THE RABBI & THE SHIKSE
Andrew Schultz |
 |
Michael Bernstein, Circulation Department
It sounds like a joke, I know, but there was a rabbi, who happens to share my same name, that walked into a bar to meet a beautiful, blonde shikse . I was there, but didn't meet him until later. I also didn't know then that Virginia was actually a converted, Reform shikse , which is kind of a pun.
. . .
Virginia Winston O'Neill Goldenberg, Editor
At the bar, I was dancing with a group of girls from the New York office, and a guy I had never seen before was staring at me. He was very handsome, with dark, curly hair, well dressed, but not like the straight-arrow ad salesmen or the bohemian editors who work at our company. He leaned against the frame of a large window, the neon sign outside casting him in its red glow. When the song ended, I went over to him. The cheap wine I had been drinking made me dizzy and bold.
"I'm Virginia."
"Hello, Virginia." We shook hands. He looked at me and I could see he was not shy. His dark eyes held mine candidly. He was not as young as the other men at the party; he had an air of dignity and reserve in his carriage and dress. Yet, behind his eyes I sensed a kind of innocence.
"What kind of work do you do for the company? I haven't seen you before."
"I do not work for your firm," he said. He spoke with a slight accent, as if English was not his first language. "I came up because I saw you dancing, from the street."
I looked down through the window. "You saw me from there?"
"From across the street."
"You have good eyes," I said. "Are you some kind of stalker?"
"No, I'm a psychiatrist and a rabbi."
I laughed. "Well, it's a good thing that I'm Jewish."
Now the rabbi was surprised.
"I converted. For my second husband."
The rabbi/psychiatrist paused and cast his eyes about the room, then regarded me again. "You look too young to be twice widowed."
We both laughed; I touched his arm. "If only," I said. "One was a mistake of youth, the other a mistake in judgment."
"I am well acquainted with both in my work," the psychiatrist replied. "What sort of company do you work for?"
I explained our schizophrenic publishing firm, founded and headquartered in St. Louis, but with large operations in New York. "I live in St. Louis, but I visit New York often. This party is the finale to our magazine group's sales meeting."
"What faith," the rabbi asked, looking at me closely, "were you raised in originally?"
"Oh, I was a Christian. Episcopal."
"Why did you convert? Only for marriage?"
"No, actually," I said. "I was never really comfortable with being Christian. If you think about it, it's such a violent, grotesque sort of religion. Of course, I don't need to tell you!" Again, I touched his shoulder. He glanced at my hand as I did so.
"Go on," he said, smiling.
"Say, you're psychoanalyzing me!"
"No, I am hearing your confession."
We laughed again and touched again. "Well," I said, lowering my voice and leaning in close to his face. I caught a hint of mint and a light, musk scent. "Even from a young age, it bothered me that nobody ever talked about or asked this most basic question about Jesus. If those Magi and everybody in the manger knew this baby was the Son of God, then what happened during his youth? I mean, the story skips ahead 33 years and only then is he crucified and, well, again, you know...to me it casts the whole thing into the land of make-believe. Anyway, I just didn't get it. Isn't there, like, 'Young Jesus'?"
"You mean, like Young Abe Lincoln?"
"Or Young Indiana Jones?" I said. Surely he could see I was tipsy. "On the other hand, Santa Claus, now that's a story I could embrace. I mean it works. It's got rules. Nobody gets hurt, except maybe the naughty people on his list, but then they deserve it. He checks it twice, after all. And it happens every year. There is a tree and decorations, special songs, and the kids get toys. It has magic in it you can believe. I guess if you could mix Chanukah with Passover, you'd really have something."
"Now this sounds something like blasphemy."
"Says who?" I asked, taking him by the elbow. "The rabbi or the psychiatrist?"
. . .
Rabbi Michael Mayer Bernstein, M.D.
I failed G-d's test. The Lord placed into my line of vision a single beautiful woman. In that moment I was beguiled. I knew better, but sin needs no excuse.
My will, my reasoning, my intelligence, all failed me as I strolled up Broadway on a brisk winter evening and looked up. I had left my office near Lincoln Center late, skipping dinner once again, and headed home to my apartment on West 78th Street. A motion caught my eye, someone dancing, one floor up. There was a restaurant and bar there, one I was vaguely aware of from my walks in the neighborhood. I never paid close attention to such things. I had never been the sort of person who took in the club scene, much less the singles field of play in New York.
