Tefillin

Donna Kaz

Word Count 1690

The first time I touched my future husband’s tefillin I thought they were sex toys. I was helping him pack up his apartment for a move to a house in Los Angeles we would both share when I discovered them. Pressed up against a stack of Hebrew prayer books was a small velvet pouch. Inside were long brown leather straps, tightly coiled and cracking with age, a small, mysterious red box on each end. I thought I had possibly uncovered my future mate’s kinky side, and this both confused and delighted me. So I called out to him, brandishing the straps over my head. “Well, look what I found!” He seemed lost when he saw what I was holding. “Oh, those,” he sighed. “Those are tefillin from my bar mitzvah. You put them on this way.” He struggled to coil one around his arm and, after a brief attempt, rolled them back up. “Religious Jews wear them to pray, but I forget how they go,” he said. “Put them back.” I do, and for years the tefillin and the Hebrew books live somewhere in our home. Whenever I attempt to declutter, I ask if I can get rid of them. “No. I want those.” he always says. “But you don’t use them,” I remind him. “Doesn’t matter,” is always his response.

I grew up Catholic, a second-generation descendant of Polish immigrants. I had many Jewish friends, but until I met my future husband, I had never been to a Seder or a synagogue. Richard is British and Jewish and speaks fluent Hebrew. A mutual friend who happened to be his next door neighbor introduced us. At that point in my life, I strongly identified as a Roman Catholic. I attended mass every Sunday, sang in the choir, even sponsored a baptism. I felt comfortable enough to drop by the pastor’s office for a chat. Still, I was a “grocery store Catholic.” I picked what I liked of Catholicism (the community, the ritual, the calming strength of faith) and left the rest (the patriarchy, the sexism, and the disempowerment of women’s human rights). Still, whenever I went to church, I felt as if I knew exactly who I was, something I rarely found anywhere else in Los Angeles. I prayed a lot, mostly for a nice Christian husband.

On our first date, Richard passionately outlined for me an abridged version of the history of Israel. Using bar napkins, he diagramed changing boundaries, annexed cities, and occupied territories. He described his Jewish upbringing in London as one full of ambiguity. “I had not one, not two, but three kings. King George on the throne, Christ the King at school, and King David on Shabbat. No wonder I was confused!” he bellowed, laughing at this confluence of traditions. “To figure it out, I decided to go to Israel to volunteer during the Six-Day War,” he explained. It was the beginning of Richard’s search for a cultural and religious identity.

Five months after our first date, Passover and Good Friday happened to fall on the same day. A mutual friend invited us to a nearby monastery for a Seder meal they were hosting as a way to connect Jews and Christians. We sat next to Father Vincent, a monk who had spent a lot of time in Israel. “The Polish people and the Jews do not get along,” he proclaimed to us after we described our backgrounds. “Too much bad blood between them.” Even so, as Richard stood to recite a blessing in Hebrew before the meal, I knew in that moment, this was the man I wanted to marry. Soon after, we were engaged.

I would be married in my church, by my pastor and receive the sacrament of marriage. That was fine with Richard, except a Rabbi also had to be there. A priest and a rabbi walk into a church. Sounds like a joke, but it was our wedding. There were readings from both the Torah and the New Testament, liturgical dancers, secular music, a silver Kiddush cup, and a chuppah. We spoke our vows in English and Hebrew. The priest recited an Irish blessing, the Rabbi a Jewish one, and everyone cried out “Mazel Tov!” when Richard stomped on the glass. It was wonderful but not easy to arrange. As a Catholic who wanted to marry an unbaptized person, I had to request a “favor of the faith” from the Pope. This meant filling out many forms, paying various fees, and waiting.

Our married life followed the precedent set at our nuptials. We decorated Christmas trees and lit Hanukah candles. I taught Richard how to color Easter eggs. He critiqued my matzo ball soup until I got the saltiness just right. On Christmas Eve, we shared Polish oplatek, a thin wafer passed around to exchange good wishes. On Rosh Hashanah, we ate honey-dripped apples. Little by little, we dropped our individual beliefs until they melded, and we did not recognize them as so different. I stopped going to mass. He no longer fasted on Yom Kipper. The traditions of the two organized religions we grew up with lost their connection to God as we discovered that the strongest beliefs we had were in each other.

