officer Delaney interrupted. “Begging your pardon, Rabbi, but isn’t ‘goy’ what you people call Christians?”
“Yes,” Rav Luria answered. “But the word simply means ‘gentile.’ A Shabbes goy is a non-Jew of impeccable morals who comes in on Friday evenings after our Sabbath has begun and performs the functions that are prohibited to us—like lowering the heat, putting out lights, and so forth. The individual in question,” he explained, “usually runs additional errands for us during the week so he can learn something of our laws, since it is a sin for us to tell him to do anything once the Sabbath has begun.” He turned to Timothy.
“It so happens that Lawrence Conroy is about to leave for the College of the Holy Cross to study Medicine. For the past three years he has been assisting us, the Kagans, Mr. Wasserstein, and both Shapiro brothers. Every month each household gives him some money and each Friday they leave out a portion of whatever dessert they’re having that night. If you’re interested, it would take you only a few months to pay your debt.”
Several minutes later, as they were walking homeward, Patrolman Delaney offered his final comment on the unpleasant matter.
“Hear me, Timmy,” he said, “and hear me good. Next time you break some Jew window, make sure it isn’t some important rabbi’s.”