I did have such people for patients, young girls, many Jewish. I found them vapid and self-possessed and surgically altered into a sharp-angled, manufactured beauty. My route to Manhattan and this particular night was circuitous, starting in the profoundly Jewish Williamsburg neighborhood of Brooklyn, training as an Orthodox rabbi, and then, later, as a psychiatrist. When I left Williamsburg, I had gone to Yeshiva, and then to Brandeis for graduate school. No pulpit for me. I propelled myself through college in 2 ‡ years and then completed my doctorate, internship and residency in just 4 ‡ more. I had been in private practice for three years and now, coming up for air, this very night, I was alone in life. I had been in a headlong rush and did not know where I was going so fast or why. Perhaps it was a quest, whose purpose was to rescue a distressed damsel.
From the time I was in my teens, women had sought me out. They appreciated my square, handsome face, framed by a mane of thick, curly hair. I was always in good trim and I liked fine clothes, especially shoes, which the women seemed always to note first.
Of course my Orthodox upbringing precluded social contact with women until I was liberated in going off to college. I came to learn that Yeshiva was as much a den of iniquity as any other university. And though in keeping the commandments and adhering to the law I was otherwise assiduous, I believed I should share myself, tastefully and discreetly, with as many as possible.
Doctor, heal thyself! I can acknowledge now, with the aid of Dr. Elise Ruddiger, that only my profound and honest arrogance got in the way of being a quite accomplished Lothario. Half the girls I met decided instantly that I was too vain to be possessed and gave up. Most of the remainder made their play but found my narcissism a cruel way to pass the time. My relationships were brief.
I also endured the inconvenience of patients falling for me. There were three unstable girls that stalked me, forcing me to secure restraining orders. Even now, when I am out walking, I am dogged by an annoying notion that Marisa or Toby or Sally might jump me. I know better. They are no longer in town and have, I hope, through the ministrations of other professionals, grown up a bit.
When I looked up into the bar, it was as if a medieval painting had dissolved into reality. There she was, awash in golden light, a corona about her blond locks. In a moment, I was in the bar. Upstairs, to the club room. It was a private party, some publishing firm, there was a card identifying the name on a tripod at the door. No one barred my entrance and I slipped into the room and milled around. The woman was still dancing. I studied her. I didn't even think she danced well; her movements were jerky and self-conscious. Yet there was sensuality there that was charming and arousing. My attempts to be objective, analytical, to see if she were merely an apparition, a figment of my wishes, failed in her presence: she seemed a goddess. She was tall and lithe, with the fresh, good looks of the all-American girl. My father would take one look and pronounce her a classic goy : blonde, straight hair, bright blue eyes, high cheekbones, and a perfect pointed nose. Her mouth was full and full of smiles and seemed to summon someone, anyone perhaps, to kiss it. She saw me looking at her and made a curious face, an expression that was part delight and part question. What? There was a sense of danger in that look. That she knew her appeal and its power. I was undone.
And then we spoke. And I applauded myself for my instincts. Or being the object of G-d's will. In either case, when she came over to me I knew I had been correct in identifying her as well worthy of the foolish undertaking I was about to pursue.
. . .
Gregory Wilshire, Publisher
I was the host of the goddamn party, and so I wasn't too happy about what happened any way you want to look at it.
I had been watching Virginia from across the room. She had ignored me all night, preferring to dance with other women in place of even speaking to me. It was maddening to be treated this way when all I ever did was worship and spoil her. I did my best not to smother her, but I knew I botched the job. Now I was making a fool of myself, risking everything for Virginia's indifferent attention. And her loveliness. I was wretched and she knew it. It hadn't been this way at the start, but I was warned. Virginia cultivated misery in men. Certainly I knew her reputation. In fact, that she was so sought after and had cast aside so many suitors was no small part of her appeal. I liked to compete and I liked to win, whether it was stealing ad pages from competitors, outperforming my fellow publishers, or landing the most fetching and alluring editor in the firm.
Once winning her favors, I felt no envy for her other lovers much less her ex-husbands. I was only truly jealous of her undeserving brats, those two little thugs whose dull eyes looked bayonets right through me. From that alone, I should have known my relationship with Virginia was doomed. I understood what attracted men to her, but now I saw what it was that repelled them. Virginia belonged to no one and to everyone. She was, in a word, heedless. I wondered if her sons, whom she doted on, might ever taste the metal tang of her casual neglect the way I did, the way others must have in the past, until she dismissed them and moved on.
