Acts of Faith (32 page)

I studied the Yellow Pages and hit upon McIntyre & Alleyn, who did business from what was practically a cubbyhole in a large Wall Street building. A blond, conservatively dressed receptionist seemed almost amazed to hear that I wanted to become a client. She quickly took my name and disappeared behind a glass partition, reemerging with a guy about my age. He had obviously been clothed by Brooks Brothers since he wore the uniform: a no-pocket, pink button-down shirt, bow tie, and red suspenders.

He introduced himself as Pete McIntyre, grandson of the founder. Inviting me back to his desk, he inquired if I
wanted refreshment. I gratefully declined coffee, tea, and Jack Daniel’s and got straight to the point.

When I explained the intention of my visit he remarked, “Very risky business, futures. Especially wheat—which is already played out. Wouldn’t touch it with a ten-foot pole.”

“Well, Pete,” I persisted, “could you see yourself clear to touching it on my behalf?” At this point, I withdrew a banker’s check for thirty-seven thousand five hundred bucks and placed it on his desk.

His interest perked. Somewhere along the line, he had taken my particulars—address (thank you, Ariel, for living in such a good neighborhood), phone and social security numbers.

We then got to the sticky question of how I would cover any potential shortfall.

“What exactly is your net worth, Dan?”

“Well,”—I retreated into sophistry—“doesn’t that remind you of the Psalm—you know, ‘What is man that Thou are mindful of him?’ ”

“Uh, in a way.” He was slightly flummoxed but recovered himself enough to assert, “Actually, in this business we tend to be a bit more pragmatic, Dan. After all, you’ve just committed yourself to spending seven hundred and fifty thousand bucks—before commissions.”

“Well, the way I look at it,” I prevaricated, “that’s just a half dozen or so Utrillos.”

“Oh, are you a collector?” Pete inquired, temporarily sidetracked.

“Yes,” I said, and, letting my imagination run riot, added, “Naturally, I’ve loaned the biggest pieces to museums. But why don’t you put in that little purchase order and then we’ll grab some sandwiches and I’ll show you my collection.”

“Let’s save it for some evening,” Pete responded enthusiastically. “Then I could bring my wife along. Meanwhile, I’ll have Gladys take care of the buy—and lunch is on
me.
”

A week later the price of wheat had gone up three
cents a bushel, giving me the leverage to acquire thirty more contracts. Pete took the order over the phone without question. I declined lunch.

Wheat continued to rise and on July 19 was worth $1.57 a bushel, enabling me to buy sixty more contracts. Pete again invited me to lunch. I declined.

And my investment rose.

On the night of August 2, 1972, when I was holding two hundred and fifty contracts, wheat was nudging $1.60 a bushel, and I was pondering whether I should cash in my chips. I received another breathless phone call from Ariel.

“Sell every picture—sell the wallpaper, even—but buy as much wheat as you can!”

“More?” I asked in disbelief.

“Yeah, I can hardly believe it either. But Leonid and Charlie are downing vodka in the next room, so I guess we’re gonna see something spectacular.”

I left her collection intact, but true to her prediction, the following day wheat shot up by a full seven cents. Pete McIntyre hysterically tried to take a little profit. I now stood to lose thousands for every penny drop in price. But I was adamant. I even increased my position.

Twenty-four hours later, the amber waves of grain had risen yet another five cents. My net worth was no longer fictive. I was really worth more than a quarter of a million bucks.

“Sell, Danny, sell!” McIntyre shouted as if cheering his beloved Notre Dame football team.

“No, Pete,” I said coolly, totally intoxicated with a sense of infallibility. “Now I can leverage another two hundred and fifty contracts.…”

“No, Danny, no!”

“Yes, Pete, yes!”

And so it went for another two weeks, with rumors of a possible Chinese buy fueling the price still further. At last, on August 23, I calmly told Pete to sell my entire position, which now consisted of thirteen hundred contracts.
By now, he was so bedazzled he was almost disappointed.

After deducting their commission, McIntyre & Alleyn transferred $1,095,625 to my bank account.

So there I was, a genuine millionaire. But with whom could I share this triumph? Even if we were on speaking terms, had I called my father, he probably would have quoted the Hebrew proverb, “Who is rich? He who is content with his lot.”

