Acts of Faith (19 page)

Beller and I exchanged glances.

“Does that sound like your sister?” he asked.

“No,” I answered, my heart pounding. “I’ve never heard that voice before in my life.”

As we neared the circle, I could see Rena writhing on a chair, her face contorted. She had pulled off her
sheitel
and looked so grotesque I could barely recognize her. Her heavy-jowled husband, Avrom, stood by her, looking helpless and terrified.

I went to her, bent down, and said as gently as I could, “It’s me. Danny. Tell me what’s wrong.”

She moved her lips and yet another unearthly sound emerged. “I am Chava. I have attached myself to Rena’s soul, and I will remain until I have revenge.”

I froze. Like the other onlookers, I was petrified.

Only Beller reacted. To Rebbe Gershon’s visible annoyance, he stepped forward, knelt next to my sister, and simply spoke to the voice as if conversing with my father’s long-dead wife.

“Chava,” he said quietly, “I’m Dr. Beller. What is this revenge you’re talking about? Whom do you think has wronged you?”

The reply spewed out like lava from a volcano. “He
killed
me. Rav Moses Luria killed me!”

Nine pairs of eyes suddenly fixed on Papa, as Professor Beller turned to him and asked, “Do you have any idea what she’s talking about?”

My father shook his head emphatically, and added in a whisper, “I never did anything to hurt her.”

“You killed me,” howled the voice. “You let me die.”

“No, Chava, no,” my father protested. “I begged the doctors to do everything to save you.”

“But you made them wait. You wanted to have your son—”

“No!” Father’s face had gone chalk white.

“You have my blood on your hands, Rav Moses Luria.”

My father lowered his head to avoid the startled gazes of the onlookers and murmured in agony, “It’s not true. It’s not true.” He then addressed the exorcist in suppliant tones. “What shall we do, Rebbe Gershon?”

“Open up the Holy Ark and we will pray to chase this evil spirit out of your daughter.”

I bounded onto the pulpit, opened the doors, and pulled apart the curtains. There, row by row, stood the sacred scrolls, clothed in their gold-fringed silk and crowned with silver ornaments. They seemed to shine more brightly than ever on this night of supernatural blackness.

Rebbe Gershon turned to the others. “We will surround this woman and recite the Ninety-first Psalm.”

We quickly turned to the appropriate page, and awaited his instructions.

He signaled us to begin.

Normally, our prayers were torrents of words moving at different speeds across the text, creating a sacred cacophony. But this time we all spoke in unison, as if the Lord had sent a metronome into our midst.

We had studied this psalm in one of my classes, where we learned that in ancient times superstitious Jews regarded it as having antidemonic powers, since its first two verses invoke God by four completely different names.

I looked over my shoulder and saw my mother and half sister praying intensely. I glanced at all the frightened
faces of the worshipers—except my father’s. I could not bear to look at him.

As we recited, Rena’s head slumped forward. She shook as if locked in mortal combat with the spirit who had captured her. Then suddenly she fell into a faint. Professor Beller dropped down beside her and began to take her pulse.

We all ceased praying. There was total silence. I could hear the angry winds blowing outside.

My father asked anxiously, “Are you all right now, Rena?”

His daughter looked up, eyes pleading. From within, the demon howled once again, “I will never leave until you beg forgiveness from the Almighty!”

Papa had his head in his hands, lost for what to do. I wanted to go to him, to comfort him. But before I could move to his side Rebbe Gershon commanded him, “Rav Luria, you must confess.”

Father stared at him. “But it isn’t true!”

“I beg of you, Rav Luria. Do not question the Lord of the Universe. If He finds you guilty, then you must confess.”

Papa was adamant. “But I told the doctors that
her
life was more important. You know I would have—it’s the law of our religion. I am innocent!”

After a dreadful silence, once again Rebbe Gershon murmured, “We sometimes do not realize what we do. But He who sits on High can only be placated if we ask forgiveness for the sins we might have committed.”

“All right!” my father shouted.

He sank to his knees before the Holy Ark and, sobbing, chanted the
Al chet
, the “Great Confession of Sins,” which we recite nine times on the Day of Atonement.

