All Rivers Run to the Sea: Memoirs (66 page)

Lieberman attracted students even while imposing distance and respect. Everyone had to stand when he came in. They say his students feared him, and it’s true. In class he was fierce and demanding. Though he lightened the atmosphere with his humor, his students, most of them future rabbis, trembled before him, wondering how they would get through the reading of the daily passage from the Torah. He never raised his voice, never lost his temper. He could be charming,
even soothing, but he had his intractable side. One evening one of the future rabbis ran into him in the elevator. He had an appointment for a final exam. (Lieberman’s exams usually took place late at night.) On the elevator they chatted about this and that, then walked to the door of Lieberman’s office, where the professor said, “Good night.”

“But what about the exam?” the student stammered.

“Knowledge may take a long time to measure,” Lieberman replied, “but ignorance does not.” Usually he was more merciful. Could it be that he was not aware of the terror he inspired? I believe he was, though we talked about it only once, on a flight to Israel.

When Lieberman lost his wife, we became even closer. He asked me to speak at her funeral service at the Jewish Theological Seminary, and of course I agreed. When I asked where the
shiva
, the week-long mourning period, would be observed, he told me he was taking Judith to Jerusalem for burial. I then asked who from the Seminary faculty would be going with him, and he said he was going alone. “In that case, I’m coming with you,” I said. At that he burst into tears. It was a tragic moment that clarified the relations between us: he was my master, but I was not only his disciple but his friend.

I will never forget that flight, which lasted fourteen hours. He told me of his childhood in Motele, his adolescence spent in the yeshiva of Slobodka, the center of the Musar movement, his experiences in Palestine, and his encounters with modern masters. Throughout the journey he mingled anecdotes, Talmudic findings, and intimate thoughts.

I was silent about my friendship with his Seminary colleague Dr. Abraham Joshua Heschel, the distinguished descendant of the Rebbe of Apt, a leader in Hasidism. Heschel and I fought for many of the same social causes. But he and Lieberman did not get along. In fact, they were not even on speaking terms. Was it still the old quarrel between the Mitnagdim and Hasidim? Or was there another explanation? I was told they had once been inseparable. What had changed? I never found out.

Which leads me to a funny story from before my marriage:

After the Simchat Torah festival Lieberman asked me where I planned to celebrate Purim. I told him it was too early to make such plans. Still, he invited me to spend Purim at his home. The winter passed, and one day Heschel phoned to invite me to the Purim meal. “Sorry,” I stammered, “but that won’t be possible.…” I couldn’t tell
him why. Heschel insisted, but finally said: “In that case, I’ll go to my cousin’s, the Kapitsinitser Rebbe in Brooklyn.” That suited me fine. Lieberman and Heschel lived in the same building on Riverside Drive, and if Heschel spent the evening in Brooklyn, I wouldn’t have to worry about accidentally running into him. On the night of Purim, a bottle of vodka in hand, I pushed the elevator button, and when the door opened, out came Heschel and his wife, Sylvia. “What are you doing here?” he asked in what I took to be sincere astonishment. I replied without hesitation: “I came to bring you a Purim gift.” I handed him the bottle. He asked how I knew he was home. “I didn’t,” I said. “I was going to leave it at your door.” Why not with the super? “Well, I didn’t trust him. This vodka is too good.”

“Oh,” said Heschel, “then let’s go up and have a drink.” Since I couldn’t confess that I was expected at Lieberman’s, I made something up. (On Purim you’re allowed to tell a lie.) “Sorry,” I said. “I am late for my appointment and I must go home first.” Heschel insisted that since I was already there, we might as well raise a glass in honor of the holiday. Rather than argue, I went upstairs with them. He opened the bottle, and we had a drink. I was on pins and needles, but Heschel took his time—and mine—sitting in his armchair talking about memories of Purim back in Poland and chanting half-forgotten Hasidic tunes. I kept stealing glances at my watch; I was already late. Finally, we left and Heschel offered me a ride home. I told him I preferred to walk. “Out of the question,” he said. So he drove me home. I waited three long minutes and went back out, looking for an open liquor store. I bought a second bottle of vodka, hailed a cab, and hurried back to the same building, the same elevator.