I did fire off a telegram to Deborah, euphorically but enigmatically informing her that I had arranged a full scholarship for her rabbinical studies.

But that was it. I had no other way to celebrate.

I sat up alone, reading, of all things, Ecclesiastes.

The next morning I took the subway to the Bronx, found a
shtibel
, a kind of Hasidic mini-synagogue, and was honored, as is the custom for strangers, with a call to the Torah. It was the only way I knew how to thank God.

As the Reader was blessing me I said an inward prayer to the Almighty, offering a deal I hoped He would not refuse: Deduct Deborah’s tuition and my family’s doctor bills, throw in a college scholarship for Eli, and please, God,
take the rest and give me back my father’s love.

Several days later, Ariel called again. This time the connection was crystal clear. I could tell she was smashed to the gills.

“Too much vodka?” I joked.

Before I could unleash my cannonade of gratitude, she interrupted. “Danny, I’m in Vegas. I’m calling to say good-bye. I’m really sorry.…”

I anticipated the rest of her announcement. “Then he’s going to marry you? Hey, I’m really glad.”

“No,” she slurred. “I guess you don’t know what today is.”

I allowed that I knew the date, but not its significance.

“It’s my birthday,” she said mournfully. “My goddamn thirtieth birthday.”

“So what?” I retorted, “You’re Ariel, the ‘brave spirit’—”

“No, Danny,” she cut me off. “Thirty is a kind of statute of limitations for Charlie.”

“You mean he dumped you?”

“Well, sort of. But he was totally honest up-front. And besides, he hasn’t exactly left me destitute.”

“Hell,” I assured her. “That wouldn’t matter. You can bet I’ll take care of you. In fact, I’ll—”

“No,” she said adamantly. “You’re too nice a guy to have a screwed-up wife like me. Besides, I’m only good when I’m illicit. Anyway,” she went on, “Charlie’s bought me a house in Bel Air and a record company. I’m in Vegas trying to sign up talent. With any luck, I’m hoping to lure Tom Jones into my stable.”

“I’m sure you will,” I said as fondly as I could, thinking how sad this blithe creature really was.

“Oh, yeah, Danny, I almost forgot. Charlie said could you please move out by Labor Day?”

“Hell, I’ll move to the Pierre tomorrow. Will you promise to keep in touch?”

“No,” she said emphatically. “You deserve somebody better than me.”

“Can you at least tell me where to send the Utrillo?”

“Hey,” she said softly, “it doesn’t matter anymore. Sell it and give the money to an orphanage.”

I knew that for the rest of my life I would always wonder if there was any deeper meaning to her final words.

I
t was a terrible wrench when, on August 30, 1972, Deborah bade good-bye to the place she would always regard as home, and the people she would always look upon as family.

During her last days at Kfar Ha-Sharon, wherever she walked, friends would stop what they were doing to chat. And every conversation ended with an embrace.

Counterbalancing the sorrow of leave-taking was the inexhaustible joy in her growing son, and the prospect of actually living with him in the same household.

When Steve Goldman phoned her with the news that she had been accepted by the seminary, she was jubilant, regarding it as another small step in the battle for the equality of Jewish women.

It seemed as though half the kibbutz had boarded the old bus to accompany her to the airport. Deborah sat holding Eli in her lap, unable to look back at the azure waters of the Galilee lest she burst into tears.

Not even the magniloquent Boaz could convince Security to let the entire group enter the terminal. He and Zipporah alone were allowed to see her off.

“Now, Deborah,” Boaz admonished sternly. “I have your solemn promise you’ll come back to visit us next summer?”

“I’ll come back
every
summer, I swear.”

“Let’s take them one at a time,” he replied philosophically. “But just between the two of us I’ll make a special deal with you. You’ll only have to work in the fields
half
a day, so you can study the rest of the time.”

Eli could sense the sadness of the occasion and began to cry.

“Shush, darling,” Deborah murmured, “you’ve got to be a big boy. Now kiss Grandpa and Grandma good-bye.”

The little boy obeyed and said in a quavering voice,
“Shalom sabta.”

Eli was too restless to sit still, so Deborah spent most of the flight as a human pillow. Her only respite came when a kindly stewardess offered to hold “the little sweetie”—not a word that Deborah would have used at the time—while Mama freshened up in the bathroom.