It was painful to watch her move, her languid gestures, and the way her hair swayed back and forth with the music... And so I turned away and did not notice for awhile that she had left the dance floor and was talking to someone I had never seen, a swarthy fellow, medium build, quite good looking. He obviously didn't work for the firm. Was he part of the restaurant management? And then I saw her move to leave with him. I met them at the door, and stood as if to block their way.
"Where are you going? Who is this?" I said. They knew I was drunk. My face is terrible when I drink, blotchy and livid.
"It's all right, Greg," Virginia said, waving me away. She was drunk, too. The handsome fellow looked at me with a certain readiness, like a watchful policeman.
"Don't leave, Virginia." She was getting her coat. "Who are you?" I demanded.
"A friend," the man replied, and moved past me.
"You're making a mistake, fella," I said. "This is a private party. What are you doing here, anyway?"
"Leaving," he said, and he went out with her.
Well, of course I followed them. They found a cab and I got in another. I don't think they ever saw me, though it wouldn't have mattered. I could see her sliding over to him on the backseat and resting her head on his shoulder. Perhaps she was sleeping. When they got out of the cab, he held her hand and escorted her into the hotel. I paid off my taxi and went into the lobby, fretful, ruined. I circled about for just a few minutes, but before I could devise any futile stratagem to thwart them, the elevator opened and the dark fellow came out.
I had to tip my cap: how rare a thing, a true gentleman...
. . .
Michael
The common experience of being a Jew can make for quick friends. The additional fact of sharing the name "Michael Bernstein," might be the foundation for deeper connection. Rabbi Doctor Michael Bernstein met me, his doppelganger , when he invited himself to St. Louis for the weekend after the party in New York. Virginia brought him to our temple's annual Jewish Food Fair. I had helped set up the brisket booth and was waiting in the hall as the first of what was always a bustling crowd came in. Bernstein was very handsome, wearing a black leather jacket and black jeans. We shook hands. Virginia explained who he was, but of course, the firm's rumor mill had already told the story. His grasp was warm and he seemed pleased to be taking part in what to him must have seemed a quaint representation of Midwestern Jewish culture.
Virginia, with her sons, Travis Winston O'Neal, 15, and David Albert Goldenberg, 12, made a lap of the booths, leaving us Michael Bernsteins together, leaning by a pillar.
"So, what do you think?"
"It's not bad," the New Yorker said. "I'm glad I came out to see where Virginia lives. She said you'd be here and she wanted me to meet you."
"That's flattering, but I'm a little surprised."
"Well, she thought maybe I would need a friend."
It was a touching thing to say but the whole time he had his gaze fixed on Virginia as she herded her surly, tow-headed, shaygetz teens through the crowded community hall, piling their plates with Jewish delectables. As his eyes tracked her I could see he was riveted by the incongruous Star of David she wore on a necklace about her elegant throat. I wondered if the good doctor-rabbi knew or guessed that I, too, was a sailor who had been led to the rocks. You may well ask, so what? Rocks, schmocks. It's all about feeling something. That's what it means to be human. We experience people in all of their wonder and in all their less appealing qualities. We love them and they disappoint us, they hurt us, even. We do the same to them or others. And again, so what? No one dies as a result. It's just feeling, emotion, need. It's as intangible as thought and as futile as the weather, for what can you do about it?
I suppose I should congratulate myself in only having suffered a single week's indulgence of her infinite variety. Why I barely measured, except in my own accounting. Any more and I might be like the poor sap, Greg Wilshire, for if other women cloy the appetites they feed, she made hungry where most she satisfied. To be cast off so swiftly made it easier not to pine for her, not to ache for her attention, her fresh open quality that said, "I am available and I am a lot of fun, because I like men and I like 'it,' and I want to do 'it' with you...What's your name?"
Virginia's assistant, Nancy, spying my skulking near her office, saw it all in a glance.
"Why does she do this?" I asked, trying not to sound too plaintive.
"She doesn't 'do' anything," Nancy replied. "She just is. But you, you men, collectively, make her into some idealized notion of love just because, well, because she is beautiful and smart and nice. I supposed that's such an unusual combination, but the truth is, she just has a short attention span. Or maybe she knows herself very well and you don't."
When I turned back from a moment's task involving the arrival of new, steaming trays of brisket, the other Michael Bernstein had disappeared. I spied him lurking in a corner, half turned away and I went up and said, "Say, Michael," but he looked up at me, his lips moving in furious prayer that I had interrupted. A grace perhaps before he dared the St. Louis version of kugel ? I blushed and shirked away, feeling secular and sacrilegious.