Lieberman was too polite to ask why I was late. I took my place at the table. Among the guests were the great names of the city’s Talmudic and cultural community. The conversation was brilliant and lively. I listened in silence. The meal ended at about four in the morning, which is not unusual on Purim, and when I got to the elevator I hesitated, wondering if I ought to take the stairs. But the elevator was on its way up; the door was about to open. I prayed to God to spare me fresh embarrassment, and my prayer was answered. It was empty. Another prayer was answered downstairs. There was no one in the street. God is great. Now all I had to do was hail a cab, and here was one now. It slowed, came to a stop, and a smiling Heschel got out. “See?” he said. “I knew you were waiting for a taxi.”

A week before Passover, 1983, my old friend Rabbi Wolfe Kelman
phoned me. I could tell by his voice that he had bad news. I was stunned, but somehow not surprised. “Blessed be the Judge of Truth,” I murmured. “It happened on the plane to Israel,” Wolfe said. I felt lost. A moment later the historian Yosef Yerushalmi called. “I have sad—” he began, but I told him I knew. “He died in his sleep,” Yerushalmi added. “The funeral will take place in a few hours. It will be impossible for you to get there in time.”

As I said, I wasn’t surprised. Lieberman had acted strangely when I saw him last. At the end of our lesson he had stood up and embraced me. He was to leave that afternoon for Jerusalem, to celebrate Passover with his older brother. I was in a hurry. I was giving a lecture at Yale that afternoon. He walked me to the door, but suddenly exclaimed, “Would you like to come back, Reb Eliezer?” We went back and reimmersed ourselves in study. I remember the passage: It was the one about an anonymous corpse discovered in a public place. The Law demands that the community elders expiate with a sacrifice. My master’s commentary on assigning the blame: They allowed a lone visitor to depart without protection. Never was Lieberman more brilliant than on that day. He was inspired by Palestinian sages, and by his adored Radak, the Gaon of Vilna.

An hour went by. Once again he accompanied me to the hallway, we embraced, and I got into the elevator, but my friend and master took me by the arm and said, “We still have time, Reb Eliezer, don’t we still have time?” We went back to his desk, took our places, and opened the Talmud for another hour. It was by then one o’clock in the afternoon. This time no delay was possible. I left with a heavy heart, for during the lesson I had noticed that his desk, always strewn with books, magazines, and papers, was entirely clear. This unprecedented fact brought another image to my mind.

One morning, years before, Heschel had phoned me. He needed me urgently. I jumped in a cab and rushed to the Seminary. Heschel opened his door and, without saying a word, leaned his head on my shoulder and began to sob like a child. Rarely have I seen an adult cry like that. Still standing in the doorway, I noticed that his ordinarily messy table was neatly arranged. We parted without exchanging a word. Heschel died the next day. Now Lieberman’s table was clear too.

The Talmud tells us that the Righteous are warned of their impending death, to allow them to put their affairs in order. Heschel and Lieberman, each in his own way, surely were among the Righteous.

I miss Lieberman. I miss my master. And I have come to fully understand the Talmudic law that says a man must mourn his master as he mourns his parents. When a master departs, his disciples are orphans.

Curiously, Lieberman and I never discussed faith. He never lectured me on the subject, never demanded a stricter observance of the Halachah, the Law. He understood my problems in this domain. It was with Menahem-Mendel Schneerson, the Lubavitcher Rebbe, that I discussed them.

I speak of this in
The Gates of the Forest
, as I describe a Hasidic celebration in Brooklyn. It was his celebration. The songs, vows, and fervor of the faithful were such that I felt as if I were with my own rebbe, back in my hometown.

The spiritual power emanating from the person of Rebbe Menahem Mendel Schneersohn of Lubavitch was impressive. He was like a sovereign who made it possible for his subjects to live and work in peace. When he spoke, the crowd held its breath; when he sang, all their souls sang with him. Whatever he asked for, he obtained. Few contemporary Hasidic masters have had such authority. His disciples can be found on all five continents. Sometimes he would summon a young rabbinical student and tell him he was about to be sent here or there to help a Jewish community. And without the slightest discussion or consideration of any practical matter, the student would take his family and go.

The Rebbe’s faithful constantly paid tribute to his erudition. They gloried in his holiness, in his powers, and in his organizational and educational talents. It was said that he had studied science at the Sorbonne and philosophy at Heidelberg, and that he spoke six languages fluently. Some followers even believed he possessed supernatural gifts.

