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I spent most of the day Thursday with an Eastern faculty member who wanted to rent Friar Lake on behalf of an organization he was involved with, the National Council of Professors of Religion and Religious Thought. Felton Backus was in his fifties, with a mane of white hair and a matching beard. He could have doubled for Moses in one of those paintings of the parting of the Red Sea – just give him a staff he could raise up to summon God.
“We’re organizing a retreat we’re calling Religious Study and the New World Economy,” he said. “And as you can imagine, the economy doesn’t look favorably on small academic groups without a lot of money. I’m hoping we can get some kind of staff discount on the facilities.”
“Let’s figure out what you need and then I’ll see what I can do on the price.” Rochester accompanied us as I showed him around the property. “Religion is certainly a hot topic today,” I said as we walked. “So much prejudice everywhere.”
“It’s one of the things we study in Introduction to World Religions,” he said. “How people pervert religious doctrine to serve their own needs.”
“I’m teaching a course in the English department on Jewish-American literature this term.” I told him about the section in the Cahan book about David Levinsky’s study of the Torah. “That’s the only truly religions element in what we’ve read so far, though. Most of the material we’ve read has more to do with assimilation.”
“You can’t ignore the connection, though,” he said. “One of the complaints people have about Muslims these days is the visible way they connect with their religion, through the use of the head scarf or the burka. The argument is that they need to assimilate and adopt American customs. And that feeling often leads to cruelty and crime.”
I remembered Joel Goldberg, and his assertion that the criminals of the Holocaust were still among us. Would we ever learn to get along with each other?
Professor Backus and I had a lively discussion as we looked at the rooms his group needed, and then we returned to my office and went over the rental agreement and discussed catering options.
“Can we bring in our own food to save money?” he asked.
“Absolutely.” He negotiated me down on everything he could, from audio visual equipment to promising they’d set up and take down all their own chairs. By mid-afternoon we had hammered out an agreement and I was delighted to see his Volvo, adorned with liberal bumper stickers, head out of the parking lot.
I checked my voice mail as I walked Rochester around the property, and saw a message from Rick. He’d received the toxicology results on Joel Goldberg, and it appeared that there was no trace of any of the anti-psychotic drugs in his blood. That didn’t mean he was experiencing an episode, but it increased the possibility.
By that afternoon, I was glad to be able to close Friar Lake up and head for home. I felt a vague sense of unease and I wasn’t sure what to attribute it to. Was it the situation with Lili’s mother? Or the death of Rabbi Goldberg’s brother? Or something else entirely that had yet to percolate its way to the surface?
That evening, Lili spoke to her brother briefly, but then we shared the sofa, both of us reading until it was time for Rochester’s late walk, and then bed. The next day at Friar Lake, I went through the discussion posts my lit students had made online, responding to a question I’d posed about ethnic literature in general. Was it a window into another culture? Or a way of ghettoizing the “other,” those who were out of the mainstream, not yet assimilated?
The responses were very politically correct, to be expected of young people with a liberal education. How was I going to break through that veneer to get to what they really thought? I considered my conversation with Professor Backus and came up with a couple of new questions based on what he’d said about the connection between religion and assimilation.
Friday was a sluggish day and I was glad to shut down Friar Lake and head for home. After a quick dinner, Lili and I drove to the modern stone and glass temple building. I couldn’t help looking toward the place where Joel Goldberg’s body had been found. The police cones were long gone, as was any evidence that a murder had happened there. I shivered at how easily the evidence had disappeared.
I was on edge as we parked and walked inside, worried that she wouldn’t enjoy the service, that she’d feel out of place because she didn’t have the same roots I had there.
Daniel Epstein, one of the elderly men from Talmud study, was in the foyer outside the sanctuary, and I greeted him and introduced him to Lili. I was impressed that he was able to multi-task so well at his advanced age—handing out prayerbooks, wishing everyone Shabbat Shalom, while balancing on his silver-topped cane.
