Chaim Grade’s ‘Sons and Daughters,’ Chapter One

Even after emigrating from the Soviet Union to the Bronx, in 1948, an ocean away from a homeland destroyed by the war, Chaim Grade continued to wrestle with the tension between secular and religious ways of living. He depicted his bygone world in “The Well,” “The Agunah,” “The Yeshiva,” “Rabbis and Wives,” “My Mother’s Sabbath Days,” and the heart-wrenching “My Quarrel with Hersh Rasseyner,” recently retranslated by Ruth Wisse. “Sons and Daughters,” which Grade serialized from the mid-1960s to the mid-1970s in two of New York’s Yiddish newspapers—first in the Tog-Morgn Zhurnal (Day-Morning Journal) and then in the Forverts (Forward)—is a continuation of that debate, an Old World conversation he couldn’t stop having in the New World.

In a video recorded by the Yiddish Book Center, the daughter of an old friend of Grade’s, Betty Sorkowitz, describes him as “bombastic” and “opinionated,” a chain smoker who’d step through the door and “the house would rumble.” That’s the Grade I like to imagine writing “Sons and Daughters,” banging away at his Yiddish typewriter (which you can go see for yourself at the YIVO Institute for Jewish Research, which houses Grade’s archive), puffing away at one cigarette after another, building this story in installments for over a decade, refusing to cede the argument. - Todd Portnowitz, Senior Editor, Alfred A. Knopf

Zindel was a young man of twenty-three, with dark brown eyes and a head of black hair. He boasted a wide forehead and the straight nose of a sensible person, a dimpled chin like that of a pampered only son, cherry-colored lips, and a sweet smile. Even in the heat of summer he wore a proper suit, complete with vest, shirt, and tie, and a wide-brimmed hat tilted at an angle. He walked ramrod straight with raised shoulders, always looking directly ahead, as if he never—not for a moment—forgot that he was of marriageable age, the dayan’s grandson, and a student of Warsaw’s Tachkemoni, a yeshiva and university combined. As they strolled, he kept throwing sidelong glances at the fair, rose-colored profile of his bride-to-be, her coal-black hair swinging over her left temple.

Bluma Rivtcha was not very pleased about having to wear long-sleeved blouses, long skirts, and stockings every time she went out. Not that her father said anything, but when she put on something immodest, his face clouded with pain. And, of course, she didn’t want to cause him distress. The one thing she was still allowed to keep free was her hair, no scarf containing it until she got married. She squinted up at the sun and waited for a breeze to blow through her uncovered tresses.

The Morehdalye residents knew that every afternoon the rabbi studied Talmud and Jewish law with the dayan’s grandson. But over the last few days their schedule had been disrupted: the rabbi’s son-in-law had come to visit. This change gave the prospective son-in-law more time to take strolls with his bride.

The couple walked to the edge of town, down the path that led to the Narev River, until the curious onlookers could no longer see them. With the couple out of sight, the inhabitants pulled their heads back from the windows. The rabbi’s house sank once again into gloominess despite the dazzling summer’s day outside, with everything glinting like brass.

The rabbi’s home was the first house you saw when you entered Morehdalye, and the last one you saw when you left. A long wooden structure, it stood at the corner of the synagogue street with windows on all sides, looking out on the row of houses with balconies, the beis medrash on the hill, and the dirt road winding through Morehdalye toward Zembin and Lomzhe. Some of the bedroom windows provided a view of the yard and garden opposite the dilapidated stable, chicken coops, and dried-out, broken-down well. The low shingled roof of the rabbi’s house was overgrown with greenish-yellow moss, and it sunk lower each year. Bushes and tall grass went untrimmed. Alongside the path, willow trees drooped, their thick leafy tops sagging, barely stirring in the breeze, mumbling, as if in a trance, that they’d gotten lost somehow. How they yearned to be growing along the shore of a wide, happy river where cold, fresh water flowed.