My first visit to his court lasted almost an entire night. I had informed him at the outset that I was a Hasid of Wizhnitz, not Lubavitch, and that I had no intention of switching allegiance. “The important thing is to be a Hasid,” he replied. “It matters little whose.” We then changed the subject. The Rebbe had read some of my works in French and asked me to explain why I was angry at God. “Because I loved Him too much,” I replied. “And now?” he asked. “Now too. And because I love Him, I am angry at Him.” The Rebbe disagreed: “To love God is to accept that you do not understand Him.” I asked whether one could love God without having faith. He told me faith
had to precede all the rest. “Rebbe,” I asked, “how can you believe in God after Auschwitz?” He looked at me in silence for a long moment, his hands resting on the table. Then he replied, in a soft, barely audible voice, “How can you not believe in God after Auschwitz?” Whom else could one believe in? Hadn’t man abdicated his privileges and duties? Didn’t Auschwitz represent the defeat of humanity? Apart from God, what was there in a world darkened by Auschwitz? The Rebbe stared at me, awaiting my response. I hesitated before answering, “Rebbe, if what you say is meant as an answer to my question, I reject it. But if it is a question—one more question—I accept it.” I tried to smile, but failed.

Our dialogue continued for years. After the publication of each of my books, he would write to me with his commentaries. He wanted me to write about the life and teachings of the first Rebbe of Lubavitch, Rabbi Shneur Zalman of Ladi, author of the
Tanya
. I am still working on it.

One year, during Simchat Torah, I visited Lubavitch, as was my custom. The Rebbe, seated in his place at the head of a T-shaped table, presided over the celebration with fervor. He was surrounded by dignitaries, but as a sign of respect the chairs to his immediate left and right had been left vacant. I stood at the entrance, in my raincoat and Basque beret, plagued by a terrible migraine. Had anyone paid any attention to me, they would have thought I was an observer from the outside, possibly a spy, an intruder, unable to comprehend the nature of Hasidic joy. But, luckily, everyone was looking at the Rabbi.

Suddenly the Rebbe saw me and beckoned me to approach. I pretended not to notice. The Rebbe motioned to me again. I didn’t budge. Then he called me by name. When I still didn’t move, powerful arms grabbed me and carried me over the heads of the crowd to the central table, depositing me like a package in front of the Rebbe. I wanted to die then and there if only I could do so without disturbing the celebration. The Rebbe was smiling. Would he tease me instead of coming to my aid?

“Welcome,” he said. “It’s nice of a Hasid of Wizhnitz to come and greet us in Lubavitch. But is this how they celebrate Simchat Torah in Wizhnitz?”

“Rebbe,” I said faintly, “we are not in Wizhnitz but in Lubavitch.”

“Then do as we do in Lubavitch,” he said.

“And what do you do in Lubavitch?”

“In Lubavitch we drink and say
lehayim
, to life.”

“In Wizhnitz too.”

“Very well. Then say
lehayim.”

He handed me a glass filled to the brim with vodka.

“Rebbe,” I said, “in Wizhnitz a Hasid does not drink alone.”

“Nor in Lubavitch,” the Rebbe replied. He emptied his glass in one gulp. I followed suit.

“Is one enough in Wizhnitz?” the Rebbe asked.

“In Wizhnitz,” I said bravely, “one is but a drop in the sea.”

“In Lubavitch as well.”

He handed me a second glass and refilled his own. He said
lehayim
, I replied
lehayim
, and we emptied our glasses. After all, I had to uphold the honor of Wizhnitz. But as I was unaccustomed to drink, I felt my head begin to spin. I was not sure where or who I was, nor why I had come to this place, why I had been drawn into this strange scene. My brain was on fire.

“In Lubavitch we do not stop midway,” the Rebbe said. “We continue. And in Wizhnitz?”

“In Wizhnitz too,” I said, “we go all the way.”

The Rebbe struck a solemn pose. He handed me a third glass and refilled his own. My hand trembled; his did not. “You deserve a blessing,” he said, his face beaming with happiness. “Name it!”

I wasn’t sure what to say. I was, in fact, in a stupor.

“Would you like me to bless you so you can begin again?”

Drunk as I was, I appreciated his wisdom. To begin again could mean many things: begin again to drink, to pray, to believe, to live. And then it was Simchat Torah, which is also my birthday.