Within a month of accepting Dr. Harris’s offer, I sold my New York apartment and bought an A-frame chalet in Lisbon, New Hampshire, putting the remainder of the money into Treasury bonds. I had lost all desire to deal with Wall Street, and in truth, I had always known that making money did not make me happy.
I chose Lisbon not just for its exotic name, but because it was central to the five-village cluster in which I was now serving as unofficial spiritual adviser. Also it was a snowball’s throw from the Vermont skiing areas of Stowe and Sugarbush. I had intended to take up the sport, not out of any athletic urge but because I had always heard it was a great place to meet single girls from New York. It was probably true—but who had time to find out?
In due time I had expanded my operation—most importantly by taking one or two young congregants over to Israel each summer. While I visited Deborah and Eli, members of my scattered flock could take courses in Hebrew and generally drink in their heritage. This produced instant Sunday School teachers. Gradually I built up a strong team.
I had so completely thrown myself into my work, driving from town to town, leaping from festival to festival, I could scarcely believe that nearly four years had passed since I had become what I chose to call “a rabbi without portfolio.”
Only once did I actually realize how quickly sand was passing through the hourglass: in Israel in May for Eli’s thirteenth birthday—and that most important landmark in his spiritual life—his bar mitzvah.
The kibbutz had no chapel, so Deborah made arrangements with the rabbi of Or Chadash in Haifa—one of the first Reform synagogues in Israel—an attractive little building halfway up Mount Carmel.
The rabbi even invited Deborah to share the pulpit with him for that occasion—and especially to sing all the Torah portions preceding Eli’s.
Yet an unexpected shadow of melancholy fell on what should have been a completely joyous occasion. For in addition to the kibbutzniks who came in a stately convoy of asthmatic buses, there were six men in their early forties who had made the journey from various parts of the country. They turned out to have been pilots from the same squadron as the “father” of the bar mitzvah boy.
Boaz and Zipporah were deeply touched—and Eli was almost speechless with emotion when he heard who these men were. Deborah quickly arranged to have Colonel Sassoon, Avi’s wing commander, called to the Torah, just preceding me, Boaz, and herself.
Eli’s eyes were riveted on these men, as if he were trying to pierce their memories in hopes of getting a glimpse of his father.
And I couldn’t keep from noticing, both during the service and at the party back at the kibbutz, that Avi’s comrades kept staring at Eli, no doubt wondering how the hell olive-skinned Deborah and even darker-skinned Avi could have produced such a blondini.
The only trouble was, Eli noticed, too.
That night, while the adults celebrated in the refectory, Eli had a party for his classmates from the Regional High School—male and female—at the sports hall. They were having a good time, judging from the giggles I overheard when passing by on the way to my guest room to pick up a sweater.
Suddenly, I heard Eli’s voice.
“Hi, Uncle Danny.”
“Hi, you were great today, kiddo,” I hailed him.
“Thanks, Danny,” he answered, with something less than euphoria. “But would you tell me the truth?”
“Sure,” I answered, my preoccupations making me a little anxious about just what he wanted told with candor.
“Did my voice break during the Haftorah?”
“Not at all,” I assured him avuncularly. “It was all in splendid baritone.”
“Gila says my voice broke.”
“Who’s Gila?” I asked ingenuously.
“Oh, nobody,” he replied. This time, his voice did break.
“Aha, so she’s the woman in your life I’ve heard Boaz talk about.”
“Don’t be stupid, Uncle Danny, I’m too young for girls,” he protested too much.
My years as a woodsman-rabbi had indeed given me acumen in the judging of human relationships, even among adolescents.
“She’s a real winner,” I commented.
“Gila and I are both going to serve in the Air Force,” he said proudly.
“Hey, that’s five years down the road. You shouldn’t be thinking of that stuff on the night of your bar mitzvah.”
His voice suddenly became somber. “Uncle Danny, in Israel, the minute your bar mitzvah’s over that’s all you think about.”
At that moment, despite the party wine I’d imbibed and the balmy air, I felt cold sober. How could any kid ever have a normal childhood given this ineluctable fact of life?
Still, my childhood hadn’t been that wonderful. Maybe I’d have been better off knowing exactly where I was going at eighteen—with no option for dropping out.
I tried to put my arms around my handsome nephew. But even at thirteen he had grown too tall for me to do anything but give him a slap on the back.
It was only when I realized that he had no reason to walk all the way to the guest cottages that I knew our encounter had not been a chance one. And that what Eli most wanted from me on this night celebrating his induction into manhood were some plain home truths.
“Uncle Danny,” he began. He was trying to sound calm. “Could we talk, you know, man to man? It’s something really important. You’re the only guy in our whole family that I completely trust.”
Oh, God, I felt as if the sky were going to fall on my head.
“If you’re going to ask me the facts of life,” I said jocularly, “I’ll tell you as soon as I learn them myself.”
“No, Danny. This isn’t funny,” he persisted.
“Okay then,” I capitulated. “Tell me what’s on your mind.”
By this time we had reached my bungalow and we both sat down on the steps.
At first he merely stared in the direction of the lake. Finally he began.
“Uncle Danny, all this week Boaz and Zipporah’s relatives have been coming in from Tel Aviv and even Chicago. They spent hours and hours talking about old times and looking at photographs.”
I had no illusions about where this was leading.
“It’s crazy,” he continued wistfully, “they’ve got millions of pictures. Even some old fading brown ones from Budapest. And there must be a million pictures of Avi as a little boy.”
He lowered his head and murmured painfully, “But there are no pictures of Mom and Avi. Not a single one. Not even at their wedding.” He paused and then confronted me. “What do you think that means?”
My mind raced to find a quip, a diversionary joke—something to get me the hell out of this corner. But I knew my nephew was too smart—and the power of truth stronger than both our wills.
“I never met Avi,” I finally answered, making the only honest claim I could.
“That wasn’t the question,” Eli said somberly.
“Oh?” I responded. “Then what was the question?”
Eli looked at me and said quietly, “Are you sure he was my father?”
Despite the fact that I’d had at least a quarter of an hour to arm myself with evasionary weapons, I was powerless. I just froze. Finally, he put me off the hook.
“That’s okay, Danny,” he said softly. “You don’t have to give me an answer. The look on your face said everything.”