The Day My Mother Cried and Other Stories: and Other Stories

The Misbegotten Wedding

91 The Misbegotten Wedding didn’t like the rabbi when we first met. He was on the bride’s side and was flitting around the buffet tables glad-handing the wedding guests like he owned the place, which I found out later he really did. Actually it was his father’s shul, which, we were told, started out as a storefront that barely accommodated a minyan of ten men and a snarling cat named Murphy. Within the year, the bride’s father informed us, the shul was moved into the parlor and dining room of the rabbi’s Cape Cod house and subsequently into the entire residence including the property next door. It became known in that part of the Bronx as Rapaport’s shul or Chatzkel’s minyan and carried the name, front and back, of the founding rabbi who now spent most of his time in Miami Beach, Florida. His son, the parambulating rabbi whose name was Harold, was all teeth and exuberance and introduced himself everywhere as “Dr. Hal Rapaport but you can call me Heshie,” which no one did. It was the wedding of my nephew Philip, or Pinky as he was known in the family. He was my sister’s oldest son who was twenty-one but looked twelve. He was marrying a sweet young thing, a kindergarten teacher a little on the zaftig side who was twenty-three and looked it. Our contingent of relatives and friends came mostly from Pennsylvania and California and was headed by my father, aged eighty-four and still sharp as a matzo, a cliché he loved to hear and encouraged. He enjoyed being the oldest person in the synagogue or any assemblage, which gave him an opportunity to declaim a favorite aphorism, which in those days was “Der Oilem is a goylem,” which translates roughly as 92 | William D. Kaufman “the world is an idiot.” This was shortly after the reelection of President Richard Nixon. In addition to my father, there was my brother, who was the uncle of the bridegroom, as was I; my two sisters, one of whom was the mother of the bridegroom; several cousins, aunts and uncles, and friends, all from Pennsylvania. But Pop was the presumed head of the clan though the real powerhouse was my older sister Dorothy who ruled the family roost even when we were kids. Our group mingled with the other guests and, as expected, Pop shone. He was the epitome of joy, pride, and sagacity. It was natural, of course, for the young rabbi to seek out my father who, in a way, was expecting him. “Mazel Tov, Zayde, you should have lots of naches from the shiduch. I know the bride’s family well and they are the very best. None better,” the rabbi said with a grin the size of Milwaukee. “Thank you, Rabbi. Yes, she is a lovely girl and has promised to keep a kosher home.” “And your grandson Paul. I have heard good things about him,” the rabbi said. “Philip, Rabbi,” Pop corrected. “Philip?” “That’s his name, Rabbi. Not Paul.” “Oh sure. I apologize, Zayde.” “That’s okay, Rabbi, everybody makes mistakes.” “Like I was saying, Zayde. Your grandson, I hear, is an accountant, an executive, a good provider, I’m sure.” “He makes a good living, if that’s what you hear, Rabbi,” my father answered, somewhat annoyed. “Exactly,” the rabbi said. He changed the subject. “Did you notice the chuppah, Grandpa? The best, the most expensive. The flowers are real silk and velvets from France. Not chazzerai from China. Cost us a fortune, but it’s worth every penny. Real class,” he gushed. My father was not impressed. “So you and your father are the rabbis here?” he asked. “Partners, Zayde. We divide the avoyde.” The Misbegotten Wedding | 93 “Avoyde?” Pop asked. “The duties?” “You know. Weddings, funerals, bar mitzvahs. Also milah,” he answered. “You do circumcisions, Rabbi?” “Not me. My father neither,” he replied huffily. “We have a mohel, who is a doctor. A real MD.” “A real MD, you say.” “Yes sir. A real medical doctor from NYU, Grandpa.” There was something that was annoying my father and he switched the conversation to a new direction. “You’ll pardon me, Rabbi, but please don’t call me Zayde or Grandpa or Zydele. I am all of those titles, of course, but my grandchildren gave...