On the windowsill of the rabbi’s beis din chambers stood a copper menorah ornamented with two small lions. It remained in this very same spot all through winter, all through summer. Some of the shutters were perpetually closed; the rabbi and his wife rarely looked out those windows. When you walked up the steps of the long, narrow veranda, the floor planks creaked and sighed “Time for some home improvement.” And when the front door was opened, its hinges squeaked, as if in reply to the planks, “It’s falling apart outside because it’s falling apart inside.”

In the drowsy silence a dry August heat glowed. The brief shadows lay motionless. Dazzled by its own brightness, the sun peered out fiery-peeled, hovering mid-sky, as if it couldn’t figure out where to go from there. On the other side of the bridge, a dust cloud floated from a peasant’s wagon plowing through deep white sand. A student’s weary voice wafted out of the open windows of the beis medrash on the hill and zigzagged through the empty daytime synagogue street.

The plaster was peeling on the bluish-white outer walls of the rabbi’s house; inside, in the cold hall, it was dim. Pale green and yellow-spotted plants sported bizarre shapes, as if they were beings from another world with prickly heads and round hands—half plant, half creature. The tall gray mirror, the round table on heavy curved legs, the armchairs with sunken seats, and the shadow of the sukkah room’s winged roof—all were mired in outdated rigidity. Speckles of light trembled through the trees at the window, becoming lost in the folds of faded materials like rays of sun in stagnant water.

With his elbow pressed against the wall, the Morehdalye rabbi, Sholem Shachne Katzenellenbogen, stood at one side of one of the windows, his son-in-law, Yaakov Asher Kahane, at the other. Yaakov Asher was the rabbi of Lecheve and also the head of its yeshiva. The father-in-law was tall, thin, with narrow shoulders. His gray beard rose past his cheekbones but barely grew below his chin. Through his large round glasses peered sharp eyes, veiled by an aged sadness that had set in years ago, like gray spiderwebs hanging from the branches of an evergreen.

The rabbi was almost sixty-five, and his son-in-law nearly forty. Shorter than his father-in-law, Yaakov Asher was broad-shouldered, corpulent, with a strong, brick-like forehead, fat lips, and a red beard. Yellow sun spots dotted his face and his stubby fingers. His lapels were dirty; the jacket itself was tight beneath his arms and across his stomach. He kept twisting his face as he spoke—his collar and tie were tight—and stubble from his beard pricked his sweaty neck. Anyone with a bit of perceptiveness could instantly discern that this rosh yeshiva was a zealous man, one who toiled in the study of Torah. Like his father-in-law, the son-in-law gave off a sense of sadness. In his eyes, sorrow smoldered.

Yaakov Asher stuck a finger of his right hand into his beard and sighed. “Well, she certainly tries to conform. She tries to be friendly with the townswomen and my students. But you can’t fool the world, and Tilza can fool herself even less; she’s not that sort of person. So it’s no good. The yeshiva’s growing, may no evil eye harm it. Our family has a respectable livelihood, thank God. But your daughter doesn’t want to be a rebbetzin. Or, more precisely, it’s not so much that she doesn’t want it, but she can’t. She’s not cut out for it.”

Sholem Shachne was annoyed. He felt that his daughter’s husband was reproaching him. Still, Yaakov Asher was considered one of the Torah greats, so despite his annoyance, his father-in-law addressed him with respect.

“I warned you before the wedding that Tilza doesn’t want to lead a rebbetzin’s life. But you answered me, ‘My soul desires her,’ and that you hope it’ll be different after the wedding. Well, who’s at fault, then?”

Yaakov Asher’s face flamed as red as his beard. His father-in-law seemed to be hinting that he was at fault, that a man was supposed to be able to change his wife, as it is written, “And he shall rule over her.” He replied, “I thought it would be different once she became a mother and felt the town’s respect.” He spread his arms wide.

