Christmas for Joshua - A Novel (13 page)

When Mrs. Levinson coordinated the delivery of various pies and sweets on silver trays, accompanied by coffee and tea, Joe and I were embroiled in an argument over the heart-brain division of human physicality and emotionality. He cited a recent study that had identified distinct chemicals released from the heart muscle of mice when confronted with danger or when shown a piece of cheese, and a third chemical that appeared in the blood exiting the heart in conjunction with sexual arousal of the male mice.

“
There’s no question,” I argued, “that the heart reacts chemically to various stimulations, but the source of emotions is not in the heart. The chemicals are produced in response to the messages from the brain, which is the only intelligent organ we have that can feel and think. The heart is purely a physical machine, and all its reactions are directed by the brain through the nerves by electrical signals.”

“
Is that so?” He pointed at Debra, who was whispering something in Mordechai’s ear. “When you look at her, don’t you feel a distinct reaction in your heart?”

I looked at my daughter and felt a tightening in my chest. She was lovely and happy and in love. My eyes moistened. “Following this logic,” I argued, “tear ducts are centers of emotional activity as well.”

“
Maybe they are.”

“
But it’s the brain that tells us to cry, to break into a run, to hide, or to eat. Those particular reactions are localized to each organ.”

“
Isn’t our brain’s activity also a series of chemical and electrical reactions? How is it different from the reactions that happen in other parts of the body? Is there really a difference between the brain and the heart or the tear ducts?”

I didn’t have an answer to that.

“
I believe our body experiences emotions in every organ and every limb. Because the heart is the main pump, it’s a center of emotional response, just like the brain.”

“
What about heart transplants?” I looked at him.

“
What about them?”

“
Based on your theory, a person’s emotional disposition would change to that of the donor.”

“
On the contrary.” Schlumacher sipped his coffee. “Our emotions are a web of chemical actions and reactions that are expressed physically in every part of our bodies, but what dictates them? Are emotions driven by the physical workings and chemical components of our human machine, or does our emotional response to any particular event come from something completely—”

“
Spiritual?”

He shrugged. “As a psychologist, I’d say that our emotional responses are determined by the complex set of traits, created by a process of preconditioning that formed our individual mental engine over a lifetime of experiences, together with our genetic heritage. But as a rabbi, I’d call it something else: a soul.”

I wanted to counter with the theoretical possibility of a brain implant, which is not yet possible, but with time and scientific progress would one day become a reality. We already know that a stroke or a brain injury causes personality changes. Wouldn’t a new brain cause a complete change of the individual’s soul?

Dr. Levinson stood and announced, “Let us now begin with the blessings!”

We filled our glasses with sweet red wine—mine was poured by Schlumacher—and Dr. Levinson recited the first of the seven blessings. “
Boreh pri hagafen…Blessed be He, creator of the fruit of the vines.
”

Three of the black-garbed men were honored with reciting the next blessings, and Schlumacher recited the fifth, which expressed gratitude to God for rejoicing a barren woman with sons, a reference to the matriarch Sarah, who was blessed with a son when she was over a hundred years old.

I realized that Dr. Levinson was looking at me. I gestured at Aaron, and he did an excellent job reciting the next blessing in Hebrew, which everyone repeated in singing, “
May God rejoice this beloved pair as You once rejoiced the first creations who lived in Eden; blessed be Adonai, who rejoices bride and groom.
”

The seventh blessing went to Cantor Bentov, who filled the room with his sonorous voice, slowly building up pace with this long blessing until he had everyone on their feet, dancing and singing, “
Soon, our God, Adonai, may it be heard in the cities of Judea and the outskirts of Jerusalem, sounds of joy and voices of happiness!
”

The women stood aside, clapping rhythmically, and the young couple remained seated at the head of the table while we danced around in a lumbering, step-after-step pace. I caught Debra’s eye, and we blew kisses to each other. She was still wearing the wool cap, similar to the one worn by Rebecca out of respect for the other women, who followed the strict Orthodox rule that a woman’s hair is like her private parts. Surely Debra wasn’t going to keep her hair covered always, was she? I wanted to ask Rebecca if she knew, but my wife was standing with the other women.

Debra prodded Mordechai to get up and join the procession. He squeezed between me and Dr. Levinson, and we sang the Hebrew words while proceeding slowly around the long table. And so, finally, the two fathers flanked the groom. We were not walking him down the aisle to the chuppah, a joy I would never be allowed to experience, but at least we locked arms in celebration of their union.

After the Orthodox men departed, the rest of us migrated to the living room, where Dr. Levinson poured kosher whiskey for everyone and asked me to give a toast.

I thanked our hosts and turned to address Debra and Mordechai directly. “Tonight is very special,” I said. “It is the conclusion of your first day as a married couple. Now that I’ve met Mrs. and Dr. Levinson, I know that Mordechai comes from a solid and happy home that has provided him with a good example. And you, Debra?”

My daughter gave me a little wave with her hand, which returned to her lap. I wondered why she wasn’t holding Mordechai’s hand. Telling by the way they looked at each other, intimacy wasn’t a problem. Did Halacha forbid husband and wife from holding hands in public?

I dismissed the issue from my mind and continued, “Your mother and I are leaving for Arizona tomorrow to prepare for the Sheva Brachot dinner party we’re throwing on Thursday. And we feel like partying, because we have a sense of accomplishment. When it comes to marriage, ours has been the one you’ve experienced closely throughout your childhood and adolescence. Now, all grown up, you’re launching your own marriage, and we hope that our example has prepared you for success.”

“It’s been a wonderful example,” Debra said, “except for your long working hours.”

Everyone laughed, and I said, “When it’s time for Mordechai to choose his specialty, make sure he goes into dermatology.”

