A Ritual Nightmare

 

A RITUAL NIGHTMARE

 

I.

 

            The episode  related here  began one bright day in 1962. Some six months earlier, I had taken up my post as Assistant Lecturer in Singapore’s Faculty of Law. My circle of friends was still narrow, comprising mainly lecturers of the English Literature Department. That morning, my head was still buzzing from a drinking bout of the previous evening. Allan had brought with him one bottle of Johnnie Walker Black label and another of fine French cognac. Looking apprehensively at my recent bank statement, I wondered whether I would be able to be equally magnanimous when it was my turn to supply the booze.

            Then, to my utter surprise, the telephone rang. At first, I wanted to give it a miss. It was still early in the morning; I had not had my breakfast and craved to have my peace. Then, reluctantly, I picked up the receiver.

            “I should like to speak with Mr. Peter Berger. This is Sarah Caspi from Tel Aviv.”

            “Speaking,” I replied when I found my voice. International phone calls were expensive and, frequently, spelt doom. The last one I had received took place a few weeks earlier. Mother had to tell me that Father had been diagnosed with a fatal disease.

            “I am glad I reached you, Bushi,” said Sarah, using my Israeli nickname. “I got up early because international calls are cheaper before 6.00 a.m.”

            “Well, what is the matter?” I switched to vernacular Hebrew.

            “It’s so silly. You remember, some two years ago my Dan was killed in a car accident.”

            “I do. He was a friend of mine. And his older brother – David – still is. We were close back in Tel Aviv. But now David lives in London. I used to visit him regularly when I went down to London during my Oxford days. I thought that he and Dan had had a falling out.”

            “They had: over that stupid inheritance business,” she affirmed in a hoarse, anxious, voice. “When Dan died, David sent me a letter of condolences. But he did not fly home to attend the funeral. And Dan was his only brother!”

            “Oh well,” I replied. “But why do you refer to this now? It’s all water under the bridge.”

            “That’s what I thought until a short while ago. But now we have a problem. Dan and I had no children.”

            “I know,” I interjected.

            “Well, I’ve been going out with another old friend of yours, Tuviah, and we want to get married.”

            “Congratulations, Sarah. But where is the problem?”

            “The Rabbi says that, to marry Tuviah, I must get through a ḥalitza ceremony, in which David declares his unwillingness to have a levirate marriage with me,” she wailed.

            “What?” I let my surprise show. “Sarah, we live in the 20^th century!”

            “That was my reaction. But the Rabbi explained that the law has been laid down in chapter 25 of Deuteronomy, which is still applicable under Israeli law. As you know, there is no civil marriage law in our country. Never was! This means that David has a  duty to ‘redeem’ me, that is, has to offer to celebrate a levirate marriage with me and, if he refuses it have to go through the ḥalitza ceremony, in which he confirms his refusal to do so and I have toshow my indignations by spitting in his face and removing his shoe.”

            “Preposterous, Sarah. But you know: the Haredim have always figured in the coalition. And they stick to tradition whenever possible.”

            “I know,” conceded Sarah. “But, Bushi, Bushi: what to do?”

            “I can see your dilemma, Sarah. Lucky that during its Mandate of Palestine Britain applied   its common law in most private law areas. But, yes, family law remains the Haredim’s  holy cow. But, Sarah, how can I be of any help? Why do you turn to me?”

            “I swallowed my pride and asked David to go through with the silly ceremony. Well, he refused to do so and hung up on me. I hope you can persuade him. You are his friend and, you know, both my late Dan and David often listened to you.”

            “Sarah: I fly to Europe in three weeks. Am going to visit my father in Vienna and then proceed to London. I’ll have a word with David.”

            “But the matter is urgent, Bushi. I am pregnant. And we don’t want our son to be born out of wedlock.”

            For just a moment I remained speechless. “Alright, Sarah, I’ll try to speed matters up. I’ll do my very best,” I told her when I recovered.       

            “Will you ring me as soon as you have found a way out? Within a day or two?”