“I hope my daughter isn’t doing anything to shame God,” the rabbi said, and his son-in-law, wincing, replied, “Heaven forbid! But she’s unhappy, and everyone in Lecheve knows it, sees it. And that’s not good. Not good.”

So that his son-in-law wouldn’t notice his agitation, and in order to calm himself somewhat, Sholem Shachne strolled around the hall. He stopped in front of two large photographs framing both sides of the window that looked out onto the synagogue street. Gazing out at him from one photograph was his wife’s father, Eli-Leizer HaLevi Epstein, the elderly rabbi of Zembin. The Zembiner, who ruled his rabbinical court with a firm hand, who didn’t wear an overcoat with a slit in the back but an old-fashioned black coat, wide and long, the sort favored by pious Jewish men. Never, not once in his entire life, had he worn a soft-collared shirt or a tie. His tallis katan was buttoned up to his neck. For as long as the town of Zembin could remember, he’d worn a stiff black hat during the week and a mid-height top hat on Shabbos and holidays. A soft fedora with a crease in the center was too modern for him, a sign of indulgence. His chest was covered with a wide, thick white beard, like that of a grandfather, and his eyes, too, had a grandfather’s soft expression. Only his raised eyebrows, clipped whiskers, and short, wide, stubborn nose revealed his obstinacy; they announced that he was a man who would not make concessions.

As if to escape his father-in-law’s perpetual rebuke that he was too lenient with his congregants, Sholem Shachne moved over to the other portrait, the one of his late parents. In the picture, his father, the former Morehdalye rabbi, Refael Katzenellenbogen, sat in a deep chair with an ornamental backrest. He held a holy book in his hands, pressed against his knees. A smile flickered in his heavy-lidded eyes. His wife stood behind him, one hand on the tall backrest; with the other, she pressed a Korben Mincha prayer book to her heart. Sholem Shachne and his older brother, Avraham Alter, both in short pants and little caps, stood in the front, near their parents.

Sholem Shachne now stood between his son-in-law and the portrait of his parents, as if he were the present speaking to both the past and the future.

“When my oldest son was chafing against who knows what, he used to tell me, ‘You see, Father, how Grandfather looks in this picture? His half-closed eyes? That’s exactly how Grandfather went through life, that’s the way you go through life, the way you want me to go through life—half-blind.’ But what did he achieve, my eldest with his open eyes?” Sholem Shachne turned to face his son-in-law directly. “He toiled for so long in Switzerland, roamed around there until he sweated himself out a title, doctor of philosophy. But in the end, what does he do? Sits in a library and produces texts for students.”

The son-in-law didn’t reply. He knew all too well that his brother-in-law, the doctor of philosophy, was a cad. He’d fooled his father, his rosh yeshiva, and his friends. He’d told them all he was traveling to a yeshiva and then fled to study secular subjects. Abroad, he’d gotten married and now had a grown son. For years and years he hadn’t visited his father. The cad!

It was so quiet in the cold hall that it seemed you could hear the plants growing in their pots. The main road outside the window, the one leading to Zembin and Lomzhe, gleamed in the sunlight, vacant for miles. Only the shadow of the sukkah room’s winged roof stirred, growing longer and longer until it reached Sholem Shachne’s feet. Again he spoke, his tone filled with the melancholy and resentment festering in his bones. Each word he uttered hovered in the void of the cold hall, frozen as an echo in a vaulted stone cellar.

“All right,” he finally said. “I can understand that my oldest, Naftali Hertz, abandoned the Torah because of a dream. He wanted to study secular subjects and change the world. But which great goal in life did my Bentzion have? During the day he’s a salesman in a Bialystok shop, and in the evening he takes business courses. And because he started late—he did spend time studying Torah in the beis medrash—he’s now a twenty-six-year-old who’s still just a student learning to become a businessman. And once he finishes, he’ll probably become a manager of a little factory—if he’s lucky and finds a position. A lovely accomplishment for a Katzenellenbogen! But try telling that to Bluma Rivtcha, and right away she snaps that Bentzion doesn’t want to conquer a world. Bentzion wants—she says—to be an independent person who earns his own money. You understand?” Sholem Shachne asked his son-in-law, but then realized he was actually talking to himself.