Without a sign or signal, all of us said in unison the congregational response to the prayer, “Forgive us, have mercy on us, pardon us.”

When our voices finally ceased to echo in the empty synagogue, my professor spoke.

“Rav Luria, I think your daughter should be seen by a psychiatrist as soon as possible.”

Father’s head snapped up. He riveted Beller with his eyes. “You keep out of this.”

“All right, have it your way—for the time being. But remember, as a doctor I have the authority to insist that she be taken to a hospital.”

The others in the
minyan
glared at him. They would, I’m sure, have chased him out had we not needed him as a tenth man. Then they all turned to my father.

“What should we do, Rav Luria?” one of them inquired.

“Ask Rebbe Gershon,” Father answered weakly. He had clearly abdicated all authority.

“There’s no alternative,” the elderly rabbi declared. “We must perform the entire ceremony of excommunication—rams’ horns, Torahs, lights—everything. These are dire circumstances and one must take the ultimate measures. Are you in agreement, Rav Luria?”

“Just tell me what you need,” Father said softly.

“First, we all put on
kittels.
” The exorcist motioned impatiently to his assistant. “Ephraim—quickly.”

The young man rummaged through a large suitcase, and withdrew the white garments Jews wear on Holy Days—and as a burial shroud.

Rebbe Gershon turned back to my father. “We will use seven rams’ horns and seven black candles.”

“Black candles?” said my father in disbelief.

“I brought everything,” Rebbe Gershon murmured. “I left the bag in your office.”

Papa nodded. “Danny, hurry and get it—please.”

I charged up the stairs and entered the little office on the second floor. It looked as though it had been vandalized. Open books strewn everywhere. Tracts on mysticism and demonology. Several on the mystical theories of the sixteenth-century “Divine Rabbi,” Isaac Luria. I never knew he had such works. Or perhaps the exorcist had brought them.

Near the desk was Rebbe Gershon’s weathered valise.
I stared at it for a moment, frightened by what else it might possibly contain, then picked it up and carried it gingerly down the stairs.

By the time I returned to the synagogue, the others, including Professor Beller, had put on the white shrouds.

The moment I gave the bag to Rebbe Gershon, my father pushed a
kittel
at me.

“Hurry, Danny.… Let’s get this over with.”

As I quickly dressed, I could hear Rena—or was it Chava?—moaning incoherently.

Rebbe Gershon now ordered seven of the men to take down Torahs from the Holy Ark. He then opened the valise and motioned me toward him.

“Here, boy, give these out.”

One by one he handed to me seven of those sinister candles.

Father was pacing back and forth, every so often slapping his forehead as if it had been stabbed with needles.

Mama nervously approached the exorcist.

“Rebbe Gershon, we want to do something. May we at least hold candles? I mean, in the women’s section, of course.”

The old man waved her off. Then he pointed again to me. I understood, without the need of words, that he was commanding me to extinguish the other lights.

In a moment the vast synagogue was drowned in darkness, except for seven candle flames.

By their eerie flickering light, the exorcist then distributed among us seven rams’ horns. I took one, but I wasn’t sure I could produce a sound because my lips were numb.

At another of Rebbe Gershon’s signals, we again surrounded Rena, still sitting, her shoulders hunched and eyes tightly closed.

He took a deep breath, stood in front of her, and declaimed, “Evil spirit, since you will not hear our prayer, we invoke the power of the Most High to expel you.”

And then he commanded us, “Blow
tekiah.
”

I had always been chilled by the sound of a single
ram’s horn on the High Holy Days. I imagined the great blast to be the seal of God’s Supreme Judgment. But the sound of
seven
all at once was beyond description.

All eyes were fixed on Rena’s face. She began to writhe again, and a voice clamored from within her, “Let go! Stop dragging me! I will not leave!”

Rena seemed to surrender. She fell back in her chair, completely limp.

Rebbe Gershon persisted, beads of sweat on his brow glowing in the candlelight.

“Since you will not heed the higher spirits, I now invoke the cruelest powers of the universe to tear you out.”