“What a beautiful space,” Lili said, as we walked in. Early evening light streamed through the tall glass windows looking out at the nature preserve. A clerestory of stained glass cast multicolored shards on the wooden pews with their burgundy cushions. “It feels so warm and welcoming. I keep seeing angles I’d like to shoot it from.”
I squeezed her hand. “I’m glad you like it.”
The rabbi and cantor were already at the bema, preparing for the service, and Lili and I sat in a pew a few rows back. When the service started, she joined in whenever we recited from the prayer book, knew the words to some of the Hebrew and seemed to be enjoying herself.
As the cantor sang, I looked around the room. Was it possible that a member of the congregation, someone in the sanctuary, had killed Joel Goldberg? But what connection could he have to Shomrei Torah, other than that his brother led the worship there?
When the rabbi stepped up to the lectern for his sermon, he looked older than he had the previous Sunday, with a sadness in his face and a slight hunch to his shoulders.
He said some of the same things he’d spoken about at the Talmud study group – the way the old year was winding down, and we had to prepare to welcome the new one, and with it the introspection that came during the Days of Awe between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.
“This is a time to consider the sins of the previous year and repent before Yom Kippur. One of the common greetings at the time will be ‘May you be inscribed in the Book of Life and sealed for a good year.’"
He looked out at the congregation. “We believe that God writes our names in this book on Rosh Hashanah, deciding who will have a good life in the new year, who will live and who will die. However, we have the ten days until Yom Kippur to change that decree, through acts of teshuvah, tefilah and tzedakah —repentance, prayer, and good deeds. Then the books are sealed and our fate determined until the following Rosh Hashanah.”
He took a deep breath. “Some of you may know that I lost my brother Joel this week. He suffered from mental illness, which made him difficult to love sometimes, and he will be in my thoughts during the Days of Awe. I hope that all of you will take this opportunity to let those you love know how you feel, to repair any old breaches and resolve to spend the next year in a state of joy with each other.”
I reached over and squeezed Lili’s hand once again. I could see in her face that she had been touched by the rabbi’s words, and perhaps was thinking of her mother and her brother. I continued to hold her hand until we stood for the final prayers.
“What do you think of Shomrei Torah?” I asked, after we had sung the Adon Olam hymn together with the congregation, Lili’s mezzo soprano joining with my tenor.
“It reminds me a lot of the synagogue we joined when it was time for Fedi’s bar mitzvah. And I was moved by the rabbi’s sermon.”
At the Oneg Shabbat, the gathering for food and drink after the service, I introduced her to Rabbi Goldberg. She shook his hand and repeated how moved she had been by his sermon. “I have a brother myself,” she said. “You’ve inspired me to be kinder in my dealings with him.”
“It’s music to a rabbi’s ears to know that I’ve reached a congregant,” he said. “I hope you’ll continue to join us for worship now and then.”
Then he turned to me and shook my hand. “Good to see you, Steve.”
“How are you doing?” I asked him.
“Still very troubled. I’ve been praying for guidance. I keep looking at that photo the police found in Joel’s shoe and wondering what it means.”
I moved in closer to the rabbi so no one could overhear us. “Detective Stemper said your brother might have stayed at a homeless shelter in Trenton near where he was arrested for vagrancy a couple of weeks ago. You could go over there and see if anyone remembers him. If he said anything that indicated why he was looking for you, or some reason why he was holding onto that photo.”
He took a deep breath. “I’m afraid of what I could find out,” he said. “I don’t know that I could face people who knew Joel, and the possibility that they’d judge me for abandoning him. I never felt that I had, you know. I just had to love him the best I could, and do what he’d let me do for him.”
“I could go for you,” I said, and I saw Lili shoot a glance at me. “Maybe as a disinterested party I could find out something that might help you feel better. And as you said, it’s good to perform acts of kindness for others.”
“I’d appreciate that very much,” he said, and then someone wanted his attention.
“You just can’t keep from sticking your nose into things, can you?” Lili said, as she laced her arm in mine. “But in this case I think you’re doing a mitzvah. The poor man is hurting, and maybe you’ll be able to find something to comfort him.”
She stepped back from me then. “Just be careful.”