            “I’ll do my best, Sarah. But I cannot promise you to find a solution. My field is commercial law. I know very little about Israeli family law.  I’ll contact you once I have an idea. You see, I’ll have a word with a person in the know.”

 

II.

            Having placed the telephone receiver back in the cradle, I started to meander about my friendships with Sarah, the late Dan and David. The three of us were members of a social club, called Yahad, in Tel Aviv. We used to meet once or twice every week after working hours, had a few drinks together, danced and often discussed political issues then current.

In addition, Dan, David and I were members of a little-known Canaanite movement. It preached a break with traditional Judaism and reversion to the cultural and ethnic spirit that prevailed in the region prior to the emergence of Israelite (Jewish) identity. Tuviah, in contrast, was traditionally minded, went to synagogue every week and, generally, regarded our movement as heretic. On the personal level, though, he was friendly with the three of us as well as with Sarah. He attended evenings in Yahad sporadically.

Sarah had stood by me during a crisis. I had fallen in love with, Ruth, who was a member of Yahad. We went out steadily, had a number of pleasant evenings and frequently went together to the cinema, to theatre shows and to concerts. But when I asked her to tie the knot, she turned me down. She had concluded that we were temperamentally unsuited for a permanent bond. I was devastated and distraught.

Acting as if she were a sister, Sarah helped me to get over my setback. She had also encouraged me to leave Israel and proceed for further studies to Oxford.  Later, she had urged me to take up the post offered to me in Singapore. She sensed that I would integrate quite readily into an alien society.

I knew that Sarah’s problem respecting marriage to Tuviah was not my business.  Morally, though, I felt bound to do whatever I could to help her to get out of  the morass. In that spirit, I decided to look up the provisions respecting ḥalitzah and levirate marriages.

Having taken my copy of the Old Testament off the shelf in my bookcase, I opened the book at chapter 25 of Deuteronomy. On the face of it the law was clear: when a man dies childless, his widow is bound by levirate marriage (yibum) to the deceased man’s brother. If the brother refuses, the bond is dissolved through the formal conduct of ḥalitza. This is crucial because verbal refusal alone is not enough.

The ceremony, though, is degrading. The ‘rejected’ sister-in-law has to remove her brother-in-law’s shoe, spit in his face and say: “Thus shall be done to the man who shall not build up his brother’s house.” Worse still, thereafter the man’s family is to be known as “the house of the man that had his shoe loosed”.

To clarify things, I arranged to have lunch with Menahem, who graduated from a Yeshiva in Brooklyn and came over to spend a year in Singapore as a Shaliach, that is, an emissary. I had met him in the synagogue and also at the house of one of our elders, who had Shabbat Eve services every Friday. Menahem acted as cantor, and, effectively, became the heart and soul of these gatherings. I attended regularly. It was my way of keeping one foot in the camp’s door. And the meals served were excellent.

Menahem arrived at the synagogue’s restaurant a few minutes before me. We had a comfortable table at the far end of the large hall. Obviously, he had gathered that I wanted to have a chat about a discreet matter.

“This is the first time we meet for lunch, Peter. Well, what’s on your mind?”

“It’s the problem of an Israeli friend of mine. We need your advice.”

“What is it?”

Menahem listened patiently to my story. When I finished, he pointed out that yibum and ḥalitza were still applicable under Jewish law. Where the principles applied, the ceremony had to be conducted.

“But Menahem, isn’t the rule outdated? To start with, it is irrelevant nowadays. Our society is not tribal; and land is no longer the main indicia of wealth. Also, what do you do when the surviving brother is married? Taking a second wife would be bigamy!”

“True, Peter. But you must remember that originally Jewish law sanctioned polygamy. It was effectively banned by Rabbeinu Gershom Sholem in the 10^th century. In the wake of this edict, Rabbis did not solemnise a marriage when a man already has a wife.”

“I thought his ḥerem [ban] applied only to Ashkenazim [European Jews}? And hasn’t his ban abolished yibum [levirate marriages]?”

