In the Catskills: A Century of Jewish Experience in "The Mountains" (61 page)

“We are not doing enough to bring them back,” he exclaims. “There are Jews in the next town, outside Monsey, who don’t identify, who don’t give to United Jewish Appeal, but they’d send their kids to our yeshiva—not because it’s Jewish, but because of the public schools. But the tuition is $4,000 a year. We need a massive infusion of funds for scholarships, because once we have them as students, we have them for life.”

When I tell him that it seems to me that the major differences between the two groups of Orthodox are receding and there appears to be a general shift to the right, he begs to differ. “The modern Orthodox will always be separate because we have a strong aversion to the cult of personality that is focused on the
tzaddik
.”

That part may be true, but overall I am not so sure. With the emergence of tzitzis, of an unwillingness to eat even a salad in a nonkosher restaurant, of an aversion to movies and television, the gulf between the two groups is narrowing. Will we live to see the day when the Hasidic juggernaut swallows up the modern Orthodox like so many minnows, and any differences between the two will be strictly superficial? That day, Rabbi Tendler assures me, will never come.

The Shul in Kaaterskill Falls

Allegra Goodman

T
he Kaaterskill shul is an old, steep-roofed clapboard building, prim and white. It was built long ago for a Reform congregation, but in the past twenty years the synagogue has filled with Orthodox vacationers. Its arched windows frame men davening in dark suits and black hats.

Elizabeth and the girls walk through the vestibule, where only the racks of wire hangers and an abandoned blue scarf remain of winter. The paneled synagogue is narrow but deep, with rows of long, high-backed benches cushioned in red plush. A mechitza of polished wood and glass separates the men from the women. In front, in the men’s section, the seats surround a raised bima fenced with newel posts like a dark porch railing all around.

Sorah and Brocha are still little enough to sit with Isaac in the men’s section. It’s not sitting they like, though—it’s running back and forth. They squirm their way between the dark-suited men to the front wall where the ark stands, its red velvet curtains decorated with gold tassels and lions embroidered in gold thread. Above the ark hangs the ner tamid, the eternal flame encased in red glass. The girls tilt their heads back and dizzy themselves looking all the way up at the embossed tin ceiling, painted robin’s-egg blue. Back and forth Sorah and Brocha wriggle between the tall dark rows of men. They like the bima best, because it’s in the center and it’s crowded. Sorah pushes her little sister in front of her, and the two of them work their way over to the dais, where they grasp the base of the railing and look at the polished shoe tips and trouser cuffs in front of them. Whenever the reading stops and the Torah rises above them, they look up expectantly. Maybe old Mr. Heiligman will see them; maybe he will give them candy from his blue velvet tallis bag. Small, thin lollipops or sour balls. Either way the choices are orange, red, green, purple, or yellow.

Elizabeth and the three older girls sit in the front row of the women’s section. Chani daydreams, siddur open on her lap, while Malki bends over her prayer book, catching up on what she missed by coming late. Ruchel is neither quiet nor industrious. She’s leaning forward, blowing the curtain on the mechitza to make it flutter against the glass, rubbing the velvet chairs back and forth with her fingers so the nap stands up rough and then slides down smooth. Elizabeth scans the room for Cecil’s wife, but she doesn’t see anyone new. She turns to her Tanach and follows the Torah reading. She cannot see the men on the bima, but she knows them all by voice. There is the rich bass of the Hasidic rabbi, Reb Moshe Feurstein, and then Rav Joseph Butler with his strong, slightly acerbic tenor. And then reedy Pesach Lamkin. Although much younger than his colleagues, Pesach Lamkin is the official rabbi of the synagogue. Every summer the shul is full of great rabbis, exacting and learned men who come up to the mountains with their own constituencies. In order to avoid disputes and interrupted vacations, they chose Lamkin to officiate in Kaaterskill. Young, pious, inexperienced, he was likely to offend the fewest people.

Rabbi Lamkin is well liked, but the synagogue hushes as Elizabeth’s own rabbi, Rav Elijah Kirshner, reads from the prophets in his precise baritone. Rav Kirshner was the first of all the rabbis to come up to the mountains, and he has hundreds of followers in Kaaterskill. Just after the war, the Rav decided his community should migrate in the summers. In 1938, just before Kristallnacht, they had left Germany en masse from Frankfurt, and resettled in Washington Heights. Then, in the fifties, those with reparation money bought summer houses together in Kaaterskill. The Rav is a grandson of Jeremiah Solomon Hecht, the founder in Germany of neo-orthodoxy, who wrote in his elegant and stylish German, arguing that the generations to come should study science and languages, law, and mathematics—and yet none of these could come before religious law. Rav Elijah Kirshner was born in 1898, only ten years after Hecht’s time, and it is said his mother was Hecht’s favorite daughter. He earned a doctorate in philosophy at the University of Frankfurt am Main, and then rose to take his grandfather’s place. Rav Kirshner brought Hecht’s books and his community to America—only a small part of what there once was, but a remnant that he has guided and strengthened. He has founded the Kirshner school and the yeshiva, sustained his people in Washington Heights, even now in the battered parks, the narrow alleyways. The Rav is an extraordinary man. And famous. He knows the mayor of New York, has led prayers in the state legislature.
The New York Times
calls him “the Reverend Doctor.”

