Once when I was very small, my father imparted to me a special kind of practical wisdom. Having escaped the Holocaust by scarcely a few dozen paces of the jackboot, he offered the following definitions: A sensible Jew is someone who always has a passport for himself and every member of his family. A really intelligent Jew is someone who carries his passport with him at all times.
Thus it was that, before any of us reached our first birthdays, we all possessed valid travel documents. It was a rite second in importance only to my circumcision, the first being a covenant with God, the second with Customs and Immigration. But never in my wildest dreams did I imagine this precaution would serve to accelerate my own sister’s exile.
Deborah’s last evening in Brooklyn marked the end of both our childhoods. We spent every moment together, not just to console, but to assuage our pain at the prospect of not seeing each other for months, perhaps years.
I felt helpless, wanting desperately to do something. And I was glad when Deborah finally whispered to me in such mournful tones, “Hey, Danny, can you do me a really big favor? I mean, it might even be dangerous.”
I was scared, but determined to help her. “Sure. What is it?”
“I’d like to write Tim a letter, but I don’t know how to get it to him.”
“Write it, Deb,” I answered. “I’ll mail it on the way to school.”
“But there’s more chance his family will see it—”
“Okay, okay,” I interrupted. “I’ll try and sneak it over there tonight.”
She threw her arms around me and held me for a long time. “Oh, Danny, I love you,” she murmured.
This gave me the courage to ask, “Do you love him too?”
She hesitated for a moment and then said, “I don’t know.”
It was a little after two A.M. I had waited till I was absolutely sure that everyone, even Deborah, was asleep, laced up my sneakers, and dashed into the empty darkness.
It was an eerie feeling, running along those foggy, deserted streets, lit only by lampposts casting a kind of vapory light.
I was right in the heart of Catholic territory, and even the windows of the houses seemed to stare angrily down at me. I wanted to get out of there fast.
I reached the Delaneys’ house as quickly as I could, hurried onto the porch, and slipped the letter under their front door. Deborah had assured me Tim would be the first one up, since he had something to do with early morning Mass.
Then I sprinted with all my might till I reached our house. After I caught my breath, I quietly opened the front door and tiptoed in.
I was surprised—and frightened—to hear a noise coming from Father’s study. It sounded like a wail, a cry of pain.
As I moved closer, I realized that he was reciting from the Bible. It was from Lamentations: “And gone is from the daughter of Zion all her splendor.”
Even from another room I could feel his anguish.
The door was slightly ajar. I knocked quietly, but he did not seem to hear, so I pushed it open a little further.
He was at his desk, cradling his forehead with both hands, reading the wounded words of Jeremiah.
For a moment, I was afraid to talk, certain my father would not want me to witness him in this condition.
He sensed my presence and looked up.
“Danny,” he muttered. “Come sit and talk to me.”
I sat. But talk did not come easy. I feared that whatever I might say would somehow hurt him even more.
At last he cupped my cheeks in his hands, his entire face a mask of sorrow, and said, “Danny, promise me—don’t ever do a thing like this to your father.”
I was struck dumb.
And yet I could not bring myself to say the words that would relieve his suffering.