The rabbi walked back to the window. He and his son-in-law faced each other silently, tugging at their beards. Sholem Shachne was also worried about his youngest son, nearly twenty years old, whom he’d sent to the Lecheve Yeshiva, where he’d hoped his son-in-law would keep an eye on him. But if day after day Refael saw that his sister Tilza was unhappy with her life there, Yaakov Asher’s presence was more likely to make things worse than better. “When I daven, I beg God that at least from Refael’ke I should be spared the grief I’ve suffered from his older brothers. What do you think—is he following a righteous path? I mean, can you tell if he’s trying to emulate his older brothers?” Sholem Shachne asked, his eyes wide and sharp behind his glasses.

The son-in-law spread his arms wide again and shrugged. “What do I know?” he said. Refael’ke, he explained, lived with him and ate at his house. He was careful to provide Refael’ke with the best yeshiva boys as friends, and he was also studying privately with him. What more could he do?

Sholem Shachne knew his children well. He knew they weren’t talkative by nature unless they really trusted the other person. Refael’ke’s not trusting his brother-in-law was a bad sign. Further, it vexed him that his son-in-law responded to everything with “What do I know?” Did this mean Yaakov Asher really did know but didn’t want to tell?

“His mother wanted his sister to keep an eye on him,” Sholem Shachne said, “to make sure he slept on a clean bed. She wanted you to make sure he was studying. That’s why we sent him. Refael himself didn’t want to travel to a yeshiva. He doesn’t enjoy eating at strangers’ homes. But who knows if it’s his sister who’s corrupting him?”

And once again, his son-in-law said, “What do I know? You know your son and daughter better than I do.”

This was the third day of Yaakov Asher’s stay in Morehdalye. Supposedly, he had come for a little vacation. After all, the weary students also went on vacation in the summer, and even those who stayed did more strolling around town than studying. So the rosh yeshiva was entitled to a bit of travel, too. His in-laws wondered aloud why he hadn’t brought along his wife and child, their daughter and grandson. Averting his face, he’d replied that Tilza hadn’t wanted to come, and then added his standard “What do I know?”

At mealtimes, he sat at the table despondently, like a stranger. You could tell he felt pained at having married into a family where the children were abandoning Judaism.

Earlier, before their discussion in the cold hall, his father-in-law had asked Yaakov Asher to spend a little time studying with Zindel Kadish, so he could probe his character, feel out the kind of young man he was. As a rosh yeshiva, Yaakov Asher knew how to converse with young men to discern their level of devoutness. Yaakov Asher had acquiesced and had spoken with Zindel Kadish. Now, his father-in-law asked, “So what can you tell me about the dayan’s grandson? Do you think he’s a match for my daughter? Is he worthy of being my successor?”

“Well, as for his scholarliness, there’s no point discussing it,” the son-in-law replied. “He’s a poor scholar, this Tachkemoni student, and you know it. You study with him. But as for everyday matters, the lad didn’t want to talk to me. I saw that he’d formed some opinions, but he refused to share them with me. And that’s no good. That’s no good at all.”

“You trust no one! I don’t understand how you can lead a yeshiva for young men when you don’t trust a soul!” Sholem Shachne cried, exasperated, and swiveled away from the window.

“Unfortunately, I’ve been too trusting in the past,” Yaakov Asher replied, equally exasperated. His regret over his belief that his wife would change for the better after marriage choked him.

Father-in-law and son-in-law realized they could no longer have a calm discussion. And to fight—that they certainly didn’t want to do. Arms clasped behind them, they ambled out of the cold hall into the kitchen, where the rebbetzin was setting the table for lunch.