He turned again to us and commanded, “Blow
shevarim.
”

Three low, even notes came forth and filled the empty synagogue. We all bent closer to Rena. The demon was still within her, but noticeably weaker.

“All the powers of the universe are now against me,” it wailed. “I am torn by spirits with no mercy—but despite the pain, I will not go!”

Rebbe Gershon now ordered brusquely, “Put the Torahs back and close the Ark.”

The men obeyed as quickly as they could and, I am sure, wondered as I did what more the exorcist could do.

When we all once again encircled thef
dybbuk
, the old man walked into the middle, looked straight at Rena, and roared like a lion: “Rise up, O Lord! Let thine enemies be dispersed and scattered … I, Gershon ben Jacov, do sunder every thread that binds you to the body of this woman.”

He paused, and then cried even louder,
“You are excommunicated by the Lord Almighty!”

Signaling the horns again, he told us,
“Teruah.”

Driven by blind fear, we trumpeted a sound that transformed the atmosphere into primal chaos. Though we were nearly out of breath, he urged us to keep on blowing. Now the writhing of my sister’s body was so violent, it almost lifted her above the chair.

Then, suddenly, she collapsed, unconscious.

Rebbe Gershon waved at us to stop. Papa was the first at her side. He lifted her face.

“Oh, Rena, my little girl, are you all right?”

She opened her eyes slightly, but said nothing.

“Talk to me, please, my child,” he implored.

She was silent, her eyes unfocused.

Someone tapped me lightly on the shoulder. I turned. It was Beller. “Go to her,” he whispered.

I nodded and took two or three steps toward my sister. By some miracle, she seemed to recognize me.

“Danny,” she muttered. “Where am I? What’s happening?”

“Everything’s all right,” I tried to reassure her. “Your husband’s here.…”

I motioned to Avrom. He came forward, leaned down, and embraced his wife.

Reb Isaacs had put the lights back on as Rebbe Gershon’s assistant collected our extinguished candles.

Following his lead, the men took off their white garments, returning to their earthly clothing.

Beller was again checking Rena’s pulse, and having borrowed a penlight from Dr. Cohen, was looking into her eyes. He stood up, evidently satisfied.

“Get her into bed and see she gets a lot of rest. I’m going to make sure somebody from the hospital comes to see her.”

I waited for my father to object, but he said nothing. To my astonishment, he had also become Beller’s patient.

“May I speak to you for a moment, Rav Luria?” he asked.

Papa merely nodded and walked a few steps away with the professor. They had a whispered dialogue, which I could not hear. For a moment they nodded at one another, then Papa returned to the rest of us.

Avrom had his arms around Rena. I was touched by his devotion.

Then Father addressed us all. “As you can see, the Lord of the Universe has heard our prayers. Thank you, Rebbe Gershon—and everybody.” He added with surprising
severity, “But I command you all to keep silent about what you have seen and heard tonight.”

During our ride home I gathered my courage and asked Beller, “What did you and Papa talk about?”

“His first wife, Chava, how she died.”

“Actually, I’ve never known. He’s never really talked about it.”

“What he told me was enough to put the pieces together. I pretty well sensed that she died of toxemia.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“It’s one of the great mystery diseases of pregnancy. A special form of blood poisoning. If you take the baby out, it stops immediately and the mother’s fine. Of course, if the baby is extremely premature …” He sighed, then continued, “In Chava’s case, it was probably too tough a call, and the doctor may have foolishly tried to save mother and child—and lost both. I’m sure the decision whether or not to act was out of your father’s hands. But still he feels guilty.… ”

“About what?”

“He wanted a son, Danny,” Beller answered. “He feels responsible for Chava’s death, and he thinks that losing the boy was his punishment.”

We both rode silently for a few minutes. Then out of nowhere, he said quietly, “I’m surprised.”

“What do you mean?”

He looked me in the eye and replied with compassion, “I’m amazed it wasn’t
you
who suffered from the
dybbuk
.”

That almost pagan ceremony marked a turning point in my life. I had seen my father, whom I had till then regarded as omniscient and omnipotent, grow helpless in the grip of atavistic superstition—diminished to a frail replica of his once titanic self.