“No, Peter, it has not. A law set out in the Bible is the word of Ha’Shem [God] and  cannot be repealed by our sages. Still, in most countries  bigamy is illegal; and this law is then given effect. The principle applied is that ‘the law of the land is binding’.”

“I recall that bigamy was proscribed by an ordinance during the British mandate period. And this law is in force in Israel. So, in the case we have talked about, a levirate marriage is not on. David is married!”

“Straightforward on the face of it. But, Peter, ḥalitza continues to apply. And there is more to it than that. Did David and his wife have a Jewish marriage?”

“I simply don’t know,” I told him with unease. “But, in any event, their marriage is valid in England. If David were to marry a second wife, he would commit bigamy.”

“In that case, Peter, I suggest he performs ḥalitza. Surely, it’s just a formal procedure. Just do it and have it over!”

“And if he refuses?”

“Then I don’t know what to do.”

I realised that Menahem was both unable and unwilling to come up with any other solution to the problem at hand. As far as he was concerned, we had exhausted the subject.  He showed his surprise when I told him about my imminent travelling plans and my father’s ailment.

“This sort of problem of ailing parents is quite common, Peter. I, too, had such an experience. I’ll readily pray for  your father.” Menahem assured me.

“But would this help?” I was unable to suppress the agnostically inclined Canaanite in me. “You might as well buy Jehovah  a hearing aid. Think of the Holocaust. Didn’t He  turn a deaf ear to prayers of six million victims?”

“Ha’Shem’s ways are often above us, Peter. Don’t forget: we are only supplicants. He alone can decide if and when to answer.”

“I know you are right,” I felt the need to concede. After all, I had no wish to sever my relationship with the local community.

 

III.

My chat with Menahem continued to rankle as I made my way to the friendly Bridge game in the house of one of my friends. I realised that two irksome problems  had to be tackled: Father’s ailment and Sarah’s problem. My meandering affected my game.

“You played this like a little genius,” muttered my partner when I made an error and was defeated in a three-no-trumps contract.

“Sorry for my blunder,” I replied contritely.

During the next hour I tried to concentrate; but it was no good. After a few additional blunders, my partner suggested that we have a break.

“Not your best day, Peter,” he said severely.

“It isn’t,” I conceded.

            After a quick dinner at a nearby eatery, I drove back home.  My father’s predicament loomed in front of my eyes. Mother had asked me not to tell him about her telephone call. What was  I to do? Look him up and pretend that, as far as I knew, all was well? Was such an ostrich attitude on? Should I not ignore her request and discuss the matter? Was this not my filial duty?

Being unable to find an answer I turned to Sarah’s problem. Common decency dictated that I ring her back and tell her I have come up with a blank. Initially, my precarious financial situation militated against a telephone call. It was exacerbated by a beautiful piece of porcelain I coveted. The vendor had agreed to reserve it for me until the end of the month. If I was unable to pay the price by then, it would be snapped up by another collector.

I continued to meander after arriving at home. After a while, I decided to have a stroll. Slowly but steadily my mind cleared. The piece of porcelain could wait. By paying a deposit and picking it up after payment in full, I would ensure having it. All I could do for Sarah was to have a word with David. The real difficulty was father’s predicament. The best course, I concluded, was to fly to Europe earlier than I had intended and talk to him. The travel agent ought to be able to change the date of my flight. Fortunately, the tickets had not been issued.

Just before walking back to my flat, I compared the two problems facing me: Father’s and Sarah’s. It struck me that her problem, troubling as it was, belonged to the realm of law and persuasion. It could be sorted out. My father’s belonged to time, which allowed no appeal. Tackling was, I feared, beyond me. The best I could do was to hold his hand.

Back in my flat, I waited patiently until 10.00 p.m., when telephone rates were cheaper. Sarah let her relief show. I was bound to see David within two or three weeks. She was hoping that a chat would bear fruit.