Though exhausting, her son’s insomnia kept her mind from other, far more awesome thoughts.

Like the prospect of going to the university and still managing to be a good mother to her son. And most of all, living once again in her father’s home.

She had left as a naughty girl being punished. Now she was returning as a woman who had suffered pain and tasted the most fundamental joys of life.

Would her father accept her change of status? Would he acknowledge her as an adult? Even if he didn’t, there was rio alternative. Not until she found the means to be independent.

This worried her even more than the classes at the seminary, for she was excited at the prospect of studying Talmud, Torah, and history with the men. She did not think beyond classes to her actual ordination as a rabbi. That was still so many years away, she could not take it seriously enough to be frightened. She already had enough challenges on her hands.

The reality of his sister’s baby only fully struck Danny at the Arrivals area. He rushed to embrace the warm little
human being. Deeply moved, he looked at Eli and, keeping his gaze riveted, remarked softly, “He’s got his father’s eyes.”

“Yes,” Deborah whispered.

Sleepy and frightened, Eli began to wail. “C’mon, kid, this is your Uncle Danny,” he cajoled and then asked Deborah, “What does he speak? Hebrew? English?”

“Half and half,” Deborah replied.

Suddenly Eli grew calm. He placed a warm, dimpled hand on Danny’s neck.

Nodding to the porter, his uncle ordered, “Follow us through here. My jalopy is waiting.”

The waiting limousine was so long it looked more like a railroad car.

A blue-uniformed chauffeur held open the door. After making certain that Deborah and Eli were comfortable, he went around to see to the luggage.

As her brother slid in and closed the door, Deborah protested, “Danny, are you crazy? This must be costing you a fortune.”

“Nothing’s too good for my sister,” he replied affectionately. “And as far as money is concerned, my only problem is what to do with it.”

As concisely as possible, he told her of his sudden rise from rabbinate to riches.

To Deborah, her brother’s worldly success and outwardly euphoric manner were very troubling. He seemed to be trying too hard to convince her that he was happy.

“Do Mama and Papa know anything about this?”

He shook his head. “No, I can’t find the courage to pick up the phone. I mean, Papa’s a lot better, but he very seldom leaves the house except to go to
shul.
”

His facial muscles had now tired of maintaining a smile. His eyes were downcast, and he said softly, “I wish I could help them, Deb. Especially Mama. I’d love to take her to Saks Fifth Avenue and let her buy out the store. But I know he’d despise what I’ve done and wouldn’t let her go. I only wish there was a way …” His voice trailed off.

“Tell me,” she said affectionately.

He took her hand. “Deb, if you could find out anything they possibly might need—for the house, for the school, anything—just let me know. I want to do something, you know—helpful—useful.…”

To Deborah’s astonishment, just as they approached the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway their driver pulled over to the shoulder where a second limousine was waiting.

“What’s going on?”

“I’m afraid this is where the prodigal son has to get off. I can’t show my face in Father’s territory. I feel like Spinoza being excommunicated.”

She grasped her brother’s hand with both of hers. “Listen, Danny,” she whispered fervently, “I’ll make things better, I swear I will. Now, will you keep in touch?”

“You’re gonna have to do that, too,” he replied. “I’m at the Pierre Hotel.”

He fumbled in his pockets and produced a black silken book of matches. “The number’s here. Call me whenever the coast is clear. May I at least take my nephew out sometime and buy him a few million toys?”

“Yes,” Deborah laughed, as they kissed each other on the cheek. As Danny embraced little Eli, he whispered, “Take care of your mother, okay?”

In an instant, he was gone.

As her own limousine drove off, Deborah watched through the back window as Danny climbed sadly into the other car.

S
he who had left in silence and disgrace returned now as glorious as Queen Esther.

Deborah and Eli were greeted not only by her parents and sisters, but by dozens of relatives, all of whom wanted to see the child they now eagerly proclaimed to be even more beautiful than his pictures.

When all were assembled, Rav Luria commanded them to silence. In addition to having some residual stiffness in his right side, he still looked pale and somewhat fragile as he raised a toast to the arrival of the newest member of the Luria family … Eli Ben-Ami.