Redemption

By the time Herz had maneuvered his swollen feet into a pair of frayed slippers and padded to the window early that Friday morning, between three and four inches of snow had fallen. “Damn! Damn! Damn!” he said, each time slamming his fist against the windowsill. For a while he remained standing there, glowering at the scene six stories below, until the relentless ringing of his phone finally pulled him away.

“Good morning, Jake dear,” said the familiar voice of the widow in the apartment below his. “Everything under control?”

“Anita, do you know what time it is?”

“Yes, I know what time it is. I’m just calling to find out if you’re okay.”

“What should be wrong?”

“What should be wrong? It’s snowing like crazy.”

“So I see.”

“They’re predicting a major blizzard.”

“Did you call to give me the weather report?”

“My, aren’t we grumpy this morning. It looks bad. Is there anything you need?”

“Thanks. I’ve got plenty of everything. He paused before adding, “Including toilet paper.”

“Very funny.”

“Please don’t worry about me.”

“I hope you’re not planning to do your thing tonight.”

“My thing?” he repeated derisively. “Why not?”

“Because driving will be treacherous. Plus you’ll catch your death of a cold.”

“Anita, I’ve been doing my thing, as you call it, for going on ten years. A little snow isn’t going to stop me now.”

“It’s more than a little snow. Besides, you’re under no obligation—”

“You don’t understand.”

She blew out her lungs. “Instead of risking life and limb, come and have tea with me this afternoon. You know where I live.”

“Now who’s being funny?”

“Do you know what you are?”

“Tell me.”

“A curmudgeon on steroids.”

Herz mumbled something under his breath and hung up in a huff.

After a quick shower and shave, he turned on the radio that shared shelf space with boxes of cereal and canned soup in his small kitchen. The National Weather Service was predicting more than eighteen inches of snow. All area schools were closed. The federal government had issued a liberal leave policy. Most evening events were postponed. Hundreds of flights were suspended or diverted. The mayor, after twice delaying a news conference, promised to make an announcement within the hour. “Jerk!” Herz yelled at the radio and turned it off.

He wolfed down a bowl of cornflakes, refilled his coffee mug, and took it back to the window. The building across the street was barely visible. On his block alone he counted three abandoned cars; one, a taxi with its headlights still on, had come to rest on the sidewalk directly below. “What a mess,” he said aloud, and realized that without snow tires, his old Cadillac would not make it to temple. He would have to walk the six blocks to get there.

He was about to go down to the lobby to pick up his copy of the Times and his mail when his phone rang. It’s her again, he thought, and decided not to answer. But the ringing continued until he could stand it no longer and finally picked up the receiver.

“Good morning, Jacob,” said the voice at the other end. “Rabbi Hirschfeld here. I’m calling to inform you that tomorrow’s bat mitzvah has been postponed.”

“Postponed?”

“Yes. Unfortunately. The girl’s grandparents are stranded in New York. As you’ve probably heard, all flights out of LaGuardia and Kennedy have been cancelled.”

Herz said he hadn’t heard and stopped to think. Then, “In that case I’ll just open the small chapel tonight.”

“I doubt anyone will venture out in this weather.”

Herz ran a handkerchief across his scalp. “I can’t abandon the regulars who never miss Friday night services.”

“They are mostly elderly,” the rabbi reminded him. “They won’t risk going out in this weather. And if this snow keeps up, I may not be able to make it myself.”

“With respect, Rabbi, you live in the suburbs. For me it’s a short walk. And hopefully by tonight the streets will have been cleared.”

“Not in this city.”

“I feel responsible to—”

“Your first responsibility is to yourself, Jacob.”

“Has the temple ever been closed on Shabbat?”

“Not that I can remember.”

“All the more reason for me to open up for those observing yahrzeit.”

“I value your commitment, Jacob. But if Sylvia, may her name be for a blessing, were still alive, she would not allow you to set one foot out the door.”

“I’ve been through much worse, Rabbi.”

