Chaim Potok - The Chosen

Levi Saunders was now tall and thin. He seemed a ghostly imitation of Danny, except that his hair was black and his eyes were dark. The skin on his hands and face was milky white, almost translucent, showing the branching veins. There was something helplessly fragile about him; he looked as if a wind would blow him down. Yet at the same time his dark eyes burned with a kind of inner fire that told of the tenacity with which he clung to life and of his growing awareness of the truth that for the rest of his days his every breath would depend upon the pills he put into his mouth at regular intervals. The eyes told you that he had every intention of holding on to his life, no matter what the pain.

As if to emphasize the tenuousness of Levi Saunders' existence, he became violently ill the day following his bar mitzvah and was taken by ambulance to the Brooklyn Memorial Hospital. Danny called me during supper as soon as the ambulance pulled away from in front of his house, and I could tell from his voice that he was in a panic. There wasn't much I could say to him over the phone, and when I asked him if he wanted me to come over, he said no, his mother was almost hysterical, he would have to stay with her, he had only wanted to let me know. And he hung up.

My father apparently had heard my troubled voice, because he was standing now outside the kitchen, asking me what was wrong.

I told him.

We resumed our supper. I wasn't very hungry now, but I ate anyway to keep Manya happy. My father noticed how disturbed I was, but he said nothing. After the meal, he followed me into my room, sat on my bed while I sat at my desk, and asked me what was wrong, why was I so upset by Levi Saunders' illness, he had been ill before.

It was at that point that I told my father of Danny's plans to go on for a doctorate in psychology and abandon the position of tzaddik he was to inherit one day from Reb Saunders. I also added, feeling that I ought to be completely honest about it now, that Danny was in a panic over his brother's illness because without his brother it might not be possible for him to break away from his father: he did not really want to destroy the dynasty.

My father's face became more and more grim as he listened.

When I was done, he sat for a long time in silence, his eyes grave. 'When did Danny tell you this?' he asked finally.

'The summer I lived in their house.'

'That long ago? He knew already that long ago?'

'Yes.'

'And all this time you did not tell me?'

'It was a secret between us, abba.'

He looked at me grimly. 'Does Danny know what pain this will cause his father?'

'He dreads the day he'll have to tell him. He dreads it for both of them.'

'I knew it would happen,' my father said. 'How could it not happen?' Then he looked at me sharply. 'Reuven, let me understand this. Exactly what is Danny planning to tell Reb Saunders?'

'That he's going on for a doctorate in psychology and doesn't intend to take his place.'

'Is Danny thinking to abandon his Judaism?'

I stared at him. 'I never thought to ask him,' I said faintly.

'His beard, his earlocks, his clothes, his fringes – all this he will retain in graduate school?'

'I don't know, abba. We never talked about it.'

'Reuven, how will Danny become a psychologist while looking like a Hasid?'

I didn't know what to say.

'It is important that Danny know exactly what he will tell his father. He must anticipate what questions will be on Reb Saunders' mind. Talk to Danny. Let him think through exactly what he will tell his father.'

'All this time I never thought to ask him.'

'Danny is now like a person waiting to be let out of jail. He has only one desire. To leave the jail. Despite what may be waiting for him outside. Danny cannot think one minute beyond the moment he will have to tell his father he does not wish to take his place. Do you understand me?'

'Yes.'

'You will talk to him?'

'Of course.'

My father nodded grimly, his face troubled. 'I have not talked to Danny in so long,' he said quietly. He was silent for a moment. Then he smiled faintly. 'It is not so easy to be a friend is it, Reuven?'

'No,' I said.

'Tell me, Danny and Reb Saunders still do not talk?'

I shook my head. Then I told him what Danny had said about silence. 'What does it mean to hear silence, abba?'

That seemed to upset him more than the news about Danny's not becoming a tzaddik. He sat up straight on the bed, his body quivering. 'Hasidim!'I heard him mutter, almost contemptuously. 'Why must they feel the burden of the world is only on their shoulders?', I looked at him, puzzled. I had never heard that tone of contempt in his voice before.

'It is a way of bringing up children,' he said.

'What is?'

'Silence.'

'I don't understand…!

'I cannot explain it. I do not understand it completely myself.

But what I know of it, I dislike. It was practised in Europe by some few Hasidic families.' Then his voice went hard. 'There are better ways to teach a child compassion.'

'I don't…!

He cut me short. 'Reuven, I cannot explain what I do not understand. Danny is being raised by Reb Saunders in a certain way. I do not want to talk about it anymore. It upsets me. You will speak to Danny, yes?'

I nodded.

'Now I have work I must do.' And he went from the room, leaving me as bewildered as I had been before.

I had planned to talk to Danny the next day, but when I saw him he was in such a state of panic over his brother that I didn't dare mention what my father had said. The doctors had diagnosed his brother's illness as some kind of imbalance in the blood chemistry caused by something he had eaten, Danny told me over lunch, looking pale and grim, and blinking his eyes repeatedly. They were trying out some new pills, and his brother would remain in the hospital until they were certain the pills worked. And he would have to be very careful from now on with his diet. Danny was tense and miserable all that day and throughout the week.

Levi Saunders was discharged from the Brooklyn Memorial Hospital the following Wednesday afternoon. I saw Danny in school the next day. We sat in the lunchroom and ate for a while in silence. His brother was fine, he said finally, and everything seemed to have settled down. His mother was in bed with high blood pressure, though. But the doctor said it was caused by her excitement over Levi's illness and all she needed now was to rest. She would be better soon.

He told me quietly that he was planning to write to three universities that day – Harvard, Berkeley, and Columbia – and apply for a fellowship in psychology. I asked him how long he thought he would be able to keep his application a secret.

'I don't know,' he said, his voice a little tight.

'Why don't you tell your father now and get it over with?'

He looked at me, his face grim. 'I don't want explosions with every meal,' he said tightly. 'All I get are either explosions or silence. I've had enough of his explosions.'

Then I told him what my father had said. As I spoke, I could see him become more and more uncomfortable.

'I didn't want you to tell your father,' he muttered angrily.

'My father kept your library visits a secret from me,' I reminded him. 'Don't worry about my father: 'I don't want you to tell anyone else.'

'I won't. What about what my father said? Are you going to remain an Orthodox Jew?'

'Whatever gave you the notion that I had any intention of not remaining an Orthodox Jew?'

'What if your father asks about the beard, the caftan, the- '

'He won't ask me: 'What if he does?'

He pulled nervously at an earlock. 'Can you see me practising psychology and looking like a Hasid?' he asked tightly.

' I hadn't really expected any other answer. Then something occurred to me. 'Won't your father see the mail you get from the graduate schools you've applied to?'