As usual, at the end of the service, one of the Landauer boys sings the hymn “Anim Zmiros.” There is always a Landauer boy to do this, as each succeeds to the position when he turns eight. Isaac watches in the men’s section as Avromy Landaur pulls the gold cord and opens the ark curtain for his brother. In their small dark suits they look like miniatures of their father. It is always quite a contrast, the little boy—just a pipsqueak—singing at the front, and the spectacular thirteenth-century poetry, the reedy voice singing the mystic love song to God:
Anim zmiros, vishirim erog, ki elechah nafshi tarog
…. I sing hymns and compose songs/Because my soul longs for thee./My soul desires thy shelter,/To know all thy mystery…. Landauer’s son rattles off the verses. It’s like a kazoo performance of Beethoven.

Isaac has always liked Joe Landauer’s sons, but his own daughters laugh at them and their nasal voices. The girls pretend they can’t tell the Landauer boys apart. After the service, when everyone is talking, crushed together, trying to get out, Isaac says to Elizabeth. “That was a good job Boruch did with ‘
Anim Zmiros
.’”

And Chani says, “No, that was Yakov-Shloimie.”

And Ruchel contradicts, “It was
not
Yakov-Shloimie. It was Avromy. I recognized his voice!” Then they start giggling among themselves.

Near the door, Elizabeth and Isaac catch sight of Cecil Birnbaum with his sister, Regina. Cecil is wearing his old blue suit and wire-rimmed glasses, and he has a vaguely dissatisfied look. His parents, of blessed memory, were pillars of the summer community and the synagogue, but in ways Elizabeth can only marvel at, Cecil has become a gadfly and a malcontent in Kaaterskill.

“Mazel tov,” Isaac says.

Elizabeth looks around for Cecil’s bride. “Nu, where is she?”

“Oh, Beatrix doesn’t come to services,” Cecil says grandly.

Elizabeth smiles. Cecil likes to shock people, but she’s known him since their first summer in Kaaterskill five years ago and she is used to him. “When did you get back from England?” she asks.

Before Cecil can answer, they are both crushed against the wall as the crowd parts for old Rav Kirshner. Seventy-eight and frail, the Rav is borne forward by two of his nephews, one on each side. His thin hands rest on his nephews’ arms—his pale fingers translucent skinned against their dark suits. The Kirshners pull back the children in the Rav’s path.

The crowd closes up quickly behind the Rav. There are many Kirshners in Kaaterskill, but they mill about in shul with Hasids and their little boys with peyyes, modern Orthodox, with wives in hats instead of sheitels. There is even a Conservative rabbi named Sobel, who is revered by no one in the synagogue but Cecil, who shows him the utmost courtesy, partly out of real respect, and partly in order to pique his orthodox neighbors. Rabbi Sobel is struggling to get out in the crush of people, and Cecil holds the door for him. “He walks over here every week,” Cecil tells Elizabeth after he passes, “and no one gives
him
the time of day. This is a world-renowned historian—”

Elizabeth doesn’t hear him. She is staring after the Rav and his entourage. There, in that mass of black hats and jackets, is a man in a cream suit. It is, unmistakably, Jeremy Kirshner, the Rav’s firstborn son. Jeremy Kirshner, Dr. Kirshner, as he is called, is an enigma. He is a rabbi, like his brother Isaiah, but he works as a professor at Queens College. No one speaks about him. If his name comes up, people just say one thing—“He never married, you know”—and they leave it at that.

“Did you see him?” Elizabeth asks Isaac as he joins her.

“I couldn’t tell who it was,” says Isaac.

“Oh, that was Jeremy Kirshner,” Cecil says. “Why?”

“Nothing—just, he never comes up here,” says Elizabeth.

“But he came to see me,” Cecil says with a flourish.

“I didn’t know you were friends,” says Elizabeth. It astonishes her.

“Yes, we are friends,” says Cecil, “despite the fact that I’m a commoner.”

The old Birnbaum house stands alone, set back from the street. Years ago, when Cecil’s parents bought the place, they planted the rosebushes on the side of the house, and dogwood trees that now overhang the front walk. Taller than the tall house stands the silver spruce tree, planted when Cecil’s sister Regina was born.

“Welcome, come in,” calls Regina to Elizabeth and Isaac and their daughters. The girls hang back on the porch, but Elizabeth and Isaac enter the shadowy living room. They see that they are the first to arrive at the party. “This is Beatrix,” Regina says, “—from England, like you, Elizabeth.”

Beatrix is a thin woman in a sleeveless dress. A mass of coarse black hair falls stiffly around her shoulders. “Hello, very pleased to meet you.” Beatrix innocently puts out her hand to Isaac, who draws back. “Don’t you shake hands?” she asks.

Quickly Elizabeth shakes her hand instead. She and Isaac sit on the couch, careful not to brush the bunch of wildflowers lying on the coffee table.

“I picked these this morning.” Beatrix lifts up the bunch of goldenrod. “I’m going to put them here. What do you think?”

She props the flowers in the twin vases standing on the piano and pours in water from a long-spouted watering can.

“Beatrix,” Elizabeth ventures after a moment, “I think it’s coming out the bottom.”

“What is?” Beatrix lifts one of the vases to check, and a stream of water along with the flowers courses out onto the Steinway.

“They’re ornamental vases!” Regina calls, rushing from the kitchen with a dish towel. “Cecil. Could you bring me another rag for the piano?”

“Not on Shabbat,” he answers precisely. “I never touch the piano on Shabbat.”

“You see, they’re ornamental,” Regina tells her sister-in-law again as she sponges up the water. “They’re from the thirties. They don’t have bottoms.”

“Oh,” Beatrix says. Then she laughs. “How frightfully bourgeois!”