“I know you have. But in the unlikely event that a few old timers show up, they would understand if you aren’t there to greet them.”

“Someone has to open the door to let them in.”

“That’s the janitor’s job.”

“Santiago—”

“Sorry to interrupt you,” the rabbi broke in. “The cantor just texted me. She can’t get out of her development.”

“Another reason for me to be there.”

The rabbi sighed audibly. “Why don’t we wait and see what it looks like, say, around four o’clock? I’ll give you another call.”

Herz agreed and hung up. Just then there was a knock on his door. “Who is it?” he asked.

“It’s me, Anita. Brought you a nosh.”

“Just a minute,” he called and took a quick look around the living room before opening the door halfway.

“Enjoy,” she said, and handed him a plate of warm muffins through the opening. Herz opened the door the rest of the way and suppressed a gasp. He had never seen her without makeup, dressed to the nines, and with her still-shapely legs in accident-defying heels.

“Thank you, Anita,” he said. “That’s very kind of you.”

“May I come in? I won’t stay but a minute.”

“Sure,” he said half-heartedly. “Have a seat.”

She sat down on an ottoman. “I hope you’ll take my advice and stay home tonight.”

“I haven’t made a final decision.”

“Help me to understand why you’re so intent on opening the temple on such a night. The whole city is practically shut down.”

“I have an obligation, and besides—”

“I don’t get it,” she said. “Didn’t you once tell me that Sylvia was the religious one? That you rarely set foot in temple, not even on Yom Kippur?”

“That’s all very true,” Herz said, and stopped. After a deep breath he continued, “But that was then, and this is now. As I’ve tried to explain to you before, I took it upon myself to usher in every Shabbat in Sylvia’s memory.”

She nodded. “Yes, I know. Do what you feel you have to do.” She got up to leave. “I don’t want to get into an argument with you.”

Herz saw her to the door and watched her disappear into the elevator. After a minute he called back the elevator and took it to the lobby to get his newspaper and mail.

Shortly after three o’clock, Herz was awakened from his customary nap by the persistent ringing of the phone. “What now, Anita?” he asked drowsily.

“How did you know it was me?”

“Who else calls me?”

“Sorry if I woke you. Have you looked out the window lately?”

“Why, has it stopped snowing?”

She made a scoffing sound. “You won’t believe what it looks like.”

Herz rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t care what it looks like. I’m opening the small chapel tonight if it’s the last thing I do.”

“I think you would be making a big mistake, Jake. If Sylvia knew—”

Herz resisted an impulse to slam the receiver back into its cradle and said, “Please leave Sylvia out of this.”

“I understand your noble purpose,” she said in a softer tone. “But driving will be treacherous and—”

“I’m walking,” Herz interrupted.

“Even so, it’s a perfect night to stay home. I have some nice steaks in the freezer, and I’ll open a bottle of Cabernet that’s to die for.”

“Another time perhaps.”

“That’s what you always say. How can you be so foolish at your age?”

“Anita—” he started to say, but she had already hung up.

Shortly before dusk, Herz took another look out the window. His street had not been plowed, the sidewalk in front of the building hadn’t been cleared. He let out a string of curses and vowed to give the building manager a piece of his mind.

Four o’clock came and went without a call from the rabbi. After another look out the window, he began to lay out the things he would need: long underwear, a heavy sweater, his parka, the scarf Sylvia had knitted for him, the Russian hat with earflaps, fur-lined gloves, woolen socks, boots, and his inhaler. Lastly, he added the small flashlight he kept in his night table.

At six-thirty, fortified by a bowl of leftover lentil soup and two jiggers of brandy, Herz got dressed, looked himself over in the hallway mirror, and rang for the elevator. In the lobby four women looked up from their knitting and smiled at him, but he merely nodded in their direction and kept on walking. “Good thing his wife is no longer around to see him,” he heard one of the women say.

He pushed open the heavy glass door and was almost knocked off his feet by a rush of frigid air. It had gotten dark, and an eerie hush hung over the city. Only an occasional siren and the high-pitched sound of spinning tires broke the silence. He looked in both directions, saw no one, then set out, wary of falling.