Next morning I rang the travel agent and arranged to book my flight tickets. During the next seven days I made all arrangements to be done prior to my trip. On the very morning preceding my  flight, I paid the deposit for the coveted porcelain piece and bought a gift for my father.

 

IV.

Father met me  in Vienna’s airport. He looked fit but had lost weight. On the way to his flat in the 9^th district, he told me that mother had informed him about the telephone call.

Using  the vernacular Viennese German slang we had spoken at home in Tel Aviv, he said: “She should not have rung you, Peter’le. Life is as it is. I see no point in burdening others with personal problems they cannot tackle.”

I looked at him with unconcealed respect and sympathy. Mother, I knew, had stayed behind in Tel Aviv. I suspected that for many years I had been the glue that kept them together. Father, who had found it difficult to make a living in Israel, had returned to Vienna shortly after the Soviet Union had pulled out of it. He had taken up his old business, was doing well and, I sensed, had as much company as he desired. Mother maintained our spacious flat in Tel Aviv and flew to Vienna from time to time.

“Well, what are you going to do Papa? Will you need an operation?”

“Am still pondering about it. But on one point I have made up my mind. I intend to take things as they come. I want to enjoy the time left to me. And I want to come over and see you as often as possible. But this is my  plan for the future. This evening, we are going to your favourite restaurant, in the City Hall. Tomorrow we go the Staatsoper: the Rosenkavalier [The Bearer of the Rose]. And next week we’ll watch Den Zigeunerbaron [The Gypsy Baron] in the Volksoper [the popular opera].”

“Are you sure it’s OK, Papa? Won’t it be too much for you?”

“Nonsense. And if you want, we can also go to the Burgtheater. They show Peer Gynt. And now tell me a bit about your life in Singapore. Are you happy?”

“I’ll be happier if we talk things over, Papa. Mama talked briefly. What is actually the matter.”

“It’s cancer, Peter’le. But at my age, it won’t be too aggressive. I want to ignore it and carry on. Let us leave the subject, how about yourself? I know about Ruth, Peter’le.”

“It was a blow, Papa. I really thought all was Ok; and then she said ‘no’. I was stunned. We had been going steady for months.”

“I can imagine how you felt. But Peter’le, getting married and then growing apart would have been worse. Let us stop reflecting and enjoy the few days you are spending with me.”

Father and I had a good time for some ten days. I knew that, although I had grown up in Tel Aviv, I felt more at home in Vienna. During our years in Israel – mainly the WWII period –I read most Austrian classics and listened to the music of Strauss. In a sense, ours had been an Austrian home amidst the nationalistically  inclined Jewish Yishuv in Mandatory Palestine.

It was over a splendid farewell dinner in the Sacher Hotel’s restaurant that I assumed the courage to talk to Father about Sarah’s problem. I knew that his street wisdom often found solution to tricky issues that baffled me.

Father listened attentively. When I finished, he observed: “But Peter’le, this is not your business. Let them face it on their own!”

“Sarah was very good to me after I was jilted by Ruth. She did her best to console me.”

“Aren’t Sarah and Ruth good friends?”

“They are, Papa. But why is this important?”

“I suspect Ruth asked Sarah to give you moral support. She liked you and knew that her refusal was a blow. She might have been concerned about you.”

“Even so, Papa. Don’t you think I am indebted to Sarah”

“If that’s the way you feel, do have a word with David. But do treat carefully, Peter’le. I recall your telling me some time ago that David is married.”

“He is. He and his Jessica have a son and a daughter. But why I this relevant?”

“Is Jessica orthodox?”

“No, Papa. She is a reform Jewess; and a secular one at that.”

“Well, Peterle, she might have her own views about this ḥalitza business.”

 

Next morning Father accompanied me to the airport. Just before I entered the departure lounge, he gave me a roll with gold coins.

“I made a good investment a short while ago, Peter’le. These will fetch a pretty penny in Singapore. I am sure you inherited the collecting urge from  Mama.  The proceeds will help.”