Virginia came back and remarked how it was very funny that we had the same name. Except it was a perfect example of the difference context makes. When I looked at this Michael Bernstein and was introduced to him and spoke to him and got to know him a bit I had no difficulty in my mind separating him from who I was as Michael Bernstein. In fact, thinking of that Michael Bernstein, it seems the name sounds different because it means something entirely different from me. Virginia in her accidental way agreed. Nancy later teased her that didn't she get confused between us? She said, no, they are nothing alike, which I didn't take exactly as a compliment, but that was okay because I was more or less safe and Michael Bernstein, the erstwhile rabbi and psychologist was crashing on the siren rocks.
. . .
Virginia
With the boys asleep, I went to him in the night...
"I like the way we look together," I said, snuggling along side his dark, hairy, muscular body.
"You're not really like what I thought," Rabbi Bernstein said.
I stiffened and rose on an elbow to look at him. "I'm not sure how to take that!"
"It is a compliment," he said, pulling me back down and turning me as he climbed on once more. "You're really very kind."
"What did you think I was?"
"Well, you said yourself, that you see the end of relationships sooner than your boyfriends, your husbands. They are always too captivated, hung up on their attachment to your beauty to realize that there is no true fit."
"And so as a rabbi, you have come to appreciate my--"
"The mind is the only organ worthy of appreciation," he said, concentrating, short of breath, the pleasure seeming to draw out of him from a deep and distant well.
. . .
The Rabbi Doctor
"I need your advice," the rabbi asked me on the phone. It was jarring a moment to pick up the line in my office and after saying, "This is Michael Bernstein," to hear the same repeated back to me in an amused, disembodied echo. There was a faint Eastern European tinge to his accent that gave him away, along with the arrogant emphasis on the word "this."
"My advice is cheap and as such not worth much," I replied.
"I need to break it off with Virginia but I don't want to hurt her."
I thought, "That was fast," but said: "She's a big girl and knows how to take care of herself." This was true and yet, I felt badly for Virginia. Would she ever know stability, calm, consistency, certainty...boredom?
"Yes, but I want her to feel right about it. It's just that we are not meant to be together. It's too late for us. We are too different and even though I can't bear the thought of her with someone else, neither can I imagine any life we can possibly share together. It is as if she is an alien from another world. I think you can see this as a Jew."
"But she is a Jew."
"She is wearing the clothing only. This is what ultimately makes it impossible and I am ashamed to admit it because there is a tremendous arrogance in saying this. It is like saying, 'You are not good enough for me.' And this is the point I need her to understand. What I am really saying is, "I am not good enough for you," you see, because I am not willing to make sacrifices."
"What kind of sacrifices?"
"Of who I am. Of where I live. Of what defines the family I want to have around me. So I could not ask her to sacrifice her life, her career, her access to her children only to be with me."
"Then in the end, Michael, one might say you love yourself more than you love Virginia, if indeed you love her at all."
A long silence followed and I wondered if the line were dead. I had to admit I admired the man's willpower, for what he was about to attempt.
"Perhaps there is some inverse of myself that I see in her and seek to join with, a collision of yin and yang , of opposite-charged elements."
"It's simpler than that," I said. "You just wanted to fuck her."
After a long moment, the rabbi said, "Yes, I think so, Michael. Also, I want to stop, I don't want to have the look on my face that I saw on the fellow, Greg, the publisher. The need on that face was something I have never seen in the mirror. And I never want to see it."
. . .
Virginia
"I think I made a terrible mistake," I confessed to my assistant, Nancy, when I got back to St. Louis after the sales meeting party.
"Again?" Nancy said, lightly. "You're not back with Harry, are you?"
"No," I said.
"Not Greg anymore?"
"That is so over," I said. "I don't know what I was thinking. No, I met a rabbi."
"A rabbi?"
"He doesn't have a congregation. He's a psychiatrist. Very intense. And very handsome. You'll be impressed."
"You are too much," Nancy sighed.
"I think I let him fall in love with me."
"Don't they always?"
"This is different. He's interested in me. We talk. And around him I feel...so Jewish."
"Oh, that is different," Nancy said, smiling.
"Whatever," I said. "I don't know why I tell you everything."
"Else, I would have no life. So, what's the mistake?"
"He's coming to St. Louis to visit me this weekend. He is smitten."
"He'll be unsmitten when he learns about your exes and your kids," Nancy said.
"He already knows. Everything. He's very mature."
"And he's still coming?"
I smiled. "You know me and my charms."
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