Large snowflakes beat against his face, clouding his vision, and after only two blocks his hands and feet began to feel numb. “Bastard!” he yelled at the third car that zigzagged past without stopping. He stopped long enough to take two deep puffs from his inhaler and check his watch before urging his legs forward again.

At the next block he missed the curb and fell flat on his back. “Nothing broken,” he told himself after the initial shock had passed. He tried to get up, but a strange force seemed to keep him pinned to the ground. All at once he was shoveling snow again under the oversight of the kapo who delighted in punctuating his orders with a truncheon. Already beyond endurance, Herz couldn’t work fast enough to satisfy the sadistic brute. Overcome with pain, he fell head-long into a snowbank, the will to live ebbing with each blow.

How long had he been lying there? he wondered, when the horn of an emergency vehicle brought the present rushing back. He groped around until he found his flashlight, but it no longer worked. He struggled to his feet, made sure the keys were still in his pocket, and slowly set out again.

The last three blocks were a torment, with every step more painful than the last. Only an act of sheer will kept him going. Finally he came within a few yards of the building and saw that no one was waiting under the portico. Under a single mercury vapor lamp, the deserted parking lot glistened like a glacier. But it’s still early, he assured himself, and began using his gloved hands to clear just enough snow from the entrance to squeeze inside.

Guided by the glow of two exit signs in the lobby, he bypassed the unlit sanctuary and entered the small chapel, switched on a bank of lights, and raised the thermostat to seventy-five. Then, satisfied that everything was in order, and resolved to stay awake, he went back to the lobby to wait.

But the vigil was for naught. By eight-thirty, half an hour past the normal starting time, Herz resigned himself to the futility of waiting any longer. Gathering what little strength he had, he ignored the seductive inner voice urging him to lock up and go home, and instead re-entered the chapel and opened the Ark. The sight of the three Torahs, one of whose multi-hued covers was Sylvia’s handiwork, brought him close to tears. For a moment he just stood there, lost in thought. Then he recited the Shema and reverently closed the ark. When he turned around, for a moment the empty seats reminded him of headstones in a cemetery. But he quickly brushed the image aside and read the long list of names of congregants who were observing yahrzeits that week, followed by the Kaddish.

By now hoarse and exhausted, he lowered the thermostat, switched off the lights, and started back to the lobby, when he stumbled and fell head-first against a cart full of prayer books.

Herz opened his eyes and realized he was in an ambulance. Strapped down, he had no idea of the time or day. “What happened?” he asked weakly, but got no answer. He moistened his lips and tried again. “Where are you taking me?”

A young woman leaned over him. “We’re giving you some oxygen, Jacob. Try to relax.”

Affronted by her informality, he asked, “Can you please tell me what happened?”

“You’re a lucky man, Jacob. A lady from your building called the police.”

“The police?”

“Yes. She knew where we would find you. Now please try not to talk. We’re almost there.”

Threads of thoughts and a multitude of images raced through his mind. An endless stretch of time seemed to have passed since he left home. After a moment he said, “Miss, I think I know you from somewhere.”

“Please relax and try not to talk,” she said.

Through closed eyes, Herz said, “I’m sure we’ve met before.”

The attendant shooshed him to be silent.

Gradually the events of that night began to fall into place. The snow. The frigid cold. The powerful blast of air that had nearly swept him off his feet. The open Ark and reading from the yahrzeit list. At length he asked, “Miss, do you know what a mitzvah is?”

The attendant leaned closer. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “What did you say?”

“No, of course you don’t,” Herz said. “It means a good deed.”

“Okay,” she said.

Minutes later the ambulance came to a stop, the doors flew open, and Herz felt himself being lifted out. Two orderlies steered the gurney hurriedly down a brightly-lit corridor until they came to a blue curtain. Herz lifted his head an inch or two and the curtain slowly parted. There stood Sylvia, arms outstretched, waiting to embrace him.