“Thanks, Papa,” I told him deeply moved. “But you know, I now have a full-time job. I am financially independent.”

“I know. And you have done well, Dr. Berger. But a small extra is bound to come handy.”

 

V.

The flight to London took about two hours. After  settling in my hotel room, I dialled David’s number and arranged to have dinner at his place. David met me at Golders Green underground’s exit. After the usual greetings we were on our way to his place.

“Look here, Bushi,” he told me in Hebrew, “Jessica prepared some Viennese dishes. Please show your appreciation. She can be quite sensitive.”

“When I came over last time, we had an excellent steak and kidney pie. Why the move to Viennese cuisine?”

“She cooked English dishes when you read for your doctorate in Oxford. But now you are coming over after a break in Austria.”

“She is being very kind. Thanks for telling me.”

“And Bushi – are you by any chance going to raise that ludicrous ḥalitza business? I assume Sarah had talked to you.”

“She has. Why do you refer to it?”

“Because Jessica feels strongly about. Please, tread carefully.”

“Why not talk about it on our way?”

“Jessica suspects you are going to raise it. We better have it out over dinner.”

 

It seemed best to bide my time. I was, at the same time, perplexed. Did David feel that this was a family business? Was he, despite his independent and self-assured façade, yet another hen-pecked husband? Be this as it may, his words prepared me.

David’s children had waited for me. They knew me well. After giving his daughter the doll and the boy a copy of  David Copperfield – both acquired during the afternoon – Jessica led the way to their dining room. Having savoured my compliments respecting her Goulash and Apfelstrudel, Jessica started the ball rolling.

“I suppose, Peter, that you are aware of this ḥalitza business,” she said speaking English.

“I am. Sarah rang my just before I took my annual leave.”

“Well, what do you suggest?”

“It’s really an outdated sacrament,” I told her. “Still, it is just a ritual. Why not do it and forget all about it?”

“Don’t you overlook or sidestep a major point, Peter?”

“Do I? And what is it?”

“Bushi,” interjected David, “don’t you see how undignified all this is?”

“Undignified and outdated,” added Jessica vehemently. “Today, women are emancipated. They cannot be treated as  chattels to be passed from hand to hand. Even if we had such a thing as polygamy, would Sarah wish to marry David? Don’t you think that this yibum  is not just ridiculous but also outrageous?”

“I take your point, Jessica. Well, what is the best way out?”

“Look here, Peter,” Jessica spoke firmly, “David and I go from time to time to a service in our reform synagogue. Well, I had a word with the Rabbi, and he tells me that ḥalitza has been kicked out by our faction by the middle of the 19^th century.”

“I am not surprised,” I kept my cool. “But Tuviah is traditional.”

“But this is his problem, Peter! I don’t want my husband to be shamed; and I don’t want him to be called by a derogatory name. I listened to David’s chat with Sarah on our extra receiver. I told him to hang up!”

“It’s just a ritual, Jessica; and the widow spits on the floor,” I tried to soothe her.

“How dignified? Really? And is it?”

“It isn’t – I know this,” I assured her, “but then, it is symbolic. It isn’t meant to be an insult.”

“We know this,” stepped in David. “But, Bushi, how can a former Canaanite like you even think about it?”

“I do not approve, David. But when you move from home to the Diaspora, you realise that there is more to Judaism than religion. There is an ethnic connection. And to maintain it, we make concessions. In Singapore we have only a traditional community. I keep a foot in the door.”

“We do so by belonging to a reform community, Bushi. And, in our private lives, we do what we think is right. You understand, don’t you?”

“I do. Oh well, you have made your stand clear, David. Let us talk about something else.”

 

My last remark calmed the stormy waters. Within a few minutes, Jessica became, once again, a cordial and gracious hostess. To my delight, David produced a bottle of Israeli Sweet Wine – akin to port. For the rest of the evening, we engaged in small talk. I was pleased to hear that both children were doing well in school, that David had been promoted and that Jessica earned a pretty penny by working at home as a copy editor of literary manuscripts.

