Then I heard Rav Gershenson ask me whether I was satisfied with the late medieval commentary's attempt at reconciliation.
It was a question I hadn't expected. I had regarded the effort at reconciliation as the rock bottom of the entire discussion on the passage and had never thought that Rav Gershenson would question it. For a long moment, I felt myself wallowing in that dreaded silence that always followed a question of his that a student couldn't answer, and I waited for the drumming of his fingers to begin. But his arms remained folded across his chest, and he stood there, swaying slowly back and forth, and looking at me intently.
'Nu,' he said again, 'there are no questions about what he says?'
I waited for Danny's hand to go up, but it didn't. I glanced at him and saw his mouth had fallen slightly open. The question had caught him by surprise, too.
Rav Gershenson stroked his pointed beard with his right hand, then asked me for the third time if I was satisfied with what the commentary said.
I heard myself tell him that I wasn't.
'Ah,' he said, smiling faintly. 'Good. And why not?'
'Because it's pilpul,' I heard myself say.
There was a stir from the class. I saw Danny stiffen in his seat, throw me a quick, almost fearful glance, then look away.
I was suddenly a little frightened at the disparaging way I had uttered the word pilpul. The tone of disapproval in my voice hung in the air of the classroom like a threat.
Rav Gershenson slowly stroked his pointed gray beard. 'So,' he said softly, it is pilpul. I see you do not like pilpul. Nu, the great Vilna Gaon also did not like pilpul.' He was talking about Rabbi Elijah of Vilna, the eighteenth-century opponent of Hasidism. 'Tell me, Reuven' – that was the first time he had ever called me by my first name – 'why is it pilpul? What is wrong with his explanation?'
I answered that it was strained, that it attributed nuances to the various conflicting commentaries that were not there, and that, therefore, it really was not a reconciliation at all.
He nodded his head slowly. 'Nu,' he said, not speaking only to me but to the entire class now, 'it is a very difficult inyan. And the commentaries' – he used the term 'Rishonim', which indicates the early medieval Talmudic commentators – 'do not help us.' Then he looked at me. 'Tell me, Reuven,' he said quietly, 'how do you explain the inyan? '
I sat there and stared at him in stunned silence. If the commentators hadn't been able to explain it, how could I? But he didn't let the silence continue this time. Instead, he repeated his question, his voice soft, gentle. 'You cannot explain it, Reuven?'
'No,' I heard myself say.
'So,' Rav Gershenson said. 'You cannot explain it. You are sure you cannot explain it?'
F6r a moment I was almost tempted to tell him the text was wrong and to give him the text I had reconstructed. But I didn't. I was afraid. I remembered Danny telling me that Rav Gershenson knew all about the critical method of studying Talmud, and hated it. So I kept silent.
Rav Gershenson turned to the class. 'Can anyone explain the inyan?' he asked quietly.
He was answered by silence.
He sighed loudly. 'Nu,' he said, 'no one can explain it… The truth is, I cannot explain it myself. It is a difficult inyan. A very difficult inyan.' He was silent for a moment, then he shook his head and smiled. 'A teacher can also sometimes not know,' he said softly.
That was the first time in my life I had ever heard of a rabbi admit that he didn't understand a passage of Talmud.
We sat there in an uncomfortable silence. Rav Gershenson stared down at the open Talmud on his desk. Then he closed it slowly and dismissed the class.
As I was gathering up my books, I heard him call my name.
Danny heard him, too, and looked at him. 'I want to talk with you a minute,' Rav Gershensen said. I went up to his desk.
Standing near him, I could see how wrinkled his face and brow were. The skin on his hands looked dry, parchment-like, and his lips formed a thin line beneath the heavy tangle of gray beard. His eyes were brown and gentle. and deep wrinkles spread from their outside comers like tiny furrows.
He waited until all the students were out of the classroom.
Then he asked me quietly, 'You studied the inyan by yourself, Reuven?'
'Yes,' I said.
'Your father did not help you?'
'My father is in the hospital.'
He looked shocked.
'He's better now. He had a heart attack.'
'I did not know,' he said softly. 'I am sorry to hear that.' He paused for a moment, looking at me intently. 'So,' he said. 'You studied the inyan alone.'
I nodded.
'Tell me. Reuven,' he said gently, 'do you study Talmud with your father?'
'Yes,' I said.
'Your father is a great scholar,' he said quietly, almost wistfully. 'A very great scholar.' His brown eyes seemed misty. 'Reuven, tell me, how would your father have answered my question?'
I stared at him and didn't know what to say.
He smiled faintly, apologetically. 'You do not know how your father would have explained the inyan?'
The class was gone, we were alone, and somehow I felt an intimacy between us that made it not too difficult for me to say what I then said. I didn't say it without feeling a little frightened, though. 'I think I know what he would have said.'
'Nu,' Rav Gershenson prodded me gently. 'What?'
'I think he would have said the text is wrong.'
I saw him blink his eyes a few times, his face expressionless. 'Explain what you mean,' he said quietly.
I explained how I had reconstructed the text, then quoted the reconstructed text from memory. showing him how it fitted perfectly to the explanation offered by the simplest of all the commentaries. I ended by saying I felt certain that was the text of the Talmud manuscript the commentator had had before him when he had written his commentary.
Rav Gershenson was silent for a long moment, his face impassive. Then he said slowly, 'You did this by yourself, Reuven?'
'Yes.'
'Your father is a good teacher,' he told me quietly. 'You are blessed to have such a father.' His voice was 'soft, reverent. 'Reuven?'
'Yes?'
'I must ask you never to use such a method of explanation in my class.' He was speaking gently, almost apologetically. 'I am myself not opposed to such a method. But I must ask you never to use it in my class. Do you understand me?'
'Yes.'
'I will call on you often now,' he said, smiling warmly. 'Now that you understand, I will call on you very often. I have been waiting all year to see how good a teacher your father is. He is a great teacher and a great scholar. It is a joy to listen to you. But you must not use this method in my class. You understand?'
'Yes,' I said again.
And he dismissed me with a quiet smile and a gentle nod of his head.
That evening after my last class, I went to the school library and looked for Rav Gershenson's name in the Hebrew and English catalogues. His name wasn't listed anywhere. It was then that I understood why my father was not teaching in this school.
Chapter 15
My father returned from the hospital in the middle of March. He was weak and gaunt, confined to his bed and almost completely incapable of any kind of physical activity. Manya cared for him as though he were a child, and Dr Grossman visited him twice a week, on Mondays and Thursdays, until the end of April, when the visits were reduced to once a week. He was satisfied with my father's progress, he kept telling me. There was nothing to worry about anymore, except to make sure that he had complete rest. During the first four weeks my father was home a night nurse came in every evening, stayed awake through the night in my father's room, then left in the morning. Talking tired him quickly; even listening seemed to tire him. We weren't able to spend too much time together the first six weeks he was home. But it was wonderful to have him there, to know that he was back in his room again and out of the hospital, and to know that the dark silence was finally gone from the apartment.