The Chosen

'Sometimes,' I said.

'I told it to my father once.'

'What did he say?'

'He didn't say anything. I told you, he never talks to me except when we study. But a few days later, while we were studying, he said that man was created by God, and Jews had a mission in life.'

'What mission is that?'

'To obey God.'

'Don't you believe that?'

He looked slowly away from the window. I saw his deep blue eyes stare at me, then blink a few times. 'Sure I believe it,' he said quietly. His shoulders were bowed. 'Sometimes I'm not sure I know what God wants, though.'

'That's a funny thing for you to say.'

'Isn't it?' he said. He looked at me but didn't seem to be seeing me at all. 'I've never said that to anyone before: He seemed to be in a strange, brooding mood. I was beginning to feel uneasy. 'I read a lot,' he said. 'I read about seven or eight books a week outside of my schoolwork. Have you ever read Darwin or Huxley?'

'I've read a little of Darwin,' I said.

'I read in the library so my father won't know. He's very strict about what I read.'

'You read books about evolution and things like that?'

'I read anything good that I can get my hands on. I'm reading Hemingway now. You've heard of Hemingway.'

'Sure.'

'Have you read any of his works?'

'I read some of his short stories.'

'I finished A Farewell to Arms last week. He's a great writer. It's about the First World War. There's this American in the Italian Army. He marries an English nurse. Only he doesn't really marry her. They live together, and she becomes pregnant, and he deserts. They run away to Switzerland, and she dies in childbirth.'

'I didn't read it.'

'He's a great writer. But you wonder about a lot of things when you read him. He's got a passage in the book about ants on a burning log. The hero, this American, is watching the ants, and instead of taking the log out of the fire and saving the ants, he throws water into the fire. The water turns into steam and that roasts some of the ants, the others just burn to death on the log or fall off into the fire. It's a great passage. It shows how cruel people can be.'

All the time he talked he kept staring out the window. I almost had the feeling he wasn't talking so much to me as to himself.

'I just get so tired of studying only Talmud all the time. I know the stuff cold, and it gets a little boring after a while. So I read whatever I can get my hands on. But I only read what the librarian says is worthwhile. I met a man there, and he keeps suggesting hooks for me to read. That librarian is funny. She's a nice person, but she keeps staring at me all the time. She's probably wondering what a person like me is doing reading all those books.'

'Im wondering a little myself,' I said.

'I told you. I get bored studying just Talmud. And the English work in school isn't too exciting. I think the English teachers are afraid of my father. They're afraid they'll lose their jobs if they say something too exciting or challenging. I don't know. But it's exciting being able to read all those books.' He began to play with the earlock on the right side of his face. He rubbed it gently with his right hand, twirled it around his forefinger, released it, then twirled it around the finger again. 'I've never told this to anyone before,' he said. 'All the time I kept wondering who I would tell it to one day: He was staring down at the floor. Then he looked at me and smiled. It was a sad smile, but it seemed to break the mood he was in. 'If you'd've ducked that ball I would still be wondering,' he said, and put his hands back into his pockets.

I didn't say anything. I was still a little overwhelmed by what he had told me. I couldn't get over the fact that this was Danny Saunders, the son of Reb Saunders, the tzaddik.

'Can I be honest with you?' I asked him.

'Sure,' he said.

'I'm all mixed up about you. I'm not trying to be funny or anything. I really am mixed up about you. You look like a Hasid, but you don't sound like one. You don't sound like what my father says Jasidim are supposed to sound like. You sound almost as if you don't believe in God.'

He looked at me but didn't respond.

'Are you really going to become a rabbi and take your father's place?'

'Yes,' he said quietly.

'How can you do that if you don't believe in God?'

'I believe in God. I never said I didn't believe in God.'

'You don't sound like a Hasid, though,' I told him.

'What do I sound like?'

'Like a – an apikoros: He smiled but said nothing. It was a sad smile, and his blue eyes seemed sad, too. He looked back out the window, and we sat in silence a long time. It was a warm silence, though, not in the least bit awkward. Finally, he said very quietly, 'I have to take my father's place. I have no choice. It's an inherited position. I'll work it out – somehow. It won't be that bad, being a rabbi. Once I'm a rabbi my people won't care what I read. I'll be sort of like God to them. They won't ask any questions: 'Are you going to like being a rabbi?'

'No,' he said.

'How can you spend your life doing what you don't like?'

'I have no choice,' he said again. 'It's like a dynasty. If the son doesn't take the father's place, the dynasty falls apart. The people expect me to become their rabbi. My family has been their rabbi for six generations now. I can't just walk out on them. I'm – I'm a little trapped. I'll work it out, though – somehow.' But he didn't sound as if he thought he would be able to work it out. He sounded very sad.

We sat quietly a while longer, looking out the window at the people below. There were only a few minutes of sunlight left, and I found myself wondering why my father hadn't yet come to see me. Danny turned away from the window and began to play with his earlock again, caressing it and twirling it around his index finger. Then he shook his head and put his hands in his pockets. He sat back on the bench and looked at me. 'It's funny,' he said. 'It's really funny. I have to be a rabbi and don't want to be one. You don't have to be a rabbi and do want to be one. It's a crazy world.'

I didn't say anything. I had a sudden vivid picture of Mr Savo sitting in his bed, saying, 'Crazy world. Cockeyed.' I wondered how he was feeling and· if the curtain was still around his bed. 'What kind of mathematics are you interested in?' Danny asked…

'I'm really interested in logic. Mathematical logic.'

He looked puzzled.

'Some people call it symbolic logic,' I said.

'I never even heard of it,' he confessed.

'It's really very new. A lot of it began with Russell and Whitehead and a book they wrote called Principia Mathematica.'

'Bertrand Russell?'

'That's right.'

'I didn't know he was a mathematician.'

'Oh, sure. He's a great mathematician. And a logician, too.'

'I'm very bad at mathematics. What's it all about? Mathematical logic, I mean.'

'Well, they try to deduce all of mathematics from simple logical principles and show that mathematics is really based on logic. It's pretty complicated stuff. But I enjoy it.'

'You have a course in that in your schoo!?'

'No. You're not the only person who reads a lot.'

For a moment he looked at me in astonishment. Then he laughed.

'I don't read seven or eight books a week, though, like you,' I said. 'Only about three or four.'

He laughed again. Then he got to his feet and stood facing me.

His eyes were bright and alive with excitement.

'I never even heard of symbolic logic,' he said. 'It sounds fascinating. And you want to be a rabbi? How do they do it? I mean, how can you deduce arithmetic from logic? I don't see -! He stopped and looked at me. 'What's the matter?' he asked.

'There's my father,' I said, and got quickly to my feet.

My father had come out of the elevator at the other end of the hall and was walking toward the eye ward. I thought I would have to call out to attract his attention, but a few steps short of the entrance to the ward he saw us. If he felt any surprise at seeing me with Danny I didn't notice it. His face did not change radically. It went from curiosity to bewildered astonishment. He looked for a moment as though he wanted to run away. I could see he was nervous and agitated, but I didn't have time to think about it, because my father was standing there, looking at the two of us. He was wearing his dark gray, double-breasted suit and his gray hat. He was a good deal shorter than Danny and a little shorter than I, and his face still looked pale and worn. He seemed out of breath, and he was carrying a handkerchief in his right hand.