They, in  turn, wanted to hear all about my life in Singapore, about the tourist sites in our town and about my trips to neighbouring Malaysia and Indonesia. As I got ready to leave, David volunteered to accompany me to the underground station.

  “Look here, Bushi,” said David in Hebrew, “I should really like to assist Sarah and Tuvia. They are OK. But I cannot risk my marriage.”

“Why is Jessica so emotive about this silly business?” I wanted to know.

“Like many reform Jews she hates outdated proscriptions and rituals. We went to a traditional service when we travelled to Cologne. She made a trusk [fuss] when told that men and women had to sit in separated parts of the praying hall.”

 

During the next few days, I contacted acquaintances  in the banking world so as to get updated information about changes in practice. I then spent a few days in Oxford’s Bodleian library, looking up material not available in Singapore. When I had finished, I took my flight to Tel Aviv.

 

VI.

Following a sumptuous meal at home, mother and I discussed father’s illness. She had made up her mind to move to Vienna so as to look after him. During her absence, family friends were going to look after our spacious flat in Tel Aviv.

“There is nothing else we can do for him, Peter’le,” she concluded. “I’ll make him as comfortable as possible. Am told that the outlook is grim. There are no real chances of recovery, and his condition will steadily deteriorate.”

“I know this, Mama. Life has no favourites.”

“It doesn’t. All we can do is to help him keep face.”

 

Two days later I called on Sarah.  Her expression hardened as I recounted my failure to persuade David.

“I know you tried hard, Bushi. I’m not surprised about Jessica’s stand. When it comes to matter of faith, she can be uncompromising. And I don’t think a chat with Tuvia is on. In matter respecting religion, he  regards David and you as heretics. He won’t listen. Fortunately, there is a way out.”

“Is there? How?” I asked bewildered.

“Bushi, my Tuviah does not get on with his Head of Department. They consider him ‘too liberal’ …”

“What???” I interrupted her.

“They are very frum [ultra orthodox] in his department. When Tuvia said that that Isaiah was composed by at least two authors, he and Professor  X. had a shouting match. By sheer chance, a scholar from Tübingen visited  the University  and offered Tuviah a job.  So, we are moving to West Germany.”

“But how about your getting married? And, Sarah, when is your baby due?”

“I’m in the fourth month, Bushi. So, I can still take a flight. In two or three weeks we travel  to Cyprus. After thirty days there, we can go through a civil law marriage, which will be recognised in Germany.”

“But how about a Jewish marriage? I am sure Tuviah would want to have it.”

“Tübingen is near Stuttgart where there is a traditional but liberally inclined community. Tuviah regards them acceptable. And they will sanction a marriage!”

“But how about yibum and ḥalitza?”

“They construe Deuteronomy narrowly, Bushi. The text specifically limits the principle to situations in which the two brothers live together!”

“Traditional Judaism construed this as meaning within the same era or epoch, Sarah. I looked the point up.”

“Well, the Rabbi in Stuttgart construes it narrowly. So according to his reading, the principle is not applicable. When Dan had his fatal accident, David was already in another country.”

 

I stayed in Tel Aviv for another two weeks. Mother accompanied me to Lydda airport, where I boarded a flight to Bombay. After two hours of transit, I flew onward to Singapore. Just before I fell soundly asleep, I thought about the gold coins – father’s gift. They were bound to fetch a good price in Singapore. The proceeds would enable me to pay the amount still due for the porcelain piece.

All that was left to me, was to buy one bottle of malt whiskey and one of Napoleon cognac. This way I could outdo Allan’s generosity when it was my time to provide the booze. 

Just before my eyes closed, I had a final reflection. Sarah’s path had taken an unexpected turn and, almost without effort, settled into calm waters. My father’s ran on, unchanged and indifferent to hope, yet tempered by his courage and plain common sense. In both cases, the outcome would have been no different had I remained in Singapore through the recession.