And then, after 29 years, Richard died. There was the cremation and the memorial and all the horrible little things a wife has to do when her husband dies -- call Social Security, decide how many copies of the death certificate to order, give away his ties. Each morning I opened the blinds and read the Kaddish prayer. The days ran together. I tossed out his T-shirts and reorganized the bathroom. At the very back of his nightstand, I found all his old Hebrew books. And for the first time in twenty-nine years, I placed my hands on his tefillin.

Before Richard died, he told me that he did not want anyone to sit Shivah. He requested “76 Trombones” from “The Music Man” and smoked salmon at his memorial instead. I arranged for all that. I found a good home for his clothes and sold his golf clubs, but I was unsure of where the Hebrew books and tefillin should go. Two of his close friends suggested I get in touch with local synagogues. The first three I tried told me they weren’t interested.

One day, as I was driving to a doctor’s appointment, I spotted a large sign by the side of the road with the word, “Chabad” on it. I noted the location and looked it up when I got home. I sent off a quick email, describing the items I had to donate. A Rabbi responded almost immediately with a message that simply said, “Drop by. They need to be buried. We charge $30 for a small bag.” Early the next morning I packed everything up and drove to the Rabbi’s office.

“You are Jewish, right?” was the first thing he asked.

“No,” I answered, as I took the velvet pouch and books out of my bag.

“But your mother, she is Jewish, right?”

“No, my mother is not Jewish. I was raised Catholic, but I’m not Catholic anymore. I’m sort of just, spiritual.” I stopped talking, realizing I sounded vague.

“Richard, my husband, was Jewish though,” I stated. “That is why I am here.”

The Rabbi went through the books. “This one is for Passover. And this one is a prayer book.” He opened all the books and described their function. Then he picked up the velvet pouch and pulled out the tefillin. He quickly unfurled the straps and held one up to the light.

“You see, here…inside, you can see there are scrolls. These are the scrolls of the Torah.”

I did not know what to say. He seemed pleased that they were genuine.

“So tell me, where is Richard buried?” he asked.

“He did not want to be buried. He was cremated.” After I said this, I remembered that Jews were not supposed to be cremated.

“Oh.” The rabbi replied. He looked disappointed.

“Who is saying Kaddish for him?”

“Actually, I am saying Kaddish.”

The Rabbi now looked very concerned. It dawned on me that I have said all the wrong things. I am not Jewish. I had Richard cremated. A Jew must say Kaddish, not me. I might as well have handed him a plate of shellfish next.

Perhaps the Rabbi saw my dismay. “Ok, I will take these and make sure they are buried.” He packed everything up and carried them into his office. I followed behind.

“Thank you.” I sighed, not sure of what to do next. I fumbled for my wallet, found 30 dollars, and slipped it into the donation box on his desk.

“I had no idea where to go with all of this, and I am grateful you will take these things,” I stated, anxious to be forgiven for possibly not being good enough. I suddenly felt overwhelmed. It was as if I was parting with the Jewish part of my husband, the part he so willingly shared with me and I did not know what to do. So I turned to the Rabbi.

“I just want you to know that my husband was a very good man.”

He looked right at me. His eyes softened, and he said, “Yes. And now you must go out and do good deeds in the name of Richard.”

When I got home, I googled tefillin and found out that putting on tefillin was a mitzvah – a good deed. Richard believed that when you died, all else ended. There was no afterlife. But I think he sent me a message the day I arranged for the objects from his religious upbringing to be buried. Love binds us together. When we die, something of us remains behind in those we love. As I drove down the road, I realized Richard was there too.

Recently, Pope Francis has eased the restrictions on interfaith marriages, saying that marriages to non-Christians should be looked upon as a privileged place for possibility. I know what he means.

*

Donna is a multi-genre writer and the author of “UN/MASKED, Memoirs of a Guerrilla Girl On Tour” and “PUSH/PUSHBACK, 9 Steps to Make a Difference with Activism and Art (because the world’s gone bananas). She is currently a Research Fellow at Winterthur and the director of the Kaz Conference Writing Workshop. donnakaz.com; ggontour.com, @donnakaz