He shook his head and made a slicing motion with his hand.

“What,” I asked, “you want to be a
mohel
?”

This earned a collective “
Oy!
”

“Joking aside,” I continued, “we are each different and unique. Hashem made us in His image, but threw in enough variations to make it interesting and challenging. For example, He made me a Christian and my wife Jewish. He made me an only child of a hard-scrubbing young widow, Rebecca an only daughter of Holocaust survivors. Before we met, Hashem had taken each of us through an individual path that shaped and reshaped us distinctively. Until we met and fell in love, and even afterwards, we had each grown through different experiences, scarred by different hurts, and moved by different memories. And sometimes, when conflicts erupt, we jump onto our own high horse or climb atop our own mountain. We announce the truth as we see it and refuse to come down from our perch of righteousness until love brings us down to the lush valley of compromise and growth. And what do you call this amorphous mess that dictates our peaks and valleys? Is it our character? Our personality? Our soul?”

Rabbi Doctor Schlumacher smiled at me.

“Whatever it’s called, it sometimes leads us to conflict with those we love.” I raised my glass at Debra and Mordechai. “Those differences attract us to each other. But they also have the potential to break us apart.”

Rebecca came over and stood next to me.

“Therefore,” I said, “I want to wish you not only love, but also the strength to continue to love even when embroiled in conflict or when facing a crisis. I wish you spirited arguments and passionate reconciliations, strength in your individual beliefs, and the ability to find common grounds and, more than anything, mutual respect while you build together the foundations of a true and equal partnership. As we recited in the seventh blessing today, may you enjoy all four: love, camaraderie, peace, and friendship.”

We drank to that, and Dr. Levinson insisted that I try the Bechstein. I accompanied Cantor Bentov on the piano while he sang “
Hineh mah tov u’mah naim – How good and pleasant, sitting together as brothers...
”

When the song ended, Rabbi Doctor Schlumacher sat beside me on the bench. Rather than a Jewish melody, he began to play Wagner’s
Ride of the Valkyries
. He did it from memory, and I was shocked, not only because it wasn’t written for a piano, presenting the player with a complicated challenge of technique and adaptation, but also because Wagner’s Nazi sympathies had made the composer objectionable to Jewish audiences. We looked at each other, and Schlumacher grinned while playing masterfully. I wondered why he chose to play this music, which had inspired
Apocalypse Now
, during a celebration for the newlyweds. Considering that Schlumacher came alone tonight, perhaps his own marriage was apocalyptic?

But the music was beautiful, and its use in popular culture had made it familiar to everyone in the room. When the piece was over and the clapping subsided, my fingers began playing
The Flying Dutchman
. The hands beside mine joined in, and we played Wagner together to a room full of mesmerized Jews in Brooklyn. Go figure!

It was 1 a.m. when we said our good-byes in the foyer. Schlumacher shook my hand and then, as if overcome with emotions, hugged me tightly. “Christian,” he said, “you’re a very special person. I’m blessed to have met you!”

“
I feel the same, Joe.”

“
We must complete our heart-versus-mind discussion.” He glanced at his watch. “I know it’s late, but how about meeting for an early breakfast? I can come to the Muse Hotel at, let’s say, seven-thirty a.m.?”

Our flight wasn’t leaving until mid-morning, so I accepted.

Dr. Levinson, who was shaking hands with Cantor Bentov nearby, heard the exchange and offered to join us.

“
Of course,” I said. “Why not?”

We left for Manhattan in a limousine arranged by the Levinsons. Debra and Mordechai stayed over in Brooklyn.

Part Four

Tuesday, December 22

Frosty the Snowman

Rebecca pulled open the window curtains, letting in the brightness of a sunny morning. I glanced at my watch. It was ten past seven. “Hurry up,” she said, “you’ll be late for breakfast.”

“
I don’t need twenty minutes to get ready.” I pulled her back into bed.

“
Hey!”

“
Come on.” I held her. “It’ll be quick.”

She rolled away and threw a pillow at me.

“
Pleeeeeze!
”

Rebecca giggled, looking very young. “Those two rabbis are going to smell it on you.”

“
What two rabbis?” I dropped my feet to the floor, sitting on the side of the bed. “At most, they add up to half a rabbi plus a doctor and a half.”

“
Yes,
Doctor
Dinwall.” She came over and sat in my lap, her arm bent around my neck. “And you are my one and a half world, you know?” She kissed me on the ear.

“
Does that mean—”

“
Shower. Dress. Eat.” She jumped off my lap.

“
And love? What about love?”

She pushed me into the bathroom.

The showerhead was one of those UFOs the size of a dinner plate, with a million tiny nozzles that created an illusion of standing naked in hot rain. I hummed Wagner’s
The Flying Dutchman
while soaping my body with a hand towel.

Rebecca was brushing her teeth at the sink. She said, “You’re jolly this morning.”

“
After the nightmare at the Pillars of Joy, last night’s dinner was a fairytale.”

“
You liked the dancing around the table?”

“
It was a whirlwind of ecstasy.” I stomped my feet on the bottom of the shower, one thump after the other, imitating the slow procession of the men around the dining table.

She gurgled and spat. “Was that pork stew good?”

“
It was the real thing. Incredible, considering there wasn’t a shred of swine in it.”

Her face appeared beside the shower curtain. “Did it make you feel special?” She had a naughty smile on, but I knew what she was asking.

“
It was a touching gesture,” I said. “But the pain’s still there. At least I’m not as worried about Debra as I was when I left Pillars of Joy, convinced that she had just married into a bunch of primitive, heartless fanatics whose fundamental religion was nothing like ours.”